Hart ignored him. “What is your name, lad?”

“Darragh.” His voice was faint, scratchy, but with an unmistakable lilt.

“Irish, are you?”

“Erin go bragh.”

Hart left the desk and moved to a chair that stood against a window, the plainest seat in the room. He carried the chair back to the desk, set it down, and sat on it himself, leaning forward, arms on thighs.

“There are no Fenians in this room,” he said. “None of your mates, or the boys you grew up with, or the men who took you in and gave you the gun.” A new, American-made Smith and Wesson revolver, which must have cost a pretty penny. “Right now the only thing between yourself and the constable—and my men, who I guarantee are itching to beat you into oblivion—is me.”

Some of Darragh’s bravado returned. “I’m not afraid of them.”

“I would be. My men used to be prizefighters, some of the finest Britain has produced. Most are bare-knucklers, and they aren’t worried about following rules. The matches they fought weren’t always legal.”

Darragh looked more uncertain, but his chin stayed up. “Ye deserve to die.”

Hart nodded. “Many people think so. Some people want me dead because they’ve hated my family so long that it’s tradition, but I admit I have more enemies than friends. Why do you think I deserve to die?”

“All th’ stinkin’ English deserve to die until the Irish are free.”

“I’m not English, and I happen to agree.”

“Ye don’t. You threw out th’ only Englishman who was pulling for us, tore Irish Home Rule to pieces.”

“Is that so, lad? Tell me what the Irish Home Rule bill is.”

The boy wet his lips and flicked his gaze away. “English words. They don’t mean nothing now.”

“No one bothered to explain it to you, did they? They shoved a gun at you and told you that you’d fight for the glory of Ireland. The gist of Home Rule has been in every newspaper every day for the last few years. All you need to know about it has been there.” Hart waited until Darragh’s gaze swiveled to his again. “But you can’t read, can you?”

“Ye deserve to die,” Darragh repeated.

“Your friends sent you on a fool’s errand. They knew you’d get caught, whether you succeeded in shooting me or not, and probably killed. Here is another English word for you. Expendable.”

“They didn’t send me! I was honored to come.”

“Did you know the Queen of England would be here?”

A mute shake of the head.

“Your friends would have known. You’d never have made it out of this village alive, Darragh. You still might not. People are very touchy about those who put the queen in danger. Me—I’m just a politician and a right bastard. No one would miss me. But though the queen might be the devil to you, plenty in England, and even Scotland, love her and are very protective of her. If they thought for one moment that you’d come here to shoot the queen, they’d have ripped you apart on the spot. You’d never have made it to trial, let alone the gallows.”

“I’d have died with honor.” It was a whisper.

“No, you’d have died in terror and humiliation. You are finished. Your friends will find the next eager young man ready to do their bidding and buy another pistol for him. Your sacrifice has been for nothing.”

“That’s not true. Ye don’t know ’em!”

“I might not know their names, but I know men like them. I used to be the same, once. I thought the Scots could arm themselves—with me to lead them—and wrestle Scotland back from the English. Then I realized that the power of words was much stronger. I put away my sword, and here I am.”

“You’re a lying bastard. Ye joined them.”

“No, I didn’t. They only think I did.” Hart allowed himself a smile, then he wiped away the smile and sat forward again. “The trouble is, I can forgive you for shooting at me, Darragh. Both times. That was you in London, wasn’t it?”

Darragh nodded, and swallowed.

“I understand why you did it. Once upon a time, I might have tried the same. But what I can’t forgive you for is shooting my wife.”

At the change in tenor of Hart’s voice, Darragh’s look of fear returned. Hart saw him understand that now Hart’s rage was personal.

“It wasn’t meant to happen—”

“Tell me who your friends are, Darragh. They’re the ones to blame for my wife lying on the floor in a pool of blood, in her wedding dress, no less. They won’t escape my wrath.”

Darragh gasped for breath. “I’ll never tell ye—”

The lad’s words were cut off by a commotion outside the study’s back door. The study had a grand entrance for intimidating guests and then a smaller door behind the desk, which led to an anteroom and back halls. Someone was arguing with the guard Hart had stationed at the rear door, someone female, with a very determined voice.

“Excuse me,” Hart said and rose.

Darragh stayed in his chair, clutching its arms, while Hart walked to the door.

“You jolly well will let me in,” came Eleanor’s voice. “He is my husband, and he’s in there with a killer. Stand aside at once.”

The guard mumbled something, and Hart yanked open the door.

Eleanor, standing a foot away, transferred her glare to Hart. She wore a thick brocade dressing gown, her arm in a sling, with her hair hanging in a fat red gold braid over her shoulder. Though her face was white with pain, she tried to walk past Hart and into the study.

Hart put his arm across the door. “Eleanor, go back to bed.”

“No, indeed, Hart Mackenzie. I want to know what is going on in there.”

“I have the matter well in hand.” He gave her a severe look, but his heart beat swiftly with worry. Eleanor’s color was high, her eyes too bright. She might recover from the wound, but he could still lose her to fever, as he’d lost Sarah and his son. “Go back upstairs. I will tell you about it later.”

Eleanor returned his stare for a few more seconds, then with a speed an injured woman should not have possessed, Eleanor ducked under his arm and hurried into the study. Hart stifled a curse and went after her.

“Good heavens.” Eleanor regarded Darragh in surprise. “How old are you, lad?”

