Chapter Seventeen
Rynn turned back toward Maguire, who was closer than she’d expected. She had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, which
held a gleam that she misliked.
“My, my, if it isn’t Lady Thomas Dunne.” Maguire shook his head at her. He had dimples, she saw, which were totally incongruous
with the hard, tough man she knew him to be. They’d been hidden by his beard and were now fully in play as he gave her a mocking
smile. “Wasn’t it just a couple of months ago that you were madly in love with and planning to marry someone else? Well, what
is it they say? Once an opportunist, always an opportunist?”
“Hush,” she hissed at him, knowing now why that look of his had put her on guard and mindful that they were in a crowd. “What
are you doing here?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, this is a fundraiser, and I have funds.”
“You were invited?”
“I was. I’m a war hero, you know. That gets you through a lot of unlikely doors. Rather like beauty does for a woman.”
“Why are you even in London?”
“Business.”
“You have business in London?”
“I do.”
“What business?” Rynn encountered a curious glance from a passing lady—actually a trio of ladies, young matrons she thought, whose eyes slid past her to look Maguire over appreciatively.
How handsome he was had not previously registered with her, but it did now, as she saw the looks he was drawing from her fellow females.
Not that it mattered, except she couldn’t say what she wanted with so many eyes upon them.
She put a hand on his arm. The best way to have a private conversation amid such a throng without attracting excessive attention was to do what everyone else was doing. “Dance with me.”
His eyebrows went up. “Tch, tch, what will your husband say?”
“Thomas will be pleased to see me enjoying myself. You can dance me over to him. We can talk on the way.”
“And what does Thomas know about me?” His eyes narrowed at her even as he let her pull him onto the dance floor
“Nothing. As far as I know, he’s never even heard your name. Certainly not from me. You don’t need to worry, I’ll be keeping
your secrets.” She placed her hand on the broad shelf of his shoulder as he put a very solid arm around her waist. They clasped
hands—his was big and warm and grasped hers just a shade too tightly—and then they were gliding around the floor with all
the other couples.
“We’ll be keeping each other’s secrets,” he said.
A tilt of her chin at him was her only acknowledgment of that, but his grip on her hand eased and she realized that the tightness
of his hold had been meant to convey a message, which he apparently considered she had received. Neither of them said anything
for a moment, letting the music fill the silence as other couples swirled around them in a blur of color and movement. Dancing
with him was easier than dancing with the Prince, she found. His steps were basic and because she didn’t much care what he
thought of her dancing she didn’t have to worry about minding hers. Instead, she was able to simply relax and follow his lead.
“How is . . . the situation . . . at home?” she asked, careful not to get too specific in case she should be overheard.
“In Bundoran, do you mean? I left the area not long after you did, so I’m not exactly up to date on all the news.”
“Where did you go?”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it best to relocate my operation to Dublin. It’s been a good move, one I don’t regret.”
She frowned a little as she took that in. “Do you know if they’ve made any progress on finding out who killed Molly Kincaid?”
“From what I’ve heard, Seamus O’Reilly remains the odds-on favorite.”
“It wasn’t he.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge of events.”
“What of—” she wanted to say the search for Donal and Seamus and the missing guns, but again the fear of being overheard made her careful “—the other investigation? About . . . the O’Reillys.”
“It’s ongoing. You should know that Haney’s dead. The official word is he was shot while trying to escape. There’s still some
disagreement over whether the O’Reillys and Boyd are dead as well, but with no formal finding made there’s a price on their
heads and they’re considered wanted men. But I can tell you that after Detective Kenney’s unfortunate accident things in Bundoran
have calmed down to a degree.”
The news about Haney had quickened her heartbeat. Now her eyes went wide on his face. “Detective Kenny had an accident?”
“He did. His brakes failed, and his car went over a cliff. Most unfortunate. He survived, although he was badly injured. He’s
in a hospital in Liverpool now, I believe—him not trusting Irish hospitals, you understand—where he’s expected to make a very
slow, very painful recovery.”
“That is unfortunate.” Her eyes stayed glued to his.
