Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“I know,” Narraway agreed. There were wounds and debts between them, some still unpaid. “I need to know what’s changed for Cormac O’Neil—”

“For God’s sake, leave the poor man alone! Have you not already taken all he has?” O’Casey exclaimed. “You’ll not be after the child, will you?”

“The child?” For a moment Narraway was at a loss. Then memory flooded back. Kate’s daughter by Sean. She had been only a child, six or seven years old when her parents died. “Did Cormac raise her?” he asked.

“A little girl?” O’Casey squinted at him contemptuously. “Of course he didn’t, you fool. And what would Cormac O’Neil do with a six-year-old girl, then? Some cousin of Kate’s took her, Maureen, I think her name was. She and her husband. Raised her as their own.”

Narraway felt a stab of pity for the child—Kate’s child. That should never have happened.

“But she knows who she is?” he said aloud.

“Of course. Cormac would have told her, if no one else.” O’Casey lifted one shoulder slightly. “Although, of course, it might not be the truth as you know it, poor child. There are things better left unsaid.”

Narraway felt chilled. He had not thought of Kate’s daughter.

Looking back, even weeks afterward, he had known that Kate had crossed sides because she believed it was a doomed rising, and more Irishmen would die in it than English, far more. But she knew Sean as well. He had been willing enough to use her beauty to shame Narraway, even lead him to his death, but in his wildest imagination he had never considered that she might give herself willingly to Narraway or, worse, care for him.

And when she did, it was beyond Sean’s mind or heart to forgive. He had said he killed her for Ireland, but Narraway knew it was for himself, just as in the end Sean knew it too.

And Cormac? He had loved Kate also. Did he feel an Irishman bested in deviousness by an Englishman, in a fight where no one was fair? Or a man betrayed by a woman he wanted and could never have: his brother’s wife, who had sided with the enemy—for her own reasons, political or personal?

What had he told Talulla?

Could it possibly be anything new in the last few months? And if it were, how could she have moved the money from Mulhare’s account back to Narraway’s, using some traitor in Lisson Grove? Not by herself. Then with whom?

“Who betrayed Mulhare?” he asked O’Casey.

“No idea,” O’Casey answered. “And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. A man who’ll sell his own people deserves to have his thirty pieces of silver slip out of his hands. Deserves to have it put in a bag o’ lead around his neck, before they throw him into Dublin Bay.”

Narraway rose to his feet. The cat by the fire stretched out and then curled up on the other side.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t come back,” O’Casey replied. “I’ll not harm you, but I’ll not help you either.”

“I know,” Narraway replied.

CHARLOTTE DID NOT HAVE the opportunity to speak at any length with Narraway after returning from the theater that night. She had hoped to tell him all that she had seen and learned there the following morning, but when they met for breakfast, the presence of others eating at nearby tables kept her from revealing what had transpired. Narraway said he had business to attend to, that he had heard from Dolina Pearse that Charlotte would be most welcome to attend the opening of an art exhibition, if she cared to, and to take tea with Dolina and her friends afterward. He had accepted on her behalf.

“Thank you,” she said a little coolly.

He caught the intonation, and smiled. “Did you wish to decline?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She looked at his dark face. To have taken the slightest notice of his pride now would be idiotic. He was facing disgrace, and further, his own downfall would destroy his friend’s life. If he failed to exonerate himself, Pitt too might lose all the worldly possessions he had; cutting most deeply would be the loss of his ability to support his family, most particularly the wife who had stepped down so far from financial and social comfort to marry him.

“No, of course not,” she replied, smiling at Narraway. “I am just a little nervous about it. I met some of them at Bridget Tyrone’s party, and I am not sure that the encounter was entirely amicable.”

“I can imagine,” he said wryly. “But I know you, and I know something of Dolina. Tea should be interesting. And you’ll like the art. It is impressionist, I think.” He rose from the table.

“Victor!” She used his name for the first time without thinking, until she saw his face, the quickening, the sudden vulnerability. She wanted to apologize, but that would only make it worse. She forced herself to smile up at him where he stood, half turned to leave. He was naturally elegant; his jacket perfectly cut, his cravat tied with care.

She hardly knew how to begin, and yet certain necessity compelled her.

He was waiting.

“If I am to go to the exhibition I would like to purchase a new blouse.” She felt the flush of embarrassment hot in her face. “I did not bring …”