Emily Baker (5 page)

“Good morning, ma’am,” the footman answered as he stood up stiffly.

“You had a late night last night, Gerald. Why are you not still abed?” Garrett’s attention sharpened as she continued. She spoke more like a concerned friend than an employer. “I thought Mrs. Kelly instructed all of you to take this morning off and let the temporary help handle the cleanup?”

“I asked him ta stay on.” Mrs. Kelly, the housekeeper, jingled into the foyer from the direction of the back hall. “One of yer guests had the devil’s own luck last night.” She made a small sound of disapproval. “He felt unsafe leaving with his winnings in the darkness. Said the city was rife with footpads and lowlifes and he had need of his pot to stave off creditors.”

“Really?”

“
His Lordship
said it would be all right.” Disapproval rippled through the heavyset woman’s voice as she spoke to her employer far more familiarly than tolerated in most households, disapproval Garrett had received last night when this formidable woman had confronted the fact that he intended to stay the night. She probably thought he planned to make off with the silver service after ransacking the butler’s pantry. Only Stanhope’s insistence that she allow him to stay when the other stragglers left had held any sway.

He’d stood his ground or, more accurately, purposefully lurched his way through his point with Stanhope’s unwittingly generous support to give her the impression he was as foxed as his host. Having sent Daniel off to track whatever mischief Jameson and his cronies were plotting last night, he’d be pressed to perform the shadow work on Stanhope on his own until he could get in touch with some relief. He’d gotten the distinct impression Jameson would not have done much if he’d made up part of the company who left earlier in the evening. Jameson seemed to prefer younger, more gullible pockets to pick.

“Oh dear. I suppose safeguarding large winnings is sensible, although I do hope he’s gone before anyone on the street is out and about enough to notice him leaving. I cannot have them wondering at his presence.” Mrs. Fitzgerald’s worry piqued Garrett’s interest. Imagine a mistress who worried what the neighbors thought.

Through his barely open eyes, Garrett could make out little beyond a few shadows in the foyer. It took all his willpower to remain casually draped on the delicate furniture when every part of him strained to listen to the conversation on the other side of the door.

Maura Fitzgerald intrigued him. She had the look of an innocent, the lifestyle of a jade. She’d played the discreet hostess last night, greeting her guests then withdrawing so the men could pursue their brandy, cigars, and play unrestrained. Then she’d shown up at just the right moment to prevent Stanhope from leaving with Jameson. There was definitely more to her than the pleasing exterior she presented to the world.

Now here she was, up and about her day when most mistresses, or even wives, would be resting on their laurels after putting themselves out so thoroughly. What was she about?

“If ye ask me, which ye needn’t, sense had nothing ta do with it.” The housekeeper’s keys jingled. “He was too far into his cups to know the way home.”

“See if you can get him to leave as soon as possible. I’m likely to have my hands full enough if anyone remarks on Freddie . . . His Lordship’s departure without having to deal with a second gentleman’s overnight stay.”

“Don’t fret, I’ll see to it yer guest’s on his way before His Lordship stirs, even. He’d jest better not have put his dandified pumps all over yer new brocade, that’s all I can say.”

“Who is this impromptu guest?” Mrs. Fitzgerald sighed. “And which one of the guest rooms did you allot him?”

“That Mr. Lynch.” More disapproval etched Mrs. Kelly’s tone. “Handsome as the day is long, but there’s more ta him than meets the eye, if ye ask me, which ye didn’t. He wouldn’t even consent ta take one of the guest chambers . . .”

The housekeeper sounded as thoroughly scandalized at this impropriety now as she had last night. He’d wanted an excuse to spend a few more sheltered hours awaiting young Stanhope’s departure inside the household rather than lurking in the bushes, but a bedchamber limited his options for a quiet exit on the lad’s heels so he’d insisted on not disaccommodating anyone by having a chamber aired.

“. . . said he’d be perfectly all right waiting ta slip out come daylight. Well, daylight’s come and he’s still here.” That seemed to make his imposition all the worse. “I set Gerald here ta keep an eye on him.”

“Exactly where is Mr. Lynch?” Amusement softened Maura Fitzgerald’s question.

“He’s in yer private salon.”

