The Irish Upstart

chapter 6



“So, Thomas, how was your journey?” asked Penelope.

In the drawing room of Northfield Hall, Thomas, who had just arrived home, made a wry face as his sister poured from a silver gilt pitcher and handed him a delicate bone china cup of tea. “The journey was wonderful,” he replied, “if you like tossing about in a filthy boat for a day, then waiting for hours at Holyhead until the tides are favorable enough for you to get ashore.”

“You seem to have survived,” Penelope remarked dryly. She stirred daintily. “I take it things did not go well?”

“Well enough.” Thomas described the first part of his journey, wherein he visited their father’s lands in County Mayo and assured himself they were in good hands. “And then I went to County Clare...”

Knowing his sister was the only person in the world in whom he could confide everything, or at least almost everything, Thomas related the story of his visit to the cottage at Galway Bay and his astonishment at finding that Montfret had a wife and child. He told everything, omitting only his turbulent feelings concerning the Irish girl. “Afterward, I struggled, trying make up my mind what best to do. It was not an easy decision, but I’ve decided not to tell Lord Trevlyn he has a grandson.”

“But that’s wrong,” Penelope firmly declared. “Think of the wealth, the title. At the very least, shouldn’t the boy be allowed to decide for himself?”

“His mother is adamant,” Thomas explained, “and who can blame her? Being pure Irish, she has always disliked the English, but now, after her experience with Randall, she hates everything about us. Ask yourself, why would she want to send her one-and-only beloved son to the very land she detests?”

“Hmm... you have a point, I suppose.” Penelope’s bright eyes flashed with excitement. “Good grief, just think of the stir this would cause. Wouldn’t tongues be wagging! If Patrick were to be proclaimed the true heir, then that little worm, Walter Trevlyn, and his family would be deposed.” An impish grin crept over her face. “Wouldn’t we love to see Lydia and those stuck-up daughters of hers taken down a peg or two.”

“What an uncharitable thought,” Thomas admonished, although he could not suppress an answering smile. “But despite the shortcomings of the heir presumptive and family, I have made up my mind.” He frowned. “Now I must ride to Aldershire Manor and inform Lord Trevlyn of my return.”

“But if you conceal the news he has a grandson, won’t you be forced to lie?”

“I should hope not.”

“So do I. Really, Thomas, you’re not a very good liar.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

Penelope wrinkled up her nose. “You are not as natty as you think, brother dear. According to the London dandies, lying is an art. Well, you’re no artist. Your problem is, to be a first-rate liar, you must possess some finesse, and you have none.” With sisterly derision, she continued, “You are much too blunt.”

“I still take it as a compliment. I’ve never been a London dandy, as you well know. If you mean I always speak my mind, then I plead guilty.” Thomas spoke lightly, concealing his concern. He, who held liars in the lowest possible esteem, was about to become a liar himself, if only by omission. But it’s for the greater good, he told himself, his mind drifting once again to that proud Irish family who dearly loved Patrick and would be devastated if he were sent away, especially to hated England. “I shall tell Trevlyn as little as possible. It’s for the best. The boy looks Irish, acts Irish, sounds Irish. He would be a fish out of water here, and no doubt completely miserable. How could he possibly fit into this tight, bigoted world of ours?”

Penelope made a little moué. “Is that what we are? I had no idea you had such a low opinion of the ton.”

“I don’t see you chomping at the bit to get to London again. You’ve gone through—how many?—two Seasons now? All I hear is complaints, complaints about how frivolous and superficial everyone is, and how odious are those shallow, vainglorious London dandies.”

“Touché,” Penelope replied, lifting a knowing eyebrow. She thought a moment and her face brightened. “Enough of this. Whatever the problem with Lord Trevlyn, I’m sure you’ll handle it. This evening we celebrate your return. You’ll be pleased to hear Father and I have invited the Trevlyns, and, in particular, Miss Bettina Trevlyn for dinner.”

Thomas tried to hide not only his surprise but his displeasure. Since the moment he’d laid eyes on Evleen O’Fallon, he had not given a thought to the girl everyone expected him to marry.

