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    O'Rourke's Heiress
    O'Rourke's Heiress
    O'Rourke's Heiress
    Ebook406 pages5 hours

    O'Rourke's Heiress

    By Blair Bancroft

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    About this ebook

    Author's Warning: O'Rourke's Heiress contains major spoilers for The Sometime Bride. It's strongly recommended you read "Bride" first.

    Can the daughter of a jumped-up tradesman find happiness with a handsome and charming viscount, or does her destiny lie elsewhere? Perhaps with a man who isn't trying to kill her?

    Though Terence O'Rourke would never admit it, he loves Beth Brockman. Beth, daughter of Tobias Brockman, the Merchant Midas, has loved her foster brother, Terence, for all seventeen years of her life. Both are bastards. Both owe everything to Tobias, who has one simple goal beyond making money: he wants his only child to marry a title.

    Beth's protests are ignored as Terence sacrifices his own desires so she can marry the heir to an earldom. But disillusionment begins on Beth's wedding night. She is no longer a pampered princess. Her husband is master of her fate, her money, her person, her life. He can love her, starve her, beat her, sleep with as many women as he likes. He can abandon her . . . even kill her. And live happily ever after on her munificent dowry.

    Occasionally, Beth sees flashes of the charming gentleman she thought she married. As a bitter winter on Dartmoor turns to spring, she struggles to make her marriage work. But events begin to suggest her husband is a madman or a murderer. Perhaps both.

    Prior to Beth's wedding, Tobias Brockman sent Terence to Louisiana, where he assuages his anguish over Beth's marriage in the arms of an ambitious Creole, who clings to him all the way back to London. Where Terence discovers his "sacrifice" was in vain—his beloved Beth has suffered beatings by her husband, topped by a series of inexplicable accidents. A dash to Dartmoor reveals that the lovely, innocent young girl Terence once knew is totally disillusioned, determined never again to allow love into her life. Terence keeps trying, but their past mistakes continue to haunt them. Happily Ever After seems impossible for this pair of star-crossed lovers, but sometimes Fate does the strangest things . . .

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateApr 4, 2012
    ISBN9780983807582
    O'Rourke's Heiress
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      O'Rourke's Heiress - Blair Bancroft

      O’Rourke’s Heiress

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2012 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      ~ * ~

      PART I

      Chapter One

      March, 1799

      Sheltered in the lea of a towering column, the boy scowled at the grassy courtyard of Trinity College as rain poured down from leaden skies, flowed out onto the cobbled streets of Dublin and tumbled down the gentle incline toward the River Liffey. He was thin and ragged, eleven years old. Or so he maintained. An insignificant street urchin, except for the intelligence behind brilliant blue eyes shining from a pinched face beneath a crumpled cap. In spite of a daily scramble for food, he was outgrowing his patched breeches. His jacket, retrieved from a corpse in an alley behind O’Malley’s pub, was many sizes too large, his socks beyond darning. Without the holes in the toes of his shoes, his feet would no longer fit inside.

      He’d had a good afternoon, however. Curled up in a dim corner of the great library where kind-hearted students let him hide once they discovered the dirty scrawny child could actually read. They considered him a phenomenon. Odd, inexplicable. A defiant rebel living the free life they sometimes thought they wanted. So under the great rounded arches which soared far above the college’s two-level stacks of books, the students conspired to keep him hidden from the monitors, never suspecting their precocious pet was about to disappear as completely as if the River Liffey had swallowed him up and swept him out to sea.

      Terence O’Rourke tugged his cap farther onto his forehead as rain waterfalled off its brim. Sure, and he should be used to it, but leaving his beloved library to come out into this was not the best way to end a fine day. And fine it was, for his friend Gavin, one of Trinity’s younger students, had shown him the Greek alphabet and marveled at his excitement over what caused other boys his age to groan and make faces behind their tutors’ backs. Terence didn’t know why he wanted to learn, only that he did. That his mother could read and had taught him, even as she had tried to earn their bread as a seamstress. And, having failed, turned to other things Terence never named, not even in the deepest recesses of his mind.