This elicited a long-drawn-out sigh from Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Gerald, would you see if my hackney has arrived? I need to be on my way early this morning.”

“Yes, madam.”

The footman clumped across the marbled foyer, and the door clicked open.

“Wait until I’ve been gone a good five minutes or so and then send Gerald in to wake Mr. Lynch.”

Her voice was nearer. Garrett closed his eyes before he got more than a glimpse of her silhouetted in the sunlight spilling through the foyer. He swallowed his disappointment and imagined the veriest hint of roses wafted to him through the doorway. “If need be, send Gerald with him if he is still concerned about his safety.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The housekeeper also sounded closer. “And what about His Lordship? Surely he’ll be wondering where ye are when he rouses.”

Another sigh. “I left him a note. Make sure Cook has plenty of coffee ready when he rings. I’ll speak to him about inviting guests to stay in my home. The neighbors barely tolerate my presence here as it is without giving the appearance I am setting up a bawdy house. This is not the sort of neighborhood that suffers my sort of circumstances lightly.”

“Damned hypocrites, the lot.” Mrs. Kelly snorted. “If ye ask me—”

“Which I didn’t,” Maura finished with a laughing familiarity that made Garrett wonder anew at the contradictions that seemed to define this woman. “This house suits me. And a move right now would be inconvenient, don’t you think?”

“As ye wish.” Mrs. Kelly sounded skeptical. “I’ll fetch yer potion and ye can be off.”

“There’s no need for the potion this morning . . .”

Garrett wondered what sort of potion she required. Was she ill? Was she taking some kind of restorative that would account for her ability to entertain guests both below and above stairs all night and still arise for an early morning outing?

“. . . Lord Stanhope barely got his boots off before he was snoring,” she continued. “Mr. Lynch is not the only one who was in his cups by the end of last evening. I won’t be a bit surprised if I find Mr. Masters curled under a bush in the front lawn.”

“That’s fer sure.” The housekeeper snorted. “Even the colonel’s officers could not swill so much in one sitting as those so-called gentlemen last night.”

Their voices moved away from the doorway. “Could you send something calming over for the new girl they brought in the other night?” Garrett had to strain to hear Mrs. Fitzgerald’s soft tones. His nerves were suddenly taut; all concerns over maintaining his pose of sleeping guest fled. “She’s still so frightened. Anytime a man approaches her, she screams hysterically.”

“Which surely upsets yer other customers.”

“Not to mention . . .”

He lost the rest of the conversation as the front door opened. Her hackney must have arrived, just when the discussion had turned to matters of greater interest.

What on earth compelled Lord Stanhope’s mistress to leave so early in the morning, and what was this about a frightened girl? And customers? He could not think of any legitimate connection, and the illicit ones were too numerous and discordant for him to recognize in the gracious hostess of last night’s festivities.

There was definitely more to Maura Fitzgerald than her ever-so-appealing outer shell allowed the casual observer to see—something he dared not trust when placed beside all the other questions regarding her present circumstances and future plans. Either she was a consummate actress or he was very much maligning her in believing her the worst of jezebels.

The sooner he got the earl’s grandson out of Maura’s clutches the better. No matter that she had
the kind of smile to warm the darkest corners of a man’s soul.
The fires of Hell were reported to be quite hot as well.

He leveraged himself off the settee and tugged his jacket and waistcoat into place. Emerging from the dimly lit salon, he blinked in the blazing light in the foyer as the housekeeper and footman spoke quietly by the open door. A haunting whiff of roses lingered in the air. Despite himself, Garrett’s gut twisted with a sense of loss that he had not caught a single true glimpse of Maura Fitzgerald’s trim figure, her gray eyes, or especially her smile.

“Well, sir, Mr. Lynch. I see ye’ve roused yerself.” Mrs. Kelly stepped forward with the footman on her heels. “Can Gerald fetch ye a cuppa coffee?”

“Thank you, no. I’ll take my hat. I believe it’s past time I seek a change of clothes and the company of my banker.” He patted his pocket. “Please thank your employers for their extended hospitality.”

“I’ll convey your gratitude to Mrs. Fitzgerald once she’s arisen, sir.” The housekeeper barely slid her eyes away as she lied through her teeth. “Would ye like Gerald here ta escort ye home?”