* * *

“So, my boy, have a seat, how was your journey?” asked Lord Trevlyn.

“Fine, sir.” Thomas sank into one of the Louis Fifteenth yellow velvet chairs in his neighbor’s mahogany paneled library and with great caution began a description of his trip to Ireland. When he found himself including every boring detail he could think of concerning his father’s estate in County Mayo, he chided himself. Get on with it. Stop prolonging the inevitable. Lord Trevlyn had listened patiently, but Thomas perceived by the watchful look in his eye that he was anxious to hear the report on his own land. Drat. “And then, per your request, I went to County Clare.”

“And?” Trevlyn sat straight, hardly able to contain his eagerness.

“Actually there’s not much to tell. The land is poor, not much more than dirt, grass, rocks and a few sheep. Hardly worth bothering with. A widow and her five children presently occupy the place.”

“Tell me her name,” Trevlyn said quickly.

“Sinead O’Fallon. She’s been a widow for quite some time. She’s a well-educated, refined woman, not the type you would expect to find living in that miserable cottage, but it seems in recent years she’s fallen on hard times. The cottage is quite small, and the land suited for nothing more than a small garden and a few sheep. Frankly, I wouldn’t bother collecting rent. It’s hardly worth the effort.”

Looking crestfallen, Trevlyn asked, “You found nothing to tie this Sinead O’Fallon to Randall?”

Damnation! Thomas wondered how could he lie to a direct question. He could not. There was no way around it, he was bound by his own honor to tell the truth... the partial truth anyway. “There is a connection. O’Fallon was Sinead’s first husband. Her second husband was–brace yourself, sir.”

“I’m braced. Go on.”

“Your son, Randall.” There, it was out, and no harm done unless Trevlyn asked details of the children. Thomas paused to let his news sink in, but Trevlyn’s face had become a mask. He seemed to be taking the news with equanimity, but it was hard to tell. Thomas continued, “From what I understand, she was quite well-off when they married, having inherited a small fortune from her first husband, who was some kind of an Irish earl, by the way, the eighth earl of something-or-other. You know how those Irish titles go. She and Randall weren’t married long before Randall died of typhoid, I’m sorry to say, but before that, he’d managed to run through her fortune.”

There was a long pause. “Typhoid,” bitterly remarked Lord Trevlyn. “Good Lord, how could I have had a son who... ah, well.” He looked inquiringly at Thomas. “And the children? Tell me about them.”

God help me, thought Thomas. If only he’d learned to lie as well as Montague. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat—something he never did—crossed one smart nankeen covered leg over the other and paid meticulous attention to a piece of lint on the sleeve of his short frock coat. “The children,” he repeated.

“Yes, Thomas, the children.” Trevlyn was regarding him strangely.

“Well, let’s see now. There are four girls... Evleen who’s about twenty-four, Darragh who’s twenty-three, Sorcha who’s around fifteen, I’d say, and the youngest, who’s fourteen. All pretty, by the way, and well educated, and quite—”

“You said five children,” interrupted Trevlyn, voice brimming with impatience.

Damnation again. “There’s a son, Patrick.”

“And how old is Patrick?”

Trapped. Why hadn’t he realized Trevelyn was no fool and could add as well as anyone? “Ten, sir.”

“Randall died nine years ago.” Trevlyn’s voice had gone sharp. His gaze pierced Thomas’s as he asked, “How long was he married to Sinead?”

“Two years.”

For a time, the room was heavy with silence as Lord Trevlyn first shut his eyes, as if absorbing the shocking fact, then opened them and gazed at Thomas with an expression of incredulity, followed by pure joy, followed by a look of dawning disbelief. “You were not going to tell me?” There was a faint tremor in his voice.

“I was not.” A war of emotions raged within Thomas. He was relieved because in his heart he had wanted Trevlyn to know the truth, but on the other hand, he could only begin to imagine the grief and turmoil his truthfulness was bound to cause.

