Authors: The English Heiress
She might look like a fragile porcelain ornament, but she refused to break like one.
Blanche leveled a gaze on her cousin. “I have no desire to be your duchess, Neville. Court Lady Angela. She will suit you, and she has mountains of money.”
Not pleased, Neville returned his tea cup to the table. “I cannot come begging every time I wish something done, Blanche. And Lady Angela laughs like a horse. I’m not that desperate yet.”
He stalked out, leaving Blanche contemplating the newly arrived sun rays bleaching the color from her velvet cushions. She couldn’t decide whether she felt more like the fading cushion or the dust motes dancing on the insubstantial beams.
Perhaps she should do as her mother had done, retire to her bed and let everyone wait on her and never be disturbed by another decision again.
A light spring snow wafted through the golden lantern beams of the tavern, landing equally on man and beast, rich and poor as they scurried for the comfort of warm fires. Outside the tavern stood a gentleman in tall beaver hat and loose frock coat. The coat’s sleeves had frayed at the hems, and shiny patches appeared at the elbows, but the gentleman did not look embarrassed by the lack of elegance. In fact, he appeared unconcerned by anything at all as he juggled three pebbles between gloved hands. The gloves had no fingers.
Passing by the tavern, a stout old gentleman wearing a muffler grunted amusement as the juggler added three silver coins into the configuration of pebbles. The older man held out another coin in appreciation for the trick.
The beggar’s hat amazingly slipped from O’Toole’s head to his hands while the glittering objects disappeared, along with the man’s coin.
“Wasting your talents, son,” the old man grumbled. “Ought to be a lawyer and juggle other people’s money.”
O’Toole grinned, and a gleam of light played along disheveled auburn hair. “People pay well for amusement. When I fail to amuse, I shall consider your advice, sir.”
The old man grudgingly smiled at this impudence. “You consider this earning a living, then? Standing on street corners, hat in hand?”
“That I do, sir.” Apparently devoid of the coins recently deposited into it, the hat again covered reddish-brown locks. A moment later the coins spun and gleamed in the light. “People pay for amusement as willingly as they pay for ale. I should prefer their coins spent on one than the other.”
“An evangelist,” the old man growled. “You fail to amuse when you begin to preach.” With that, he turned on his heel and entered the tavern.
Undaunted, the young gentleman whistled happily, concentrating on setting all the coins spinning as they rotated up and down through the light, circling from one hand to the other. He had no intention of evangelizing, proselytizing, or orating in any manner. In his experience, actions spoke louder than words.
The rising voices within the tavern warned of the fracas he’d anticipated. O’Toole flipped another coin or two, but one-by-one, the collection disappeared into the pockets of his frayed coat. Human nature being what it was, his instinct for trouble seldom failed him.
“Out, you young lout! What do you think this here is, a poor house? Out with ye afore I call the magistrate!”
A ragged bundle of clothes tumbled head over heels into the frozen slush of the street at O’Toole’s feet. A shriek of outrage revealed no harm done to more than pride, and O’Toole gently set his boot on a slender wrist before it could wield the soggy snowball forming between clenched fingers.
“And stay out!” The tavern owner shook his fist and slammed the door.
“Divil take ye, why didn’t ye let me at him?” the youth asked angrily, shaking off O’Toole’s hold and scrambling to his feet. “And after sayin’ I’d work for the food! Is it stealing his miserable porridge, I am?”
Although the angry protest emerged as guttural growls, an interesting note caught O’Toole’s ears. He cocked his head as he examined the slight figure straightening a much-darned coat and jerking a knitted cap further over a grubby forehead.
“And am I detectin’ a note o’ the old country?” he asked in a lilt mimicking that of his young companion.
The angry urchin halted his brushing to stare at the juggler now leaning on a handsome cane. “And what county do ye claim from?” the youngster asked with suspicion.
“All of them, my friend, all of them, but my spirit lingers in the grand green hills of Galway.” This wasn’t precisely a lie. O’Toole had never lived anywhere more than a year of his life. He’d felt a particular kinship with the inhabitants of County Galway at one time, as he had with many other people in many different places. But he thought he recognized the accent.