      But now he was hungry. And being a son of the Ascendancy, as his mother had always asserted, wasn’t going to put food in his belly. A bastard was a bastard, no matter what his religion. So he had to do what he’d done every day since his ma died. Steal what he needed.

      Then again, there was O’Malley. In return for straightening out his accounts, the pub keeper was good for a full meal and occasional handouts during times between. And, besides, the streets were too deserted for a quick bump and grab. Terence’s fingers were so chill and wet a gent’s wallet might slip from his grasp liked greased lightning. So he’d try O’Malley first. Risking the publican’s wrath was surely better than picking through the garbage thrown into the alley. Grown men fought over scraps of food back there in the narrow darkness.

      Terence pushed off the column, jogging down the pebbled path, through the black wrought iron gate, and into the street. Four blocks it was to O’Malley’s, with water sloshing up to his ankles on its rush down to the Liffey. It was nearly dark, an early spring afternoon turning rapidly to a gloom scarcely penetrated by the few street lanterns in downtown Dublin. He rounded the corner into Grafton Street, moving as fast as he could on the uneven slippery cobbles. And, praise God or the Devil, what did he see? A well-dressed gent as mad as himself, striding through the rain as if it weren’t there. Powerful gent, but not a lord. Shoulders like a smithy, the neck of a bull, and carrying a stout cane. But well-dressed for all that, with a caped cloak like an English toff and a tall beaver Terence coveted on the instant. If only . . .

      No, he thought with a sigh that bent his thin shoulders. In daylight, with no rain, when he could run like the wind and lose himself in the crowd, he could manage it with no trouble at all. The wallet and perhaps the hat as well. But tonight . . . Terence slipped into a doorway, taking a moment to contemplate the problem. There must be a way. If the gent was going to O’Malley’s, he could simply wait, hoping his quarry was a man with a thirst. A great Irish thirst. And yet, somehow the gent didn’t look Irish. Too well fed, perhaps. Yet not refined enough for the Ascendancy.

      And he was getting away. Terence shot out of the doorway, running, stumbling to catch up. When the man turned to cross the street toward the faint light shining from the front windows of O’Malley’s pub, Terence was nearly on his heels, still wondering how he could relieve this fine quarry of his money. Afterwards, he’d always say he didn’t want anything to happen to that fine beaver hat, but when a coach and four came hurtling down the street, the coachman blinded by the darkness, rain, and his certain belief that no one mattered more than the convenience of the lord inside the coach, Terence heard himself scream a warning, even as he launched himself toward the bull-necked gent. He didn’t quite make it.

      The weight of the boy’s slight body as it hit his back was little more than a gnat to Tobias Brockman, but he’d heard the warning. As he leaped forward, he slipped on the cobbles and fell, just in time to cushion the fall of the boy who, he suspected, had taken a blow from the left front leader. Tobias grabbed the boy in a bear hug, rolled them both to the side of the road as the coach and four plunged by, splashing them with a shower of muddy water. One short whimper, quickly cut off, but enough to let Tobias know the boy was conscious.

      Where were you hit, boy?

      Me shoulder.

      Can you move?

      I think so. The words sounded more defiant than certain. Instead of being chastened, the young scamp seemed annoyed he’d allowed himself to be damaged.

      Unaccustomed to playing the hero, are ye?

      Aye. A very grudging aye.

      Tobias hauled himself to his feet. The last few years had been too good to him. He was slowing down, grown careless, not quite the sharp fighter he once had been. Pushing forty he was, and little to show for it but a fine bank balance. Not the time for philosophy, he supposed, but it never was with him. Introspection hadn’t made him what he was, a man well on his way to being the richest self-made man in Britain and Ireland.

      Tobias bent over, lifted the boy to his feet. Lord, the lad weighed next to nothing! I pay my debts, boy, he declared. A meal at yon pub while I see what you’ve done to yourself. Does that meet with your approval? Why he’d added that last he couldn’t have said, but the instincts which had made him rich told him this was no common street urchin.

      It’ll do, the boy conceded grandly.

