TheWifeTrap (12 page)

Even more insidious was his undeniable charm, the charisma he
exuded like some intoxicating cologne. He might irritate and sometimes anger
her all the way down to her toes, but even she had to confess there was more to
him than an attractive face and physique.

She’d seen enough of the renovation he was doing for her cousins
to realize the depth of his intelligence and talent. He must be educated, she
imagined, since architecture required more than an ability to draw and dream.
He had to have studied mathematics and physics, as well as history and the
arts. She wondered where he had apprenticed, and with whom.

Added to that, he had a glib and clever tongue, even if he was an
unprincipled rogue who delighted in plaguing her. Yet he possessed cunning too,
and that was a gift she could not help but admire, since ingenuity was
something upon which she liked to pride herself. Were he of noble birth, she
might well have found herself liking him despite his varied faults. Were he in
any way suitable, she might not be trying so very hard to push him away.

Heavens, what a notion!
She must have been out here in
this field too long and taken too much sun. Clearly, it was making her giddy.

She stared at him through assessing eyes. Was he asleep? She
decided to test the matter. “Mr. O’Brien,” she called in a soft voice.

Silence.

“Are you awake, Mr. O’Brien?” she whispered.

This time he snuffled slightly and rolled his head, but his eyes
stayed firmly closed.

Why, look at that, he
was
asleep.

It absolutely was not fair.
She
was the one being
deprived of a proper night’s rest, and yet
he
was the one sleeping.
And on her lawn blanket, of all things! She ought to give that big, wide
shoulder of his a nudge. Or sprinkle a brush-ful of water droplets across his
slumbering face. That would wake him up quickly enough.

But tempting as both notions might be, she couldn’t bring herself
to do either. He looked far too endearing, almost boyish with a lock of hair
fallen across his forehead.

But just because she wasn’t going to retaliate did not mean she
had forgiven him for hoodwinking her yesterday. Nor did it mean she had given
up her quest to get a few extra hours’ sleep in the mornings. She was still
puzzling over the possibilities, content for now to let him believe she had
conceded defeat.

Let him sleep. He just might need the strength for later.

Turning back, she lifted her brush and began to paint.

Blue sky and cottony clouds were beginning to take form on her
watercolor paper when a sharp sound pierced the quiet. Barking. Canine barking,
carrying to her on the gentle breeze.

She stilled and scanned the fields as the exuberant sound grew
louder. O’Brien woke, rubbing a hand over his face as he sat up next to her.
Just then, a large animal came into view.

“Vitruvius,” she murmured.

“Aye, ’tis the lad back from chasing rabbits in the fields. He
adores chasing rabbits.” O’Brien sprang to his feet. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll
head him off before he realizes you’re here and comes to give you a big, wet
kiss.”

“Oh, good gracious.”

But it was nearly too late as the dog pounded through the meadow
grass toward them, his thin tail held high and waving in elation. Sighting
Jeannette, he charged faster.

O’Brien, however, stopped him with a shrill whistle and a firm
command. Torn as always between his own wants and his need to obey, the dog
stood, quivering with pent-up excitement, his eyes locked upon her.

“Have you any meat in that basket of yours?” O’Brien asked.

“What? You mean my nuncheon?”

“Aye.”

“Cook packed fried chicken, I believe, but—”

“That’ll do splendidly, assuming you don’t want mud all over that
fine gown of yours. A chicken leg should take his mind off wanting to come over
for a pet and a snuggle.”

A pet and a snuggle!
The great oaf of a dog meant well,
she supposed, but he had no regard for a lady’s wardrobe. Desperate to protect
her gown, she dug into the hamper and withdrew the first piece of poultry she
found. A thigh.

“Here.” She passed the chicken into O’Brien’s waiting hand.

Scenting food, the dog’s nose twitched, his tail wagging harder.

“Stay,” O’Brien commanded. When Vitruvius remained in place,
O’Brien peeled a hunk of meat off the bone and fed it to the animal. “Good lad.
Good dog.”

Freeing the rest of the thigh meat from the bone, O’Brien tossed
it down onto the ground for his pet. Vitruvius gobbled it up in two quick
bites, tongue lolling out afterward in happy contentment.

