The Irish Duchess by Patricia Rice Read Free Book Online

money’s whereabouts. That’s why I gave the funds to him.” She’d killed Burke, Fiona thought as she spoke. It was all her fault.
    She’d killed Aileen with her ignorance yesterday while delivering the babe, and now she held herself responsible for the death of a man who wanted only to better himself. She owed the children, and she owed the village for those losses.
    “And you’re certain that the money is gone?” William asked with his usual optimism. “It might be the thief came too soon.”
    “The money’s gone,” Fiona replied wearily. “We’ve practically torn the place apart stone for stone. There’s a vault behind the fireplace. It’s empty but for a few trinkets.”
    She rose from her chair as the duke began to speak, slipping away before he could say more than her name. She couldn’t bear it if he said another kind word. She much preferred him insufferably arrogant and rude.
    She couldn’t go to bed. The shadows haunted her, and her thoughts churned, searching for some solution to the village’s poverty, the orphans’ plight, Burke’s death. McGonigle had all but accused her of stealing the money for herself. Feelings were running high. They’d never had a murder in their midst. Sure, and there’d been the fights and stabbings in the tavern, but nothing like this. Evil lurked in the village, and she didn’t know how to fight it.
    She sought her mother’s parlor. The castle had fallen to wrack and ruin when the Crown had claimed it these many years past. Not that it had been in good repair anytime in living memory. The earls of Aberdare had never been rich. But her mother had once taken her through the castle while the old earl still lived, pointing out places she’d loved as a child. The sitting parlor with its lady-sized chairs and embroidered footrests had always called to Fiona as a place meant for real ladies. Her mother had been the gracious noblewoman that Fiona had never been.
    The new earl and his countess spent little time here, though their renovations of the old castle and its contents had given jobs to many and brought satisfaction to the countryside. Temporarily, at least, Fiona thought with contempt as she settled into a high-backed wing chair. There were always hotheads to complain of something.
    The servants kept the rooms spotless from respect, not because of Fiona. She knew little of the chores of maintaining this monstrous place. Her mother had died years ago, and they’d been living in William’s small farmhouse then. They’d only lived here in the last two years since the heir’s return.
    Fiona sighed and leaned her head against the chair back. All the best wishes in the world couldn’t restore this cavernous edifice to a bustling, well-tended home. The wind blew down the chimney and rattled the window frames. She could well understand why Michael wouldn’t allow his delicate wife to live in this mausoleum for any length of time.
    Her mind jumped and skittered from one topic to another with the flightiness of a grasshopper. The duke had called her a grasshopper once, and recommended Michael put a jar over her head. She’d thought it rather funny at the time. She had been younger then.
    As if her thoughts had conjured the devil himself, a shadow entered her hideaway. “A light would have made it easier to find you,” an unwelcome voice admonished.
    “Go away, your holiness,” she muttered. “A man of intelligence might recognize the lack of invitation in the darkness.”
    “A man of cowardice might turn down the challenge, but I’m not that man.”
    She heard him pull up one of the other fireplace chairs. They were made for a lady’s smaller size, and Fiona could imagine him squeezing his wide shoulders between the narrow wings and settling his masculine frame onto the flowered chintz. Perhaps he wore his quizzing glass to survey his surroundings in his usual stiff-rumped manner. Maybe she should have lit a candle, after all, to see the sight.
    “Oh,