Patrica Rice Read Free Page A

after appearin’ more like my brother than me own brother does.”
    She didn’t look his way, so she’d noticed the resemblance also. He was inclined to believe what he wanted to believe, but he wasn’t imagining the likeness.
    “My family has produced bastards enough,” she replied dryly. “Royalty is not alone in that habit.”
    He chuckled in appreciation of the observation. A young girl should have no such notions in her head, but he couldn’t fault her acuity. “Well, and I’m flattered of your opinion of me and mine. Since we’re neither of us from these parts, might I inquire as to your destination?”
    He saw her shoulders tense beneath the thin wool coat. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew travel in groups was safer than alone. He pushed the remaining chicken carcass in her direction and watched her eye it hungrily. One needed coins to travel safely. She would know that, too.
    “To London,” she replied, helping herself to the other leg. “To my aunt,” she added with a shade of defiance, daring him to doubt her reply.
    O’Toole brightened as if pleased with this discovery. “I have business in the city myself. We might help each other, after all. I just lost my assistant, you see.”
    He lied. More like, he fudged the truth considerably. He had no direction, no business, and no assistant, unless one counted the last stray he’d found a home. But he could easily manufacture all three with a sweep of his hat. He had twenty-eight years of experience in surviving in this world. He could be anything anyone wanted him to be.
    She shot him a look of distrust. “And what might your business be? Horse trader?”
    He grinned at her insult. “I’m an actor, lad, on my way to a new position in Drury Lane. But we’re a long way from the city’s glittering lights, and travel is expensive. I’ll earn my way there. ’Tis an honest enough profession. I’ve paid for a bed in the common room. Why don’t you take that fowl up and get some sleep? I’ve an eye on the serving lass over there for the evening.”
    She accepted that well enough. O’Toole watched as she gathered up the remains of the chicken and the bread rump. She looked too worn and weary for protest. If he treated her like a boy, she might linger. He would take precautions against her bolting at the first light of day. She didn’t have a chance in hell on the road alone.
    After she left, O’Toole stayed in his chair, sipping at his coffee and staring at the flames. In his experience, wealth created more evil than good. He had no desire to accumulate any. His goal in life had always been to see what there was to see, do what there was to do, and help the less fortunate along the way.
    A family would inevitably ruin that footloose life.
    He’d stumbled upon a crossroads he’d never expected to reach: should he continue down the direct path, delivering the lass to her aunt without further question, or should he explore the side road of that frightening resemblance and possibly uncover the family he’d never known?
    The question was rhetorical. He’d never ignored an unexplored road in his life.
    * * *
    “This isn’t the way to London,” Mac announced as the hay wagon bounced in a rut.
    After sitting in the farmer’s barn all winter, the hay was redolent of rot, but Michael wouldn’t complain of the odor or the ride. A hole in his companion’s boot had broken through to match the one in her stocking.
    “I have a stop to make first. We can’t go into London looking like beggars.” He’d thought long and hard on this as they’d traversed the roads from the lake country to Hampshire. Despite the similarities in their appearances, the chit couldn’t possibly be his sister. They’d been born an ocean apart. Still, he couldn’t ignore the possibility of a blood relation, or the instinct that told him she verged on desperation.
    Days in her company hadn’t imparted the information he wanted. He needed help. The melodic voice of a