Stephanie Laurens
What Price Love?
Book 14 in the Cynster series, 2006
PROLOGUE
I’m looking for Paddy O’Loughlin.”
Fronting the bar counter in the Pipe & Drum, Lady Priscilla Dalloway met the tavern keeper’s arrested gaze and wished she’d thought to disguise her diction. But then she watched recognition flare in Miller’s eyes and realized there would have been no point. She’d worn an old riding habit and a wide-brimmed hat, but there was nothing she could do to disguise her face; a veil wouldn’t help gain Paddy O’Loughlin’s confidence.
Miller, a beefy man with a round, bald head, continued to study her as if she might pose some exotic threat. Inwardly sighing, she leaned confidingly on the counter. “He’s not in any trouble-I just want to talk to him.” She’d softened her already soft brogue, but Miller didn’t budge or blink; she infused a touch more persuasiveness into her tone. “It’s just that my brother’s now filling the position from which Paddy recently retired, and I wanted to know what Paddy could tell me about the work and the place.”
That was all she was willing to reveal. She wanted reassurance as to Rus’s well-being, but she wasn’t prepared to air the Dalloways’ dirty linen before Miller, no doubt as big a gossip as his peers.
Miller frowned, and glanced around.
It was two o’clock; there were three workmen farther along the bar, and a few scattered at tables, all glancing surreptitiously at the Quality miss who’d walked into their den. The barroom windows were small, their glass thick and wavy, admitting little light; the room was a medley of browns and greens, dingy and drab, with only the gleam of glasses and bottles on the wall behind the counter to fix the eye.
Miller eyed his other customers, then set aside the glass he’d been drying, stepped closer and lowered his voice. “You’re saying young Lord Russell’s up and taken Paddy’s old job?”
Pris managed not to hiss through her teeth. “Yes. I thought perhaps Paddy could tell me about Lord Cromarty’s stables.” She shrugged as if it were perfectly normal for an earl’s son to become an assistant stableman, and equally mundane for his sister to ride for two hours cross-country to inquire of the previous incumbent as to the conditions of his erstwhile employment. “I’m just curious.”
And concerned over why a man like Paddy O’Loughlin would leave what should have been an excellent position. He was a local legend when it came to horses and horse flesh; he’d helped train a number of exceptional race horses over the years. She hadn’t met him, but had known he lived outside this village, known, therefore, where best to inquire for him.
Miller studied her, then angled his head at a large man in workman’s garb nursing a pint at a table in the dimmest corner. “You’d best ask Seamus O’Malley. He and Paddy were best mates.”
Pris’s brows flew up at Miller’s use of the past tense.
He nodded portentously. “Anyone can help you, it’s Seamus.” He stepped back, adding, “And if it were my brother in Paddy’s old shoes, I’d ask.”
Concern transformed to outright anxiety. Pris straightened. “Thank you.”
Turning, she regarded Seamus O’Malley. She knew nothing of him. Quitting the bar, she walked across the room.
O’Malley sat hunched over a table, nursing a pint pot between work-roughened hands. Pausing beside him, she waited until his gaze rose to meet hers. He blinked owlishly at her, clearly recognizing her but at a loss as to why she was standing there.
Quietly, she stated, “I’m looking for Paddy O’Loughlin-Miller suggested I speak with you.”
“He did?” Seamus shifted to peer at the bar.
Pris didn’t turn to see. When, presumably reassured by Miller’s nod, Seamus looked back at her uncertainly, she pulled out the second chair at the table and sat. “Miller said you knew Paddy well.”
Seamus eyed her warily. “Aye.”
“So-where is he?”
He blinked, then went back to staring into his almost full pot. “Don’t know.” Before Pris could prod, he went on, “None of us do. He was here one night, a sennight gone it was, and he ambled off home come closing time, like he always did. But he never reached home.” Seamus glanced at her, briefly met her eyes. “The path to his cottage runs through the bogs.”
Pris tamped down a sharp surge of panic, tried to think of some other interpretation, and couldn’t. “You’re saying he was murdered?”
Returning his gaze to his glass, Seamus shrugged. “Don’t know, do we? But Paddy’d walked that path ten thousand times, man and boy, and he weren’t even drunk-barely tipsy. Hard to swallow that he’d lose his way and die like that, but no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since.”
Cold dread welled in Pris’s stomach. “My brother, Lord Russell, has taken Paddy’s old job.” She heard her voice, steady but distant, was aware of Seamus’s instant concern. “I wanted to ask Paddy about Cromarty’s stables. Did he say anything about the place-about the people, the work?”
The expression on Seamus’s face was a disturbing mix of worry and sympathy. He sipped, then in a low voice offered, “He’d worked there for three years. Liked the place well enough at first, said the horses were fine, but recently…he said there was something going on that he didn’t hold with. That’s why he left.”
“Something going on?” Pris leaned forward. “Did he say anything more? Give any hint as to what the something was?”
Seamus grimaced. “All he said was that that devil Harkness-he who’s head stableman at Cromarty’s-was in it up to his ears, and that it, what ever it was, involved some register.”
She frowned. “Register?”
“Paddy never said what register nor how it mattered.” Seamus contemplated his beer, then looked at Pris. “I’ve heard tell your brother’s a great one with the horses, but I ain’t never heard him spoken of as one who’d tip a man the wink, nor be likely to nobble a horse, nor be involved in any other shady dealing. Lord knows Paddy weren’t no saint, but if there were something going on at Cromarty’s stables he couldn’t stomach, then seems likely your brother might have difficulties with it, too.”
Pris stared at him. “And now Paddy’s gone.”
“Aye. I’m thinking it might be wise to let your brother know.” Seamus hesitated, then more gently asked, “He’s your twin, ain’t he?”
Pris nodded. “Yes.” She had to work to strengthen her voice. “And thank you. I’ll tell him about Paddy.”
She started to rise, then paused and fished in her pocket. Standing, she slipped a silver sixpence onto the table. “Have another pint-for Paddy.”
Seamus looked at the sixpence, then grunted softly. “Thank ye. And you tell that brother o’ yours to watch himself.”
Pris turned and strode out of the tavern.
Two hours later, she swept into the back parlor of Dalloway Hall.
Her paternal aunt Eugenia, a widow who had come to live with the family on Pris’s mother’s death seven years before, sat on the chaise calmly tatting. Curled on the window seat, Adelaide, Eugenia’s orphaned goddaughter, now her ward, had been idly perusing a novel.
A pretty girl with glossy brown hair, two years younger than Pris’s twenty-four, Adelaide looked up and set