“I believe I shall be safe enough now the sun has risen. Thank you, though.” He accepted his hat from the footman and followed the man to the door.

There was no sign of a hackney as Garrett descended the steps to the quiet residential street a block in from bustling Baggot Street. Thankfully there was not much other activity either. No one to notice a gentleman exiting the house and then lurking in the bushes to await Baron Stanhope’s departure. No one to remark on any of the doings at the neat town house he’d just left.

Maura Fitzgerald had made good her escape, not that he had really expected otherwise. What hysterical young woman was she so interested in calming? What customers concerned her? How was Stanhope involved, if at all? All questions he would have to wait to answer. As soon as he could manage, he’d have to free up a man to check on the background and activities of Mrs. Maura Fitzgerald. That much was clear. That much irritated him out of measure.

The neighbors barely tolerate my presence here as is ...
her worry echoed. Although why that should matter to him escaped him at this point. Still, he checked again.

A maid laden with a basket of fresh fruit scurried down one side of the cobbles. The footman at one of the establishments already polished the marble steps. At another, a groom tried calming a prime gelding awaiting an early morning ride. And the smell of roses wafted from the trellis of the house next door.

From one ornate Georgian doorway to another, the homes on this street bespoke genteel respectability.

Stanhope’s mistress was right: this was hardly the usual neighborhood where Dublin’s gentlemen kept their paramours. The soft rendition of a redstart echoed from the bushes covering the entrance to an alley across the way. Garrett hid a smile and shook his head. Good thing most citizens would not recognize the call of birds that seldom ventured into the city.

“Daniel sent word ye might need some relief.” Dressed in a bricklayer’s apron and cap, Seamus brushed sand across the bricks just inside the shadows cast by the houses looming on either side of him.

“Good man. Did you see a woman emerge from the house a few minutes before me?”

“Aye.” Seamus nodded. “A real trim looker that one. Told the driver ta take her ta Shoe Lane.”

“How odd.”

And close to home. Mulligan’s Pub House was one of the Green Dragon’s favorite meeting spots, as Seamus well knew. The warning bells surrounding Maura Fitzgerald rang loud and clear. His interest in the nature of her early morning errand had grown from mere curiosity, to unease, to true alarm.

Now the question was, should he send Seamus, who’d gotten a better look at her turnout this morning and who would have far less explaining to do if she spotted him, or go himself?

“Describe her outfit.” All of his men were experts at noting key details.

“The young woman had on a deep gray barouche coat with three rows of black trim on the bottom hem. Similar gray serge skirt. Gypsy hat tied with a black ribbon. Would she be Mrs. Fitzgerald’s abigail?”

“No, that would be the lady in question herself.” The one with the smile to warm a man’s soul. Or would she consider using it on a hackney driver as a waste?

Seamus cocked an eyebrow as if he heard not only Garrett’s answer but also his inner thoughts. While he kept his focus on the simple task he performed, strengthening the brick alleyway, Garrett knew his man was already thinking a half-dozen moves ahead. Seamus was a champion chess player.

“Can you keep yourself occupied here long enough to make sure Stanhope returns to his lodgings from here? Or see if he meets up with anyone?”

“Aye.” Seamus nodded. He sprinkled more sand on the bricks and continued sweeping. “I should be able ta stay here right enough. With any luck the households on either side will think the other hired me. If worse comes to worse I’ll lay the cost at the Lord Mayor’s feet.”

“Good.” There wasn’t one of Garrett’s men who was not a master at blending into the city backgrounds. Each had proven himself time and again. “I’ll see if I can trace Mrs. Fitzgerald’s movements, then catch up with Daniel and see what Jameson’s game was last night. Shall we all meet for a pint at The Brazen Head? Usual time.”

Seamus nodded. “We certainly have our trenchers full with Sean away.”

“That we do.” Garrett turned to leave.

“My cousin works at Greer’s two doors up from Mulligan’s, on the corner. If she alights anywhere in the neighborhood, he’ll know. Michael’s got quite an eye fer the ladies.”

Garrett flipped Seamus a half crown as if giving him a tip, lest anyone noted the strange gentleman talking to the tradesman. He made his way through the streets and alleys to the quays along the Liffey until he reached the Tara Street Baths around the corner from Shoe Lane.

