Duchess of Sin

by Laurel McKee

  Adair’s genteel appearance of earlier was utterly vanished. His face was dark with fierce anger, his grip on George implacable as George flailed and fought in vain. It was as if the duke had melted away, and in his place was an ancient Irish warrior who would tear off George’s head and hurl it across the floor at any moment. It was primitive and raw, especially in the midst of such a refined party.

  The elegant crowd seemed to feel that, too, and it brought out the ancient fighter in all of them. Everyone watched with avid interest to see what might happen next.

  “Trust someone like Adair to cause such a scene,” a man behind Anna said with a snicker.

  “Lady Fitzwalter should know better than to let an Irishman into her ballroom,” someone replied. “They’re just a lot of dirty bog-dwellers no matter what the title.”

  Anna longed to turn on them, to slap their smug faces whoever they were, but she seemed frozen in place. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Adair and George.

  The duke gave George another shake, and Anna heard him growl, “Say that again, Hayes, and directly this time. None of your cowardly whispers.”

  “It’s only what everyone is saying,” George choked out. “Fenian bastard. You shouldn’t even look at her.”

  Adair’s fist tightened, and George kicked out as his face turned even more red.

  Anna shook her head in disbelief that such a thing was happening. Where was the gentlemanly duke who greeted her in the ballroom? Where was the man who had kissed her and held her so tenderly on the roof only moments ago? In only moments, he had vanished, and her world was shaken up again.

  She remembered when they met at the park, his crude words to her as he taunted Sir Grant. Who was the real Conlan?

  A lady’s gloved hand touched Adair’s shoulder, gently but firmly drawing him back. Anna saw to her surprise that it was Jane who refused to let him go even as he tried to shake her away. She spoke quietly into his ear. At first Anna was sure he would push Jane away and get on with the business of thrashing George, but then something in Jane’s words seemed to reach him.

  His grasp loosened on George’s throat, and he shoved him away. Adair let Jane take his arm and lead him toward the door. The crowd parted in sudden silence, but George foolishly surged forward again to strike a glancing blow at Adair’s jaw. A drop of blood appeared there, bright crimson on his skin, and Adair responded with a fierce uppercut to George’s chin, which sent him sprawling at his wife’s feet.

  Ellen fell back a step as if afraid he would soil her hem. Lady Fitzwalter looked so furious she would surely explode from it. Adair and Jane disappeared through the ballroom door, and the crowd burst into sound again.

  Anna felt Sir Grant take her arm again, and she spun toward him, astonished he was still there. She had forgotten everything, stunned by the sudden violence of that moment between Conlan and George.

  Sir Grant, unlike everyone else, looked surprisingly calm and composed. The contrast between him and his cousin, between their two different worlds, had never been more striking. She found she craved his calm, his safety, and she swayed toward him. His touch on her arm tightened.

  “Are you quite well, Lady Anna?” he asked solicitously. “Such a shocking scene.”

  But not one he was surprised by, she would wager. “Yes. One doesn’t expect such things in a Dublin ballroom. I wonder what George said to cause such a reaction?”

  Grant’s jaw tightened. “It hardly matters. My cousin has a fearsome temper. Anything could have set him off. Come, let me fetch you a glass of wine. You look quite pale. Perhaps then we can have that card game.”

  Anna nodded, too confused to make any protest. She did need something to calm her nerves, to help her think clearly again. She had never been quite so confused.

  Chapter Nine

  Conlan remembered Anna going into the card room on Grant’s arm. His head bent toward hers as he said something to her, quiet and intimate, and she laughed. They looked as if they belonged together, both so beautiful, so shining with privilege and the ease of belonging. They were the perfect Anglo-Irish pair. Or so Grant liked to think.

