“Thank you, Norah,” Pen said as the maid took her damp cloak and hat. Despite the boy and his umbrella, she had gotten soaked in the dash from Lady Keating’s carriage to the door. Why did Irish rain seem wetter than the rain at home? “How is Mrs. Carrighar?” she asked.
“Well, her lunch left not long after you did, if you take my meanin’, miss,” the maid whispered with a grimace. “Cook’s hopin’ she’ll take a little sago puddin’ for her tea. She’s in the parlor, a-layin’ on the sofer. Mrs. Carrighar that is, not Cook.”
Pen chuckled and crossed to the closed drawing room doors. She paused on the threshold to check the state of her skirts. Still damp around the hem from the puddle, but maybe Ally wouldn’t notice. She opened the doors a crack and peeked in.
Ally—Melusine Allardyce Carrighar, really, but Ally for as long as Pen could remember—lay on the green brocade sofa, her pale face borrowing something of its color. Her dark hair was loose on her shoulders, and a woolen throw covered her dressing-gown-clad figure. Seeing her with her hair down and still in her nightclothes in the middle of the day—Ally the indefatigable, the energetic—was disconcerting. If this was what childbearing did to women . . . Pen shook her head.
As Pen watched her, Ally stirred and, without opening her eyes, said, “Good afternoon, Pen. Please inform Cook that I loathe sago.”
“You said that about dry toast and weak tea, too.” Pen slipped through the doors, shutting them behind her. “How are you feeling?”
Ally opened one eye and stared at her balefully. “How do you think I feel?” She paused and sniffed. “Are you wearing perfume?”
“Does it bother you? A lady offered me a ride home in her carriage and she’d rather bathed in it, I think. Is it so bad? Shall I go change my gown?”
“No, it’s not that bad. It’s just . . . strange.” Ally shivered and drew her robe closer around her throat.
Pen pointed at a straight chair near one of the windows. It scuttled obediently across the room and settled itself next to Ally’s couch.
“The apothecary said he didn’t have anything for queasiness that you hadn’t already tried. Isn’t there anything the Carrighars can do to help you?” She seated herself and took Ally’s limp hand.
“I set Michael to reading through my grimoires to see if there weren’t any charms we could try, and Dr. Carrighar tried two spells this afternoon that only made things worse. Fortunately, their effects were temporary.” Ally shut her eyes again, as if to block out an unpleasant memory. “His strength is theoretical magic, anyway, but I don’t have the heart to remind him of that fact.”
“Really?” Pen smothered a grin. “What did he do to you?”
“You sounded distinctly like your brother when you said that. Unlike young boys, true ladies do not take a prurient interest in unpleasant bodily functions, Penelope.” Ally opened both eyes that time and raised one eyebrow at Pen. “You just wait until it’s your turn to start a family.”
“As I’m not married nor even acquainted with many eligible gentlemen right now, I think children are hardly a concern for me,” Pen said with a small sigh. “One does require a husband first, so I understand. And I’m not here to find a husband. I’m here to do what I should have done before and learn magic.”
“You should have stayed with your sister at Galiswood and studied with her,” Ally reminded her gently. “Then you could have gone into London right at the start of the season and accomplished both.”
“I know I could have. Persy wrote that Lochinvar was coming along well with his magic lessons. But I—I didn’t want to. Three’s a crowd, you know.” Pen looked down at her hands, folded in her lap.
Her sister had been wandering around in a veritable pink-tinged cloud ever since her marriage to their neighbor back at home, Lochinvar, Viscount Seton. While visiting them last November, Pen had more than once come upon them entwined in an embrace that made her blush and back away on tiptoe. She was thrilled that Lochinvar and Persy were so obviously in love, especially after the rocky start to their courtship. But it wasn’t always comfortable to be around two people so engrossed in each other.
Ally was right, though. Persy could have tutored her very well. Since their magical escapades in London last May saving Princess Victoria, Persy had realized that she was, indeed, a powerful witch, as powerful as Ally was.
Well, she’d studied and practiced enough all these years. If Pen had worked half as hard at her magic, she might have been of some help in saving the princess. Instead, Persy had been forced to rescue her, too.