O’Brien strode toward her. “That should settle him for now. I
think your skirts are safe from muddy paws.”

He raised a finger to his mouth and gave it a lick. “Hmm, good
chicken.” Stepping closer, he bent forward to inspect the contents of the open
wicker hamper. “Looks like the Merriweathers’ cook gave you more than a hearty
serving. I can’t imagine a delicate lass like you will be able to eat all this.”
Bending down, he set the denuded chicken bone back onto the serving plate. “You
don’t mind if I help myself to a drumstick, do you now?”

Before she could comment, he took a piece and carried it to his
lips, biting deep with obvious enjoyment.

“Oh, please,” she drawled sarcastically, “do help yourself.”

He swallowed and grinned, then to her astonishment, reached into
the hamper to grab another piece, lifting out a big breast this time. “My
thanks. ’Tis delicious.”

“You, sir, are outrageous.”

He winked. “Aye, lass, but you know you love it.”

Mouth dropping open, she stared.

“Well,” he pronounced, “ ’tis time I was off. My appreciation for
the excellent company and the delicious food. It’s been a rare treat.” With a
wicked glimmer sparkling in his vivid blue eyes, he grinned, then turned to set
off at a brisk pace. A shrill whistle issued from O’Brien’s lips, Vitruvius
springing up to race after his master.

Crossing her arms, Jeannette watched the procession of man and dog
and purloined chicken until the trio disappeared over a rise.

Loved his outrageous behavior indeed,
she sniffed,
shaking her head.
What rubbish.

But as she dug a hand into the hamper for her own piece of
chicken, she wondered if he might not be right.

Chapter Eight

“Gather up those as well and be quiet about it,” Jeannette
whispered, barely able to see her maid in the dark.

“But they’re dreadfully heavy, my lady.”

“I know, but if we moved the others, we can move these. Now, let’s
get this done before we’re caught.”

Jeannette glanced around, left then right, checking to make sure
they weren’t being observed. One never knew when a footman might sneak out for
a late-night stroll and find more than he’d bargained for.

“Follow me.” Weighed down, knees near to buckling, she and her
maid crossed the lawn, each of them hauling a separate wooden box. “Almost
there,” she panted to encourage the girl at her back.

A long excruciating minute later, they reached their destination,
boxes hurriedly placed onto the ground.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she declared with false
exuberance.

Betsy remained silent for a long moment. “You wouldn’t have made
Jacobs come out here with you in the dead of night.”

“What have I said about not mentioning that person’s name in my
hearing? But you are correct, I could not have trusted Jacobs to aid me
tonight. But I can trust you, can’t I, Betsy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The other girl smiled.

“Quite right. Now, let’s get this finished.”

“Are you sure about this, my lady?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Jeannette said, squelching any internal
doubts. O’Brien would be irritated as a rooster whose tail feathers had been
plucked, she knew, but she couldn’t imagine her little maneuver bringing
anything but smiles to the faces of his workmen. Really, she was giving them
all a delightful gift.

“Come, let us finish.”

The pair of them worked for nearly an hour, beads of perspiration
dampening each of their foreheads by the time their labors were done.

“Well, that’s the lot,” Jeannette announced. “Now it’s off to bed
for the pair of us. You may have an extra three hours’ personal time in the
morning.”

“Oh, thank you, my lady.”

“In fact, sleep as late as you wish. I know I shall be doing the
same.”

“I tell you, they’ve gone missing.”

An early-morning chill bit through Darragh’s jacket and
shirtsleeves, the first full rays of sun just beginning to drive away the cold,
grass glistening with a slick coating of dew.

Ignoring the temperature and the damp, Darragh planted his fists
at his waist, scowled down at his principle foreman. “Well, they can’t have
grown feet and walked off on their own. They’re tools, for Christ’s sake, and
who around these parts would want to steal tools? Anyone with half a measure of
sense knows they’d never manage to profit from such a deal even if they could
locate an idiot foolish enough to trade in stolen goods. The bother alone of
hauling them would be discouragement enough.”

Rory shrugged a pair of burly shoulders. “If the tools weren’t
pinched, then where’d they go? I’ve asked all the men and none of them knows a
blessed thing. Packed up yestereve, same as they always do, before they leave
for the night.”

