Road Trip

Prologue

Lady Delia Rossington waited. She was particularly adept at waiting, having perfected the fine art of patience over her nearly six decades.

Waiting to be chosen by some inferior man pretending to be a beau, then waiting for the inheritance that should have been hers, waiting for her brother Edward to recognize her worth, her value to a household that his lovely, scheming bride had no talent or interest in managing.

She’d waited, and prayed, for Edward’s safe return from war only to see him felled, just three months earlier, by pneumonia, in the cruelest of ironies.

Now the time for waiting was over. Unfortunately, it was time to put her plan in place.

She found Kathleen in the library, worrying over a bit of knitting, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Come, child,” she said, beckoning her out into the hallway.

Of course Kathleen, at eighteen, was no longer a child.

She’d grown into a beautiful young woman with a slim build and glossy chestnut hair.

Full lips, like her poor mother’s, and a high, wide forehead and alert, dark eyes under straight brows.

She had Edward’s eyes, though nobody ever dared mention that under this roof.

The mere fact of her fresh, innocent beauty, and her unavoidable proximity to Delia’s nephews, Teddy and David, who had their father’s roving eye, put Kathleen in a danger Delia could no longer ignore.

“Ma’am?” Kathleen said, hurrying to catch up with Delia.

“No time for questions.” She had the packed satchel tucked under her arm. Now she led the girl to the portrait gallery, where a hundred or more paintings of past generations of Rossingtons hung in their splendid gilt frames, pausing in front of the only one Delia Rossington truly cared about.

She gazed up at the portrait for what she assumed would be the last time.

The subject of this painting was a woman in the full flower of youth, with wavy, reddish hair swept off her face and a fine porcelain complexion.

She was seated on an ornate chair, dressed in a gown made of filmy turquoise fabric with embroidered layers, a daring, plunging neckline, and long, ruffled sleeves.

A satin sash encircled her narrow waist and a broad-brimmed straw picture hat trailed from her fingertips.

She wore a large diamond ring on her left hand and gold bracelets on both wrists.

Her necklace was a fine gold chain studded with rare opals and diamonds.

What Delia loved best about the portrait was the sitter’s expression. Her eyes, the exact shade of turquoise as the gown, glinted with a hint of secret amusement, lips slightly turned up in the merest suggestion of a smile.

“Miss Delia?” Kathleen was a quick-witted girl and she’d obviously intuited her benefactor’s state of determination.

“Do you know who this is?” Delia asked. And then, without waiting, answered her own question. “This is your grandmama. Lady Geraldine Cressida Fitzhugh Rossington. She was a great lady, and not just because of her title. She was a noblewoman in the truest sense of the word.”

Delia’s lips tightened. “Unlike that one who calls herself a lady.” She jerked her chin upward to signal that she was referring to her sister-in-law, the current Lady Rossington, the newly widowed Fiona.

“You must remember that always, Kathleen. No matter what troubles overtake you in life, your grandmama is a part of you. And nothing, and nobody, can take that from you.”

“But…” Kathleen’s brow furrowed again. “I thought … Mum always said her people…”

Delia had a response ready. “Your mum, God rest her soul, was a good girl. She did what she had to do to take care of you and your brother Tommy and your little sisters. She couldn’t tell you the whole story.

And I always felt, I mean, I promised your mum, I would keep her secret.

Because the real story wasn’t mine to tell. ”

She let out a long sigh. “But things have changed, and not for the better. Your own mum, and Mr. Connor, a perfectly decent man, and your little sisters perished in that awful fire. You know, of course, that my brother, Lord Edward, is deceased. So now, that one…”

Delia was referring again to Fiona, whose name she rarely, if ever, spoke. “That one, who is a nasty piece of work, if ever there was one, is turning me out of the only home I’ve ever known.”

Kathleen gasped.

“No worries about me. I’ll be fine,” Delia said quickly.

“I’ve a bit of money of my own that she can’t touch, and dear friends in Tralee, who’ve offered me a nice little cottage on their estate.

But it’s your future that’s troubling me, Kathleen.

With me out of the way, and no family of your own except for little Tommy, there’s no telling what that one, or her sons, will do.

And that’s why I’ve taken matters into my own hands. ”

Kathleen watched, wide-eyed, as Delia extracted a small silver knife with a lethal-looking blade from the pocket of her dress.