Trevlyn could not contain himself. “By God, I’ve got a grandson,” he exclaimed, rising to his feet, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Tell me what he’s like, Thomas. Tell me...” suddenly he frowned “... no, first, you must tell why you were going to remain silent. Not like you. Why would you not tell me such glorious news? You must have had what you thought was a good reason.” He sank in his chair again and sat tensely, waiting Thomas’s response.

Thomas decided to start with the good part first. It would fit with what he had to say. “I’ll tell you my reason, but first I’ll tell you about Patrick. He’s tall for ten, on the skinny side, as young boys are, yet I can tell from the proportions of his chest and shoulders he’ll grow into a fine, strong man. He’s well-spoken in both Gaelic, English, and French, and possesses excellent manners. He has bright red hair which he gets from his mother, and freckles. He raises rabbits and takes great interest in the world around him. Altogether your grandson is a bright, fine-looking little boy.”

Trevlyn countered, “All well and good, and I’m happy to hear it, but you must tell me why on earth did you not want me to know about my own grandson.”

“Because...” It was Thomas’s turn to shut his eyes a moment, to think. The straight-out truth would be best, he decided. “His mother is Irish through-and-through, sir. She detests the English, just like many of her countrymen, and for a variety of reasons, most of which I am sure you know. Your son Randall... well, there’s no other way to say this... caused her no end of grief. It appears he threw away her entire fortune, with both hands, so to speak, then died and left her destitute. Need I add, the fact that Randall was English did not raise her estimation of the English as a whole.”

“So you’re saying... ?”

“What I’m saying is that I have talked to Sinead O’Fallon, so I know you must not get your hopes up. She is adamant. Never would she allow Patrick to have anything to do with anything English, let alone send her only son to England.”

“Patrick belongs here, with me,” burst Trevlyn. “Just think what I can give the boy.”

“Sinead O’Fallon is a strong, determined woman. I can assure you she would never relent. Never,” Thomas added for emphasis. He must make sure the old man understood and never got his hopes up. “Perhaps when Patrick is grown–”

“The boy belongs to me,” Trevlyn said with quiet but obdurate firmness. “Think who he’ll be, Thomas. I shall bestow all Randall’s titles upon him. He shall be Patrick, Viscount Montfret. Lord Montfret. Doesn’t that sound grand?”

“Lord Trevlyn, you’re not listening to me.” Thomas felt as if he were talking to a stone wall.

“But why would his mother want Patrick to stay in Ireland, digging potatoes, catching fish... whatever those poor Irish do?” Trevlyn clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what it takes, I want my grandson.”

Thomas released a weary, defeated sigh. “And how do you propose to get him?”

“I shall direct a letter to his mother immediately, of course. Once she sees in writing the advantages Patrick will enjoy here in England, I am sure she will relent. You say the family is poor?”

“Very.”

“Then I shall offer her a stipend. How does forty pounds a year sound?”

“A fortune by Irish standards.”

“Well, then.” Lord Trevlyn smiled with satisfaction. “The matter is settled, is it not?” As he spoke, he walked to his walnut desk, sat down, and took up his quill pen. “This will go out with the next post.”

Thomas knew he shouldn’t ask but couldn’t resist. “Had you considered your brother? He was to inherit the title, was he not? I should imagine–”

Trevlyn interrupted with a snort. “Walter,” he said, wrapping the word in contempt. “You think I am not aware how that weak-kneed brother of mine and his silver-tongued wife have been robbing me blind these past few years? If you think I care one whit that Walter won’t inherit my title and my fortune, then think again.”

“Of course,” Thomas replied. No need to add his own opinion of Walter and his wife, or that surely there was trouble ahead if Patrick came to England. Walter was no problem, but with her greed and devious ways, Lydia Trevlyn could be a formidable foe. She could cause endless difficulties if her husband was done out of his inheritance by one small Irish lad.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Thomas watched with sympathy as Lord Trevlyn dipped his pen in the ink stand and started diligently writing his letter. It won’t do you any good, sir. You don’t know Sinead O’Fallon. Never in a million years will she allow her son to come to England.

