Felicity tightened her hand around her tea cup. The heat seeping into her fingers through the porcelain was nothing to the fire in her belly. “I would think a man who treasures his smile wouldn’t tempt fate by speaking such folly.”
He turned full around to face her. “Plan to bust out me teeth with a teacup?” His breath, hot and soured with brandy, rushed her forehead.
She looked up at him, feeling small against his height. “You wasted your money. You’re not invited to her gala. The only way your carousel ponies will be arriving on our doorstep is if they gallop over on their own.”
He tapped the spoon on his open palm. “Is that so? How ye plan to keep me away?”
“I won’t have to. You’ll stay away willingly.”
Smirking, Landrigan smoothed the lapel of his suit, such a warm spiced hue it would’ve blended into his skin if not for the pink shirt beneath the jacket. “Now this I want to hear.” He gestured to the table with the spoon, inviting Felicity to sit. She hedged into the chair he held. After scooting her in, he took a seat across from her.
A clink reverberated through the quiet room as Felicity set her cup on a saucer. She smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “I’m going to harvest and sell the peat in the bogs. And I’ll give you a generous share of the profits.”
Interest opened his features as he spun the spoon on the table. “Would this be yer proposition? Must say I was hopin’ it was somethin’ of a less … industrious nature.”
Felicity continued unfazed. “We will be in business with one another, and that will be the extent of our relationship. As partners, we will both sign a contract to that effect.”
An amused grin tugged at his lips. “I sense there’s to be some sort of provision on it?”
“A clause. Stating you will never set foot on this estate again and that any exchanges between us will be via post. You may visit your aunt anytime, but only in Carnlough. Clooney shall drive her into town, and you can meet her somewhere. There are cafés aplenty. Any one would suffice. Surely you can see the fairness in this. I’m offering part of your father’s estate, just as you’ve always wanted. And this way, you’ll make a steady profit without ever doing a day’s work.”
“And who will do the work?” he asked, the smugness setting in again.
“Pardon?”
“Have ye considered how many men ye’ll have to hire to work the bogs? With yer private nature, I’m surprised yer willin’ to let that many strangers peer into yer life.”
Felicity clutched the butterfly brooch at her neck. She hadn’t considered that. Hadn’t had time to think this plan through at all. Nick hadn’t either, it appeared. But for the moment, she couldn’t worry about it. She had to keep the upper hand. Get Landrigan to agree to the contract and get him out. That’s all that mattered right now. She would hone the details later.
“I shan’t be dealing with the workers. Nick will. He’s to marry me.” The lie came easily for it slid from her heart—an unreachable dream. “He’s off at the moment, getting a license in town. So, you see, Mister Landrigan, this really is the only way you’ll ever have any claim on this estate, since I’m to marry another man.”
She expected rage. Or in the least, piqued fury. But all that Landrigan offered was a casual lift of his dark brow. “Surprising. That ye would marry someone affiliated with London.”
“Why should that surprise you?”
He startled her by sliding the spoon across the table so it teetered off the edge and into her lap. When she looked up from where it landed, he loomed over her, fists banked on either side of her teacup. “Seein’ as that’s where yer secrets be buried, Jasmine.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“What’s with the long puss, yer ladyship? Ye look like ye’ve seen me old Da himself. But that be impossible, don’t it? Bein’ as yer grounds keeper, or should I say, physician, killed him.”
Felicity’s scar cinched tight, a cold, crackling sensation which started beneath the brooch and descended to the base of her abdomen like glass breaking beneath an extreme freeze.
She had to have misheard. He couldn’t know.
He could never know.
But one look at his face, and denial gave way to sheer terror.
“How…?” Her question came out on a strangled breath.