“You’ve come a long way with your studies here. I saw you summon that chair just now.” Ally’s voice broke into her thoughts. “It took very little effort, didn’t it? This time last year, you would have twisted your face and turned red before the chair even twitched.”
“Oh, pooh.” Pen made a mock-indignant face.
“And I know how hard it was for you to accept Michael as your teacher since I’ve been ill,” Ally added, reaching out and taking Pen’s hand.
“Well . . . I’ve gotten over it, I think.” It had been hard at first. Michael Carrighar had been in on the plot to bewitch Princess Victoria. Switching from viewing him as an enemy to accepting him as her beloved Ally’s husband had taken time. But she had learned to because Michael’s devotion to Ally was as evident as Lochinvar’s to Persy.
“I know you have, and we’re both grateful,” Ally murmured.
“Grateful for what?” Michael himself poked his head around the door just then and grinned at them.
“That human gestation is not as long as equine.” Ally made a face at him as he came into the room, followed by Norah with the tea tray.
Pen smiled and gave up her seat by Ally to him.
“How’s my dearest wife? Oh, look, Norah’s brought us an excellent tea,” he said, nodding his thanks to Pen as he sat. His odd eyes—one blue, one brown—twinkled at her.
Ally peered up at him. “I’m perfectly dreadful, thank you. And do not think that you are going to convince me with your appalling cheerfulness to eat anything right now.”
“Would I do that to you?” He pulled a hurt face and smoothed her hair back from her forehead.
“In a moment, and you know it.” But Ally turned and softly kissed his hand.
Pen sat back in one of the armchairs by the fire and listened to them banter. It must be wonderful to feel cherished and loved and so part of each other. Michael was actually talking Ally into sitting up and taking a few sips of sugared ginger tea. No one else could have done that, not even her.
Were all happily married couples like this, finishing each other’s sentences half the time? She felt a pang of—not jealousy, but of exclusion. Three was a crowd here, too, just as it had been at Galiswood.
“You shall be doubtless pleased to hear,” proclaimed a voice from the doorway, “that I have at least discovered the reason for your debilitation, my dear.”
Dr. Carrighar, Michael’s father, nodded solemnly at them as he came in and took a seat by the fire opposite Pen.
“I think we already knew the cause,” Michael muttered to Ally.
“Shhh,” Ally murmured back, but a faint pink stole into her cheeks.
Pen rose and went to the table to pour a cup of tea for the doctor. He thanked her as he took it and stretched his legs, clad in their old-fashioned hose and breeches, toward the fire. The silver buckles on his shoes gleamed in the firelight.
There was a great deal of the old-fashioned about the Reverend Doctor Seamus Aloysius O’Donnell Carrighar. Pen often wondered why he didn’t still powder his hair, for much else about him seemed to be fixed in the last century. Once she had gotten used to those eccentricities, though, Pen realized that Dr. Carrighar was extraordinary in other ways as well. For one thing, his magical knowledge exceeded Ally’s as much as Ally’s exceeded hers. Ally’s statement that his practical magic lagged behind his theoretical had more to do with her nausea-induced peevishness than reality.
“I suppose I should be glad. But right now I’m more interested in hearing what can be done about it,” Ally said in a louder voice, with a hint of her former crispness.
“Well, my dear, it would seem that the offspring of magic-using persons who will themselves, post utero, be potent witches—or wizards, as the case might be—frequently cause maternal distress and discomfort whilst in utero. Something to do with the latent powers of the child engendering an antagonistic effect on those of the mother, with maternal indisposition being the result. In other words, you’re ill because your babe will follow in her parental, and grandparental, footsteps, and be a cracking good witch. Isn’t that splendid?” Dr. Carrighar beamed.
Pen smiled behind her teacup. Dr. Carrighar’s way of speaking had taken some getting used to.
“Just marvelous,” Ally agreed, with less enthusiasm. “And in the meantime?”
Dr. Carrighar’s smile dimmed. “In the meantime you might, er, try some of Cook’s sago pudding.”