* * *

It was the beginning of summer when Evleen, who had been working in the garden, entered the cottage and knew immediately something was wrong. “What is it, Mama?” she asked in alarm, seeing the grim, tight-lipped look on her mother’s face.

“A letter has arrived.” She was sitting at the table, staring at a piece of folded parchment lying before her, fastened by a large red wax seal.

Lord Thomas, Evleen immediately thought. Since his visit, he had been much on her mind. “I would guess it’s from England. Aren’t you going to open it?”

Mama’s lips pinched even tighter. “The letter is from Lord Trevlyn, Patrick’s grandfather. I have no need to open it. I know what it says.”

He told. Evleen’s heart sank. She sank into the chair across from her mother and tapped a firm finger on the letter. “It won’t go away, you know. You’d best open it. You’ll never know what he has to say if it’s just sitting there.”

“You’re right.” Sinead took up the letter, broke the seal, unfolded it and skimmed the contents. Her face grew grim as she remarked, “Just as I suspected,” and began to read aloud.

My Dear Madame,

Lord Thomas has just returned from Ireland and has informed me I have a grandson, product of your union with my son, Randall.

I cannot begin to express what joy this news has given me and how much I now regret my reluctance to discover more about the life Randall led in Ireland before his tragic death. I had no idea Randall had married and that you had borne his son. In my own defense, my only explanation for my derelict behavior involves the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Randall’s hasty departure from England. His disgrace left me devastated, angry, and keenly disappointed in my only son. Still, I am at fault for disowning him. I regret my hasty, ill-thought-out decision never to mention his name again, or my demand that no news of him ever reach my ears and that I never see him again.

Now, having heard the wonderful news that I have a grandson, I am anxious to make amends. It is my devout and humble wish that you send Patrick to me, here in England, where he will lead a life suitable for a young lord. Thomas has given me a glowing description of Patrick and tells me what a fine young lad he is. It would impolitic of me to compare his potential future here in England with his future in Ireland. I can only assure you that should Patrick come to live with me, he would be accorded all that is rightfully his. That includes the best of tutors until he is old enough for Eton. After Eton, he will be sent to Oxford, then on to Europe for the grand tour. As heir apparent, he will inherit my entire estate, which includes several homes and vast tracts of land throughout the country, including Aldershire Manor, this most beautiful country home in which I, my brother and his family reside. He will also inherit my fortune which is considerable, I can assure you.

To sum up, if Patrick comes to England, he will live a life of privilege and luxury, his future assured. Naturally I am not unaware of the considerable sacrifice I am asking that you make. I understand you have four unmarried daughters. With that in mind, I propose to compensate you and your family with the sum of forty pounds a year, payable your entire lifetime and beyond, if necessary, until your last daughter marries. To this purpose I will arrange to set up an account through a solicitor and bank of your choosing. Naturally, I trust you realize my offer is made in good faith, as just compensation for the loss of the company of your son.

I trust you will let me know as soon as possible of your decision in this matter. Rest assured, Patrick will be treated not only with due consideration and respect, but I will love him with all my heart and see that he has a good, happy, and rewarding life here in England.

Respectfully yours,

Trevlyn



“How dare he!” Sinead, fire in her eye, dropped the letter on the table as if it were a hot coal. “Never in a million years shall I send my boy to England.”

“Of course,” Evleen answered absently. Her mind was on the dark, handsome man with the graceful stride who had so charmed her when he was here. He had told when he said he would not. How could he, when she’d practically begged him not to? She felt an odd twinge of disappointment, even while telling herself she really shouldn’t care. After all, what could she expect of an Englishman? Besides, she most assuredly would never see him again, so why give even one tiny thought to him?

Sinead, in a state of agitation Evleen had never seen before, arose from the table, nearly overturning her chair, and strode to the small front window where she stood, hands jammed on hips, looking out at the sea. “How could Lord Trevlyn even think of taking my son away? By what right has he to–”

Suddenly she clutched her heart, turned, and staggered. Her face turned gray, and she cried, “Evleen, my heart. Help me.”

With a cry, Evleen leaped up to help. Minutes later, she had helped her mother to her bed and was hovering over her. “I’ll send for the doctor...”

