“I don’t know.” He frowned. “Edward Horn is setting up a trip to the Congo. He wants me to go.”
“But it doesn’t sound as if you want to.”
“Not really,” Theo replied, puzzlement settling on his features. “I told Horn not to count on me. It’s very strange. I’ve been feeling so restless, yet I don’t really have the urge to travel anywhere, either. Perhaps I am getting too old for it.”
“Oh, yes…the grand old age of thirty-four,” Kyria teased. “You are quite decrepit, really.”
“You know what I mean. Everyone has always told me that someday I would grow up and tire of travel. Maybe I have.” He gave her a crooked smile. “All I know is that every time I think of leaving, something holds me back.”
Kyria studied her brother’s face, her puzzlement turning to concern. “Theo…are you all right? You sound almost…unhappy.”
It was not an adjective she was accustomed to using to describe her brother, who had always entered into everything he did with great zest.
Theo looked at her, his expression serious. “You know me, Kyria. I’m not the sort to examine my life. I don’t sit about thinking about what I’m doing, or whether or not I’m enjoying myself. I don’t brood.”
“No. You are more one to charge into things. You generally know what you want and go after it.”
He nodded. “Which is why I think I’m so at loose ends. I feel as if there is something missing. But I don’t know what it is. Something I should be doing? Some place I should go? I only know I want something else, something more.”
Kyria thought for a moment, then began hesitantly. “Well, perhaps, have you thought that you are at an age where you want to settle down? Mayhap what you are missing is a wife—a home and family.”
Theo let out a low groan. “That is certainly what they would all like to convince me of,” he said, jerking his head toward the mothers and chaperones massed along the wall, watching their charges dance. “I think I have been introduced to every mother of an eligible girl tonight. I can’t tell you how many have hinted that it’s time for me to settle down. It’s enough to make me run for cover. Are they always this voracious?”
Kyria chuckled, nodding. “Yes. There is nothing more dangerous than a mother out to make a good match for her daughter.”
“Aren’t these the very same women who have long complained that I am lacking in a proper sense of duty and consequence—always off gallivanting about the globe instead of staying here and preparing to take over the title? The ones who call us the ‘mad Morelands’?”
“Yes. But surely you must know that it does not matter how mad one is if one is going to be a duke someday. A title makes up for a great number of sins, and the higher the title, the more sins it obviates. And if you possess a great deal of wealth in addition, well, you could have two heads, and it wouldn’t matter.”
“What a cynic you are.”
“Only truthful.”
“It isn’t that I am against marriage,” Theo mused. “It is simply…well, I cannot envision tying myself to any of these girls, even one as lovely as Estelle Hopewell.”
“Estelle Hopewell! Good heavens, I should hope not. The girl hasn’t a thought in her head.”
“Do any of them? Perhaps it is just being under the watchful eye of their mamas, but every girl I spoke to tonight could do nothing but smile and agree with whatever I said. None of them seemed to have the slightest opinion of her own or the least interest in the world. And then there are eager widows like Lady Scarle, who frankly frightens me. Can you imagine any of them as part of our family?”
Kyria laughed. “Good Lord, no. Perhaps you need to find a country girl, as Reed did.”
He smiled. “I think Anna is rare, even in the country.”
“Yes. You are right. But I still hold hope for you,” Kyria told him. “I have seen one brother find a wonderful woman for a wife. I have the utmost confidence that you will be able to, as well. Just think, four of us ‘mad Morelands’ have managed to find our loves. Your day will come.”
“Will it?” A faint smile crossed Theo’s lips. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps what I am waiting for is the perfect woman. But for now, I’ll just have to settle for a dance with the most beautiful woman in London.”
And with those words, he swept his sister out onto the floor.
MEGAN MULCAHEY STOOD at the window of the bedroom she shared with her sister Deirdre in the house her family had rented in London. With a sigh, she leaned her head against the cool pane of glass. It had taken her a month to get here, but now she wasn’t sure what to do.
No matter how hard she had tried, she had been unable to dissuade her father and sister from accompanying her to England. She would have preferred to investigate this matter by herself, without having to worry about them.
However, Frank Mulcahey had had an answering argument for every objection she raised. Her younger brothers, Sean and Robert, were quite capable of taking over the store, so his presence was not needed there. And she would need his help. Women rarely traveled alone, he pointed out; the entire journey would go more smoothly if she had a male escort. Moreover, there might be places where a woman could not even enter. Both those things were true, Megan knew, much as she hated to admit it. And she had no argument against his major point, which was that he had a right to be involved in bringing his son’s killer to justice.
Deirdre, despite her usually biddable nature and her general air of fragility that made everyone want to take care of her, had been just as stubborn. She had every bit as much reason as Megan to see their brother’s killer brought to justice, she reminded her sister, and she was, after all, the one to whom Dennis had come in a vision.
“Besides,” Deirdre had concluded, “if I don’t go with you, who’ll do the cooking and cleaning for you and Da?”
That had been a telling argument. Megan had never been one who liked doing domestic chores, and she had been quite content with their family arrangement for the last few years, in which she had gone out and worked each day as their father did, and Deirdre had taken over the household chores for the three of them.
Megan had expected her oldest sister, Mary Margaret, to agree with her that Frank and Deirdre should not go. The eldest of the Mulcahey children, Mary Margaret had helped their father raise all the younger children from the time she was twelve, and had always been the most responsible and levelheaded member of the family. Now married to a prosperous attorney and with three children of her own, Mary Margaret was the very picture of a conservative matron.
Much to Megan’s shock, Mary Margaret had agreed that Deirdre and their father should accompany Megan—or, as she put it, “go along to keep Megan out of trouble”—and had even offered to help pay for the trip.
So, finally, Megan had boarded the steamship to Southhampton with her father and Deirdre, and the three of them had arrived in London a few days ago. They had spent the first two days there finding a house and settling in. It had taken Megan another day to obtain Theo Moreland’s address—something that would have taken less time if they had known his father’s titled name.
This afternoon she had gone out to take a look at the house, just to get a sense of what she was facing. It was an imposing edifice, taking up all of a small city block, visible proof of the wealth and importance of the duke’s family, as well as of their longevity. They had been dukes since long before Europeans settled the New World, and they had been earls for a couple of hundred years before that. The house itself looked as if it might have been standing there since New York had been New Amsterdam.
However, far from being overwhelmed by the imposing house, Megan was perversely roused to an even greater determination to take down the duke’s son. She had