      The smell hit them like a comforting blanket of the familiar. O’Malley’s was redolent with ale, whiskey, roast meat, lantern oil, woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, the musky odor of damp wool, and other scents which were best ignored. If Terence’s shoulder hadn’t hurt so badly his stomach threatening to revolt, he would have thought it heavenly. But miss out on the offer of a good meal he never would, even if the gent had saved him instead of the other way round. So he’d ignore the pain, tell his stomach to quit trying to turn itself inside out. He’d manage. He always did.

      Well, boy, roared O’Malley when he caught sight of him, an’ where’ve you been hiding y’rself? Me menu’s needed changing for three days now.

      Well now, and wasn’t O’Malley eyeing the gent like he had indecent intentions? Terence shut out his pain, sharpened to attention.

      Menu? the gent roared right back. Are you daft, man? Without waiting for an answer, the older man headed for an empty snug, neatly solving the problem of Terence’s weakness by wrapping an arm around his waist and carting him along with his toes dangling just above the ale-soaked floorboards. The walls of the snug rose up around them, shutting them into a private world cut off from the hubbub they’d just passed through. Except for O’Malley.

      The publican, unaccustomed to being ignored in his own establishment, loomed in the doorway. The good Lord knows what you want with the lad, he growled, but he’s not for you. He works for me, he does. Educated he is, reads and writes. I gets him to chalk me menus. And it’s been needing changing all week. He turned to Terence who was now tucked up on a bench. I suppose you’ve been holed up with your books again, forgetting those that keep you fed. O’Malley shook his massive finger under the boy’s nose. Not a morsel, not a mouthful until you’ve redone the board. And I care not what your fine friend may say.

      The boy’s hurt. I’ll do your demmed board. Tobias Brockman rose, nose to nose with O’Malley.

      Hurt? Sean O’Malley repeated ominously. And how, may I ask, did that happen? he asked, leaving no doubt he held his customer personally responsible for the boy’s injury.

      Offside leader while I was crossing the street, Terence hastened to reply. Nothing’s broken. I’ve had worse.

      So what do you want on your board? Tobias Brockman barked.

      The publican glared at the two of them, then finally shrugged, turning to lead the stranger to the chalkboard behind the bar. But not before Terence’s gent had ordered two full suppers with accompanying pints of ale.

      Now then, the gent declared when he returned, let’s see how bad you’re hurt. Terence did his best to squirm up against the wall, but quickly found his jacket off, his shirt skinned up over his back. Ah, the older man breathed, you’re lucky, boy. Nothing worse than a bad bruise. It’ll hurt like the devil for the next few days, but you’ll mend. He dropped the shirt, helped the boy back into his jacket, then suddenly drew the battered cap off his head. So you’re black Irish, he murmured as Terence’s shock of unruly hair was revealed. As black as the coal I mined when I was your age.

      He caught the spark of interest in the bright blue eyes which had seemed determined to display nothing more than truculence. Yes, boy, I was down in the pits but took off as soon as I could. As the buxom barmaid approached, smiling broadly at Terence’s benefactor, Brockman leaned in close, winked at the boy. And now I own ’em. The mines. Sometimes pastures really are greener, boy. He grinned at the waitress, not hesitating to pat her ample backside as she bent over their table. Got you a pint, too, boy. Figure it won’t be your first.

      No, sir. So why would the gent reveal he was wealthy? Was he making an offer? Ah well, no need to worry about that ’til he’d eaten. Terence had received plenty of offers. He knew that under the rags and dirt he was far too pretty. Even his ma had had offers for him. Starting when he was not more than three. And often and often, on a hungry belly, they’d been hard to turn down. But there were some things he’d decided he’d not do even if he starved. At least that’s what he’d always vowed, and so far he’d been smart enough to keep body and soul together without putting that final question to the touch.

      With as much bravado as he could manage, Terence reached out with his good arm, hefted the mug and drank off two hearty swallows of ale.

      They didn’t talk while they ate, just shoveled the food down with a will, though Terence noticed the gent was sort of keeping an eye on him. Could he possibly care that he was hurting, or did he have something else in mind?