“No, I’m all right.” Sinead grasped her wrist. “I do get pains in my chest every now and then, but I’m better now. I’m sure it was just the agitation caused by that terrible letter, but I’m fine, really I am. Just let me rest a while.”

“But—”

“No doctor. We can’t afford it and I don’t need one.”

Evleen knew better than to disobey her strong-willed mother. She concealed her fear as she replied, “All right, I shall just sit here while you rest a while, then you’ll be as good as new.”

Sinead managed a rueful smile. “I had better be. Else, how would we live?”

“I don’t care about that.” Mama had always been so well. Evleen had never had to face the unbearable thought that someday she would lose her beloved mother. And yet, death was inevitable. And what if it happened soon? She, herself, would be all right, since she might be marrying Timothy soon... she guessed, although she still hadn’t completely might made up her mind. But what of her sisters? Darragh was old enough to marry, but with her prickly personality, no one had asked her. But Patrick? For the first time, the thought crossed her mind that her brother might indeed be better off in England where he would live in the wealth and luxury that were rightfully his. She would not dream of mentioning such a thought to Mama, though. That would be a betrayal of all her mother held dear.

Sinead clasped her hand. “I’ll get up soon. Really, I’m fine. Run find some paper. As soon as I get up, I shall give Lord Trevlyn his reply.”

* * *

In the late summer sunshine, Thomas and Penelope were standing in front of the ivy-covered stone stables of Northfield Hall. “What do you think of him?” Thomas ran a brush over the shining brown coat of his new Irish Thoroughbred. “A fine bit of blood, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’ll make a good addition for your breeding farm,” answered Penelope, nodding approvingly. “I shall hate to see you leave. It’s been wonderful having you home.”

“I won’t be too far away.”

“I know, but...” A wily expression came over Penelope’s face. “Such a large house you’re moving to. I hate to think of you there, all alone. A pity you can’t share it with someone.”

“There you go again,” Thomas answered with a grin. “Do you really expect me to marry Miss Bettina Trevlyn? She would no doubt cause me to expire out of sheer boredom. Murder by petit-point, you could say.”

She laughed appreciatively but quickly grew serious. “But you must marry somebody, sometime.”

“I’m thinking about it.” That was all he would say. Although he confided in his sister more than anyone, during the entire time he’d been back from Ireland, he rarely mentioned Evleen, and only in conjunction with his overall description of his trip to Ireland. Despite it’s being utterly insane, he kept wishing he could see her again. But no matter how many times he told himself he would never again make that miserable trip to County Clare, let alone Ireland, her bright blue eyes and enchanting smile stayed as vivid in his mind as the day they’d met. There was nothing he could do about it, though. Evleen O’Fallon would remain an unfulfilled dream, the kind he supposed all men had at one time or another in their lives. What was there to do except resign himself that he would never see the beautiful Irish girl again?

“Who is that?” asked Penelope, looking over Thomas’s shoulder.

Thomas turned to see a rider approaching, an older man, he gathered, riding slowly and somewhat stiffly in his saddle. As the man drew nearer, he recognized who it was. “Why it’s Lord Trevlyn. It must be important. One hardly sees him on a horse anymore.”

Lord Trevlyn dismounted so slowly and painfully Thomas was sorely tempted to offer his help, but refrained in deference to the old man’s pride. He almost changed his mind when Trevlyn’s knees buckled as he hit the ground, but the old man recovered himself by gripping the saddle and quickly pulling himself erect.

After a greeting accompanied by a courtly bow to Penelope, Trevlyn reached in his pocket and pulled out a letter. “From that Irish woman. You will never believe what it says.”

“I believe I can guess, sir,” Thomas replied, careful not to sound too cocksure.

“Read it.”

Thomas took the letter and read aloud.



My Dear Lord Trevlyn,

I am in receipt of your letter requesting that I send you my son, Patrick O’Fallon. Please be advised that although I appreciate your concern for your grandson, never, not while there is breath in my body, will he ever set one foot upon the soil of England.

