Page 4

Chapter 4

Cormac entered the warren of hallways backstage thinking that this wasn’t the first time Bridget’s deep capacity for compassion had led her into complicated situations. Even though it had the potential to be problematic, he could not help but love her for it. With any luck, this encounter would not draw any untoward consequences upon them.

He turned onto a corridor with several closed doors on either side but he had hardly taken five paces along it when he heard sounds that were highly inappropriate for the location – a loud moan and a female voice gasping, ‘Keep going, I’m almost there!’ This was followed by an inarticulate, high-pitched exclamation that left Cormac in little doubt: behind one of the doors further down the hallway, a woman was reaching the climax of her pleasure.

He started to back up – this was someone else’s private business and he had no interest in interfering. But then he heard footsteps behind him and, ducking his head out into the corridor he had just come from, he perceived a stagehand approaching, his arms full of fake swords and daggers. Cormac withdrew before the man spotted him and dithered on the spot. He had no idea who the woman was, nor why she would risk her reputation in such a public venue, but he could at least attempt to preserve her modesty, despite her own blatant disregard for it.

Decision made, he waited until the footsteps were nearly upon him and then he barrelled around the corner right into the stagehand. Startled, the man dropped his props, which landed on the floor in a loud clatter of wooden thumps.

‘Damn it, my apologies,’ Cormac exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

The man opened his mouth, his expression livid, but whatever rebuke he had been about to hurl at Cormac dissipated when he looked at him properly and took in the fine cut of his clothes.

‘No matter, sir,’ he muttered and stooped to pick up the fallen props.

Cormac cocked his ear back down the corridor of closed doors. It was utterly silent now. He bent down to gather up the props too, which made the stagehand gape in confusion.

‘Sir, there’s no need—’

‘It’s the least I can do after causing the collision,’ Cormac said with a grin.

Offering an uncertain grin in return, the stagehand nodded, and together they scooped up all the wooden swords and daggers. After they were securely piled in the man’s arms again, Cormac stood back to let him pass. The man trotted away down the length of the corridor and didn’t even glance back when one of the doors opened behind him.

A woman emerged from the doorway and glided up the corridor in Cormac’s direction. Draped in expensive jewellery, she appeared to be in her mid-forties but the satisfied glow in her cheeks lent her a more youthful air.

‘Oh dear, I seem to have lost my way,’ she said with impressive equanimity. ‘Has the performance already started?’

‘Only just now,’ Cormac replied, giving her a polite bow. ‘Do you require an escort to your seat?’

‘That is very kind but I ought to be fine from here, thank you.’ Coasting past him, she strode into the other corridor with a surety that suggested she in fact knew these halls quite well.

He turned back to see another figure emerging from the doorway, a young, black-haired man straightening his cuffs with an air of smugness. Cormac’s stomach plummeted.

‘Patrick,’ he said, unable to conceal the disappointment in his tone.

His nephew looked up in surprise. A guilty expression crossed his face but he covered it quickly with a nonchalant toss of his head. He came towards Cormac, his manner totally relaxed.

‘Hello, Uncle,’ he said. ‘What happened to your determination to call me Pat?’

Cormac’s jaw tightened. ‘That name was to aid your reinvention, to help you develop into the new and better man I know you’re capable of becoming. This behaviour looks remarkably like your old self to me.’

Patrick’s whole body tensed. ‘I don’t need a lecture from you. I’ll get plenty of those when I return to Eton.’

‘So you still intend to complete your final two terms?’ Cormac said, privately relieved. He didn’t know what kind of a rage Garrett might fly into if Cormac’s side of their bargain didn’t bear fruit after Garrett’s patent success on his part.

‘Yes,’ Patrick muttered, looking like he was already regretting the decision.

Cormac waved a hand in the direction that the woman had disappeared. ‘Then why slip back into old habits? That was the Duchess of Northrop, I presume?’

‘Yes,’ Patrick muttered again.

‘You were warned about pursuing her. You know it is both unwise and unscrupulous. Why revive the liaison when it is a part of the dissolute lifestyle you were supposedly leaving behind?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘She asked me to.’ He emitted a sigh of exasperation. ‘Look, it’s not as bad as before. We’re being careful this time, meeting in secret, not flaunting it for the whole city to see.’