“I was leadin’ the wrong way, y’see. When I stopped looking for information on yer bonny ass and turned my attention to yer groundsman and his fierce talent for medicine … well, that brought it all about. I heard ‘bout a physician from a brothel in London that my da used to frequent. The doc disappeared close to when me da died. I wrote to the madame and her return letters were chock full of interestin’ stories. The most unusual one of a courtesan known as Jasmine—a favorite of me da’s, not to mention of every other man she pleasured. But here be the interestin’ part … seems there was an incident that involved the whore. Da made bags o’ her chest and ended up at the bottom of some stairs with a bloody knife in his hand. Least, tis the version the brothel’s physician gave after the whore died. But the madam couldn’t find the doc for any more questions after that fated night. I suspect he played a part in me da’s death. That he was defendin’ the whore and pushed me ol’ man down the stairs. It’s taken some money, but I finally got his name. Imagine me surprise to learn he went by Clooney and nothin’ more. And ye…” Landrigan shook his head, almost laughing. “Ye look right good for a dead woman.”
The sun streamed through the long windows, as if putting Felicity’s entire life on display. The light was blinding and uncomfortably hot.
She glanced over her shoulder, wishing she’d left the doors open. On second thought, had she, everyone in the castle would know her secret. It was better she face this alone.
However, she’d lost all courage. Blood pounded in her ears, and the truth pinned her in place. She couldn’t move even when she heard the scuff of his shoes coming around the table … even when he knelt next to her to lift the spoon from where it had settled in the basin of her skirt between her thighs.
His hand lingered too long on her leg, scalding it. Felicity came to herself enough to shove him away, scooting her chair back in the process.
He caught the edges of the seat then spun her so the back planked the table and boxed her in. The reverberation of wood hitting wood echoed through her shoulders and shook her bones.
His hands clenched to knuckle-white tightness. The spoon wedged between his right palm and the chair’s cushion. “It be ironic really … less a lady then me mum who was but a servant. Yet me bastard father married ye on his deathbed and cast me pregnant mum to the gutters. Can only be one explanation.” His teeth gleamed on a sneer both superior and ravenous—a fox facing a rabbit trapped in barbed wire. “Ye must be worth yer weight in gold between the sheets.”
Deep within, hard won mettle warmed the embers of Felicity’s waning spirit. “You have no proof,” she spat. It was all she could think of. To dispute the details would be futile. But it was his word against hers. No one in Ireland could identify her, so he had no means to substantiate the claim.
Landrigan released the left side of her chair and laid the spoon in her lap again. From his jacket’s lining, he drew out a sheet of stationary so familiar it made Felicity gasp. She reached for it, but he blocked her hand. The script captured her attention like a scream: her handwritten list of every patron’s address to whom she supplied butterflies, including her London clientele.
“Can’t mean too much to ye,” Landrigan said, sneering. “I’ve had it since yesterday and ye didn’t notice its absence.”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“Mayhap, had yer betrothed been so inclined to be as generous as me, the servants would be loyal to him, and not so hungry for revenge.”
“Rachel,” Felicity seethed the name.
Landrigan curled his lips so they opened like petals of nightshade, dripping with poison. “So, ye see I needn’t any proof, Jasmine. I’ve witnesses comin’ to ou
t ye. I suspect some of yer butterfly clientele from London frequented said brothel. Tis why ye choose to live in seclusion, to never show yer face to them. Well, I’ve wired messages to each one to visit the estate the day after Lia’s birthday—an invitation to see the inner workings of yer caterpillar business.”
Felicity’s mouth dropped.
“Aw. Don’t look so puckish, luv. Was a cracker business move. A good faith gesture on yer part as their supplier, to show them things have improved.”
Dizziness spun Felicity’s thoughts. She scrambled for some way to stay afloat. “I’ll withdraw each offer. Resend their acceptances in personalized notices.”
“Wouldn’t recommend it. Be nawful un-businesslike. Might lose some customers. Besides”—he tucked the piece of stationary behind his lapel— “I believe this be yer only copy of the list.”
Felicity clutched his jacket but he pried her fingers free—sending shooting pains through her knuckles.
“I have envelopes,” she said. “From missives … with their addresses intact … all I need do is look for them.”