      Now, boy, said the solidly built stranger as he wiped up the final bits of gravy with a chunk of bread, it’s time for names. I’m a Welshman, name of Brockman. Tobias Brockman. I’m in Dublin on business. So who are you?"

      The blue eyes looked straight at him, as if they were of equal age and fortune. Tobias already knew the boy intrigued him. Now he began to suspect there might be something even more important happening here.

      Terence O’Rourke of County Wicklow.

      And what are you doing in Dublin, Terence O’Rourke?

      My mother thought to better herself.

      And did she?

      The boy’s eyes shifted far beyond the smoke-filled room outside the snug. Silently, he shook his head. She’s been gone near three years now.

      Gone as in passed on?

      Yes, sir.

      And you live on your own?

      Terence’s eyes flashed back to his benefactor. I’ll not go to the workhouse. Never! It’s the Liffey for me before that!

      Hush, hush, boy, no one said anything about the workhouse. I’ll not peach on ye. So answer me true, do have kith or kin, friends, anyone to look after you?

      No. Terence’s eyes fell. Idly, he traced a name carved into the ancient oak table.

      You saved my life tonight.

      At Tobias Brockman’s steady tone the boy’s finger slowed, stopped. He shot a look from under his long black lashes. You’re wrong. ’Twas you who saved me.

      I was charging along, thinking of my growling belly, paying no attention at all. Without your shout, I’d likely be dead. I owe you, boy.

      Terence waved a hand over their empty plates. You’ve paid. I’m much obliged. He slid an inch along the bench, then stopped. It was time to leave, but somehow . . . it was like card games he’d watched—the ones where serious money changed hands—something was happening here, something he couldn’t name. He had to stay, play out the hand that had been dealt.

      With a slight nod Brockman acknowledged he’d seen and understood the boy’s furtive move. He leaned back against the wall and studied the wee scrap of manhood who had erupted into his life. O’Rourke. A good Irish name. And probably his mother’s. Well, he hadn’t become wealthy by being mealy mouthed. Tobias Brockman was known for being blunt to a fault, so he might as well plunge right in. Do you know your father, boy?

      The boy didn’t flinch, had undoubtedly anticipated the question. Me ma said he was of the Ascendancy, with a title and all. That’s all she would ever say.

      So you’re da’s a Protestant, your ma’s a Catholic, and you a poor misbegotten babe. Is that the right of it?

      Aye, sir.

      With no one to care if you live or die?

      Incredibly, the boy lifted his chin into a cheeky grin. O’Malley? he suggested.

      Tobias buried his face in his mug, drained its contents, signaled for more. The boy had nothing, absolutely nothing, yet he could find irony in his poverty. So what are we to do with you? he murmured. The boy’s bright blue eyes challenged, a strange mix of bold and defiantly wary. Willing to hear him out, but expecting the worst.

      How shall I put this? Tobias asked, nodding absently to the hopeful barmaid as she plunked another mug before him. My business here will require several days, perhaps a week. I could use another pair of eyes and ears, a strong pair of legs. Will you work for me, Terence O’Rourke?

      Blue met brown, the eyes of eleven as old and wise as those of nine and thirty. If work’s all you require, the boy returned boldly.

      I have no taste for boys. Not in that way, Tobias said, his words calm and steady. I’ve already had enough bedwarmers for a lifetime. And more than enough trouble from weaknesses of the flesh. It’s a helper I need. Someone bright— He broke off, eyed the boy sharply. D’ye have any knowledge of numbers, boy? Mathematics, accounting?

      I’ve helped the O’Malley straighten his accounts on occasion. More than once, Terence added, attempted nonchalance not quite making it past the chip on his shoulder.

      Ah. Tobias smiled over his steepled fingers. Then be my shadow for the next few days. Do what I tell you, when I tell you. Run, fetch, carry, and listen. And then we’ll see. If it’s mutually agreeable, I may have further use for you. My business is growing and has need of bright lads. What say you?

      Terence finished his ale in three long swallows. The bright blue eyes darkened to indigo. The length of time you’re in Dublin, agreed. After that, we’ll both see.

