Chapter Thirteen

Dermott nodded to his cousins and Bart—Michael O'Malley's stepson. "Ye've grown more than an inch since the last time I was at Chattsworth Manor."

The cheeky grin was proof that Bart was happy and adjusting well to his new father.

"I hear me cousin has been teaching ye the fine art of bare-knuckle fighting."

The boy squared his shoulders and curled his hands into fists to demonstrate the series of punches he'd learned so far.

"Impressive, lad. Care to go a few rounds later? Since ye're family, I'll go easy on ye."

Michael shot him a look of warning. For a moment, Dermott wondered if his cousin needed permission from his wife. He could not imagine that was the case. Harriet—or Harry, as she was known to family and friends—was a formidable, but admirable, woman. Dermott admired the way she'd dug in and kept the family farm running after the death of her first husband.

Unable to decipher the look, he backtracked. "But we'll need to be holding off until after things have settled down here at the manor, won't we?"

"I'm sure we could squeeze in the time…" Bart looked at Michael for confirmation, and when he did not receive it, he shrugged. "Duty first."

"Aye, Bart. Ye've been listening to yer da…er, Michael." Dermott couldn't recall hearing Bart refer to his stepfather as Da. Best to keep it simple, as they had far more to worry about. He had to keep his mind where it belonged and not where it tended to wander…to the amber-eyed lass. The problem for Dermott was how in the world to disengage his heart now that it was firmly in the lass's grasp?

Garahan was late joining the others. "I was just on the roof. Our reinforcements are headed this way."

"They should be expecting one of us—or a few of us—to meet with them," Dermott said.

"Aye," Sean agreed. "Coventry explained the situation to the men when he hired them. The captain was in agreement with us that, for His Grace's sake, the duke should not be introduced to the men recently hired as eyes and ears in and around London."

"The men will need to meet all of us," Garahan said. "Not just Sean and Dermott. I'm certain I speak for everyone when I say that we've no wish to meet with the wrong end of a pistol or knife."

The chorus of "ayes" had Sean nodding. "'Twas me intention to meet with them, as we'll be working together when on patrol."

Flaherty nodded to Michael and Bart. "We've all given our vow to protect the duke and his family. It shouldn't take long to make the introductions and divide up our duties, specifically the longer patrols—the perimeter patrol, and the longest patrol, to the village and back."

Dermott was glad Garahan spoke up. It would be detrimental not to have the newest London recruits unfamiliar with the duke's guard. A glance at his cousins had a sliver of worry settling at the base of his skull, causing a dull throb. It was imperative that the men Captain Coventry had sent them knew the faces of each and every man protecting the earl, the viscount, and their families—especially at night. He rubbed a hand absently on his forearm. He'd been on the receiving end of a lead ball from a situation all too similar to what they now faced. Shoot first; ask questions later.

He met Garahan's gaze and knew the moment his cousin remembered that night. "Flaherty is right," Garahan said. "Have ye forgotten the night Dermott was mistaken for an intruder and shot?"

Bart's eyes widened. "You've been shot like Michael? Where? Did they have to dig the lead ball out of you?"

Michael chuckled as he lightly cuffed his stepson on the shoulder. "Ye've a bloodthirsty mind, Bart. Dermott can tell ye all about it later." He turned to stare at three riders on horseback approaching. "We've got company."

Dermott was not surprised that the men in question nodded to them, but continued on the path that would lead behind the stables to the outbuilding where Dermott and Flaherty were housed. As the only married member of the duke's guard stationed at Lippincott Manor, Sean, with his wife and infant son, lived in a newly constructed cottage—a gift from the earl and countess—not far from one of the tenant farmers.

Garahan grinned. "Stratford, 'tis been some time since we've run into one another."

The bull of a man grinned. "You're still alive, Garahan?"

They were laughing as Sean said, "I see that ye two seem to know one another, Garahan. Stratford, me name's Sean O'Malley. Who have ye brought with ye?"

"Varley and Tarleton."

The men were not among Dermott's London contacts, but he did not bother to ask his cousins if they knew the men. The cousins and brothers in the duke's guard trusted one another's instincts implicitly. In their line of work, it was essential to their survival and that of those under their protection.

