Betraying Season (3 page)

There was a great deal of the old-fashioned about the Reverend
Doctor Seamus Aloysius O’Donnell Carrighar. Pen often wondered why he didn’t still powder his hair, for much else about him seemed to be fixed in the last century. Once she had gotten used to those eccentricities, though, Pen realized that Dr. Carrighar was extraordinary in other ways as well. For one thing, his magical knowledge exceeded Ally’s as much as Ally’s exceeded hers. Ally’s statement that his practical magic lagged behind his theoretical had more to do with her nausea-induced peevishness than reality.

“I suppose I should be glad. But right now I’m more interested in hearing what can be done about it,” Ally said in a louder voice, with a hint of her former crispness.

“Well, my dear, it would seem that the offspring of magic-using persons who will themselves,
post utero,
be potent witches—or wizards, as the case might be—frequently cause maternal distress and discomfort whilst
in utero.
Something to do with the latent powers of the child engendering an antagonistic effect on those of the mother, with maternal indisposition being the result. In other words, you’re ill because your babe will follow in her parental, and grandparental, footsteps, and be a cracking good witch. Isn’t that splendid?” Dr. Carrighar beamed.

Pen smiled behind her teacup. Dr. Carrighar’s way of speaking had taken some getting used to.

“Just marvelous,” Ally agreed, with less enthusiasm. “And in the meantime?”

Dr. Carrighar’s smile dimmed. “In the meantime you might, er, try some of Cook’s sago pudding.”

Ally groaned and fell back against her pillow.

“Or the ginger tea. Ginger is excellent for stomach ailments. . . .” Dr. Carrighar trailed into silence at a look from Michael.

It seemed a good time to change the subject. “Speaking of tea,” Pen said brightly, “I’ve been invited to tea tomorrow. By an acquaintance of yours, sir,” she added, turning to Dr. Carrighar. “After I frightened her horses this afternoon, she decided to take a liking to me.”

“She? What she is this?”

“A Lady Keating. She seemed quite interested to hear that I was your guest. I got the impression she asked me more out of respect to you than anything else.”

“Nuala Keating?” Dr. Carrighar frowned and glanced at Michael. “How did you meet her, Penelope?”

Pen explained about the near-accident that afternoon. She watched Dr. Carrighar stare at the buckles of his shoes as he listened.

“And what did you think of her?” he asked when she had finished.

“I don’t know. She was a little strange—very cold at first, then very friendly. She seemed quite interested in hearing any gossip from London. Said she hadn’t been there since her son was at university.”

“No, she wouldn’t have. That would have been about when Lord Keating fell ill. Lady K. has been running the estate ever since. Hmmph.” Dr. Carrighar continued to study his shoes, brows drawn.

“Is there anything wrong with her?” Ally asked. “Would it be proper for Pen to visit her? Society is less formal and constrained here, I understand, or I wouldn’t allow her out on her own. But still—”

“No, no, she’s perfectly respectable. Her family’s quite ancient. She has a title that predates Christianity in Ireland, though it has no
real meaning in these modern times. And no scandals, not of recent vintage, anyway. It’s just . . . oh, nothing. Penelope is a mostly grown woman now. She should be able to choose her own friends and acquaintances.”

“No
recent
scandals?” Pen sat up straighter in her chair. “So there are some?”

“Good heavens! The statute of limitations on gossip never runs out, does it?” Dr. Carrighar shook his head and pursed his lips primly, but Pen caught the twinkle in his eye.

“Not when you drop tantalizing hints, it doesn’t.” She grinned at him over her teacup. “Come on, sir, you can’t stop now.”

“Oh, it’s nothing particularly interesting.” The older man shrugged. “Just the usual chatter about a child who looks nothing like his reputed father.”

“You mean Niall Keating,” Michael said. “Yes, I remember hearing about that.”

“Hearing about what?” Even Ally, who had often warned Pen about the evils of gossip, looked interested now.