The starch wilted from the youth’s stiff hide. “Well, then, and you’re aftar knowing what it’s like. Wretched Sassenachs think they own the ground we walk on. Not a farthing to be had for the likes of us.”
“That is as it might be,” O’Toole replied mildly. “I’ll be taking it then that you’re low on funds and have need of a place to stay. It seems as if you’ve already eaten,” he added wryly.
The youth shot him another suspicious look. “I’ll be doing just foyne on me own without the need of a pervert, thank ye.”
O’Toole stifled a grin as one more engaging aspect of the little termagant appeared. He’d thought the young beggar oddly dressed and a little too deceitful in his speech to be as young as his size indicated. But if his instincts didn’t lie, that slender wrist and occasional high-pitched note had little to do with the child’s age.
O’Toole idly juggled the coins from his pocket. “And a foyne idea that is, too, me lad. The more for me, I say. But I’m not avarse to tipping back a wee one in front of a friendly fire on a night like this. Mayhap we can help each other. Is a foyne lad like yourself after having a name?”
“Mac,” the young person answered reluctantly, eyeing the circling coins with respect. “A mug of something warm and a good song or two might be welcome.”
Smiling to himself, O’Toole pocketed his coins and sauntered down the street toward a more hospitable inn. “Well, Mac, and I’m O’Toole.”
Not until he had the “lad” in the lighted rooms of an inn did Michael discover the extent of the surprise concealed in this filthy package. Except for his companion’s petite height and poorly disguised feminine curves, the image staring back at him could be his own sister.
Concealing his disbelief, O’Toole took a seat beside the roaring fire and gestured for the “lad” to do the same. “I think you’d best be telling me your real name,” he suggested, trying to hide his curiosity from himself as well as his terrified companion.
He’d known people with red hair and green eyes before. The world abounded with them. Quite a few even shared his lean build. He’d never met any with all three features plus his striking lack of freckles. And while her chin was considerably narrower than his own, and her high forehead and marked cheekbones proportionately smaller, he would think her a younger version of himself were she not so obviously female.
“Mac” scowled and held the cup of heated cider between her hands to warm them. “Mac is all they call me,” she replied sullenly. “’Tis none of your consarn.”
O’Toole debated calling her bluff, but he’d seen enough frightened youngsters to recognize one prepared to bolt. If she felt safer disguised as a boy, then so be it, for now.
He’d never known a home or had any particular desire for one, but he’d always wondered about his origins. Having no name of his own had its advantages, but his intellect couldn’t abide ignorance. Gavin might claim him as brother, but that claim came from the circumstances they’d grown up in and not reality.
“P’raps it’s none of my consarn,” he replied with disinterest as he gnawed on a chicken leg, “but ’tis of some interest when you’re after appearin’ more like my brother than me own brother does.”
She didn’t look his way, so she’d noticed the resemblance also. He was inclined to believe what he wanted to believe, but he wasn’t imagining the likeness.
“My family has produced bastards enough,” she replied dryly. “Royalty is not alone in that habit.”
He chuckled in appreciation of the observation. A young girl should have no such notions in her head, but he couldn’t fault her acuity. “Well, and I’m flattered of your opinion of me and mine. Since we’re neither of us from these parts, might I inquire as to your destination?”
He saw her shoulders tense beneath the thin wool coat. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew travel in groups was safer than alone. He pushed the remaining chicken carcass in her direction and watched her eye it hungrily. One needed coins to travel safely. She would know that, too.
“To London,” she replied, helping herself to the other leg. “To my aunt,” she added with a shade of defiance, daring him to doubt her reply.
O’Toole brightened as if pleased with this discovery. “I have business in the city myself. We might help each other, after all. I just lost my assistant, you see.”
He lied. More like, he fudged the truth considerably. He had no direction, no business, and no assistant, unless one counted the last stray he’d found a home. But he could easily manufacture all three with a sweep of his hat. He had twenty-eight years of experience in surviving in this world. He could be anything anyone wanted him to be.
She shot him a look of distrust. “And what might your business be? Horse trader?”
