Small Town Duke: A Modern Aristocracy Billionaire Romance (Billionaires of Ballytirrel Book 1)

by Sara Forbes

  I straighten against the seat. “Good evening, Officer.” I reach into the glove compartment, pull out my license and hand it over.

  Ignoring my death glare, he studies it, does a double-take, frowns, looks at it askew and then back at me, eyebrows drawn. Quite the pantomime.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” he asks in thick, West Cork accent.

  “Excuse me?”

  He points at my name. “It says here Lord Daniel Moore.”

  “I know.”

  He scratches his eyebrow. “Ah now, come on.”

  “It’s my God-given right to use my title, Officer…” I search for his name tag, but it’s lost in the folds of his uniform.

  Something in my stiff tone must convince him because he fumbles with his radio. “I’ll call it in. Be with you in a second.” He struts off toward his car.

  I lean on the steering wheel and sigh. I’m not in the mood for this. It’s late. It’s dark. It’s cold. And I’ve just had the worst date of my life. The four-hour trip to Dublin and back was a complete waste of time.

  The young officer comes back, his eyes a little wider. “Uhm,” he mutters, “Yes, uh, Lord Moore, you can go along on your way now. S-sorry for the inconvenience.”

  I wave him off and roll up my window. No doubt we’ll meet again at some Garda gala where they dress up in their Sunday finest and thank their most generous sponsors, i.e. me.

  There’s a taxi in front of me as I hit the village and I have to slow down once again. That’s weird. Who would come to Ballytirrel at this hour? It’s hardly one of the teenagers coming back from a nightclub in Cork, not on a Tuesday.

  Well, if someone is visiting, I’m sure to hear about it from Mrs. Muldoon in the morning. But then I remember with a pang that she’s not there. She’s in Cork County Hospital recovering from a triple aortal bypass. Poor woman won’t be fit for gossiping this side of Easter.

  There’s still light in the north wing as I drive up to the house. That’s weird. Mother should be in bed by now.

  My gaze wanders over to the conservatory roof of the east side. The jagged forms of the crumbling turrets and broken roof look very Gothic against the dark purple sky. Two months of repair should do it if the weather cooperates. Then I can get going on the interior woodwork which will take over a year. I’ll have to get an expert in to help with that. I’m worried he or she will say it’s better to rip it all out. Christ, I just don’t know if I can stomach that.

  I go around the back and let myself in the kitchen door.

  “Hey Dedalus,” I whisper to my beloved, ten-year-old Jack Russell. “Good to see ya. I had a dreadful time, thanks for asking. Was she nice? Well, she looked nice, but no, she wasn’t nice. Tell you all about it later.” He leaps up and scratches at my pants, ripping a gash in the premium wool.

  “What?” I cry. “Did nobody feed you?”

  Cursing, I root around in the freezer, find his favorite meatballs, fix him up with some of those in his bowl which he practically leaps on. I head down the hall to Mother’s drawing room.

  “Did nobody feed Deda-?” I begin, but then I stop.

  Mother’s pacing the floor, clutching her arms into herself. “I can’t stand this, Danny. It’s been a fortnight and I’m losing it. I didn’t even want to light the fire in here today because I don’t want to clean the ashes in the morning.”

  “None of Theresa’s students free?”

  “Your sister has better things to be doing than looking for a housekeeper for us.” She glares at me. “She’s not living here.”

  “I asked around in Dublin,” I say.

  “Dublin,” she scoffs. “Nobody’ll come from up there. We need someone local who can jump in for a couple of weeks. Of course, that’s hardly likely, is it?”

  I inhale. “That’s below the belt.”

  Her eyes narrow. “It takes a crisis like this to see how much you’ve poisoned the waters, young man.”

  “Mother, what do you want me to do? It’s been six years for crying out loud. I can’t mind-control the ants in this anthill and make them suddenly like me.”

  “Not with an attitude like that.”

  “Not with any attitude. They all hate me. Except for Cliona and Lorcan.”

  “And Cliona won’t hang around forever now that she’s almost thirty.”