Dr. Carrighar gave her a roguish glance. “Thou too, Melusine? Very well. Lady Keating’s husband was—is, I suppose I should properly say, as he’s more or less alive—”

“More or less?” interrupted Pen.

“He was stricken some years ago and lost use of his legs,” Michael replied. “He’s been confined to a chair ever since.”

Dr. Carrighar harrumphed loudly. “As I was saying . . . Lord Keating was a third son and, as such, was sent into the army. His father purchased him a commission as a staff officer in the Fifteenth Dragoons, the Duke of Cumberland’s regiment.”

“The wicked duke,” Ally murmured.

“So it is said, if you give any credence to the rumors that he murdered his valet over a woman and that he’s plotting to kill his niece Queen Victoria before she marries and has an heir so that he can inherit the crown. But I doubt he’s any more wicked than the rest of old King George’s sons. I’ve always thought people feared him because he has more brains and ability than the rest of his brothers and actually takes an interest in politics rather than in mistresses and racehorses. Well, he knew he’d inherit the throne of Hanover after King William’s death, since Victoria could not, being female. Remember, intelligence is what makes people dangerous, my dear.” He waggled one eyebrow at Pen.

“Anyway, it’s rumored that the duke took an especial interest in his officer’s beautiful young wife. The affair ended only when Keating was called back to Ireland after both his elder brothers’ unexpected deaths, making him heir to the title. Her son was born six months after their return, and as he grew up, there were plenty to comment on his striking height and handsome, er, Hanoverian features, rather different from his short, dark father’s.”

“My goodness, how romantic!” said Pen. If the doctor’s story was true, that would make Lady Keating’s son—Niall, was it?—first cousin to the queen. She would have to pay attention tomorrow and see if there was a resemblance between them.

Dr. Carrighar snorted. “Romantic, my foot. But everything is romantic to young ladies these days, isn’t it?”

Pen put out her tongue at him.

He chuckled. “That’s better. I prefer you acerbic to gushing, child. And speaking of acerbic, perhaps you might find time after tea to enumerate the main points of the chapters of John Scotus Eriugena I asked you to read.”

“Yes, sir,” Pen agreed meekly. Dr. Carrighar had lately begun to take over her tutoring from Michael, so that Michael could devote more time to reestablishing his interrupted university career. Good thing that she’d read the chapters. It didn’t do to neglect Dr. Carrighar’s assignments.

“Well . . . ,” Ally said slowly. “Since it’s just a rumor of scandal, and an old one at that, I suppose you may go tomorrow. It was kind of her to send a carriage for you. What will you wear? Your brown cashmere with the embroidered chemisette?”

“Perhaps,” Pen replied, and for a moment felt guiltily glad that Ally was, for now, a semi-invalid. She was going to wear something far more stylish than that demure brown dress. She’d have to, to not be completely eclipsed by Lady Keating.

Pen ignored the rest of the tea conversation and brooded. She’d enjoyed the parties and balls of her season last year. But so much of her time at them had been taken up by being Lochinvar’s confidant as he pined after Persy that she’d not been able to pay much attention to other young men. It would be diverting to have a social life once again and perhaps meet some.

You’re just going for an afternoon call, goose,
she reminded herself.
Don’t build it up into something it isn’t.

But she couldn’t help being a little excited. Living with the Carrighars was undoubtedly stimulating to the mind, but not entirely satisfactory in other ways. Lady Keating had been right—she
was
lonely. Meeting new people tomorrow would be fun. Especially since one of them was reputed to be a tall, handsome young man.

Niall Keating pulled the collar of his coat higher around his neck. It was sunny today but brisk, more January than March, and the wind off the river Lee penetrated even the thickest wool as if it were a gauze shawl. Damn Mother anyway for sending him out for a walk, just so that he could make a grand entrance for her guest’s benefit. And damn himself, for agreeing to go and then forgetting to wear a hat in a wind like this.