  Grant had spoken of the power that would come with a connection to Killinan. Surely Anna’s beauty and the attention she gathered in Society was in his thoughts as well. Grant had always been very ambitious, even as a schoolboy, the pride of his mother. She was Conlan’s aunt on his father’s side, and she had left her family behind to marry an English Protestant. She was sure her only son, her golden boy, would go far, not only in Dublin but in London as well.

  A perfect wife and hostess was essential for a gentleman’s advancement, a lady of beauty and refinement who could charm the stuffy English and convince them not everyone in Ireland was barbaric. Conlan was sure his cousin saw only Anna Blacknall’s shining surface, her looks and connections, and thought her perfectly suited to his purposes. But if he did achieve his goal and carry her to the altar, Grant would be unpleasantly surprised by his bride’s true nature.

  Conlan had the sense Anna would not be a pliable tool to anyone’s ambition. She would chafe at the constraints of such a life, no matter how gilded, and one day she would explode with it. What would Grant’s perfect life look like then?

  Conlan wouldn’t mind seeing such a thing, not after the way that Grant worked so assiduously to ruin the lives of everyone on the Adair estate. But the thought of Anna Blacknall’s spirit turning hard and bitter as she spent her days with a man who wanted only her name and her pretty face in his drawing room—it made him feel sad, and also guilty. For did he not think to use her as well? Did he not cause her pain every time he saw her—even with that scene tonight?

  He reached for a glass of champagne that Jane left on a table and downed it in one swallow, wishing it were something stronger. Now he remembered well why he avoided such gatherings. They were dull and insipid. Their opulence reminded him too sharply of how hard his tenants worked to keep the bare necessities of life, how precarious their existence was, especially after the Uprising. The money Lady Fitzwalter paid for her flowers alone would keep a cottager family for a year.

  And that was why he came here, why he endured the balls and promenade hours in the park, the empty chatter and the dark intrigue. Why he put himself out there to be shot at. He had a duty to his people, his home, and he would uphold it no matter what he had to do. Union with Britain would set his cause back decades, and he would fight it, no matter who he had to ally with.

  No matter who got hurt.

  He was obviously no good at this game, while Anna Blacknall was at the center of this world, no matter how much she might chafe at its restrictions. She would know a great deal, even if she wasn’t aware of it. He had to discover what she knew, especially about Grant’s activities in support of the Union.

  “Sit down and let me see to that cut,” Jane said firmly. She pressed him down into a chair in the small, dimly lit sitting room and peered closely at his chin. She had charmed Lady Fitzwalter and persuaded their irate hostess to let them use the chamber until the crowd quieted.

  “It’s nothing,” Conlan insisted. Now that the flash of temper had subsided, he felt weary and sorry for creating yet another scene—and in front of Anna, too.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Jane dabbed at the cut with her handkerchief, her eyes narrowed. “What on earth did George Hayes say to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I beg to differ. If he suspects anything about our work…”

  “He doesn’t. He’s too sotted to see past his own nose. It was—personal.” Conlan remembered Hayes’s crude remarks about Anna, and his anger came rushing back. It had gotten the better of him once. He couldn’t let that happen again. Jane was right. It jeopardized too much.

  “Ah,” Jane said with a sage nod. “A woman.”

  “Something like that. Or maybe I just don’t like the man.”

  Jane sighed and left off dabbing at his cut to sit down beside him. “I know the feeling. I often want t
o hit someone at parties. Such gatherings are tedious indeed, even with the diversion of a good fight, but they can be so useful. Everyone comes through these parties eventually, and even without whiskey, they can be wonderfully indiscreet. Did you hear anything of interest before you took a punch at George Hayes?”

  “Some tips on promising racehorses to look for next season, but beyond that, nothing. You English have no conversation.”

  “Unlike your Irish gift of gab? Ah, well, take heart, Your Grace. A connection made here in Dublin is never wasted, if you haven’t ruined it tonight.”

  “Speaking of connection, I understand you have become friendly with my cousin.”

