O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, eighth Earl of Dunkerry, who was directly descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendent of Euchaid, one of the ancient kings of Ireland who reigned over one of the earliest Gaelic kingdoms many centuries ago.” She turned to Evleen. “Can you tell us more of Euchaid?”
Evleen promptly answered, “Euchaid was a great king, Mama, descended from the first Milesian king, Ollam Fodla, who was a true father to his people, and an able statesman.”
Mama nodded proudly and looked back at Darragh. “Ashamed to be Irish? You, all of you, should be bursting with pride that the blood of Irish kings runs through your veins.”
Tears glistened in Mama’s eyes, a sight Evleen had never seen, not even when Papa died, most assuredly not when the Englishman drew his last breath. “We know,” she said gently and clasped her mother’s hand. “We’re proud to be Irish. Darragh, too, no matter what she says, and we’ll never forget, no matter what happens or how poor we are.”
“Always hold your head high,” Mama said, calmer now, and smiling.
“Yes, Mama.”
“And never love an Englishman.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The wagon began to move. Evleen turned her head for a last glimpse of their elegant red brick townhouse with its tall sash windows, wrought iron balusters, and intricately carved wooden front door. Tears sprang to her eyes and she had to turn away, knowing in her heart she would never see it again.
Chapter 2
Hertfordshire County, England, 1816
The medieval towers of Northfield Hall, the ancestral home of the Marquess of Westhaven, rose majestically through December’s evening mist as a lone horseman turned into the long, winding driveway that led to the front portico.
Lord Thomas, second son of Lord Linberry, fifth Marquess of Westhaven, smiled as the beautiful old mansion came into view. A flood of pleasant memories struck him at the sight of the home where he’d spent his happy childhood. He had been away three long years. Despite his fatigue after his journey from London, he was elated to be home.
At the marble steps of the portico, Thomas, a man of medium height, with dark good looks and a sinewy build, swung from his horse with the graceful, fluid ease of a man much accustomed to the saddle. He looked toward the entry way, half expecting his father to burst forth at any moment. In the past, Papa, a florid-faced, blond bear of a man, had always greeted his sons with a warm hug and a booming “Welcome home!” Apparently not today, though. Instead, Thomas’s sister, Penelope, swung open the door. When she spied him, a look of delight spread across her pretty face.
“Oh, Thomas, you’re home.” She flew down the steps and threw her arms around him.
“You’ve grown up,” Thomas laughingly remarked when they finally broke apart. He held her at arm’s length, his eyes admiring as he looked down upon his slender, blonde-haired sister. “Why, Penelope, what a beauty you’ve become. How old are you now, eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“And not yet married.”
She tossed her head. “Hardly. And I warrant I shan’t be if I don’t find the right one.”
He grinned and said, “Independent as ever, I see. You were never one of those bubble-headed girls dead set on finding a husband.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “Has some young belle lured you anywhere close to the altar?”
“Not a chance,” Thomas replied, eyes twinkling. “That’s one of the many joys of being a second son. Nothing’s expected of me, including heirs. Which reminds me, I don’t suppose Montague is here?”
Penelope made a little moué. “Of course not. Our dear brother is firmly ensconced in London. If you’re expecting he’s mended his ways by now, you’re doomed to disappointment.”
“He’s still drinking, gambling . . . ?”
“And whoring.” Penelope grinned impishly at her use of the naughty word. “Worse than ever. Poor Papa is so disappointed.”
Thomas’s gaze flicked toward the door. “And speaking of Papa–?”
“In his room, in bed.” A shadow crossed Penelope’s bright, young face. “It’s the gout. He suffers terribly.”
His father not well? It took Thomas a moment for his sister’s words to sink in. Papa was never sick. Thomas could not remember a time when his vigorous, burly father was not a robust picture of health. “Why didn’t he let me know?”
“What good would it have done? You were all those many miles away in the West Indies. What could you have done except worry?” Penelope frowned. “And speaking of that, we received your letter telling us you were coming home,