Yours in good health,

Sinead O’Fallon



Sounds just like her, Thomas thought, but in deference to Trevlyn’s obvious perturbation he hid the wry smile that flew to his lips. He’d been right. The letter was exactly the sort he would expect Sinead O’Fallon would write—uncompromising, intractable, and to the point.

“It sounds as though she has most definitely made up her mind, sir. I’m afraid that’s an end to it, then. Perhaps when the boy is older–”

“I want my grandson,” Trevlyn declared, voice shaking with intensity. Confusion filled his eyes. “I don’t understand. How could that woman defy me after I offered her son the kind of privileged life few can have? Why would she want Patrick to stay on, leading a deprived existence on that... that...”

“Barren, rocky piece of land?” Thomas softly supplied.

“Precisely. Well, it simply won’t do. That woman can defy me all she wants, but she’ll not get her way.”

“What do you intend?”

The old man’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I want you to return to Ireland. I want you to threaten, beg, plead, cajole, bargain—whatever it takes to get me my grandson.”

“No,” cried Thomas, his ever-present, stern composure for once forgotten.

“Yes, Thomas, you must.”

“Have you any idea have difficult it is to get to Ireland? How much time the journey takes? As it is, I am so far behind now on the my plans for–”

“I don’t care about all that.” Lord Trevlyn flicked a gaze towards the house where the Marquess was still indisposed, still suffering from the gout. “Your father would want you to go, Thomas.”

Penelope, who’d been listening, wide-eyed, addressed her brother. “He’s right. Don’t forget Lord Trevlyn is Papa’s oldest friend. Of course he’d want you to go.”

Unfair, Thomas wanted to shout, feeling utterly dismayed. That little jaunt to Ireland had greatly delayed his plans for breeding horses. Since his return from Ireland, he’d made great strides, not only in making several trips to Tanglewood Hall, where he had already renovated the house and hired servants, but also he had started to purchase his horses. He reached to pat the withers of his new Thoroughbred. This latest addition was only one of several of the finest horses in the land. “What about your brother?” he asked Trevlyn. “Can’t you send him?” Lord knew, up to now Walter and his family had done nothing to earn their keep.

“Are you daft?” Trevlyn replied with a sniff. “Walter stands to lose everything if Patrick comes to England. I can imagine his enthusiasm should I send him to County Clare.”

“Of course, I hadn’t thought.” That was utterly stupid, Thomas chastised himself. Born of desperation. Was there nothing he could do? “What about Montague?”

This time Penelope sniffed. “Montague take time from his precious life in London? Thomas, you belong in Bedlam if you think he’d agree to go. And besides,” she slanted a knowing gaze at him, “only you have the tact to deal with this... this Sinead, or whatever her name is, and the girl you said was feisty, that Evleen.”

Evleen. At the sound of her name, Thomas felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach. To see her again... Oh, God, how he yearned to see her again. But he had set his course. His sole purpose in life right now was breeding horses. His carefully planned future most certainly did not include a girl from Ireland who would fit into his well-run existence like water into oil. Everything about such a relationship would be wrong, dead wrong. “I’m sorry,” he told Trevlyn, “To go to Ireland now... I simply cannot. Perhaps in a year or so...”

“Quite all right, I do understand,” Trevlyn broke in briskly. “On second thought, I’ll go myself.” He gave a hollow laugh. “A bit of brisk sea air might be just the tonic for my rheumatism.” He grabbed the reins of his horse, placed his foot in the stirrup, and attempted to swing onto the saddle, but he fell back down, too weak to give himself the proper boost. “Wretched animal won’t stand still,” he muttered. He tried again, grunting from his all-out exertion, but failed a second time. “Damme.” Biting his lip, obviously chagrined, he said, “Well, Thomas, my groom had to help me when I left. I had hoped I could gather enough strength not to make a spectacle of myself but obviously not. Come, give me a boost.”

As Thomas helped his old neighbor into his saddle, he remarked, “Sir, don’t even think about going to Ireland. Believe me, it’s much too strenuous a trip for a man who...”

