Chapter Fourteen

 

Lord Ogilvie splashed water on his face. Gazing into the mirror, he dabbed at his chin with the towel. He’d cut himself shaving. He’d put off his London manservant and was now reduced to living like a serf. He had lost almost everything in that last card game. Now he didn’t have a high enough stake to enter another. Not until he’d returned to the castle to search for anything left worth selling. He’d be staking the castle next. That would end up a sore joke to the person who won it. His laugh cracked into silence.

Where had Giovanna Russo disappeared to? She had slipped away when his back was turned. He had been working hard to bring her down and planned to have her on her knees, pleading to do anything he asked for. She would be a sorry thing then, wouldn’t she? And Blair Dunleavy, the cause of all his angst, would find the woman he so highly sought to be the worst kind of prostitute.

He tied his cravat deep in thought. Giovanna would make the perfect bait to draw Dunleavy away. Then he would kill them both. First her, and then Dunleavy. He would be very imaginative about it. Not a quick knife thrust as he’d dealt that Russo fellow. Nor a fire.

Enjoyable as that had been, it was only meant to send the chit back onto the street. It had succeeded, but where had she gone? Never mind, she would be easy to find in the theaters or among the artist colony, that was her life, what else did she have? Ogilvie frowned. Unless Dunleavy had already found her. He smiled as he shrugged on his coat. Then it would be two for the price of one.

***

Dublin, Ireland

In his gray frock coat, matching trousers and a gray top hat, Blair strode down the Dublin street resisting the temptation to stroll through the Green. He wasn’t in the mood to contemplate nature. He hesitated beside the glossy, black fence rail at the stone entrance of Dunleavy Court, and gathered his thoughts before knocking.

He found his mother lying on a multi-striped, silk daybed in her bedchamber, with a ginger cat at her feet and a book in her lap. The room was busily furnished in florals and stripes and patterns, all mauves, pinks, and purples. His mother’s favorite colors. Somehow, in a way that was beyond his understanding, it all worked together to produce a charming, warm atmosphere.

“Why did you leave Dunleavy House?” He bent to give her a kiss.

“I grow weary of the country now that I can’t do the things I used to enjoy. Dublin offers other delights.” She patted the bed beside her. “Tell me all the news. How was London?”

“Foggy, dirty, busy.” He perched on the edge of the daybed. It was a loaded question, but he had been expecting it.

“And alluring?” She sat up, with her hand on his arm, her eyes bright. “Have you met someone?”

Blair smiled at his mother’s perceptiveness. He shook his head, there were some things she need not know. Rising, he walked over to the window. There were picnickers on the green taking advantage of a perfect, early spring day. He took a deep breath; aware he’d run away from London like a coward. Even here in Ireland, his thoughts remained in Hanover Square.

“You’re very quiet, Blair. Have you heard the news about Cathleen?”

“What news?”

“She is to marry Charles Reilly.”

He felt nothing but happiness for her. “I hadn’t heard. She will make Charles an excellent wife.”

“I always thought that you and she…”

“I know.”

“I doubted she was right for you,” she added.

Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Why not?”

She smiled mysteriously. “I’ll tell you one day.”

Blair frowned. “You can be annoying, Mother.”

“It pleases me to hear you say that,” she said, pushing away the cat. She took up the bell and rang it. “It means I’m getting through to you.”

“Can I escort you back to Dunleavy House?” Blair asked.

She shook her head. “I’m lunching with friends at the Shelburne. Would you care to join us?”

“To be honest, I’m rather tired.” In truth, Blair was anything but tired. He couldn’t get Gina out of his thoughts. A war raged within him. Gina was indescribable and unlike anyone he had ever met. And heaven knew what Maeve would make of her, should they ever meet. Still, he could have stayed in Mayfair. Perhaps he should have. Gina had been prepared to become his mistress. But he’d been afraid that giving in to his base desires would destroy something fragile and wonderful. He needed time to understand his feelings. His brain refused to function when she was near.

His mother broke into his thoughts. “Lady Gregory has invited me to a play—The Shaughraun by Boucicault, and friends are urging me to attend their dinners and parties. You’ve become like a stranger here. Allow me to show off my handsome son to society. And there is someone I want you to meet.”

“Ten days, Mamma. Then I must return to London.”

She studied his face. “Very well,” she said, finally.

His mother always knew just how far she could push him.