by Regan Walker
Morgan paused. “I must apologize for what was a forward action on my part, but candidly, I was curious to know where the actress lives. You see, I saw Miss Underwood perform the other night and was impressed. I thought to meet her.” He didn’t mention that his intent had been to seduce her as well.
The countess appeared to consider, pausing to study Morgan, at one point with the aid of her quizzing glass as she might inspect an insect under glass. It occurred to him the older woman likely thought him a rakehell. There was, he supposed, considerable evidence for such a conclusion.
“The name O’Connell is a famous one,” she said at last. “Some in London might even say infamous. Are you any relation to that wild Irishman Daniel O’Connell, the barrister who leads the Irish in their campaign for Catholic emancipation? I believe he has a son named Morgan, but I dare say you are too old to be him.”
“The name Morgan is as common as Maurice or Daniel in my family. Suffice it to say there are many. The Daniel O’Connell you speak of is my cousin, older than me by ten years at just past forty. He is the one who encouraged me to come to London to read the law and attend one of the Inns of Court. Daniel thought a Protestant might be better received here.”
“A Protestant in the very Catholic O’Connell family?”
“Yes,” Morgan admitted with a rueful smile. “From my mother’s side. A bit of a misfit, perhaps, neither accepted by all of the O’Connells nor trusted by the Protestant Ascendancy.”
“A misfit…” The countess studied him intently. “You must be a man who thinks for himself, Mr. O’Connell, if you are willing to draw the ire of all.”
“I should like to think that is the case. However, my cousin has been most supportive. While Daniel is critical of the Protestant leaders in Ireland, he is a fair man. He believes religious and civil liberty for Catholics in Ireland will also protect Protestants in France and Italy. And he counts Protestants among his friends.”
“Most interesting,” murmured the countess. “I have read some of his speeches. Your cousin is certainly eloquent, and his words reflect a sharp mind. But I appreciate most his contempt for violence in the cause of equality.”
“That is due to his days in France where he witnessed the excesses of the revolution. Most of Ireland supports his efforts for peaceful reform, but the English are a different matter. Many look upon him with only disdain. You are an exception—a woman who thinks for herself, perhaps?”
“Touché, sir,” she said with a warm smile.
It was time. Morgan reached for the envelope in his pocket and extended it toward the countess. “This is the note I found. I apologize for its condition, but it was lying on the street.”
The countess glanced at the address but did not take the envelope. “Mr. O’Connell, are you a man to be trusted with secrets?”
Somewhat surprised Morgan said, “I believe I am. Certainly those who seek my services as a barrister will expect me to hold their matters in confidence, and I am prepared to do so.”
“Well, then, in confidence, for your knowing her residence poses a problem otherwise, allow me to explain. Miss Underwood—the one to whom you would seek an introduction, the one you know to be an actress—is not the real name of my houseguest. Miss Lily Underwood is, in truth, Miss Rose Collingwood, a baron’s daughter and a fine young lady who happens to have an affinity and talent for the theatre. Staying with me protects her identity as well as her virtue. Her mother is a good friend of mine, and both the theatre manager Mr. Colman and I are committed to this endeavor.”
Morgan had not expected to learn the truth so easily, and he was flattered by the countess’s honesty. “Well, that explains much.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, for his earlier plans seemed ruined by the revelation. Perhaps they were ruined the moment he arrived at Claremont House.
The countess rose, and Morgan followed. Then she surprised him again: “Why don’t you come to dinner this evening, Mr. O’Connell? I am having a few guests in, and Miss Collingwood will be in attendance. She has the evening free from the theatre, so you can deliver the note personally.”
Morgan blinked. “That is very gracious of you, my lady.” There seemed no choice, not that he would ever reject such good fortune. “I heartily accept.”
* * *
“A note, you say?” Rose had returned from her morning calls to find the countess seated on the parlour sofa with a glass of sherry in hand and a smile on her face.
“Yes, it seems Mr. O’Connell found it lying on the street. He first thought to deliver it to the theatre but then, when my carriage came for your other mail, he followed it here.”