“Ah. But by the time ye find each one, and send off yer bonny little withdrawals, yer patrons’ll already be on a ship, makin’ their way to the castle.” He traced the spoon’s handle along her thigh. “Hmm. What will yer hero Nick think, to learn the truth about his bride?”
Her confidence wavered like a candle beneath an ill wind, but still refused to snuff out. “Nick already knows. He wants me despite it. He’ll protect me if I’m recognized. To share his name will be my sanction.” The lies flowed slower now—like honey, sweet but sticky on the tongue.
“Ah. But what of his family? There was another Lord Thornton at the top of yer list. According to Rachel, it’s Nick’s upright father. I don’t think he’ll support this marriage. Mayhap Nick would give up his inheritance for ye, were ye some virtuous maiden. But heroes don’t relinquish treasure for scrubbers. Nay. That not be the way of fairytales, Jasmine.”
“Stop calling me that!”
Felicity shoved him off and stood, thrashing the spoon about as if it were a sword. She backed toward the pictures on the wall, wishing she could disappear into Lianna’s black and white dreamscapes. To ride away on that carousel … never to face any music but songs of merriment and innocence.
Landrigan strutted through the shifting light where the window frames shaded his dark skin. Bluish lines moved like creeping ivy across his face. “All this time, lettin’ on that yer a prim and proper widow. And everyone bought it. I wonder…” He caught her spoon wielding hand along with her other wrist and pinned them to the wall. “How do ye make the wrinkles look so real? I suspect they be exclusive only to the exposed parts of yer body.”
Grinding her fingers tight around the spoon’s ladle, he dragged her wrist down so the spoon’s tip traced her collar beneath her chin. Using it like a button-hook, he freed her fastenings. The utensil popped at each release—a thumping pressure that trailed her scar as the buttons gave way. Felicity struggled against him, groaning with the effort as he wedged the handle between her brooch’s closure and ripped it free.
The dress gaped open.
“I’ll scream,” Felicity breathed the threat.
He laughed, his gaze fixed on the low-scooped chemise at her neck. “Do that. Mayhap ye can explain to the help why yer skin be so soft and young, or why ye bear a knife’s scar on yer chest.”
Felicity’s gaze probed downward reluctantly. There it was … her hideousness … an inch of her scar bared for the bastard to see. Mortified, she tilted her chin away and swallowed against the sandy dryness of her throat. Humiliated tears gathered in her eyes.
“No wonder ye stopped selling yerself, Jasmine. Who would pay to touch that?”
Something within her shattered … that fragile shell of self-esteem built up over the years and nurtured by the love of her brother, nieces, and friends—fortified by Nick. Memories of men using her body and casting her aside leveled the foundation to dust. Her tears broke loose, and she despised herself for being too weak to hold them in.
Her reaction fed Landrigan’s torments. “Go on and marry yer crippled English hero. Least when he sees how deep the damage runs in ye, he’ll have yer maid to turn to for a mistress. He’ll need somethin’ to pass the time, seein’ as he’s sure to find ye as repulsive as I do.”
Sobbing, Felicity thrust her knee into his groin. He doubled over and lost his grip on her hands, cursing. The spoon clanged to the floor.
Gasping, Felicity raced to the table and clutched the teapot’s handle. When Landrigan started toward her—red-faced and furious—she stood her ground, prepared to toss the steaming brew in his face.
He paused as if to measure her resolve.
So intent in their standoff, neither of them heard the door open.
“What game are you playing?” a tiny voice asked.
Felicity spun around to find Lianna behind her in her nightgown, her face pink and wrinkled where she’d been laying atop her sheets. After a body-trembling yawn, she widened her lashes. “Auntie, what happened to your dress? Why are your eyes runny? Have you been crying?”
Felicity hurriedly set the teapot down.
“Oh no, little goose. I’ve not been crying.” She swiped her face with the backs of her fingerless gloves. “The tea’s steam … made my eyes water. And my dress … it, it simply isn’t made well. The buttons won’t stay put no matter what I try. The buttonholes must be too big.” She pushed the tiny covered knobs through their slitted openings and sealed the lapel.