Ally groaned and fell back against her pillow.
“Or the ginger tea. Ginger is excellent for stomach ailments. . . .” Dr. Carrighar trailed into silence at a look from Michael.
It seemed a good time to change the subject. “Speaking of tea,” Pen said brightly, “I’ve been invited to tea tomorrow. By an acquaintance of yours, sir,” she added, turning to Dr. Carrighar. “After I frightened her horses this afternoon, she decided to take a liking to me.”
“She? What she is this?”
“A Lady Keating. She seemed quite interested to hear that I was your guest. I got the impression she asked me more out of respect to you than anything else.”
“Nuala Keating?” Dr. Carrighar frowned and glanced at Michael. “How did you meet her, Penelope?”
Pen explained about the near-accident that afternoon. She watched Dr. Carrighar stare at the buckles of his shoes as he listened.
“And what did you think of her?” he asked when she had finished.
“I don’t know. She was a little strange—very cold at first, then very friendly. She seemed quite interested in hearing any gossip from London. Said she hadn’t been there since her son was at university.”
“No, she wouldn’t have. That would have been about when Lord Keating fell ill. Lady K. has been running the estate ever since. Hmmph.” Dr. Carrighar continued to study his shoes, brows drawn.
“Is there anything wrong with her?” Ally asked. “Would it be proper for Pen to visit her? Society is less formal and constrained here, I understand, or I wouldn’t allow her out on her own. But still—”
“No, no, she’s perfectly respectable. Her family’s quite ancient. She has a title that predates Christianity in Ireland, though it has no real meaning in these modern times. And no scandals, not of recent vintage, anyway. It’s just . . . oh, nothing. Penelope is a mostly grown woman now. She should be able to choose her own friends and acquaintances.”
“No recent scandals?” Pen sat up straighter in her chair. “So there are some?”
“Good heavens! The statute of limitations on gossip never runs out, does it?” Dr. Carrighar shook his head and pursed his lips primly, but Pen caught the twinkle in his eye.
“Not when you drop tantalizing hints, it doesn’t.” She grinned at him over her teacup. “Come on, sir, you can’t stop now.”
“Oh, it’s nothing particularly interesting.” The older man shrugged. “Just the usual chatter about a child who looks nothing like his reputed father.”
“You mean Niall Keating,” Michael said. “Yes, I remember hearing about that.”
“Hearing about what?” Even Ally, who had often warned Pen about the evils of gossip, looked interested now.
Dr. Carrighar gave her a roguish glance. “Thou too, Melusine? Very well. Lady Keating’s husband was—is, I suppose I should properly say, as he’s more or less alive—”
“More or less?” interrupted Pen.
“He was stricken some years ago and lost use of his legs,” Michael replied. “He’s been confined to a chair ever since.”
Dr. Carrighar harrumphed loudly. “As I was saying . . . Lord Keating was a third son and, as such, was sent into the army. His father purchased him a commission as a staff officer in the Fifteenth Dragoons, the Duke of Cumberland’s regiment.”
“The wicked duke,” Ally murmured.
“So it is said, if you give any credence to the rumors that he murdered his valet over a woman and that he’s plotting to kill his niece Queen Victoria before she marries and has an heir so that he can inherit the crown. But I doubt he’s any more wicked than the rest of old King George’s sons. I’ve always thought people feared him because he has more brains and ability than the rest of his brothers and actually takes an interest in politics rather than in mistresses and racehorses. Well, he knew he’d inherit the throne of Hanover after King William’s death, since Victoria could not, being female. Remember, intelligence is what makes people dangerous, my dear.” He waggled one eyebrow at Pen.
“Anyway, it’s rumored that the duke took an especial interest in his officer’s beautiful young wife. The affair ended only when Keating was called back to Ireland after both his elder brothers’ unexpected deaths, making him heir to the title. Her son was born six months after their return, and as he grew up, there were plenty to comment on his striking height and handsome, er, Hanoverian features, rather different from his short, dark father’s.”