      It was all Tobias could do not to laugh out loud. Lord, the boy was chipped from ice. Whoever his parents had been, they’d given him remarkable presence as well as a sterling mind. He’d have to ask what O’Malley meant by your books. That the child was literate at all was a miracle.

      Tobias Brockman, merchant, held out his hand. We’ve a bargain then?

      Aye. Terence O’Rourke placed his small hand inside the other’s. We’ve a bargain.

      Terence braced his feet and gripped the rail as the packet boat knifed through the roll and swell of the Irish Sea. Behind him, green farmland, ancient graves and ancient legends, the dark stench of poverty receded into the mist. Sure now, and he’d done it. Escaped. Fallen on his feet, he had. He’d given his gent a try-on, and in six days the glimmer of hope that first night at O’Malley’s had grown into a bright new world. London. He was going to London. And all he’d had to pay for it . . .

      He’d spent that first night on the floor of Brockman’s hotel room. It might be common for six or eight strangers to share a bed in an inn, but Terence O’Rourke slept with no one. His benefactor, on hearing his assertion, had merely nodded and thrown him a blanket. In the morning there’d been a bath, new clothes from the skinside out, and then long days of business. He’d conducted his gent from the Customs House to sailing ships lined up at the docks. From Four Courts on Inns Quay to the Guinness Brewery. And to the finest Georgian homes with their brightly colored doors topped by fanlight windows, with their lace curtains and snobbish servants. He’d managed not to gape, following on Brockman’s heels as if he’d visited half the castles of Ireland during his eleven years on this good green earth.

      And he’d astounded them all when he’d calculated in his head what they were laboring to figure out on paper. Oh, yes, that was very fine, the look on their faces when he’d given them the profit margin for the next five years of whiskey sent to England on Brockman ships. And wasn’t that a surprise? Though he was careful not to show his glee. His gent owned fine sailing ships as well as coal mines and probably a good deal more he hadn’t heard about yet.

      And each day they’d eaten more food than Terence usually saw in a week or two. There’d been more new clothes, though his gent had drawn the line at a beaver top hat in size extra small. And, finally, finally, he’d been told he’d proved his worth. Would he like to see London, be trained for a position with Tobias Brockman & Company?

      Would he?

      He had his sea legs now. Turning his back on the last vestiges of Ireland, he raced toward the bow. Beware, England! Here comes Terence O’Rourke!

      What is this place? Terence asked as their coach rumbled past cottages set in as pretty a woods as he’d seen since they’d left the packet ferry and started their journey to London. London. He wasn’t yet sure what he thought about the great city. It was too big. Too loud, too smelly, too rich, too dirty. He’d been glad to get inside Tobias Brockman’s headquarters, into the ordered peace of offices and accounting rooms, with a pub next door which wasn’t so far removed from the familiar world of O’Malley’s. His gent had rooms above the office area but hinted at something better to come. Terence began to discover his benefactor had more than a wee sense of humor. A bit of the whimsical which was almost Irish. Perhaps it was the Welsh in him. In any event, Terence knew the man had plans. But what they had to do with a drive into an area which seemed as if it was deep in the country even though it was right next to the city, he couldn’t say. And, so far, his gent had been remarkably close-mouthed.

      ’Tis called St. John’s Woods, Brockman told him.

      You’re buying a cottage here? Terence prodded.

      I already own a cottage here.

      We’re–uh, you’re going to live here then instead of in the city?

      No.

      Well?

      Part of the problem of being on your own for so long is that you never learned children should speak only when spoken to.

      "You are speaking to me. Sir." Terence knew his gent liked his cheekiness, but there was no sense in taking too many chances. He’d known the man less than two weeks.

      Tobias raised an eyebrow, heaved a dramatic sigh. These cottages are for women, boy. Paid for by men, lived in by women.

      Terence didn’t have to think about it for long. Life with his mother, life on the streets had given him a highly realistic education. After several moments of silence while he contemplated just how far he could go, he ventured, I didn’t take you for a ladies’ man, Sir.