Garahan crossed his arms in front of him and relaxed his stance. "Men, I'd like ye to meet me cousins. Michael and Dermott O'Malley, and Seamus Flaherty. Sean is the head of the duke's guard stationed at Lippincott Manor. Michael's in charge at Chattsworth Manor."

Stratford stared at Garahan long enough to have him asking, "What?"

"Where do you fit in, Garahan?"

"I work with Michael."

"Ah, so he's in charge of you." The other man slowly smiled. "I would have thought it would take at least two men to keep you in line."

The look on Garahan's face was comical, but Dermott swallowed his laughter. He'd earned the moniker of peacemaker among his brothers and cousins when they were young. Dermott had not had to step in between either since they'd left their homes back in Ireland. Though he had stood between the duke and his family more than he had anticipated would be necessary. Going after Hollingford during the viscount's attack on Wyndmere Hall had earned him another moniker—the duke's mercenary. The duke was well protected, as Dermott was in good company with his brothers: Patrick, Finn, and Emmett, as the duke's sword, dragoon, and man-at-arms. His O'Malley cousins: the duke's protector, shield, rapier, and lance. His Garahan cousins: the duke's hammer, defender, saber, and enforcer, and his Flaherty cousins: the duke's champion, sharpshooter, cavalier, and blade.

It was agreed that for their first shift, Stratford and Varley would guard the perimeter, while Tarleton would be their eyes and ears in the village. The men stowed their gear in the outbuilding and then set off to man their first shifts.

Extra manpower notwithstanding, Dermott's uneasy gut sensed Trenchert would be making his first move in the next twenty-four hours. His greatest worry was that word would somehow reach the viscount that the physician had been to Lippincott Manor to tend to a young woman rescued by one of the duke's guard.

He knew the doctor would not openly speak of his patient or the care given. On the other hand, there could be a conversation regarding the physician and why he had not been available for one of the villagers in need while he tended to an injured lass at Lippincott Manor.

An itch between his shoulder blades had him asking to switch shift locations in order to remain closer to the lass. She was his responsibility, his mind insisted, while a deep sense that she was the other half of his heart filled him. Time would tell.

"Dermott?"

He paused with his hand on the door to the servants' staircase, surprised to find Bart rushing toward him. "Is there trouble, lad?"

"No, but Michael and Uncle Sean decided that since you switched shifts, now would be a good time for me to learn from you."

"Learn?"

"As it's an interior shift, if we split the duties, you will have time to explain what you do and what things would possibly indicate trouble is brewing."

He frowned at the youth. "I see. Whose idea was it, Sean's or Michael's?"

Bart shrugged. "I didn't ask—this is the first time they have included me in guard duty outside of Chattsworth Manor."

Dermott nodded. "Well then, we'd best get to it, lad. Where would ye prefer to start, on the attic level or down here?"

He noticed the lad glance down the hallway toward the kitchen and could not help but smile, sensing the lad was like he and his brothers and cousins had been at the same age—hungry from the moment they opened their eyes in the morning until they closed them at night. The earl's cook seemed to know when someone was in need of a good meal—or just a quick bite of a scone or two.

"Why don't ye start down here? I'll begin me shift on the attic level. We'll switch in two hours."

Bart grinned. "Thanks, Dermott!" He turned around and rushed off to the kitchen.

"Ye aren't guarding the scones or defending the berry tarts, boy-o!"

The lad laughed. "I just wanted to introduce myself to the cook, in case she's heard about me and wanted to meet me."

"Ye're a terrible liar, Bartholomew Mayfield O'Malley!" Dermott didn't expect a reply, and was surprised when Bart turned around to face him.

Walking backward toward the kitchen, the lad said, "Garahan's been teaching me that there are times when a lie is necessary to save someone's neck."

Dermott sighed. "Best not be lying to yer ma or Michael."

"I won't."

"Or their lordships, or any of us in the duke's guard," Dermott cautioned.

"I won't. I promise."

"Good lad. I expect to see ye on the third floor in two hours."

"I'll be there!" Bart called out as he disappeared into the kitchen.

As Dermott ascended the stairs, he murmured, "I'd best be asking Mrs. Wyatt not to give all of the scones she normally saves for meself to that likeable lad."

He was smiling as he reached the third floor to begin his shift.