Patrica Rice by The English Heiress Read Free Book Online

acquaintance?”
    The woman gave his bulky companion a quizzical look. “Is he drunk?”
    The man heaved his shoulders in a shrug. “Not the lad. Has he got some relation?”
    When the woman looked puzzled, Michael had a good idea what would follow next. Grabbing his high-crowned hat, he ducked the man’s outstretched hand. “I assure you, my good people, my name is not Seamus, and I’m not the least bit Irish. But I have come in search of a respectable lady who might go by the name of MacOwen. Do you know aught of her?”
    Now they both looked puzzled, and Michael sighed in resignation. Fiona had lied about her name or they’d recognize it.
    If they were up to no good, as he suspected, they’d not be happy with his spying. The bloke still foolishly thought he had the upper hand. Time to disillusion him. With a cheerful grin, Michael bowed. “Sure and it’s glad I am to make the acquaintance of both of ye. I’ll be after seein’ ye now.”
    And with that mocking speech he took to his heels even before the bully’s roar of rage echoed down the alley.
    Michael had no trouble darting in and out of the crowd, leaping over outstretched legs, dodging trash heaps, and merrily begging pardon as he leapt past the skirts of two soiled doves engaged in a loud dispute. The bulky man chasing after him had no such luck. Michael could hear him crashing into bins and tripping over deliberately positioned little feet. He’d salted the street well with his coins. The recipients would amuse themselves by not letting him come to any immediate harm.
    Reaching the wider arena of Covent Garden, Michael slowed his pace, removing his hat and coat as he snaked through the crowd. Disappearing into a used clothing stall, he emerged a minute later wearing a loose smock and a cloth cap. As his pursuer shoved past, looking angrily from side to side, Michael whistled down another alley.
    * * *
    After a restless night during which she’d posted footmen at all the doors as a precaution against uncertainty, Blanche wearily descended the stairs to the breakfast parlor. Garbed in one of Neville’s frock coats, Michael was already there. He greeted her with a bow and handed her a plate prepared with her favorite selections. He would make a splendid footman, but a perfectly wretched employee, she observed, as he took the seat at her elbow and returned to the paper he’d discarded with her arrival.
    “How long do you think it would take for anyone to miss you should I shoot you between the eyes and bury your body in the garden?” she asked while sipping her coffee and eyeing the bow window that looked out over the garden she had in mind.
    Without putting down his newssheet, Michael caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips, rubbing at her knuckles as he finished perusing the article that held his interest. The shiver of his touch traveled up her arm, tingling her elbow and all parts beyond. He laid the sheet aside and, freeing her hand, produced the smile that always melted her to her toes.
    “Gavin would briefly wonder why I did not appear with some outrageous gift for his birthday. Dillian might put her head together with that irksome Cousin Marian and decide I haven’t annoyed either of them lately and wonder if I’ve set up a mistress. You, my lady, would roast the devil out of them all until they admitted they hadn’t seen me in ages, at which point they would immediately turn your garden upside down in search of my remains. Either that, or they’d just mount a headstone and save themselves the trouble.”
    Blanche fought back a laugh. Part of Michael’s charm was that he wasn’t insensible to his vexatious ways and didn’t deliberately set out to annoy those who loved him. He just had very odd priorities.
    “I don’t suppose you would save me the mess and bother and just climb into that hole if I had the gardener dig one, would you? I promise you a very fine headstone.”
    He grinned and tilted her heavily sugared coffee to