      I’m not, the older man shot back. But I’m no saint either. Don’t have time for a woman in my life, but setting up a mistress was part and parcel of flaunting my wealth. Aye, I had it, wanted everyone to know it. Having a mistress side by side with the Cyprians of the grand nobles tickled my fancy. And paying for a woman means you don’t have to listen to endless complaints if you don’t pay her enough attention, Brockman added sourly. Or at least so I was fool enough to think.

      Terence grinned. He had no trouble understanding that either. He did, however, have a problem with why he was being taken to visit Tobias Brockman’s mistress. Jesus, he hoped he wasn’t destined to be one of those stupid pages, all dressed up in fancy-dancy clothes. No, his gent wouldn’t do that. His gent knew he had a bent for business. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t. Terence swallowed hard as the coach pulled up before a large cottage with latticed windows and a finely thatched roof, brightened by a walkway bordered by a spring burst of tulips and daffodils. Sighing, he followed in Tobias Brockman’s footsteps as his employer approached the front door.

      No haughty butler here. A maid led them into a sitting room, finely furnished as Terence had known it would be. Nothing but the best for Tobias Brockman. A lady rose to greet them, head high, almost regal. Of course she wasn’t a lady, Terence corrected himself, but certainly a very fine female indeed. Obviously, his gent didn’t pick his women off the streets. Blonde, blue-eyed, a dress of the finest silk, and proud as Lucifer, to boot.

      Rosamund, this is young Terence O’Rourke. I expect him to be a help to me in the ah–matter which brings us here. Something of a bodyguard, you might say. He’s bright and well-educated. Terence, this is Madame Rosamund Rolande, Tobias said without a blink, though he knew she was as British-born as himself. "She is about to return to a career in the opera, where I expect she will be a leading prima donna in a very short time. Not that she need ever work again, he added, for she has rendered me an extraordinary service, but she tells me she wishes it."

      Absently, Madame Rolande granted Terence a gracious nod. Tobias, you are charming as ever, I see.

      Into a sudden awkward silence Tobias Brockman cleared his throat before asking, Rosamund, is this hard for you? Worse than you’d thought?

      Madame Rolande glanced down, twisting one of the many rings adorning her fingers. "I’d be lying if I said no, but it’s best for all of us. I know that. As you say, I wish to become a prima donna. I do not wish to live in the country and raise babies. And no child should be raised in St. John’s Woods. You will give her the life I cannot. So it is done. No more to be said." Rosamund strode to the bell pull, nearly jerking it off the wall. Terence, though not yet fully understanding what was happening, recognized the woman was suffering an anguish she did not wish to reveal.

      A servant, obviously waiting for her cue, entered the room. In her arms was a child of perhaps six months, with nearly bald head, its sex as yet a mystery. Terence lost his hard-won aplomb, his mouth dropped open.

      Tobias Brockman strode across the room, stared straight into the child’s solemn amber eyes, so remarkably like his own. Motioning Terence to join him, he took the baby from the nursemaid’s arms. The child made not a sound. Terence, this is Elizabeth. Named her after good Queen Bess, even though she was English. Good strong woman, Bess, but I think we’ll call the little one here Beth. Sounds better, don’t y’ think? Beth, this is Terence. He’s going to be your big brother, look out for you, see you grow up to be a fine young lady. Suddenly, Tobias thrust the baby into Terence’s arms.

      He was terrified. If he held her too tight, she’d cry. If he held her too lightly, she might fall. Terence gulped, shifted his hands for a better grip. She was so tiny. Fragile.

      Beth reached out a chubby hand, grabbing a black curl which dangled over his forehead. She smiled.

      Terence O’Rourke was lost. Forever.

      Chapter Two

      September, 1803

      It was remarkable what money could buy, Miss Matilda Spencer thought as she followed the stiffly correct butler into the library of the house on Cavendish Square. Tales of the immensity of the gambling debts of the Viscount Poynings had reached even Miss Spencer’s sheltered ears. Followed by rumors that the rolled-up nobleman had been bailed out of his self-inflicted misery by the man called the Merchant Midas. ’Twas said Tobias Brockman had acquired the viscount’s townhouse and all its furnishings for nearly twice what it was worth, thereby securing an ally, however reluctant, in the foremost ranks of England’s nobility. And enabling the hope of something more than cool nods of greeting from his stiff-necked aristocratic neighbors.

