The Irish Duchess by Patricia Rice Read Free Book Online Page B

out of the kindness of his heart but because he had wanted to make a few discreet inquiries in the village. Aberdare needed to know all the pertinent facts about the murder. The village folk hadn’t liked talking to an Englishman, but they’d all wanted Burke’s murderer caught. Neville hadn’t found a soul who disliked the man. And the disappearance of the village’s hard earned savings had stirred a tempest that could grow to hurricane proportions if some action wasn’t taken soon.
    Neville wished he could pin the evidence on the obstreperous McGonigle, but it seemed the man’s tirades had an audience almost every waking minute, and he possessed a wife who witnessed his sleeping ones.
    Hearing sounds from the little-used parlor to his left, Neville strolled in that direction. The chill of the downstairs chambers reflected the great hall they had once been. Without a tree burning in the huge fireplace, the rooms were never warm.
    “Eamon! What the devil brings you here?”
    Neville heard Fiona’s surprise as he lingered in the gloom of the massive doorway. The only light in the towering chamber came from arrow slits.
    A shaft of sunlight struck Fiona. Resting his shoulder against the stone, Neville admired her wide, intelligent brow and curved dark eyebrows that expressed her emotions more freely than she knew. If it were not for the hint of rose in her cheeks, her skin would be pure white, untouched by the freckles sported by most red-haired women. Stubborn determination jutted her little chin as she confronted her visitor.
    “I heard about Burke, and I heard a rumor you were leaving. I’m after thinking that’s not wise, Fiona,” the man said, seemingly unperturbed by her acerbic greeting.
    The man pronounced her name with the long “a” — “Fey-onah.” The accent jarred Neville’s memory. If he remembered correctly, two years ago the man standing here now had been a wanted criminal. Aberdare had allowed him to escape in return for his services to Blanche. Neville didn’t think the earl would appreciate knowing a known traitor haunted the halls of his home.
    “As if you could teach me wisdom,” Fiona replied with bristly sarcasm. “I thought you well on your way in America by now. You’re mad to return here.”
    Eamon O’Connor brushed a thick lock of dark hair from his face. Neville could see little of his features, but he remembered the Irishman as young and handsome, and a rebel to the bone, the perfect companion for someone like Fiona. Neville was amazed they hadn’t run off together. He was further amazed at the stab of irritation he felt at the thought.
    “A thing or two has turned up since we spoke last,” O’Connor said laconically. “Your cousin has a magic way with the courts, it seems, and I’m no longer a criminal. But I’m not here to talk of myself, lass. The word is you’ve taken the villagers’ money for your own, to spend it on fancy clothes in London and find yourself a fine husband. If you leave now, they’ll think it’s true for sartin.”
    Neville stifled a groan. He’d hoped to hustle Fiona out of here before she heard the rumor. Before she could do more than emit the first screech of outrage, Neville stepped into the dust-moted light where O’Connor could detect his movement.
    “It’s McGonigle’s doing, you know that, Fiona,” Neville said dismissively. “The man’s a troublemaker. If your friends do not believe better of you than that, then they don’t deserve your time or care.”
    Neville turned his attention from Fiona to the lanky visitor. “You had no need to disturb her with such idiocy. Michael should have turned you over to the courts and let you hang.”
    O’Connor shoved his hands into the pockets of a shapeless tweed coat and regarded Neville with the same expression he’d give a particularly loathsome insect. “And the same to ye now,” he replied with remarkable placidity. “If ye must know, I’ve come to save Fiona from yer filthy