“My goodness, how romantic!” said Pen. If the doctor’s story was true, that would make Lady Keating’s son—Niall, was it?—first cousin to the queen. She would have to pay attention tomorrow and see if there was a resemblance between them.
Dr. Carrighar snorted. “Romantic, my foot. But everything is romantic to young ladies these days, isn’t it?”
Pen put out her tongue at him.
He chuckled. “That’s better. I prefer you acerbic to gushing, child. And speaking of acerbic, perhaps you might find time after tea to enumerate the main points of the chapters of John Scotus Eriugena I asked you to read.”
“Yes, sir,” Pen agreed meekly. Dr. Carrighar had lately begun to take over her tutoring from Michael, so that Michael could devote more time to reestablishing his interrupted university career. Good thing that she’d read the chapters. It didn’t do to neglect Dr. Carrighar’s assignments.
“Well . . . ,” Ally said slowly. “Since it’s just a rumor of scandal, and an old one at that, I suppose you may go tomorrow. It was kind of her to send a carriage for you. What will you wear? Your brown cashmere with the embroidered chemisette?”
“Perhaps,” Pen replied, and for a moment felt guiltily glad that Ally was, for now, a semi-invalid. She was going to wear something far more stylish than that demure brown dress. She’d have to, to not be completely eclipsed by Lady Keating.
Pen ignored the rest of the tea conversation and brooded. She’d enjoyed the parties and balls of her season last year. But so much of her time at them had been taken up by being Lochinvar’s confidant as he pined after Persy that she’d not been able to pay much attention to other young men. It would be diverting to have a social life once again and perhaps meet some.
You’re just going for an afternoon call, goose, she reminded herself. Don’t build it up into something it isn’t.
But she couldn’t help being a little excited. Living with the Carrighars was undoubtedly stimulating to the mind, but not entirely satisfactory in other ways. Lady Keating had been right—she was lonely. Meeting new people tomorrow would be fun. Especially since one of them was reputed to be a tall, handsome young man.
Niall Keating pulled the collar of his coat higher around his neck. It was sunny today but brisk, more January than March, and the wind off the river Lee penetrated even the thickest wool as if it were a gauze shawl. Damn Mother anyway for sending him out for a walk, just so that he could make a grand entrance for her guest’s benefit. And damn himself, for agreeing to go and then forgetting to wear a hat in a wind like this.
; But it would serve Mother right if he came back with a red nose and chapped cheeks. Then they would see how impressed this girl was with Lady Keating’s fair-haired son.
The childish crankiness of his thoughts made him even more irritable. Somehow all his recent interactions with his mother left him feeling this way. He found a sheltered shop doorway and consulted his watch. Another half hour. Did he dare slip into a pub, just to kill the time? Anything would be better than freezing his arse off out here.
He ducked into the next pub he came to—so dark and low-ceilinged that he had to keep his head bowed as he entered—and asked the landlord for tea. Mother would have his guts for garters if he came home with whiskey on his breath, and he loathed beer. A year of studying in Germany had seen to that.
Niall sat down in a quiet corner away from the other patrons, where he could be alone with his thoughts. The aproned landlord arrived a moment later with a steaming mug.
“Care for a bit o’ something to flavor that, m’lord?” he asked with an ingratiating smile and a keen look at Niall’s polished boots and well-tailored coat.
“No, thank you,” Niall returned politely, and handed him a coin. “And I’m not a lord.”
“Hmmph,” said the man, and dug in his apron for change. “You’re not one o’ Father Mathew’s converts, are ye, who’re swearing off the drink? Thirty breweries an’ ten distilleries in this city are providin’ bread for the tables of their workers, an’ he wants everyone to stop having a pint now an’ again. Temperance, he calls it. Trying to put honest publicans out o’ business is what I call it.”
“No. I just need to keep a clear head.”
“Aye, well, sometimes a nip of the whiskey can aid in clearing the head something marvelous.” The landlord winked broadly.
Niall smiled and shook his head. “Thank you anyway. Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir!” He patted his pocket and scuttled back behind his counter before Niall could change his mind. Which was just what Niall had intended. He was in no mood for chitchat just now.
Betraying Season Page 2