He grinned at her insult. “I’m an actor, lad, on my way to a new position in Drury Lane. But we’re a long way from the city’s glittering lights, and travel is expensive. I’ll earn my way there. ’Tis an honest enough profession. I’ve paid for a bed in the common room. Why don’t you take that fowl up and get some sleep? I’ve an eye on the serving lass over there for the evening.”
She accepted that well enough. O’Toole watched as she gathered up the remains of the chicken and the bread rump. She looked too worn and weary for protest. If he treated her like a boy, she might linger. He would take precautions against her bolting at the first light of day. She didn’t have a chance in hell on the road alone.
After she left, O’Toole stayed in his chair, sipping at his coffee and staring at the flames. In his experience, wealth created more evil than good. He had no desire to accumulate any. His goal in life had always been to see what there was to see, do what there was to do, and help the less fortunate along the way.
A family would inevitably ruin that footloose life.
He’d stumbled upon a crossroads he’d never expected to reach: should he continue down the direct path, delivering the lass to her aunt without further question, or should he explore the side road of that frightening resemblance and possibly uncover the family he’d never known?
The question was rhetorical. He’d never ignored an unexplored road in his life.
* * *
“This isn’t the way to London,” Mac announced as the hay wagon bounced in a rut.
After sitting in the farmer’s barn all winter, the hay was redolent of rot, but Michael wouldn’t complain of the odor or the ride. A hole in his companion’s boot had broken through to match the one in her stocking.
“I have a stop to make first. We can’t go into London looking like beggars.” He’d thought long and hard on this as they’d traversed the roads from the lake country to Hampshire. Despite the similarities in their appearances, the chit couldn’t possibly be his sister. They’d been born an ocean apart. Still, he couldn’t ignore the possibility of a blood relation, or the instinct that told him she verged on desperation.
Days in her company hadn’t imparted the information he wanted. He needed help. The melodic voice of a certain angelic female beckoned. If anyone could winkle information out of the chit, Lady Blanche could.
“What shall we go to London looking like?" Mac inquired idly, her brogue disappearing. He’d noticed that tendency as she grew more comfortable in his presence.
“That depends on what you mean to do when you get there, my lady,” Michael replied, waiting for her reaction.
He watched her panic at his challenge, but she didn’t speak her fear.
“I shall go to my aunt, just as I said,” she answered without looking at him, not attempting to deny her disguise.
“You must have a very understanding aunt, Miss Mac,” he said dryly. “A young lady traveling the length of England and breadth of Ireland, unaccompanied, and in boy’s rags, would bring the stoutest of matrons of my acquaintance to their knees in horror.”
“Whimpering Sassenach milksops,” she returned sulkily. “I’ll be getting off here, then, and making my own way, thank ye.”
She tried to leap from the rolling wagon, but O’Toole caught her elbow. She struggled, but he dragged her farther into the cart with ease.
“I’ll take you to the house of a lady friend of mine. She’ll see that you’re suitably attired. Then we’ll discuss appropriate traveling arrangements. It would be best if I could give her a proper name.”
O’Toole watched her war of emotions. To his dismay, he recognized real fear, along with indecision and determination. What could a mere child know of fear so great that she must run across two countries to escape it?
“Polly,” she replied blithely, not looking at him again.
“Polly,” he repeated with distaste. “I knew a sailor once who named his parrot that. It does not suit you. Wouldn’t you rather choose something more interesting?”
The girl looked as if she might hit him. Eyeing him, she thought better of it. “Fiona,” she tried carefully. “Fiona MacOwen.”
“Fey-onah?” he pronounced with the proper Irish accent. “A foyne old Irish name,” he agreed with a grin. “I like it, though I think you ought to be a foot taller and much more mysterious to wear it. A red-headed cherub is more like a Molly than a Fiona.”
She did hit him then, smacking his arm out from under him so he tumbled over backward into the smelly hay. O’Toole emerged laughing, his tall hat lost in the stack, and wisps of straw stuck in his hair.
“I’m that destroyed, I am!” he cried cheerfully, patting through the hay for his hat. “Taken down by a mere female. And a beggarly one at that. I’ll never live down the shame.”
Fiona smiled, and appearing less prepared to bolt, she sat with him as they let the fine sun seep into their bones.