But it would serve Mother right if he came back with a red nose and chapped cheeks. Then they would see how impressed this girl was with Lady Keating’s fair-haired son.

The childish crankiness of his thoughts made him even more irritable. Somehow all his recent interactions with his mother left him feeling this way. He found a sheltered shop doorway and consulted his watch. Another half hour. Did he dare slip into a pub, just to kill the time? Anything would be better than freezing his arse off out here.

He ducked into the next pub he came to—so dark and low-ceilinged that he had to keep his head bowed as he entered—and asked the landlord for tea. Mother would have his guts for garters if
he came home with whiskey on his breath, and he loathed beer. A year of studying in Germany had seen to that.

Niall sat down in a quiet corner away from the other patrons, where he could be alone with his thoughts. The aproned landlord arrived a moment later with a steaming mug.

“Care for a bit o’ something to flavor that, m’lord?” he asked with an ingratiating smile and a keen look at Niall’s polished boots and well-tailored coat.

“No, thank you,” Niall returned politely, and handed him a coin. “And I’m not a lord.”

“Hmmph,” said the man, and dug in his apron for change. “You’re not one o’ Father Mathew’s converts, are ye, who’re swearing off the drink? Thirty breweries an’ ten distilleries in this city are providin’ bread for the tables of their workers, an’ he wants everyone to stop having a pint now an’ again. Temperance, he calls it. Trying to put honest publicans out o’ business is what
I
call it.”

“No. I just need to keep a clear head.”

“Aye, well, sometimes a nip of the whiskey can aid in clearing the head something marvelous.” The landlord winked broadly.

Niall smiled and shook his head. “Thank you anyway. Keep the change.”

“Thank
you,
sir!” He patted his pocket and scuttled back behind his counter before Niall could change his mind. Which was just what Niall had intended. He was in no mood for chitchat just now.

He leaned his head against the settle’s high back and stared across the room at the peat turves glowing on the hearth. Why shouldn’t he overpay for weak tea from a not-too-clean cup? What else could he do with the pocket money Mother gave him? He sighed and curved his fingers around the earthenware mug to warm them.

What was Mother up to this time? What could yesterday’s chance meeting with an unknown young Englishwoman have to do with her schemes to unite him with his real father?

It was on his fourteenth birthday that Mother had told him the truth of his birth. She’d called him into her boudoir and showed him the portrait that went everywhere with her, from house to house, packed with the greatest of care. It was of a handsome, martial-looking man with large side-whiskers and a chest full of ribbons and decorations.

It had made Niall giddy at first to think that his real father was a royal duke, and that his grandfather had been the king of England. Mother had played on that reaction, filling him with stories of the glorious future that awaited him when he was grown and could take his place at his true father’s side. He had gone back to Harrow and studied hard, had gone on to Oxford and studied harder. He’d learned to fence and to shoot and spent a year studying military sciences with a retired drill sergeant from the duke’s own regiment, who’d wept like a sentimental old woman at times because of Niall’s resemblance to his former colonel.

But an Oxford degree hadn’t been enough. With the ink barely dry on his diploma, Mother had summoned him to the duke’s portrait once more and told him he was going to have a grand tour. For three long years, he’d toured Europe, ending up in Hanover for a course of study at the University of Göttingen. By the time he was through, though, he had changed. Or maybe being away from Mother for so long had made a difference.

“I don’t care how much I look like the duke,” he’d tried to argue with her on his return. “What use will he have for a son he can never
claim? I have a home and an inheritance in Ireland. I should be learning how to live my life here, not chasing a dream.”

Mother had refused to listen, however. “His only other son is a blind invalid. When the duke sees you, how he’ll rejoice! With your education and experience of foreign life, you will be invaluable to him one day.” She’d smiled at him through sudden tears. “His very image! So tall and straight and fair. . . . Be patient a little longer,
mo mhuirnin.
Now that you are a man, I must write to the duke. We shall go to England later this summer and bring you to him.”