The sky overhead was gray with smoke and clouds. The street crowds, growing with the city’s inhabitants, had shifted from cartmen, servants, and even the ambitious gentleman of a business or two heading about their day to dockworkers, seamen, and shopgirls. Maura Fitzgerald’s early morning errand to this end of town, with its twisting alleys and warren of little-known shops, seemed all the more mysterious. Or meaningless.

He thought of Seamus’s observation. Full trencher indeed. Sean and Liam had yet to report any progress on the admiral’s missing daughter, Rourke was needed at his father’s stronghold in Galway, the wolves circling the High Lord’s latest heir had yet to bare their teeth, and even without their menace to Stanhope, Jameson’s crowd gave all the indications of being up to no good in general.

His certainty that Jameson and his cronies were connected to the latest rash of Orangemen’s activity in the countryside grew with each new report of Jameson’s inroads into the underside of Dublin even as he maneuvered himself through the ranks of the elite. Garrett’s men and their network of contacts were stretched to their limits trying to track all these new lines of interest, notwithstanding their usual activities in trying to mitigate the supposedly repealed Catholic suppressions as they played out in Dublin’s environs.

So what am I doing trailing a slip of a lass with stone gray eyes and a smile to stop a man’s heart through the streets of Dublin?
Stanhope was certainly part of the answer, but not quite all. Something about Maura Fitzgerald had his senses on the alert. Something beyond her charms.

Although he had more than enough to occupy his time without taking on the baffling behavior of Stanhope’s mistress, he hadn’t come this far as the Green Dragon without paying attention to nagging details. Years before, his tutor had often remonstrated that the devil was in the details, and the years had proven the old goat right more often than even his lofty self-opinion could have guessed.

Garrett strolled the two blocks of Shoe Lane past Mulligan’s and entered Greer and Son, a saddle and harness shop, half-expecting to see His Lordship’s mistress shopping for a gift for her patron. Expecting, or was that hoping?

“Can I be of service ta ye, sir?” A wiry man with a long leather apron stood up from a workbench situated near the front of the shop. He put his punch and hammer aside, wiped his hands on his apron, and stepped forward.

The shop had the comfortable scent of oil-worked leather. Under other circumstances, Garrett would have liked nothing better than to peruse the wares hanging from hooks in the wood beams overhead or resting on railings that ranged across the small shop. But the location of the craftman’s bench afforded him the best of the light filtering in from his mullioned windows along with the view from them and his open shop door.

“My friend Seamus sent me here.” Garrett extended his hand. “Said you tooled the finest saddles this side of the island. His cousin Michael works for you.”

“That would be me, sir. I’m Michael Greer.” The man wrung Garrett’s hand with his own leathery fist as he beamed at Garrett. “Though why ye’d listen ta the likes Seamus Granger is beyond me. He’s the biggest liar and scoundrel ever come out of County Kildare. Save meself, I suppose.”

Garrett shook his head as they both laughed. “So you don’t sell the finest saddles?”

“Oh no, that we do. We craft the finest saddles and harnesses in the whole of the island, truth be told.” Michael chuckled at his own joke. “The Greers and Grangers have been working with Irish horses and their trappings since the days of the High King. I knows me business right enough. So does Seamus. How may I be of service ta ye, sir?”

“Today, I’m looking for a bit of information.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out one of the sovereigns he’d won last night. “A lady gave the lane as her destination to a hackney driver earlier this morning. She would have arrived within the last half hour or so. She’s a young woman, dressed in dark gray.”

“A young lady, ye said? Dressed in gray?” The man wrinkled his brow for a moment, even as he waved away the coin Garrett offered. “And Seamus sent ye?”

Garrett nodded as the man contemplated his answer.

“I’ll take that ta mean yer intentions is honorable, sir. ’Cause the woman I’m thinking ye seek is a regular angel and I’d hate ta be the cause of any worry fer her.”

“I mean the lady no harm.” The leather merchant’s caution surprised Garrett more because he recognized the urge to protect Maura Fitzgerald. Despite the suspicions her activities aroused, there was a part of him that felt willing to do almost anything to keep the light of laughter in the depths of her eyes and the smile on her lips.