      Though she would never admit it to a single soul, Matilda Spencer admired the bold determination of the former coal pit boy. That, and the attraction of twice her usual salary, had brought her today to Cavendish Square. Though no expression was allowed to show on a countenance which had survived the buffets of some sixteen years as a governess, she did not hesitate to admit to herself that she was eager to meet the Merchant Midas, whose name was now known from India to the Americas.

      Miss Spencer was mistaken in her expectations. The person rising to his feet behind the massive mahogany desk was a slim young man of fifteen or sixteen. Dressed to the nines, he was as impeccably turned out as any young gentleman in the noble households in which she had worked these many years. And handsomer than most. Thin face, waves of black hair which fell just past his ears, eyes as blue as a sunny sky, piercing as a bolt of lightning. Automatically, she responded to an imperious wave of the young man’s hand. Mind racing, wondering what had happened to her supposed employer, Miss Spencer sat down. Her older sister Portia, of Miss Spencer’s Agency for Genteel Employment, had said nothing about a young gentleman in the household. A very young, confident gentleman who proceeded to introduce himself as Terence O’Rourke.

      He was so well prepared with his questions, Miss Spencer, an inveterate teacher, wanted to applaud him as she was successfully interrogated on her skill in history, geography, mathematics, French, and music, even as the young man waved away her skills in embroidery and watercolors. Nodding at last, he directed his attention to Miss Spencer’s references before carefully refolding each one and returning them to her.

      You are related to Miss Portia Spencer? the boy inquired, the blue eyes suddenly snapping with the shrewd intelligence of a world-weary businessman.

      My elder sister. The young lady I have been with for the past eight years will be married shortly, so Portia has been looking for a new post for which I might be suited. Matilda Spencer straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. Portia and I may be closely related, Mr. O’Rourke, but I assure you, if Mr. Brockman should choose to employ me, he will be acquiring the most highly qualified and experienced governess available.

      The young man examined the polished desktop, flicked off an invisible speck of dust. Miss Spencer could have sworn he was hiding a smile.

      ’Twas I who wrote out the list of qualifications, Miss Spencer. Mr. Brockman is busy earning enough to pay your exorbitant salary.

      Miss Spencer, who had weathered all sorts of slings and arrows, could not stifle her gasp. I never asked . . . ’twas the salary stated!

      The young man was now openly grinning. Yes, it was, he agreed amiably. I am simply repeating what Mr. Brockman said when I told him of it. The smile faded. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as Tobias Brockman had once done to him. You are aware this is a merchant household? he inquired.

      Yes, sir, I am.

      This does not bother you?

      I believe I will find the change salubrious.

      "Salubrious. The young man mouthed the word with relish. That is indeed why we want the best governess, Miss Spencer. We wish to find someone who will be salubrious for us as well as for you. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk in a gesture Matilda Spencer found a relief, the first sign he was truly as young a man as he looked. If you join us, Miss Spencer, I assure you, you will earn your salary. I wish to lay before you the extent of your duties, the problems you will encounter."

      Terence drummed his fingers on the mirror-polished desk before settling himself to his self-appointed task. "In addition to residing in the home of what the ton calls a Cit, your pupils—and, yes, there are two of us—are both bastards. But we’re bright bastards, Beth and I. And I am old enough to know that being able to read and cipher and follow maps to the distant places our ships go is not enough. More and more, I go into a world for which I was not trained."

      The young man’s features were suddenly marred by as cynical curl of lip as Miss Spencer had seen on hardened rakes of sixty. Oh, I can ape my betters with the best of them, Terence said, "but I want more than can be found between the covers of books. I need to know how to go on. To the point where I can, quite frankly, buy my way, and Beth’s, into this ton which scorns us. And don’t

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