“That was bold of him.”
“I do agree, but once I had the chance to speak with him my concern dissipated. I believe he can be trusted.”
“Of course, if you say so.” Then, thinking about the other notes she’d received, the unsigned ones that were growing increasingly insistent, Rose asked, “What did the note say?”
“Oh, I didn’t read it, my dear, though I thought I recognized the handwriting. It seemed best to me that Mr. O’Connell deliver the note himself. I made him aware of your real identity, and he has promised to keep our secret. He’s accepted my invitation to dine with us this evening.”
Rose raised a brow. It was not like the countess to invite a perfect stranger to one of her dinner parties. “Was there something about Mr. O’Connell that made you want to see more of him?”
“I can scarce resist an interesting man. This one is Irish, attending one of the Inns of Court on his way to becoming a barrister. He’s cousin to the Irish Catholic leader Daniel O’Connell, an extraordinary statesman and a moderate whom I believe will one day be a Member of Parliament—that is, once the Catholics have their emancipation.”
“Oh my. That family!” Rose had heard of the O’Connells, and specifically of Daniel O’Connell who had killed a member of the Protestant Ascendency in a duel a few years before. Though O’Connell had not sought the duel and reportedly tried only to wound the man, the bullet had taken a strange path to end the other man’s life.
“Indeed. Perhaps not a proper suitor for you, though the family definitely has money. Old Maurice, the uncle, is a wealthy man. But no matter that. Mr. O’Connell will make a worthy dinner guest. I quite liked the young barrister. He reminds me a bit of my late husband, the earl. He, too, was a very charming man, and though I would confess it to only a few, he was a bit of a rogue.”
Rose knew the countess well enough to know her penchant for the unusual, so she did not question the invitation further. She returned instead to the niggling thought that would not leave her.
“You said you recognized the handwriting. Was it one of those…letters I’ve received of late?”
“I fear it is.”
Rose considered what that could mean. There had been several letters from the same person. Though the she had played down her concern to the countess, with each message the tone grew more strident until the words became somewhat alarming. Sweet verses, yes, but too confident for her liking. Especially when the author did not sign his name.
Shoving the worrisome thought aside she asked, “Who else will be attending this evening?” She wondered how the Irishman would be received by the others.
The countess took another sip of sherry. “Well, there will be my dear friend Lady Emily Picton, widow of Sir Thomas Picton, the most senior officer killed at Waterloo. She has just returned from a holiday in Bath. You will like her, I know. Then there will be two other gentlemen who have asked to be introduced to you: Colonel Sir Alex Abercromby, now MP for Clackmannan in Scotland, and William Arden, Baron Alvanley.”
“I know the name Alvanley.”
“I thought you might. Alvanley is one of Prinny’s set and well known for his wit. He also remains a loyal friend to that dandy Beau Brummel, whose debts now require him to live in France. So, with all that, there will be six of us.”
“With those minds in the room, it should make for an absorbing
conversation. I shall look forward to it.”
“So will I,” said the countess.
Rose swore there was a twinkle in the older woman’s eye. “Are you by any chance engaged in matchmaking, Countess?”
The woman smiled. “Your mother did give me authority to make a match for you, as you’ll recall.”
“I see you’re taking it seriously.”
“Why, of course! It is one of my favorite pastimes.”
It was then that Rose remembered her other concern. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I think I was being followed today.”
“Followed, my dear? By whom?”
“I cannot say. But when my carriage stopped at Lady Ormond’s for my last call, the carriage behind us stopped as well.” Rose crossed her arms over her chest as if to ward off a sudden chill. “A man cloaked in black got out and watched me enter the townhouse. His stare made me quite uncomfortable. I saw through the window that he lingered there for some time. Thankfully he was gone when I came out, but the whole incident left me unsettled.”
“He might have been a theatre-goer who recognized you and was merely curious,” offered the countess. “Much like Mr. O’Connell.”