  “I know what age she is.”

  Her eyebrows hike up. “Do you? Do you really?”

  It’s another of those discussions. I had hoped to be taking my date home from Dublin tonight, but as Jasmine turned out to be yet another gold-digger who reacted crazily to the things I had to say, I had to scrap that idea.

  My new policy with women I date is to be honest from the beginning. That way, I get to discover who’s just after my money and my title and who’s interested in the real me, warts and all. Turns out, none of them want the latter.

  I didn’t even want to see Jasmine’s apartment, so I fucked her right there in the bathroom of the restaurant. She didn’t seem to mind. But now all I have to show for the trip are scratch marks on my back.

  I hunker down, roll up my shirt sleeves, and begin cleaning out the two-day-cold grate, picking out the half-burnt embers for re-use. The mantelpiece above me is actually the oldest thing in the house, dating back to fifteenth century Italy, lovingly restored by my sixteenth-century ancestor, the tenth Duke of Munster. He went through an Italian Renaissance phase, collecting treasures to furnish the house. Although that house no longer exists, having been replaced by this one in 1878, the priceless Italian treasures are dotted around the house, blending in seamlessly with newer artifacts.

  “I sold two foals the day before yesterday,” I tell my mother who has elected to stay in the cold room to prove a point. “Got a fair price for them too.”

  She makes a neutral-sounding noise.

  “Which the budget sorely needs,” I add. “Did you see that dry rot in the east wing?”

  She shudders.

  “All the timber might have to be re-done, or it’ll spread. Stonework’s and slate-work’s first, though.”

  “Are you going to spend another Summer hammering wood?”

  “Has to be done, Mother. At least I know what I’m doing this time. I’ll admit I had a bit of a carpentry learning curve last summer.”

  She lets out a sigh. “Is there any end in sight?”

  I twist my head to look at her. “Not for the foreseeable future because after that comes the plastering, then the furnishings. Then…the guests.”

  She gives me her well-honed, tortured look. “With any luck I’ll be dead before that happens.”

  “Possibly.” I turn back to cleaning out the fireplace.

  Is there a grand house in Ireland left that doesn’t survive either by taking in guests or being rescued by a trust? No, there isn’t. And she knows it fine rightly. And I’d rather be independent of a trust if I can do anything about it. The property, land, and the horse business may be worth near a billion at this stage, all combined, but cash-flow can be problematic at times due to high taxation and even higher maintenance costs.

  My primary responsibility is to see that Moore Manor survives to the next generation, whatever that generation might look like. Mother’s too hung up on defining the next generation to see that they’ll have nothing to inherit if I don’t fix up the house enough to make it habitable.

  She and Father had it good, but they let things slide and crumble. She lives in the past and I live in the future.

  Even if nobody in the locality wants me here, I’m going to make damn sure the Moore Manor outlives them all. What’s petty gossip compared to a grand stately home with an ancient pedigree? With the house and gardens restored to former glory and without the curse that blights my name, my descendants will have it good.

  “We really need someone to replace Mrs. Muldoon now,” Mother says, looking disdainfully at my ash-smothered hands. “You’ve left me with no choice. I’m going to broadcast it. I’m going to tell Nuala Lannigan.” />
  “Good luck with that,” I say.

  3

  SHANNON

  “Ballytirrel,” The sign says and directly under it the Gaelic, Bhaile an Tirialaigh. My jet-lagged brain wonders how you’re even meant to pronounce that.

  The views on the cab drive from Dublin airport have been stunning—dreamlike, emerald green grass, just like in the tourist brochures. Dark green gorse bushes fly by the roadside, and heathery hills shimmer in the distance. Stone walls hug tiny fields populated by sheep and cows. And when I step out of the cab to take a photo at the crest of an impossibly picturesque hill, a peaty smell lingers in the damp February. air. It’s everything you’d expect of the Irish countryside, and more.

  But now that darkness has fallen and there’s only blackness outside, or more precisely, a kind of deep purple dotted with the most brilliant stars, I’m wrapped in my worries again. How exactly is Brett going to react when he discovers I’m gone?

