kind he supposed all men had at one time or another in their lives. What was there to do except resign himself that he would never see the beautiful Irish girl again?
“Who is that?” asked Penelope, looking over Thomas’s shoulder.
Thomas turned to see a rider approaching, an older man, he gathered, riding slowly and somewhat stiffly in his saddle. As the man drew nearer, he recognized who it was. “Why it’s Lord Trevlyn. It must be important. One hardly sees him on a horse anymore.”
Lord Trevlyn dismounted so slowly and painfully Thomas was sorely tempted to offer his help, but refrained in deference to the old man’s pride. He almost changed his mind when Trevlyn’s knees buckled as he hit the ground, but the old man recovered himself by gripping the saddle and quickly pulling himself erect.
After a greeting accompanied by a courtly bow to Penelope, Trevlyn reached in his pocket and pulled out a letter. “From that Irish woman. You will never believe what it says.”
“I believe I can guess, sir,” Thomas replied, careful not to sound too cocksure.
“Read it.”
Thomas took the letter and read aloud.
My Dear Lord Trevlyn,
I am in receipt of your letter requesting that I send you my son, Patrick O’Fallon. Please be advised that although I appreciate your concern for your grandson, never, not while there is breath in my body, will he ever set one foot upon the soil of England.
Yours in good health,
Sinead O’Fallon
Sounds just like her, Thomas thought, but in deference to Trevlyn’s obvious perturbation he hid the wry smile that flew to his lips. He’d been right. The letter was exactly the sort he would expect Sinead O’Fallon would write—uncompromising, intractable, and to the point.
“It sounds as though she has most definitely made up her mind, sir. I’m afraid that’s an end to it, then. Perhaps when the boy is older–”
“I want my grandson,” Trevlyn declared, voice shaking with intensity. Confusion filled his eyes. “I don’t understand. How could that woman defy me after I offered her son the kind of privileged life few can have? Why would she want Patrick to stay on, leading a deprived existence on that... that...”
“Barren, rocky piece of land?” Thomas softly supplied.
“Precisely. Well, it simply won’t do. That woman can defy me all she wants, but she’ll not get her way.”
“What do you intend?”
The old man’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I want you to return to Ireland. I want you to threaten, beg, plead, cajole, bargain—whatever it takes to get me my grandson.”
“No,” cried Thomas, his ever-present, stern composure for once forgotten.
“Yes, Thomas, you must.”
“Have you any idea have difficult it is to get to Ireland? How much time the journey takes? As it is, I am so far behind now on the my plans for–”
“I don’t care about all that.” Lord Trevlyn flicked a gaze towards the house where the Marquess was still indisposed, still suffering from the gout. “Your father would want you to go, Thomas.”
Penelope, who’d been listening, wide-eyed, addressed her brother. “He’s right. Don’t forget Lord Trevlyn is Papa’s oldest friend. Of course he’d want you to go.”
Unfair, Thomas wanted to shout, feeling utterly dismayed. That little jaunt to Ireland had greatly delayed his plans for breeding horses. Since his return from Ireland, he’d made great strides, not only in making several trips to Tanglewood Hall, where he had already renovated the house and hired servants, but also he had started to purchase his horses. He reached to pat the withers of his new Thoroughbred. This latest addition was only one of several of the finest horses in the land. “What about your brother?” he asked Trevlyn. “Can’t you send him?” Lord knew, up to now Walter and his family had done nothing to earn their keep.
“Are you daft?” Trevlyn replied with a sniff. “Walter stands to lose everything if Patrick comes to England. I can imagine his enthusiasm should I send him to County Clare.”
“Of course, I hadn’t thought.” That was utterly stupid, Thomas chastised himself. Born of desperation. Was there nothing he could do? “What about Montague?”
This time Penelope sniffed. “Montague take time from his precious life in London? Thomas, you belong in Bedlam if you think he’d agree to go. And besides,” she slanted a knowing gaze at him, “only you have the tact to deal with this... this Sinead, or whatever her name is, and the girl you said was feisty, that Evleen.”
Evleen. At the sound of her name, Thomas felt a jolt in the pit of