“You should let Rachel fix them for you. She likes to fix things.” Lianna’s innocent remark garnered a snort from Landrigan.
“Aye,” he said. “She’s well and good at fixin’ things, to that I can attest.”
Gritting her teeth, Felicity arranged the brooch over the rip in her gown’s neck. Then she knelt beside Lianna, offering her a biscuit from the table.
Lia’s pretty bird-mouth nibbled at the bread. “Why are you here, Uncle Donal?”
The swine had smoothed his clothes and hair to look as fresh as when he first arrived. Grinning at Lianna, he stepped to the wall and poked a finger at her picture, crinkling the paper with the motion. “I came to tell yer aunt that I bought those ponies ye wished for.”
“Oh!” Crumbs drizzled from the child’s mouth upon the bloom of her smile. “Oh, I love you, Uncle Donal! I love you so!” Her unkempt hair swirled around her waist as she tried to rush to him.
Felicity snagged her around the waist. “No, Lia. You sit down and eat your breakfast. This is not the time for histrionics. You aren’t dressed properly to receive company. Mister Landrigan was just leaving.” She couldn’t bring herself to face him. Instead, she helped her grumbling niece into her chair then loaded a plate with jam and fragrant poached eggs.
“Why does Uncle Donal have to leave now? I want to hear stories of my treasures!”
Landrigan came up behind Felicity and leaned over to pat Lianna’s head. The hair on Felicity’s neck bristled as he boxed her in beneath him where she knelt, his thigh touching her nape.
“No worries little snapper. I’ll be back for yer birthday. Yer aunt is sure to be feelin’ more receptive to me by then, with all the guests that will be comin’.”
“Guests for my party?” Lianna asked. A dribble of jelly glazed her bottom lip.
Felicity elbowed Landrigan in the shin so he’d move. “No more talk of this now. I will see you out, Mister Landrigan.”
She walked him to the double doors, stealing a glance at Lianna over her shoulder. The child swung her bare feet, pretending her biscuit was riding her fork in a circle. She hummed a perfect accompaniment to a carousel ride.
Felicity turned back around, stifling the flame in her stomach.
Landrigan held her gaze. “The little skirt has grand timing. As did Clooney yester morn in the chicken house. But in a few weeks, there’ll be no one to save ye.”
“You’re mistaken, Mister Landrigan. Th
ere will be no one to save you. If you dare to attend Lia’s gala, Nick will be here. And you can rest assured, in spite of all the horrible things you said to me today, he will defend me. He is my hero.” With that, Felicity shoved her unwanted guest out and slammed both doors in his face.
She spun around and flattened her shoulders to the wall, trying to breathe … trying to forget the humiliation. The bastard had made her feel like a whore all over again. Ugly, unlovable, and unwanted.
So different from the way Nick made her feel.
She pressed the back of her hand over her eyes. If only she hadn’t chased him away, those lies to Landrigan would’ve been truths. And Nick would’ve told everyone the children were hers. Whereas Landrigan would assure people knew she was raising her nieces without any legal claim. Without her being their mother, her suitability to rear children would be in question as an unmarried countess. But forbidden as a courtesan.
She always knew she couldn’t sustain the lies forever, but she’d been determined to manage until the girls were grown by living as a recluse. Now that Irish swine had brought the world to her doorstep, and it was too late to undo what had been done.
Too late. For Nick was gone forever. By now, he was on some train, going God only knew where. There was no means for her to find him.
Closing her eyes, she drifted atop her churning emotions. Tears nudged at her lashes. Nausea, tantamount to any bout of seasickness, mangled her stomach.
“So … did Sissy like the eggs? Poached are her favorite.”
Lianna’s tinkling voice threw out a lifeline and pulled Felicity back.
“What do you mean?” Felicity asked, drying her cheeks with her sleeve before turning to face her. “She’s yet to eat. Where is she?”
Lianna wrinkled her nose. “Don’t know. But I wish she’d ask next time before stealing my pillows. I don’t like waking with nothing but sheets to plump me.”
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