  Jane smiled slyly. “Indeed I have. He is a most interesting person, though not as indiscreet in his conversation as I would like. Not yet.”

  “He has said nothing of his cohorts?”

  “He has said nothing of the Union at all. But I am working on it. We meet again tomorrow night. I will try and discover what he knows about who shot at you in the park. Unless you already know?”

  Adair thought of the ex-officer he found at the pub in the Liberties, a wreck of a man stewed in cheap grog that he bought with ill-gotten coin. An army man reduced to a gun for hire. “I know who did the shooting, but not who paid him. He could give me no names even after a most thorough grilling.”

  “And where is he now?”

  Conlan shrugged.

  “In the Liffey, I would imagine.” Jane fluttered her fan as she studied the sitting room.

  “Perhaps, but I did not put him there. His employers would have no use for a hired assassin soused on gin and talkative, no matter how little he knows.”

  “They will try again. You are too threatening to certain elements.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Of course they will. Union means a great deal of money, titles, and royal favors to fiercely ambitious men. If you stand in their way, they will do all they can to dispose of you. You know that, Adair.”

  “You stand in their way, as well.”

  “But they do not know that. Your power is your title and your raw strength; mine is my gift of deception.”

  “I will watch my back.”

  “I hope so. We can’t do without you.” She snapped her fan shut. “But next time someone takes a shot at you, I would prefer that my friend Anna Blacknall not be nearby.”

  Conlan’s fist tightened on his glass, the fragile bowl creaking ominously. He set it down on the table. “I hated that she was in danger, as much as you do.”

  Jane tilted her head as she studied him. “Or even more so?”

  “She is a fine lady. I will not see her hurt.”

  “Anna is not made of porcelain. She is stronger than people give her credit for, and smarter. She spends a great deal of time with Grant Dunmore and his ilk, and they would not be so careful what they say around her. She could help us—if we kept her away from any danger.”

  Conlan had thought just that himself. But somehow when Jane said it, it seemed cold and calculating. Yet wasn’t that just how he had to be?

  “How could we find out what she knows?” he said.

  “We could recruit her to our cause. Her sister is Eliza Denton; I’m sure she shares our views.”

  Conlan thought of Anna crumpled on the ground at St. Stephen’s Green, her eyes closed, face white as death. “No.”

  Jane pursed her lips. “I’m sure you are right. Subterfuge works best with some people. And I must go practice some of that subterfuge right now, Your Grace. I heard that Lord Ross is here and he is one of the most vocal proponents of the Union. Think about what I’ve said. I’ll be in touch when I have more information.”

  She sashayed away, her silken skirts rustling, beautiful and flirtatious. Lord Ross didn’t stand a chance. The door clicked shut behind her, and Conlan was alone.

  Deception indeed. None better at it than Lady Cannondale. In ’98, she had worked for the United Irishmen. Now she worked to stop the Union, to keep the dream of an independent Ireland alive. And none suspected, least of all poor Lord Cannondale when he was alive.

  Adair had to do the same, to be as discreet as Jane, but his patience with the ballroom was at an end. The cloying scents of roses and French perfume, the artificial laughter, the music—it made him want to roar like the barbarian they thought him. He needed something else, something real.…

  Conlan closed his eyes. The cut stung a bit now, but the silence around him was calming. Surely his temper was spent for the night, and it was safe to emerge from his lair. He had to apologize to Lady Fitzwalter.

  He heard the door open, and his muscles tensed. His eyes flew open and he automatically reached for a dagger that was not there.

  But it was no enemy who faced him. It was Anna. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, watching him warily. What did she think of him now, the barbaric Irishman?

  He rose slowly to his feet. “You’ve lost your escort,” he said.

  “Yes, to the faro table. It’s rather dull to watch someone else gamble. I told him I had to find my mother.”

  “But you found me instead.”

  “I saw Jane in the corridor, and she told me you were in here.”

  “And you dared face the lion in his den?”