  I told Mom to pretend she didn’t know I was going anywhere. She’s a good actor so she’ll pull it off. But at what cost? She’ll fret about it later, I know she will. Marci was the only other person I told, and she’s sworn to secrecy, and she’s also a good actor. Everyone else will be telling the truth when they say they don’t have a clue where I am. Hopefully, he’ll wonder about it for a while and then lose interest.

  The taxi trundles toward a crossroads. Overhead lamps illuminate small houses that hug the road, as though proximity to traffic is something to be desired. Posters on lampposts tell of a weirdly specific egg-throwing competition in a week’s time. The local hairdressers with its grimy windows and bad pun name, “Curl up and Dye”, makes me glad I got mine done before I left home. There’s a cozy-looking grocery store that serves as a post office and there’s a bar across the way.

  “This is the center,” the cab driver says, and before he’s finished his sentence, we’ve already gone through it.

  I swing back my gaze to see it. “It must be somewhere around here,” I mutter.

  “It is,” the driver says.

  I’m fingering my laptop case handle, assuring myself it’s still there. It’s my lifeline—the thing that makes this trip financially possible. As I wasn’t sure when I’d be returning, I got a cheap, midweek single ticket to Dublin. If this place is as quiet as my aunt assures me it is, I should get heaps of work done and I can stay the full three months of my tourist visa. If anything goes wrong—disharmony with my aunt, an allergy to the food, whatever—then I can just up and leave on the next flight that’s affordable.

  It’s fun to see my name everywhere. Shannon fisheries, Shannon airport Shannon Development Authority. Mom said I was named after the river where she used to canoe as a girl.

  “Here we go. Samhain Lane.” He pronounces it “sow-wan”. Gaelic and English phonetics seem to be a world apart.

  Here goes.

  When the car comes to a halt, I fight the crazy impulse to ask the driver to drive me straight back to the airport.

  Be brave. You can do this.

  I pay and tip him by card. He gets out and hands me my large wheelie suitcase. As the taillights vanish into the distance, I feel like I’ve let go of a lifeline to my previous life. I’ve only been to Mexico before and now here I am the other side of the Atlantic.

  I fill my lungs with the damp sea air. It’s so good. A ramshackle lane leads up to a pale-yellow cottage that stands alone in the countryside, casting out warm light through the front windows and door. The nearest neighbors are three or four fields away.

  I drag my suitcase over rocks, pebbles, and gnarled tree roots toward the cottage door. Something small and fast scurries in front of me making me jump. It disappears into the hedge. A mouse? A squirrel?

  Light floods the path as Nuala opens the door. She’s wearing a tunic with a busy pattern, wide-cut jeans, and sensible sandals. She looks paradoxically both younger and older than Mom.

  She comes out of the cottage, arms held wide, wearing the same friendly expression as she did on the Skype call.

  “There you are, love,” she says. “I’ve been waiting.”

  I grin. Well, this can’t be too bad.

  ***

  After a tour of the house and a hearty meal of veg soup and bread, I feel like I’ve already settled into Aunt Nuala’s house. With her, I feel an instant, easy camaraderie. She’s not my mom, but something about her feels very much like having my mom there. It’s probably normal but as I don’t have other aunts and uncles to compare with, it’s a new experience for me.

  Nuala’s house is a perfect retreat. Quiet, secluded, cozy, with hippy chic furnishings. Its low ceiling-rooms are warm, if somewhat drafty depending on where you sit. The back of the house has been renovated with new windows and French doors, and something tells me the view tomorrow when the sun is up is going to be amazing.

  “It never gets really cold here,” Nuala assures me. “The gulf stream sees to that.”

  “That’s good,” I laugh. “I don’t have many winter clothes.”

  Then I ask her the most important question of all, hoping it’s not too early. “Is it OK if I connect to your wi-fi?”

  “Oh, I don’t have internet.”

  The blood drains from my face. “What? But we skyped!”

  “Oh, I did that from Sean’s house. He’s got the broadband, the works.”

  “But I need internet so I can work!”

