“I thought, my dear, you wished to show me the error of my ways,” he said with a mocking smile. “Consider me your test case, the skeptical Englishman to be taught to regard Ireland in a more positive light. Though I must confess I’ve really given the country very little thought, either good or bad. Until recently.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Intolerance is a great ill, certainly. But indifference is worse.”
“Well, then…” He eased back in his chair, resting the foot of his wineglass against his waistcoat. “Do your best to correct me.”
With an expression he would not exactly call obliging, she rose and went into the other room. When she returned, she was carrying just a few pages—the chapter he had requested and nothing more, signaling that tonight, he ought not to expect carte blanche from her. He applauded her resolve, yet the scoundrel in him warmed to the challenge it represented.
She settled into her chair with the papers in her lap, then took a drink to wet her lips before picking up the topmost sheet. He gestured with the wine bottle for her to begin as he tipped the last of its contents into her glass.
“Róisín had never seen the likes of Belfast,” she read. “The city hummed and thrummed with the beats of ten thousand Irish hearts and the notes of a thousand Irish harps. In her ears buzzed the varied accents of her countrymen, who hailed, as Cathal had predicted, from all the four kingdoms. To her great surprise, though, not every voice was Irish. Travelers had come from far and wide to take in the spectacle, and as she pushed through the crowd to the Assembly Room, where the harpists were to convene, she heard an Englishman say to his friends, ‘There is the one who will triumph.’
“He was not speaking of her, of course. Rather, the ancient blind bard, Donnchadh Ó hAmhsaigh, had just passed, and a hush had fallen over the crowd, else the Englishman’s voice would have gone unheard. Hear it she did, though, and she turned toward the speaker, whose eye had likewise been caught by her flaming red hair.”
At last, the arrival of the long-awaited villain.
Gabriel sat up a little straighter in his chair, awaiting the catalog of his own features. But it never came. The man whom Róisín glimpsed above the heads of the other festivalgoers had golden hair and blue eyes. All boyish good looks and charm.
A strange sort of unease settled somewhere behind Gabriel’s ribs.
“As the man stood between her and the doorway through which she wished to enter,” Camellia read, “Róisín could not avoid his scrutiny. Nor did it occur to her that she ought to avoid it, for though her lips had sung many a song about treachery in the guise of love, she had not lived enough to know that she might be its victim.”
Now, suspicion began to prickle along his spine. Difficult as it was to imagine the quick-witted and sharp-spoken Camellia being duped by a rogue, it seemed clear someone else had plied the author of this portrait with seductive wiles. Was it possible she had once been as naïve as her heroine? Had she fallen prey to the same sort of man?
Or, more accurately, had she fallen prey to the wrong sort of man twice?
For the first time, the memory of Camellia’s body beneath his produced a twinge he might have called regret. The knowledge that some other scoundrel had been the one to take Camellia’s innocence offered no salve to his conscience. Twisting the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, he forced himself to return his attention to the story.
“‘Do you play?’ the man asked as she passed, for he could guess the direction of her steps.
“She paused. ‘That I do, sir.’
“He gave her a sweeping bow. ‘May I make so bold as to ask the favor of a name? I should like to be able to tell my friends I have seen the one who will win.’”
Inwardly, Gabriel winced on Róisín’s behalf. He knew precisely where such flattery led. Camellia resolutely kept her eyes on her paper.
“Róisín turned to look for the harpist who had passed. ‘Indeed you have, sir. ’Twas Denis Hempsey you saw.’
“Her modesty brought a smile to his lips. ‘I meant your name, my dear,’ he said.
“‘I’m called Róisín Nic Uidhir, sir,’ she said, when she could find her tongue. ‘In English, Rosie Maguire.’
“‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Maguire,’ he replied with a bow. ‘Granville, at your service. And one day soon, I hope you shall play for me.’”
Pausing, Camellia pressed the page from which she had been reading against her knees. Gabriel cleared his throat. “So Granville’s the one, eh?” he asked with false heartiness. “Clearly, a thoroughgoing rake.”
“But it is not too clear?” She looked up at him with something like alarm in her eyes. “It’s essential readers understand that Róisín embodies Ireland, of course, its beauty, its culture, its—”
“Its vulnerability to the rapacious appetites of England, in the form of one despicable Lord Granville?” He did not fault her approach. Readers would devour many things in the guise of a tragic love story. Even politics.
“But Mr. Dawkins disliked my portrayal of Granville, in particular. He thought it a caricature. Hence my need to study the habits and history of someone more…complex.”
“Complex.” He knew better than to think it a compliment.
“Mm, yes. It seems that England’s exceptional villainy with respect to Ireland cannot be represented by a run-of-the-mill rogue.”
In spite of himself, Gabriel laughed. What would she say if she knew that her paragon of English vice was suspected of treason against that very crown?
“I’m sure your revisions will satisfy Mr. Dawkins’s concerns. Most readers will not share my particular interest in the character,” he said, then paused. “To tell the truth, I expected to find him more…familiar.”
“He—” She reached for her wine and took one swallow, then another. “I confess I did not have you in mind when I first crafted this portrait,”