‘You’re not being careful enough,’ Cormac said levelly. ‘You were very nearly discovered by a stagehand just now. Perhaps you might deem such an exposure to be inconsequential, but how long until a person of greater influence catches the two of you together? I expect the duke would be extremely keen to exact retribution, not just on you but on your father as well.’

Patrick looked uncomfortable. ‘She’s lonely. Her children are more or less grown and her husband pays no attention to her. I’m able to help her feel happy, if only for a little while.’

That gave Cormac pause. ‘Are you in love with her?’

His nephew let out a snort. ‘Don’t be daft. Love doesn’t exist, except for the feeble-minded who mistake lust for something more. I suppose you could say I’m in lust though, and that’s satisfying enough for me. And for her.’ He grinned suggestively.

Cormac felt sorry for the lad, who was demonstrating just how immature he still was. ‘Love does exist,’ he said quietly. ‘And I promise that it will hit you like a ton of bricks when that realisation eventually dawns.’

Patrick rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Cormac repressed a sigh. ‘You should go take your seat,’ he said. ‘The performance has already begun.’

Patrick started to stalk past but then he halted. ‘Tell me, did my father make a speech beforehand?’

‘He did,’ Cormac said with a slight frown. ‘Did you expect him to?’

‘I asked him to,’ Patrick said, ‘but I wasn’t sure if I’d convinced him.’

He made to carry on up the corridor, but Cormac put out a hand to stop him.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said, bewildered. ‘That speech was your idea?’

‘If he talked about making a donation to match the ticket sales, then yes, it was.’

Cormac did his best to conceal his astonishment. ‘What compelled you to recommend such a generous measure?’

Patrick glanced away. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. After a long pause, he added in an even lower murmur, ‘It just seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘The right thing for whom?’ asked Cormac.

Patrick grimaced at him. ‘You know. The people in Ireland. The ones who are suffering.’

Unable to hide his reaction this time, Cormac regarded his nephew with no small degree of amazement. Patrick glared back.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I may be a degenerate but I’m not completely devoid of morals.’

‘It appears not,’ said Cormac. ‘Despite your efforts to persuade everyone of exactly that in the past.’

Patrick’s glare dissolved into a rueful smile, which made his handsome features much more attractive. ‘Fair point. I suppose I have only myself to blame for your scepticism.’

Cormac chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered his nephew. What a paradox he was. Could this surprising development be credited to a budding recognition of his mother’s lower-class background? Was he beginning to acknowledge a tiny shred of kinship with the Irish people? After all, their miserable hunger could have been his fate had he not been taken from his first family and raised in upper-class circumstances. Whatever his motivation, Cormac knew better than to push him to admit it. Patrick had proved himself to be as headstrong as a bull if anyone tried to steer him too overtly – he would only improve his character by increments and on his own terms. Still, this was quite a significant step.

Cormac cleared his throat lightly. ‘When will you finish your studies at Eton?’

‘June,’ Patrick replied. ‘Along with classmates who will be a year younger than me,’ he added glumly.

There was no need to point out that, yet again, he had only himself to blame for that situation.

Cormac moved on smoothly. ‘Bridget and I are planning to organise another charity event like tonight, but we are hoping to locate the next one in Dublin. It will probably be the summertime before it can be arranged. If the date falls after your graduation, would you care to attend?’

Patrick hesitated. ‘Maybe,’ he said at last.

It was as much of a commitment as Cormac could expect. He held out his hand and Patrick shook it. ‘Until our next meeting,’ Cormac said. ‘Good luck with your studies, Pat.’

Patrick’s hazel eyes flicked towards Cormac’s; Cormac couldn’t be certain but he thought that the lad looked a little pleased. Nevertheless, he just nodded offhandedly and walked away around the corner into the next corridor. He would now be terribly late to the performance but at least he could slip into his box unnoticed by anyone except his father. Cormac presumed that the duchess was wealthy enough to have her own box too – whether the duke was waiting there for her or not was a different matter.

Mindful of the fact that he was in no position to judge an adulteress, Cormac made his way down the corridor, returning to his original purpose in coming backstage. He prudently bypassed the door that the duchess and Patrick had emerged from and instead found another room further along that was empty apart from rows of brass rails draped with cloaks and shawls. Mundane but discreet, it ought to serve adequately.