self-respecting gypsy would consider payin’ for anything.”
“If you’re telling me my mixed blood leaves me neither fish nor fowl, you’re wasting your breath,” Moira said bitterly. “I had that bit of wisdom driven home to me before I took my first step.”
Blackjack drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “Well, you’ve not done too badly for a hedge bird, have you girl? And who do you have to thank for landin’ in the clover? Your old da’, that’s who. For without me you’d not have struck your fine bargain with the old duke.”
He scowled fiercely. “And like it or not, you’ll have to put up with me until you’ve the blunt to see me on my way. Or have your grown so heartless you’d send your old da’ to sleep beneath the haystacks like a common turnpiker? Think on it, Moira girl. Is it right I should be the one to suffer because you’ve a poor head for handling your finances?”
“Heaven forefend, Blackjack. Not even I could be that unreasonable,” Moira said, smiling a little in spite of herself. Once again, her wretched father had talked his way around her. The man had such a gift of gab he could persuade the Angel Gabriel into taking up residence in Hades.
“All right, you may stay,” she agreed through gritted teeth. “For a few days. But you will have to remain in the east wing until the earl leaves for Langley Hall.”
“And take me meals on a tray all alone in me room I suppose,” Blackjack said petulantly. “As if I would infect the rest of you with the plague should I sit down at the table with you.”
“Those are my terms. Take them or leave them,” Moira said, steeling herself against his hangdog look.
“You’ve grown hard, Moira girl. Something I never thought to see your mother’s daughter do.” Blackjack brushed a crocodile tear from his eye. “Will you let young Charlie visit me, at least to help while away the long, lonely hours?”
“Charles may visit you,” Moira agreed, struggling to maintain her stern demeanor, “but only if you promise you’ll not teach him any more of your colorful Irish expressions. Poor Elizabeth is still blushing from the ones he learned on your last visit.”
Moira was not the only member of the household to be aware of the arrival of the newcomers. In the fourth-floor nursery suite to which Charles had been restricted until his bodyguards arrived, he craned his neck out the window and exclaimed to Alfie that things were certain to liven up now that Grandpapa Blackjack had arrived.
“There’s nobody in the whole world knows more stories about exciting fellows like pirates and smugglers and such,” he added happily—a comment noted with a quailing heart by Elizabeth Kincaid, who was acting as the boys’ teacher until a suitable tutor could be found.
The clatter of horses’ hooves and the babble of voices carried, as well, through the open window of Devon’s second-floor bedchamber, where Stamden and he were enjoying a quiet conversation. At least Stamden was; Devon was still chafing from the murderous look the duchess had delivered him before stalking off in a huff half an hour earlier. And all because he had made a perfectly logical suggestion concerning the raising of the young duke.
“What is that racket in the courtyard?” he demanded of Ned Bridges, who stood staring out the window, a dumbfounded look on his square-jowled face. “It sounds like a regiment of the First Hussars has arrived in full battle regalia.”
“It’s four men. Four men I never thought to see again this side of the grave,” Ned replied in an awestruck voice. “Blackjack Reardon and the three Keough brothers to be exact. Now what would four of Cornwall’s slipperiest ‘gentleman’ be doing calling on the duchess and in broad daylight too? Answer me that if you can, Captain.”
“The ‘gentlemen’ is the local Cornishman’s term for smugglers,” Devon explained to Stamden. “Though it’s not commonly known, Ned plied
“If you’re telling me my mixed blood leaves me neither fish nor fowl, you’re wasting your breath,” Moira said bitterly. “I had that bit of wisdom driven home to me before I took my first step.”
Blackjack drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “Well, you’ve not done too badly for a hedge bird, have you girl? And who do you have to thank for landin’ in the clover? Your old da’, that’s who. For without me you’d not have struck your fine bargain with the old duke.”
He scowled fiercely. “And like it or not, you’ll have to put up with me until you’ve the blunt to see me on my way. Or have your grown so heartless you’d send your old da’ to sleep beneath the haystacks like a common turnpiker? Think on it, Moira girl. Is it right I should be the one to suffer because you’ve a poor head for handling your finances?”
“Heaven forefend, Blackjack. Not even I could be that unreasonable,” Moira said, smiling a little in spite of herself. Once again, her wretched father had talked his way around her. The man had such a gift of gab he could persuade the Angel Gabriel into taking up residence in Hades.
“All right, you may stay,” she agreed through gritted teeth. “For a few days. But you will have to remain in the east wing until the earl leaves for Langley Hall.”
“And take me meals on a tray all alone in me room I suppose,” Blackjack said petulantly. “As if I would infect the rest of you with the plague should I sit down at the table with you.”
“Those are my terms. Take them or leave them,” Moira said, steeling herself against his hangdog look.
“You’ve grown hard, Moira girl. Something I never thought to see your mother’s daughter do.” Blackjack brushed a crocodile tear from his eye. “Will you let young Charlie visit me, at least to help while away the long, lonely hours?”
“Charles may visit you,” Moira agreed, struggling to maintain her stern demeanor, “but only if you promise you’ll not teach him any more of your colorful Irish expressions. Poor Elizabeth is still blushing from the ones he learned on your last visit.”
Moira was not the only member of the household to be aware of the arrival of the newcomers. In the fourth-floor nursery suite to which Charles had been restricted until his bodyguards arrived, he craned his neck out the window and exclaimed to Alfie that things were certain to liven up now that Grandpapa Blackjack had arrived.
“There’s nobody in the whole world knows more stories about exciting fellows like pirates and smugglers and such,” he added happily—a comment noted with a quailing heart by Elizabeth Kincaid, who was acting as the boys’ teacher until a suitable tutor could be found.
The clatter of horses’ hooves and the babble of voices carried, as well, through the open window of Devon’s second-floor bedchamber, where Stamden and he were enjoying a quiet conversation. At least Stamden was; Devon was still chafing from the murderous look the duchess had delivered him before stalking off in a huff half an hour earlier. And all because he had made a perfectly logical suggestion concerning the raising of the young duke.
“What is that racket in the courtyard?” he demanded of Ned Bridges, who stood staring out the window, a dumbfounded look on his square-jowled face. “It sounds like a regiment of the First Hussars has arrived in full battle regalia.”
“It’s four men. Four men I never thought to see again this side of the grave,” Ned replied in an awestruck voice. “Blackjack Reardon and the three Keough brothers to be exact. Now what would four of Cornwall’s slipperiest ‘gentleman’ be doing calling on the duchess and in broad daylight too? Answer me that if you can, Captain.”
“The ‘gentlemen’ is the local Cornishman’s term for smugglers,” Devon explained to Stamden. “Though it’s not commonly known, Ned plied
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