“Say it, Thomas. For a spindle-shanked old man with the strength of a gnat.” From his mount, Lord Trevlyn regarded Thomas with a look of grim determination. His jaw jutted out as he announced, “I shall go to Ireland. Nothing can stop me.”

“Not a good idea, sir. The journey is a nightmare, and gets worse now that winter’s coming. Perhaps in the spring–”

“I shall leave immediately.” With a great show of wheeling his steed around, Trevlyn started away, but Thomas grabbed the reins and brought him to a stop.

“Please reconsider, sir. Conditions aboard those packets are abominable. The air is confined and suffocating. There’s nausea... the food is disgusting. If you cross from Holyhead to Ringsend, you’re obliged to pay a shilling to the boatman to row you ashore. If you can find a boatman. Otherwise, you’ll wait on a rolling boat for hours, cold and hungry, no doubt heaving your dinner, that is if you were able to keep any of that rotten food down. And then–”

“I’m going. I want my grandson. I have little time to waste”

Thomas felt himself weakening, despite all his plans. Despairing, he realized a journey to Ireland at this time of year could well mean the end of this old man, who, after all, was not only his father’s best friend but had treated his whole family with the utmost care and consideration over the years. One more try. “She won’t give him up, sir, take my word on it.”

“Then... I shall bring the mother to England, along with her son. Make it well worth her while.”

“She would die before she came to England.”

“One of the daughters, then... that Evleen, the oldest one.”

Evleen in England? What an astonishing thought. He was about to give in anyway, but the thought of the Irish girl put him well over the edge. “I’ll go.”

Lord Trevlyn loosed his reins. “You will?”

“I will.”

“How soon?”

“The sooner the better before winter sets in. Tomorrow if you like.”

Lord Trevlyn appeared to be having second thoughts. “Not that I wanted to pressure you...”

Ha. Thomas nearly choked but got the words out. “It’s my pleasure, sir, now that I know how important this is to you. Besides, what’s a few weeks? I’ll still have a lifetime to pursue my own plans.”

Was that strange noise Penelope trying to stifle a laugh? “How suddenly noble you are, Thomas,” she said, lips twitching.

Not so noble, Thomas thought privately. He remembered Tanglewood Hall and a flash of keen disappointment ripped through him. But enough. From this moment on he would set all regrets aside. Most assuredly he would not dwell on yet another delay of his plans. “You took me by surprise, but I’m happy I can be of help, sir.”

“Wonderful.” The old man’s face was wreathed in a smile. “You can do it, my boy, with that charm of yours. Use every power of persuasion you can think of. Money... I’ll set some aside, whatever you need. And be sure to tell the mother she can come along... Bloody hell, tell her bring the whole family if she likes. If not the mother, then the sister, that Evleen. Does the boy get along with her?”

“Famously.”

“Well, then tell this Sinead O’Fallon that if she sends the daughter along with the boy, I’ll see that the daughter—how old did you say she was?”

“She’s twenty-four.”

“Hmm... a bit old, but still... Tell the mother I shall give the girl a Season. Find her a good match, don’t you see? I’ll see she’s presented at court if she likes—brought out. She’ll have new gowns, as many as she pleases, and hats, shoes, gloves—all those baubles so dear to a pretty girl’s heart. Er, that is... she is pretty, isn’t she? I trust she’s not one of those sturdy peasant girls with rough hands.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Well, then. That’s sure to win her over, don’t you think?”

“I’ll do what I can, sir.” A few baubles? Thomas recalled that first moment he’d laid eyes on Evleen O’Fallon, standing by the door of her humble cottage, the wind playing such devilish tricks with her gown he’d felt a surge of excitement just watching from a distance. Later, when she’d been fixing dinner and he’d watched fascinated by her every move, he’d been struck not only by her beauty but by her competence, maturity, and the proud, sure, no-nonsense way she’d carried herself.

A few baubles?

He tried to picture Evleen in the midst of her London Season, bosom half-exposed in her low-cut gown, giggling behind her fan, fluttering her eyelashes at some cravat-choked, simpering, superficial dandy.

Never. Ludicrous. Utterly impossible.