“Perhaps,” Rose allowed. “But do you truly think it likely someone would recognize Lily Underwood out of costume and absent the brown wig? If so…”
“You have a point. Still, if the person was close enough to really see your face, I suppose it is possible you might be recognized. But you say he disappeared by the time you left? There may be no connection at all. Perhaps all of this was a coincidence.”
Rose prayed that it was so.
* * *
The ladies were already in the parlour when the gentlemen arrived that evening. Rose was engaged in conversation with Lady Picton, who was only a few years older than she. Rose thought Emily’s black hair and violet eyes striking, and the quick mind that went with them was a welcome surprise. She found a kindred spirit in the young widow, who confided she had no plans to remarry but saw herself much like her friend Lady Claremont, independent and able to move on her own through London Society. Rose was of a similar mind, but a maiden did not have the same freedom as a widow.
The three men entered the parlour nearly together, providing Rose a chance to compare. They were all of an age, around thirty, but one was taller and very handsome with curly black hair and a lithesome form. Neither she nor Lady Picton recognized him, but the young widow did know Lord Alvanley and Sir Alex and identified them in a whisper.
So the third man must be Mr. O’Connell.
Rose was not surprised when Lady Picton pointed out Sir Alex, who was speaking to the countess; she would have known him by his military bearing. He had the rigid stance of an officer, though tonight he was conservatively dressed in black coat, gray waistcoat and trousers. Thick brows topped intense brown eyes, but it was his hair that was most unusual, for while he appeared a man in his prime, it was already gray. For all that, she thought him attractive.
“Miss Collingwood,” said Sir Alex, taking her hand, “the woman all the gentlemen of London desire to meet, the celebrated beauty and ward of the countess. I am pleased she has found me worthy.” In his other hand he held a bouquet of roses, which Rose handed to a waiting footman.
A man used to having his orders followed, thought Rose as he bowed over her hand. She wondered if he considered himself the perfect choice for an admiral’s daughter, but perhaps she was being ungenerous. He had served his country well and deserved her admiration.
“Why, thank you, Sir Alex, for both the flowers and the compliment, though you praise me too highly. I’m certain few in London even know of my existence.”
“They will all want to know you soon, Miss Collingwood. Word of your beauty is spreading,” he said. “Then, too, your father was well spoken of by all in the Navy.”
“Sadly, I never knew him, Sir Alex. I was the product of my mother’s brief visit to see my father in Portsmouth where his ship was undergoing repairs. He never returned home after my birth and died eight years ago while still serving the Crown.”
Lady Picton sent Rose a sympathetic glance, then she too was introduced to Sir Alex, who informed the young widow that he served with her husband at Waterloo, the battle that claimed his life.
The next to be presented to Rose was the portly Lord Alvanley, whose long brown sideburns seemed to highlight his rather short neck. Dressed as he was, she thought his taste impeccable though somewhat audacious: a cerulean blue coat with bright yellow waistcoat spanning his barrel chest, topped with an elaborately tied cravat. He used the walking stick he carried most dramatically when he spoke, gesturing to emphasize his point. In his other hand was a small bouquet of roses, artfully arranged, which Rose also gave to the footman.
Alvanley took her hand and announced rather gaily, “Just the woman for me, fair Rose. You are a beauty, I must say!”
Rose thought the baron a bit sure of himself, as if she were a flower to be picked at his whim, but she smiled nonetheless and thanked him for the bouquet and his praise. As he accepted this with good grace, she thought better of him. She also remembered the countess describing him as loyal to his unfortunate friend Brummell. Judging by the looks he was giving Lady Picton, Lord Alvanley was equally as taken with the beautiful widow, and for that Rose could not fault him.
Finally, there was the Irish barrister in the making. A good several inches taller than the other men, he wore a forest green velvet coat, white linen shirt and cravat, russet breeches and waistcoat and black boots. The clothes fit him well and hinted at a muscled physique beneath. His piercing blue eyes held her gaze for a long moment; then his very white teeth were displayed in a rakish smile that at once disarmed her.