She ran the knife around the edges of the portrait of Lady Geraldine, slicing the canvas free of the frame, then rolled the painting up and thrust it into the leather satchel tucked under her arm.

“You can’t…” Kathleen stammered.

“I can, and I did,” Delia said. “Now come along. We’ve got things to do here while themselves are away.

” She started down the long hall, in the direction of the back staircase, only once turning and snapping at Kathleen, who stood, frozen, in front of the empty picture frame.

“Come along then, girl, and be quick about it.”

Delia led the girl straight upstairs to the east wing, a place Kathleen had never been before even though she’d lived at Rossington Hall for most of her life.

She wasn’t really family to Lady Delia or any of the rest of the Rossingtons—that much Fiona had made very clear from the beginning. But she wasn’t a servant either.

“Neither fish nor fowl” was what Mrs. Barchie, the family’s dour housekeeper, called Kathleen, with her characteristic sniff.

When she was eleven, Kathleen had come to Delia to ask what Mrs. Barchie meant by her remark.

“You’re not to trouble yourself about what others think of you. But if people ask, you may tell them you are my protégé.” And then she’d spelled it out and made Kathleen look up the definition in the dictionary in the library. And then, she’d had strong words with Agnes Barchie.

Now Delia proceeded with her teenage protégé to the wide set of polished mahogany double doors, pushing through without hesitation.

It was, as might be expected, a stunning room. Fiona never spared expense when it came to her own comforts. “Come now,” Delia said, stepping around the canopied bed and moving into Fiona’s dressing room.

She went directly to the dressing table, which was cluttered with cut-glass bottles and silver-handled brushes and combs and the litter of face paints and powders Fiona affected.

A large carved wooden casket with silver fittings sat in the center of the table.

She raised the lid and clicked her tongue.

“Ahh. Here’s what we’re after.” From the velvet-lined case she lifted out a fine gold bracelet encrusted with tiny diamonds and tossed it into her satchel.

Next came a brooch—a large, cushion-cut sapphire in a round shape with a border of pearls—and then a pair of pearl drop earrings.

She rifled around in the box and shook her head in annoyance.

“She’s worn the necklace to that party, it seems, which is too bad. It’s mine by rights, and any day now that no-good Teddy will have it dangling from the neck of that cow he’s married, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.”

Delia plucked a gold stickpin from the jewel box and held it briefly to her chest. “This was Edward’s and our father’s before him, and our grandfather’s before him.

” She tapped the delicately wrought design on the head of the pin.

“That’s the Rossington family crest. I’ll not have those boys swanning around with it, I promise you that.

So it’s yours now, Kathleen. God willing, maybe you’ll have a son someday, and you’ll tell him the story of how all this came to be. ”

“Mine?” Kathleen said. “How can any of this be mine?”

“I’ll explain later,” Delia said. She dropped the stickpin into the bag with the rest of the jewelry, then began opening the drawers of the dressing table. In the bottom drawer, she found a thick wad of pound notes.

“Here we are,” she said as she counted the money. “This will set you up once you get where you’re going.”

Kathleen’s face paled. “Going? Where would I be going?”

“To America,” Delia said. “With me being sent off, it’s no longer safe here for you.”

“America?” The word came out as a cross between a whisper or a whimper, or maybe both. “But … how?”

“Donovan will take you to Mr. Finney’s shop.

He knows what we’re about, and he’ll get you to the port.

He’s been paid already, and your ship’s passage is paid too.

So don’t give him any of that money. There’s a little secret compartment in the bottom of this case.

You’re to hide the jewelry and money there, until you get to America. ”

Delia grabbed Kathleen by both hands. She was a petite woman, and the top of her head, with its auburn hair gone silver now, only reached Kathleen’s shoulders.

Her blue eyes glinted with steel. “This is important now, my girl, so listen carefully. There’s a letter in this case.

When you get to New York, you’ll go to St. Mary’s Church, ask for Father McInerney.

Give him that letter. Have you got that? Say it back to me now.”

“New York? St. Mary’s? Father McInerney?” Kathleen’s face mirrored the worry and grief she was experiencing.

“Clever girl.” Delia patted her hand before releasing it. “Catholic or not, you’re a Rossington, and there’s no denying that. Come along now.”