“Yes. And by the by, to refer back to our last conversation, it turned out that my crew wasn’t the problem. The trail led back to one of Tremaine’s men, who like Kenney has since suffered his own unfortunate accident. One he didn’t survive.”
As the meaning beneath his words became clear, a chill went through her. She missed a step, and his arm tightened around her
waist. Their last conversation, in Bundoran, was the one where she had warned him that he was being spied on. Her face must
have telegraphed her sudden suspicion—You orchestrated those accidents, didn’t you?—because he gave her another of those mocking smiles.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most revealing face? And the answer to the question you’re not asking me is no.”
She didn’t believe him.
“I’m in your debt, it seems,” he said. “Just as you are in Detective Kenney’s debt. Only think, if it weren’t for him, you would never have married your husband.”
She stiffened. “If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, let me assure you that I’m very happy in my marriage.”
“I was implying nothing, I promise you.”
“Thomas is a lovely man. Kind, and generous, and—”
She broke off, aware from his expression that she was sounding defensive.
“I don’t regret marrying him at all,” she said, chin in the air, and was instantly aware that she sounded defensive again.
Maguire’s smile widened. The deepening dimples, the glint in his eyes—he was silently laughing at her.
“Do you really have business in London?” she asked, nettled.
“Certainly I do. Why else would I be here? Surely, surely you don’t think I came all this way merely to check on you? You’re quite lovely, my dear Lady Thomas, but—”
“Of course I wasn’t thinking any such thing!” Rynn could feel heat rising in her cheeks. “If you must know, I was wondering if perhaps you’re on the run from the law!”
As soon as she said it, she could have bitten off her tongue. A hasty glance around reassured her that none of the other couples
were near enough to have overheard.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you—I know your taste in men runs to outlaws—but I’m really not that exciting. I assure you my presence
in London is perfectly aboveboard.”
He was laughing at her. Only now he was making no attempt at all to hide it.
“Stop scowling at me, you’ll give yourself wrinkles,” he said. “If you must know, I’m here as part of a delegation. We’re
hoping to head off this conflict before it can escalate.”
“What?” If he’d meant to distract her, he’d succeeded. She gave him a skeptical look.
“It’s the truth. The state of affairs between our two countries is at a tipping point. One more incident, one more wrong move,
could find us in an all-out war. If, for example, the Brits should recapture de Valera and his associates and execute them
as they did the leaders of the Rising, there will be no stopping it. Ireland will explode. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of
men will die needlessly on both sides. And, more to the point, it will be bad for business.”
“More to the point?”
“Politicians don’t care about the poor sods shooting at each other. What they care about is business. Profit. Money. Never
make the mistake of thinking wars are about anything else.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is. It’s also true. And de Valera’s escape could be the flash point that sets off the whole thing.
We know the search for him is intensifying.
My most pressing fear is that they’ll find him and shoot him in the course of trying to bring him in.
The consequences of that would be catastrophic.
It would put paid to any hope of peace.”
“Unless de Valera’s somehow managed to get out of England, he almost certainly will be found,” she said. “With the size of
the reward for information leading to his whereabouts, tips are pouring in. Someone somewhere is going to get it right.”
A subtle change in his posture, a tightening of his arm around her, an increased intensity in his gaze told her how much she’d
just interested him.
“What kind of tips?” he asked.
And just like that, she knew. Whether she’d suddenly acquired the ability to read faces as easily as everybody seemed to read
hers, or whether it was something in his voice or even the Sight making itself felt at last, she was as certain as it was
possible to be that Maguire knew exactly where de Valera was and was working to get him to safety before the worst could happen.
He was probing to see if she had information that would be of use to him. And once again, she had to choose a path: keep silent
out of loyalty to the family she had married into, or reveal what she knew to protect her country and countrymen.
She chose.
“The most promising one seems to be that he’s hiding in a safe house in Manchester. As early as tomorrow, soldiers are to
begin conducting house-to-house searches there,” she said. “If they don’t find him, they’ll move on to Liverpool, on the theory
that he’s to be smuggled from there to Dublin. If that’s true, I don’t see how he can escape.”
Maguire’s eyes flickered. It was the only sign he gave that the information mattered to him, but she saw it.