“This is Darragh,” Hart said, coming to stand by her side. “He was telling me how he didn’t mean to shoot you.”

Eleanor ignored him. “Darragh what? Surely you have a surname.”

Darragh gazed at her in defiance, but under Eleanor’s unwavering stare, he wilted. “Fitzgerald, ma’am.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ballymartin. Near Cork.”

“Gracious. You are a long way from home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Does your mum know about the Fenians? And the re-volver?”

“Me mum’s dead.”

Eleanor sank down into the chair Hart had vacated. Hart had chosen it because the seat was a little higher than that of the soft chair in which Darragh sat. He found the setup perfect for keeping himself a little above whatever person he questioned, perfect for implying that personal comfort was of no concern to him. He could interrogate whoever he needed to all night, the hard chair said.

Eleanor cared nothing for any of that. She simply saw a chair and sat upon it.

“I’m sorry, lad,” she said. “Do you have other family?”

“Me sister. She married and went to America.”

“Why didn’t you go to America with her?” She sounded interested.

“Not enough money, ma’am.”

“I see. I do understand what happened, Darragh. You were trying to shoot Hart, and you hit me by mistake. I imagine it was difficult to aim in all the confusion, and I tried to push Hart away. I don’t much blame you for wanting to shoot Hart, because he can be devilishly irritating, but I am a bit put out with you for ruining my wedding, not to mention my wedding gown. My sisters-in-law worked their fingers off to make everything perfect, and they are quite distressed.”

Darragh’s anger returned. “Do ye think that matters to me?”

“It matters, lad,” Eleanor said, skimming her fingers over her bandage. “Everything matters. Everything you do touches someone in some way, even though you might not understand that until later. You raised a pistol, but even before you fired it, you changed the life of every person in the room. You introduced them to fear, to uncertainty, to the fact that in a place they felt safe, there was sudden danger. There were children in that room, babies. By the bye, you should be glad that Ian Mackenzie has been restrained by his brothers, because he was ready to tear your head off for endangering his little boy and girl. You’d better hope he doesn’t get out of his room.”

Darragh swallowed. “Ian Mackenzie. He’s th’ crazy one?”

“Everyone should want to be mad like Ian. But even Ian would see—if he stopped trying to kill you long enough to notice—that you are a child yourself.”

“I’m no child! Fucking English.”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Hart growled.

“Yes, you are a child,” Eleanor said, undisturbed by the interruption. “And, by the way, I’m not English at all. I’m Highland Scots through and through.” She flowed into the broadest Highland accent Hart had ever heard. “Me family hasnae one drop o’ English blood in it.”

“You’re a liar, then.” Darragh’s eyes glittered. “I was told all about you. Your great-grandmother made a whore of herself to an Englishman so they’d drop a title on her get. That’s why your dad’s an earl. You’re as English as they are.”

To Darragh’s surprise—and Hart’s too—Eleanor burst into laughter.

“Oh, my, is that story still in circulation? People believe anything, don’t they? Let me tell you the true story, laddie.” She leaned forward, catching and holding Darragh’s attention, her red braid swinging.

“First, it was my great-great-grandmother. Her husband, her brothers, her father, and her husband’s brothers all went off to fight the Butcher at Culloden. There, her family died to the last man.”

The Scots accent smoothed out, though a trace of it lingered.

“All that was left was my great-great-grandmother, Finella, alone in that big house. Well, the English saw the fine landholding of Glenarden and claimed that since all the menfolk were dead, it was unoccupied, ripe for plucking. My great-great-grandmother said it wasnae empty at all—Scots land can be passed to the women, and since her husband had been laird, she was now laird, and the land was hers.

“The English didn’t like that, I can tell you. Highlanders were a conquered people and should bow down. And here was this lass, younger than I am now, defying the English and saying the place belonged to her and her heirs. Well, one English colonel said, Marry me, and I’ll live here, you can stay, and our children will inherit the land. My great-great-grandmother, she thought about this, then she said all right, and the man moved in. The English were pleased with this colonel for making Finella do their bidding, and they made him an earl, calling him Earl Ramsay, which had been Finella’s surname from her father. But very soon after the wedding, the man died, and my great-great-grandmother had a baby, a son, and that son became earl.”

Darragh opened his mouth, but Eleanor held up her hand. All the men in the room, including Inspector Fellows, were hanging on Eleanor’s words, Hart saw, waiting for the end of the story.

“What Finella didn’t say—the secret she kept to her grave, telling only her son when he was old enough to understand—was that she’d felt the baby quicken in her after his father went off to war. He was her Scottish husband’s son, and Finella saw a way to save him by marrying the Englishman. She beguiled all the English into thinking that the child was the colonel’s, and so by English law should inherit Glenarden. The English never knew her son wasn’t the true child of the Englishman. But no, he was pure Highland Scots, of the Ramsay clan on his mother’s side, the McCain clan on his father’s. My father is the direct descendant of that brave woman and her little boy, and I am too. So, don’t lump me in with the bloody Sassenachs, Darragh Fitzgerald.”

Hart hadn’t heard that version of the tale, but if Eleanor’s great-great-grandmother had been anything like Eleanor, Hart believed it. Hart could imagine the woman—with her red gold hair and plaid skirts billowing in the wind—telling the English bastards that the land was hers and that was that. But, yes, I can be persuaded to do things your way if you like, she’d say, blinking those cornflower blue eyes at them, and then proceed to do whatever she pleased.