  She gave him a smile. A reluctant one, but a smile all the same. “You don’t seem quite so fearsome now, though I think my cousin George would disagree. He was screaming as they carried him away.”

  “He seems to have no sense of proportion. That wasn’t even the beginning of a real thrashing, though I’ll be happy to show him the difference one day.”

  Anna bit her lip. “Whatever did he say to you in the ballroom?”

  Conlan shrugged. He certainly didn’t want to tell her. “Nothing too important. I was a fool to lose my temper like that.”

  “It must have been of some importance for you to hit him like that in the middle of a ball. You certainly stirred up this party! No one has seen such excitement in ages. It almost makes me wish you had given him a real thrashing.”

  Conlan studied her, caught by a sudden gleam of amusement in her eyes. He had a sudden wild idea, one he wasn’t sure she would agree to.

  “Would you rather go to a real party?” he said.

  A smile quirked at the corner of her mouth, and he found his stare drawn to those pink lips. Lips that tasted as sweet as they looked, he remembered all too well. “At the club?” she asked.

  “That’s not a real party, Lady Anna.” The Olympian Club was even more artificial than the Fitzwalters’ ballroom. It was just darker and more secretive.

  “Where then?” she said. She sounded intrigued but still wary.

  “Do you trust me?”

  She laughed. “After tonight? Not a bit. Sadly, I think that only adds to your attraction.”

  He found himself grinning like a fool despite the sting of the cut on his chin. Thought him attractive, did she? “That’s good, for I’m not in the least bit trustworthy. But I do know how to find a fine time in this town.”

  “I’m quite sure you do. When?”

  “Tonight. Meet me at your servants’ entrance at two?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said lightly. But he would wager that she would do it, the little daredevil. Jane thought Anna was in danger from him, but he saw now it was the other way around. “If I do, what should I wear?”

  “Not this,” he said, gesturing to her shimmering white gown. “And not red. Something simple, if you have it.”

  “I have costumes for everything, Your Grace,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

  She left the room and her soft laughter floated back to him. And he knew he really was a fool.

  Chapter Ten

  Anna stepped into the dim, smoky room behind Adair and nearly laughed aloud with startled excitement. She knew that if she was at all sensible, she would back out and run away now. Well, if she was really sensible, she would never have come with him at all. She would have never even considered it
.

  But no one had ever accused her of having a surfeit of good sense. Her restless curiosity always got the better of her. She couldn’t be sorry for it, though, for this was all quite fascinating. It seemed to be a tavern of some sort, a long, narrow room barely lit by smoking, guttering tallow candles. The low ceiling was whitewashed, crossed by smoke-encrusted beams, and the floor was sticky, cracked flagstone. The walls, which had once been just as white, were mostly hidden by old, fly-specked mirrors and paintings of scantily clad women and melodramatic historical scenes. A small group of musicians with drums and fiddles and pipes played a lively song of a wild rover who renounced his wild ways for good while people sang and clapped along. A few dancers spun down the middle of the floor.

  Anna tugged her knitted shawl closer over her black dress and made sure her mobcap covered her hair as Conlan led her past the dancers. She wanted to watch tonight, to observe everything around her, without being noticed herself.

  Though perhaps that would not be possible while she was with Adair. Voices faded as he stepped into the room and heads swiveled toward the door. Even dressed in a plain wool coat and black cap, he attracted attention. Or perhaps he was already known here.

  He took her hand in his, his gaze scanning casually over the room. His bland, pleasant expression never altered, yet Anna noticed that everyone immediately turned away, back to their own business. If he was known here, then he had power, for he was obeyed without uttering a word. She remembered how it was at the ball, too. Everyone stared at him, speculated about him, but no one wanted to anger him. Look what happened when someone like George got on his bad side.

  And then there was the person who shot at him on St. Stephen’s Green. She had no doubt Adair would find the shooter sooner or later, and she didn’t much want to know what would happen then.