Darragh released a sigh, aware his foreman was right. He’d checked
the work site himself last night, making certain it was tidy and secure before
he’d headed off for his lodgings. The toolboxes had been exactly where they
should be, he distinctly recalled, stacked neatly inside the ground-level
mudroom.

Yet this morning when he’d arrived, the first thing he’d heard was
talk about the missing equipment. Without tools, no work could be done. Without
tools, his men would stand idle, the job delayed, perhaps seriously. And if the
tools remained missing, they would have to be replaced at great trouble and
expense by a trip to Dublin.

The most obvious culprit had to be one of his workers, but that
Darragh refused to believe. None of his men could be responsible. His people
were honest, even the local boys hired on for this one specific job. There must
be another answer, another explanation.

Turning the knob, he studied the lock to the mudroom. “The door
doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. There’d be some sign if thieves had
picked the lock or forced the door.”

The foreman nodded. “Odd, it is. Almost as if somebody from inside
did the deed. But there’s no sense to that. Who in the house would have cause
to do such a thing?”

Darragh paused, the other’s man’s statement coming as a
revelation.

Someone in the house? Someone who had reason to be pleased at any
interruption to his work? Someone who had a premeditated agenda, such as
sleeping late. Only one person, to his way of thinking, who fit all three of
those descriptions.

Lady Jeannette Brantford.

Still, as dead certain as he was that she must be behind the
theft, how had she managed to move all those tools? They were brutally heavy,
those boxes of tools. Too heavy to be wrangled by a mere woman. Yet the Little
Rosebush was no ordinary woman. It was certain that whatever she lacked in
strength, she more than made up for in determination. But if she was behind the
mysterious disappearance of his tools, where would she have hidden them?

“Search the grounds,” he instructed Rory. “Set all the lads to the
task.”

The other man’s eyebrows lifted in apparent surprise. “You think
the tools are still here on the estate?”

“There’s a high probability of it, aye.” He scrubbed his hands
together. “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”

Jeannette snuggled against the soft sheets, eyes closed as she
luxuriated in a last few moments of sleep.

Pure heaven, she mused as she let herself slowly drift awake. So
quiet. As though the house slumbered too, filled with blissful peace and
harmonious silence. A smile spread over her mouth as she stretched her arms
above her head and wiggled her fingers, reveling in the marvelous sensation of
feeling well rested for the first time in weeks. Full sunlight peeped from
beneath the curtains, a glance at the mantel clock displaying the hour at just
shy of eleven.

Giggling like a naughty child, she sat up, bounced against the
feather mattress. Her plan had obviously worked to perfection. How delicious.
Somewhere on the property, O’Brien must be dragging his fingers through his
hair in confused frustration. Likely he would think the missing tools had been
stolen, forcing him to send for more, hopefully all the way to Dublin. Just
imagine the days such a task would take. Day after day of luxurious quiet. Day
after day of sleeping in.

Energized, she sprang from the bed and tugged the bellpull for
Betsy. Because of the late hour, she ate breakfast in her room, sending word to
Wilda that she was well and would see her later that afternoon. She bathed and
dressed at a leisurely pace, donning her favorite Nicholas blue poplin for
today’s painting expedition.

Whistling a jaunty tune under her breath, she made her way through
the house toward the east door, where, only a couple days ago, she and O’Brien
had conducted their early-morning encounter over the plans. She knew he was
probably too busy reporting the “theft” of the tools to the local constabulary
to give her any thought. Even so, making herself scarce for the remainder of the
day didn’t sound like a bad idea.

The instant she stepped from the house, she realized she was
already too late.

Before she could retreat, O’Brien saw her. Peeling away from the
side of the house where he’d been leaning, he stalked toward her, his steps as
powerful and hungry as those of a hunting cat. A large, fearsome cat who’d been
anticipating the capture of its prey for some long while.

“About time you put in an appearance,” he said, drawing to a halt
in front of her.

“Ah, good day to you, Mr. O’Brien.” She tossed him a look of utter
innocence. “What brings you here to the garden?”

Standing squarely before her, he blocked her path. “You know
exactly what, you wily minx. I was beginning to think I’d have to concoct some
fib so I could come inside the house and roust you out, but here you finally
are.”