  She reaches over and pats my arm. “It’s not the end of the world, is it? Sean can’t wait to meet you. And plenty of places around here have the internet.”

  “But I need to be online most of the time. For research for my work.” I try to picture working off-line and it just doesn’t compute. I need to look up things all the time while I’m writing articles. This is a disaster.

  “We’ll get you sorted out,” Nuala insists. She sounds way too sure of herself.

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to tell you this until tomorrow, but it does bring up something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I look at her expectantly.

  “The Moores up in the manor are looking for a temporary housekeeper.”

  I blink. “O-kay.”

  “They’re a very respectable family. You’d get paid probably as much as you’d get writing those articles, if not more, and you wouldn’t be tied to the internet.”

  I chuckle weakly. “No, no, I’m a copywriter. I write for clients. I have my own business. This is what I do. I’m not…a housekeeper.”

  “But the Moores need the help. And it’s only part-time. Come to think of it, you could bring your laptop over there and write in the afternoons in the lap of luxury in one of their drawing rooms.”

  I study her face to make sure she’s not joking and it doesn’t seem that she is.

  “Uhm.” It cost me a lot to get here, and I don’t need to rock this boat. I want to get along with my aunt and maybe even get her and Mom reconciled. Politeness is key. “Why don’t they—the, uh, the Moores—contact the local employment agency?”

  “It’s Mrs. Muldoon, you see. She’s their housekeeper,” Nuala explains. “But she’s sick, and Lady Ellen hasn’t managed to find a temporary replacement for her.”

  “Lady Ellen,” I repeat. “Why’s she called Lady Ellen?”

  “Oh, the Moores are a duchy. Daniel, her son, is the duke.”

  Duke. I think of the Duke of Edinburgh, Queen Elizabeth’s husband. “Uh, aren’t dukes meant to be English?”

  She laughs. “We have various systems of nobility here in Ireland, but he is indeed a member of the peerage of the UK. He’s as much a duke as the Duke of Sussex.”

  “Well then, he should’ve no problem getting someone to do his laundry.”

  Nuala fingers the tablecloth. “You would think that,” she agrees. “But it’s complicated.”

  “Is it?” I ask even though I really don’t want to know. I’d much rather figure out the internet issue.

  “The local
s keep the Moores at arm’s length.”

  “Oh, class wars? Upper-class versus the plebs?” I say, remembering a discussion in high-school about European class systems. Not that America doesn’t have a class system too with its ivy league schools and Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers.

  “Something like that,” she says. “Shannon—” My aunt grips my arm and looks at me beseechingly. “Would you consider helping them out if it meant that you could use their internet in the afternoons completely undisturbed, as in you’d have your own office space there?”

  As her grip lingers, I sense something about this is really important to her. I can’t bear to say no because she’s been so welcoming to me. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me to give it an honest try and then back off when it’s clear I’m not qualified. I can use their internet to figure out where the other wi-fi hot spots are in this place.

  “What it would involve?” I ask warily, getting a feeling of sinking into mud.

  “General housekeeping duties—cleaning, polishing. Upkeep of the home. I’m not entirely sure.”

  This seems so menial, but I don’t say this out loud.

  “I presume you’ve done housework?” she asks.

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then you’ll be fine. They’ve hired foreigners in the past; they’d have no problem with that. Lady Ellen will set you straight on what you need to know—the rules, the rituals, she has quite a few of those.”

  “Um—”

  “See, she’s got arthritis now and finds it hard to do much around the house. They’re really in a rough spot. Their gardener has been helping out, but he’s only there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. And Danny is always jet-setting around the country or if he’s home, he’s out renovating the ruins. Between you and me, he only comes inside the house to see that dog of his.”

  I feel railroaded, like when Brett has a marvelous idea that we simply have to try out. On the other hand, my aunt is not my semi-psychotic ex, and this is starting to shape up to be a win-win situation—a concept that Brett never seemed to fully grasp. If I swallow my pride, I could be earning double salary here, and with no rent to pay, that dream condo may be coming my way quicker than I thought.