“Well now, that would most likely be Mrs. Eagan, proprietress of Eagan’s Drapers.” The man nodded toward the street. “Three doors down on Hawkins Street. Next ta the wine shop. She was a tad early this morning, but she comes by hackney near every day.”

“Eagan? A draper’s?” What use would Maura Fitzgerald have for a calming potion at a draper’s? From the elegant charm of her home’s reception room, she did not appear to have the sort of taste that would send a fabric and household goods merchant into fits.

So the woman Greer described was almost certainly not the woman he sought after all. Had Maura Fitzgerald changed her mind regarding her destination or had she been aware she was being watched and deliberately misled any observer. A hysterical girl, customers and evasion. Could her behavior be any more suspicious?

“You’re sure the name is Eagan?” he asked.

“Aye. Came here from Meath after her husband’s death and opened a shop and apprentice program.” Now that he’d decided to trust Garrett, Seamus’s cousin proved a fountain of information. “Keeps a real neat shop and even gave my wife a nice discount on some table linens last winter on account of us being practically neighbors.”

The widow Eagan could not possibly be Maura Fitzgerald. Still Mrs. Eagan’s former home in County Meath begged further consideration given a slender connection to the missing Jane Fuller. Garrett worked to keep his concern from showing on his face as he thanked Greer and sauntered casually toward Hawkins Street.

He passed a whitewashed storefront with a simple, carved, wooden sign proclaiming it as Eagan’s Drapers. On one side was a bakery, and beyond was a wine merchant. If he could have thought of a single reason to go inside and confront the owner of the drapery, he would have done so.

He most certainly would look out of place in a drapers, especially still dressed in his evening wear. He might have pulled off a coincidental meeting in a saddle shop, but however would he explain his presence in a draper’s?

On the off chance that Mrs. Eagan was not another name for Mrs. Fitzgerald, he would wait until he had a chance to confirm or refute his suspicions. Or find out what kind of game she was playing. But in the grand scheme of things he had to place time and manpower on priorities and deviling as she might be. Maura Fitzgerald was not yet one, even with her connection to Stanhope.

He rubbed his chin. It was well past time he returned to his lodgings to bathe and dress for the day ahead. He hoped there’d be some word from Sean regarding his search for Jane Fuller and Daniel on the late-night exploits he’d shared last night after leaving the card party. Following their meeting at The Brazen Head, he’d set Seamus to scouting out Eagan’s under cover of his cousin’s shop and try to figure out how best to extricate Stanhope from his mistress’s grip without completely stripping the lad of his manhood.

 

 

“Here ye go, Mrs. Eagan. A nice cuppa tea will help put ye ta rights.”

Mrs. Polhaven bustled into Maura’s office carrying a steaming kettle in one hand and a dainty blue cup and saucer in the other. Her gray-sprinkled curls bounced below her lace-trimmed hat, and a broad grin creased plump cheeks even as a pair of discerning blue eyes fixed on her employer.

Maura smiled in return as she pushed back from the long oak table that served as her desk. She wasn’t getting much of anywhere looking at the list of fabric purchases Silas Polhaven had prepared for her approval. Too many other thoughts crowded her mind—Freddie, finances, and a surprisingly persistent set of green eyes. A cup of tea might prove just the thing to clear the cobwebs from her attic.

“You spoil me, Mrs. Polhaven. You have your hands full enough with the girls. You know I am perfectly capable of fetching my own tea.”

“Course ye are.” Katherine Polhaven nodded as she set the cup and saucer down on the far edge of the table and filled it. “But it doesn’t cost me anything ta show ye a little kindness now and again after all ye’ve done fer Mr. Polhaven and me. Not ta mention my sister and my girl.”

“Well thank you. I must admit I have been a little overset these past few days. I cannot seem to concentrate.” And she hadn’t been sleeping well either. Those eyes, and the kindness in Garrett Lynch’s voice, haunted her with surprising depth. Not to mention the sensations that seemed to course through her anew with the thought of his hands on her arms, of being held so close and feeling so safe in the embrace of a stranger.

She was hardly some innocent chit to be mooning over a man she had met but once. She refused to count the fleeting glimpse of a man she’d caught walking past the shop windows the morning after their encounter. It was too impossible. Too schoolgirlish.