“Miss Collingwood,” he said, accepting her hand, “I have wanted to meet you and was delighted Lady Claremont included me in her soiree tonight.” Leaning forward, he whispered just for her ears, “I am merely love’s messenger, delivering to you not flowers but a lost valentine from one of Miss Underwood’s many admirers.”
She could smell his clean, masculine scent as he bent toward her. He bowed low and brushed his lips across her knuckles, sending shivers up Rose’s spine, a reaction she’d not had to the others, or indeed to any man; the energy pouring off him quite took her aback.
“Perhaps fortune has brought you to us, Mr. O’Connell,” she said, trying to gain control of senses thrown into complete disarray by his presence. “I am anxious to hear more about your famous family.”
“Doubtless you speak of my cousin. In recent years he’s become a very well known barrister in Ireland, and a sharp stick in the side of the English government.” He grinned, apparently finding amusement in his comment, and her heart beat faster at seeing again that winsome smile. “England, you know, is still having its revenge on the Irish for their support of King James over William of Orange.”
Was he pricking her in jest? After all, she was English. And while she might be taking a risk in being an actress, she was not involved in armed rebellion in the streets as were the Irish. The Irish were such rabble-rousers! But Mr. O’Connell did not seem the rabble-rouser. Had he been tempered by education and age?
The introductions concluded, a footman passed around glasses of sherry and the conversation grew lively as Sir Alex said to Mr. O’Connell, “As a Whig, I am in favor of emancipation for the Catholics. Nevertheless, your cousin, sir, did not help matters when he refused to support England’s one condition that three years ago would have given the Catholics what they seek.”
“Daniel did oppose the veto England wanted over papal appointments, and thus split the vote,” the tall Irishman agreed, “but only to preserve the Church’s role in uniting Irishmen seeking reform. He is confident the Irish Catholics will have what they want on their own terms and finally benefit from being part of the United Kingdom.”
“Seems to me,” interjected Lord Alvanley, “your cousin is a lion with a thorn in his paw.”
“Or perhaps,” Mr. O’Conn
ell rejoined with a grin, “Daniel is the thorn in England’s paw.”
Despite her earlier concerns, Rose admired the way the Irishman handled himself. He was smart and unafraid, but with a sense of humor. Few men could laugh at themselves; it was a rare quality and one she greatly admired. And to banter with Alvanley was certainly an achievement.
Silencing the men who were half her age, the countess interjected, “As I recall, Alvanley, that thorn you speak of was the subject of Devonshire’s maiden speech before the House of Lords. Barely into his title, the young duke argued in support of the Whig motion to examine the Irish Catholics’ discontent. When I saw him a few months ago, he was still complaining of the ill treatment by English landlords of their Irish tenantry.”
Mr. O’Connell looked at the countess with what appeared to be admiration as Sir Alex vocalized agreement. “Devonshire is very concerned that, while we can fairly criticize the Irish for not adhering to England’s laws, our laws hardly protect them. A bad state of affairs all around.”
From all she’d read Rose thought the statement a fair one, but apparently Mr. O’Connell felt some explanation necessary.
“The Irish do not respect laws that only serve to harm them. And just now they are suffering from the drop in crop prices that followed the war’s end. Most are scraping out a living on only a few acres. Once emancipation is achieved and the Irish Catholics can take their place in the House of Commons, it is hoped the laws and their situation will change.” He spoke with a voice of authority that Rose found convincing, and his words made her realize she knew little of his countrymen’s plight. She also detected a bit of an Irish lilt in his voice, which gave it a wonderful quality. She could well believe juries would hang on his every word.
Cruthers appeared at the parlour door. “Dinner is served, your ladyship.”
“Come,” said the countess to her guests. “Let us leave off politics while we enjoy a good meal.”
The Irishman held out his arm, and Rose accepted, settling her fingers on a muscled forearm. She wondered what he did to gain those muscles. Boxing perhaps? She knew some men practiced the sport of pugilism, and she was given to understand that the Irish loved to fight.