Read Online The Irish Duchess by Patricia Rice - Free Book Online

likely, if you ask me.”
    “Women,” Seamus muttered, following his sister inside.
    “Don’t ignore them,” Neville recommended. “They see things we don’t often enough.”
    Both Seamus and Fiona turned and stared at him in surprise. Neville shrugged and let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the kitchen. McGonigle and his friends had already torn the place apart looking for any sign of the money. If there were clues here, they’d be hard to find.
    “Just precisely what are we looking for?” Fiona asked as she scanned the contents of the cupboard. “Burke had no family. People have been in here scavenging his larder already. If there was anything valuable lying around, it’s gone now.”
    “It seemed reasonable to search for something that might have belonged to the murderer. We’d have to look for something that doesn’t belong here, a loose button, perhaps. Did the knife match the ones in his kitchen?” Neville glanced around the humble room with distaste. The task seemed impossible. Or improbable.
    Both Seamus and Fiona rewarded his suggestion with looks of scorn.
    “Matching knives?” Fiona of the hasty tongue replied first. “Whoever heard of such? Burke might have a knife handed down from his grandda, or from his late wife’s family, or if what he had was worn to a nubbin, and he felt particularly wealthy, he might have bought new from a tinker. But who’s to say what his knives looked like?”
    “The Widow Blackthorne,” Seamus answered before the words were scarce out of her mouth.
    Neville nodded thoughtfully. “Your Uncle William has the knife now, doesn’t he? Why don’t you have him take it to the widow and ask if it came from this kitchen? It’s a pity we can’t show it around town and ask to whom it might belong if it’s not Burke’s.”
    “It’ll be Burke’s,” Fiona replied wearily, slamming the cupboard doors. “There’s none here, and a man wouldn’t leave his own knife behind.”
    “That could mean whoever did it, didn’t mean to commit murder when he came in.” Despite his irritation at the delay, Neville found the puzzle intriguing. He supposed he could give the earl a full report when he returned, and the effort wouldn’t be entirely wasted. Michael had a strong sense of justice.
    Keeping his mind on the puzzle didn’t keep Neville from noticing the smudge on Fiona’s cheek and wishing he could brush it away. He’d never seen a woman in such dishevelment before, and he found it oddly disconcerting that she had no care for her appearance in his company.
    If he had a shilling for every female who’d thrown herself in his path these last ten years, all gowned and coifed and reeking of expensive scents, he’d be a rich man today. But those same women hadn’t given him a second look when he’d been a lonely student and the son of a younger son, far from the grandiose title of duke. He’d never learned how to talk with those women in his formative years. That’s why he’d decided on shy Gwyneth. But even Gwyneth didn’t go about in boy’s breeches with dust on her face—not in his presence, anyway.
    Without a care to how it looked, Fiona got down on her hands and knees to explore the space behind the stove. Neville gulped and closed his eyes before he could look too closely at the rounded posterior presented to him.
    “Fiona!” Seamus shouted angrily.
    Fiona jumped and banged her head on a pipe. Cursing, she rubbed her head, not bothering to pull back to see what he wanted.
    “Get your silly arse out of there!” Seamus demanded, shooting Neville a furious look that said he’d seen far more than was good for him.
    “Curse your dratted hide, Seamus, what are you after scaring me half to death like that?” Backing out, still rubbing her sore head, Fiona turned and glared at her brother.
    Cobwebs formed a silver halo in her hair, and soot blackened her forehead as much as her scowl. Neville stifled a grin. Looking like that, the stubborn chit could