Charlotte could see Narraway still talking to Barralet at the far end of the room. Talulla was heading directly toward them. Charlotte went after her, but several steps behind. They were halfway down the aisle between the chairs when Talulla stopped abruptly.
Then Charlotte saw why. A little knot of people had gathered around where Narraway had turned from Ardal Barralet and was facing Cormac O’Neil across a short open space of floor. Phelim O’Conor was looking from one to the other of them and Bridget Tyrone was just to his right.
For seconds they stood frozen. Then Cormac drew in his breath. “I never thought you’d dare show your face in Ireland again,” he said between his teeth, staring at Narraway. “Who’ve you come back to betray this time? Mulhare is dead, or didn’t you know that?” The hatred trembled in his voice; his whole body shook and his words were slurred.
A ripple of emotion ran through the gathering crowd like the passage of a storm through a field of barley.
“Yes, I know Mulhare is dead,” Narraway replied, not moving backward despite Cormac’s closeness to him. “Someone embezzled the money he should have had so he could go abroad and start a new life.”
“Someone?” Cormac sneered. “And I suppose you have no idea who?”
“I hadn’t,” Narraway answered, still not moving, although Cormac was within two feet of him now. “I’m beginning to find out.”
Cormac rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t know you, I’d believe that. You stole the money yourself. You betrayed Mulhare just as you betrayed all of us.”
Narraway was white-faced, eyes brilliant. “It was a war, Cormac. You lost, that’s all—”
“All!” Cormac’s face was now contorted with hate. “I lost my brother, and my sister-in-law, and my country, and you stand here and say that’s all …” His voice choked.
There was a mutter from everyone around the group closest to him. Charlotte winced. She knew what Narraway meant, but he was rattled and being clumsy. He knew they were against him, and he could prove nothing. He had no backing from London now; he was alone, and losing.
“We couldn’t both win.” Narraway regained his self-control with an effort. “That time it was me. You wouldn’t have shouted betrayal if it had been you.”
“It’s my bloody country, you arrogant ape!” Cormac shouted. “How many more of us have to be robbed, cheated, and murdered before you get some shadow of a conscience and get the hell out of Ireland?”
“I’ll go as soon as I prove who took Mulhare’s money,” Narraway answered. “Did you sacrifice him to get your revenge on me? Is that how you know all about it?”
“Everybody knows all about it,” Cormac snarled. “His body was washed up on the steps of Dublin Harbor, God damn you!”
“I didn’t betray him!” Narraway’s voice was shaking and growing louder despite his efforts to keep it down. “If I’d done it I’d have made a better job. I wouldn’t have left the money in my own damn account for others to find it. Whatever you think of me, Cormac, you know I’m not a fool.”
Cormac was stunned into momentary silence.
It was Talulla who stepped forward. Her face was white to the lips, her eyes sunken like holes in her head.
“Yes, you are a fool,” she said between her teeth, facing Narraway, her back to Cormac. “An arrogant English fool who thinks we can’t ever get the better of you. Well, one of us did this time. You say you didn’t put the money in your own bank? Apparently someone did, and you got the blame. Your own people think you’re a thief, and no one in Ireland will ever give you information again, so you’ll be no use to London anymore. You have Cormac O’Neil to thank for that.”
She drew in her breath, all but choking on it. “Don’t you have a saying in England—‘He who laughs last, laughs longest’? Well, we’ll be laughing after you are a broken old man with nothing to do and no one who gives a damn about you! Remember it was an O’Neil who did that to you, Narraway!” She laughed with a brief, jagged sound, like something tearing inside her. Then she turned and pushed her way through the crowd until she disappeared.
Charlotte stared at Cormac, and Phelim O’Conor, and then at Narraway. They stood pale and shaking. It was Ardal Barralet who spoke.
“How unfortunate,” he said drily. “I think, Victor, it would have been better if you had not come. Old memories die hard. It seems from what has been said as if this is one part of the war you lost. Accept it with as much grace as you expected of us, and take your leave while you can.”
Narraway did not even glance at Charlotte, not drawing her into the embarrassment. He bowed very stiffly. “Excuse me.” He turned and left.
McDaid took Charlotte’s arm, holding her surprisingly hard. She had not even known he was near her. Now she had no choice but to leave with him.
“He’s a fool,” McDaid said bitterly as soon as they were sufficiently far from the nearest people that he could speak without being overheard. “Did he think anyone would forget his face?”
She knew he was right, but she was angry with him for saying so. She did not know the details of Narraway’s part in the old betrayal, whether he had loved Kate O’Neil, or used her, or even both, but he was the one betrayed this time—and by a lie, not by the truth.
She was allowing emotion and instinct to replace reason in her judgment. Or maybe her belief in him was a return for the loyalty Narraway had shown to Pitt. Pitt was not here to help, to offer any support or advice, so it was necessary that she do it for him.
Then another thought came to her, a moment of recollection as clear as lightning in a black storm. Talulla had said that Mulhare’s money had been returned to Narraway’s own bank in London, and now no one in London would trust him. How could she know, unless she were intimately involved in having brought that about? She was in her late twenties. At the time of Kate and Sean O’Neil’s deaths she was no more than a child, perhaps six or seven years old.
Was that what Narraway had come here for: to provoke her, un-realizingly, into such self-revelation? What a desperate step to take.
She tried to free her arm from McDaid’s grip, pulling sharply, but he held on.
“You’re not going after him,” he said firmly. “He did at least do one thing decently: He didn’t involve you. As far as Talulla is concerned, you could be total strangers. Don’t spoil that.”
His words made it worse. It increased her debt; and to deny Narraway that would be pointless and desperately ungracious. She snatched her arm from McDaid, and this time he let go.
“I wasn’t going to go after him,” she said angrily. “I’m going home.”
“To London?” he said incredulously.
“To Mrs. Hogan’s house in Molesworth Street,” she snapped. “If you would be so kind as to take me. I do not wish to have to look for an omnibus. I’ve no idea where I am, or where I’m going.”
“That I know,” McDaid agreed ruefully.
HOWEVER, AS SOON AS McDaid had left her at Mrs. Hogan’s door, she waited until he had gotten back into the carriage and it was around the corner out of sight, then walked briskly in the opposite direction and hailed the first carriage for hire that she saw. She knew Cormac O’Neil’s town address from Narraway, and she gave it to the driver. She would wait for O’Neil to return, for as long as was necessary.
As it transpired, it was shortly after dusk when she saw Cormac O’Neil climb out of a carriage a hundred yards down the street. He made his way a trifle unsteadily along the footpath toward his front door.
She moved out of the shadows. “Mr. O’Neil?”
He stopped, blinking momentarily.
“Mr. O’Neil,” she repeated. “I wonder if I may speak with you, please? It is very important.”