As if he would dare,
she thought. “My pardon, but I
cannot imagine why you would be searching for me.”

“Can you not?”

“No,” she said, still hoping she could bluster her way past him.
“Now, if that is all, I would like to continue on.” For emphasis, she raised
the art supplies and nuncheon basket she held in her hands.

“You can set those down, since you won’t be doing any painting
this afternoon. You have other chores that will be occupying your time.”

“Chores?” She tossed back her head on a light laugh. “How quaint.
I am a lady, and as such take part in activities. I do not do chores.”

“Do them or not, you’ll be trying your hand at a few this
afternoon. My men and I found most of the tools, by the way. You’ll be helping
me locate the rest.”

Fiddlesticks.
How could they have discovered them so
quickly? And to think of all the effort she and Betsy had gone to last night to
hide the pesky things.

“You have me at a loss.” She shrugged. “I know nothing about any
tools. Are some missing?”

He delivered a loud, disbelieving snort. “You’re a corker, girl,
you surely are, and slick as a selkie with the lies. Go on now and set those
belongings of yours inside the house, then we’ll be off.”

She straightened. “I am on my way to the fields to practice my
watercolors. If you have misplaced some tools, I wish you luck in finding
them.”

“If we’d had luck, I wouldn’t need you to point out their
location. So you’ll be accompanying me.”

“How would I know where to find them?”

He fixed her with a long, hard stare that nearly made her squirm.
She held out for a full minute. “All right, all right, perhaps I have some idea
where they might be. But I fail to see why you’re so upset. If you really
consider the matter, I did everyone a favor.”

His brows shot high. “And how do you figure that, lass?”

“By giving your men a day of rest.”

“Is that what you believe? That they’ve been idle? Quite the
opposite, they’ve been searching under every bush and rock and tree on the
estate, hunting for the tools. They haven’t had a day off, they’ve had a wasted
day. And for what? So you could get a few extra hours’ sleep.”

“It wasn’t only for me.”

“Of course it was. No one else of my acquaintance has been
complaining about the time except you.”

“That’s because they are used to early hours. And because you keep
them under your thumb. Your dictatorial thumb.”

“If I were that, lass, you wouldn’t have gotten so much as an inch
out of me. My only fault is that I refuse to let you take a mile. Enough now,
you’ve got tools to find.”

“Mr. O’Brien, surely you cannot be serious about having me
accompany you to search the grounds?”

“Why not? You didn’t have any trouble traipsing about last night
in the dark. This time you’ll have plenty of sunshine to light your way.”

Lower lip puffed out, she crossed her arms. “But I am going
painting.”

“You can paint later. After we’ve found the tools.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “You have no right to insist I do anything.”

“Your antics have given me the right. Enough talk, we’ve work to
do.”

Before she could prevent it, he reached out and grabbed the hamper
and paints from her hands. She made a desperate attempt to fend him off, but
lost her parasol as well for the effort.

Turning, he placed all her painting paraphernalia inside the
house, then closed the door with a light
bang.

“You are a brute.”

“And you’re spoiled and selfish.”

Her lips quivered. “I am not selfish.”

“Come along, then,” he said, taking hold of her elbow, “and prove
it.”

Burning with silent indignation, she allowed him to lead her
forward. Knowing there was no point in further protest, she fell into step at
his side.

The construction site lay in quiet stillness when they arrived,
the usual busy hive of workers absent from the grounds.

“Where are your men?” she asked. “I thought you said they were
still working.”

“With all of today’s unexpected disruptions, I sent them home.”

Darragh paused, thinking back upon the morning. Once he’d made the
decision to waylay Jeannette and make her pay recompense by ferreting out the
equipment she had hidden, he also decided it might be best to do so with a
measure of privacy. So he’d sent the men home, telling them to arrive at the
site early on the morrow. Luckily, Jeannette’s cousins wouldn’t be looking for
her, since he knew Mr. Merriweather spent his afternoons locked inside his
laboratory and Mrs. Merriweather usually puttered around in her rose garden on
the opposite side of the house.

Jeannette smiled in triumph. “So, the men did benefit from my
actions, after all.”

“Not really, since they don’t get paid if they don’t work.”