Liam didn’t flinch. “She gave it to me,” he said, his eyes full of challenge. He planted the sole of his boot on Patrick’s thigh and shoved him back.
Patrick stumbled but regained his balance quickly. “That’s a story I’d like to hear,” he said. “And be careful with it. I’m friendly with the lady and will know if you’re lying.”
“We had words in the courthouse,” Liam admitted. “I shouted at her and said she didn’t deserve to wear a ring like that when there were poor people working in Blackstone companies who couldn’t feed their children.”
“And she just gave it to you?”
“She did.” His voice was pensive and confused, lending credence to his words. “I was minding my own business after the hearing, but she grabbed my arm and came at me, stirring up old rumors and such. I didn’t like it.”
Patrick straightened a chair he’d knocked over in the scuffle, then sat back on the bench, gesturing for Liam to do the same. They were both tense and cagey, but Liam resumed his position, slumped against the back of the bench with his arms crossed.
“What old rumors?” Patrick asked.
“There’s always been rumors about me,” Liam said. “I don’t think they’re true, and she should have left well enough alone.”
“What sort of rumors?” he pressed.
Liam snorted. “That Uncle Mick found me under a toadstool. That he bought me from the gypsies, or that the fairies dropped me down a chimney. It’s all hogwash. My mum swears it’s a big lie, and that she suffered the agonies of the damned when she gave birth to a ten-pound baby.” He gave a harsh scoff. “Don’t ever get her started on the topic, because she won’t stop bellyaching about the torture she endured giving birth to me, and I have to promise her pearls from the East to make up for it.”
Patrick leaned closer. “And did the rumors say it was a three-year-old child Mick found under a toadstool?”
“Nope.” Liam’s face grew pensive as he stared into the distance. “I think I might have been born in Ireland. I remember being on a ship, feeling the wind on my face and the sun glinting on the water. I think maybe someone brought me over and gave me to the Malones. I don’t look like either one of my parents.”
“But you remember being at sea?”
Liam nodded. “I think it’s my earliest memory. I remember standing beside a man and being very happy. I felt safe.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Of course, if I came from Ireland, that means my parents aren’t my parents, and nothing will set Janet Malone off faster than implying something like that. ‘Ten pounds,’ she’ll holler, then cuff me on the head.”
“Did you know Liam is the Irish name for William?”
“Yeah, I do.” He held up his hand. The sapphire ring glittered on the top knuckle of his pinky finger. “I don’t want this ring. She gave it away to shame me, to show how easily she could do it. I don’t want anything to do with her or this ring.”
“Then give it to me.” Patrick held out his hand, and without hesitation, Liam yanked the ring from his finger and slapped it in Patrick’s palm.
“I’m trusting you to do the right thing with it,” Liam said.
Patrick nodded. “I will,” he said, because suddenly he had a far bigger mystery to solve.
11
Gwen retreated to her grandfather’s office on the top floor of the Blackstone Bank after the courtroom debacle. She resisted the urge to point out that she’d been right about the bad publicity that would come from challenging the memoir in court. By the time the reporters were done with the story, every bookstore in town would be swamped with advance orders for the memoir.
It was water under the bridge. What still haunted her was the strange encounter with Liam Malone.
“Giving your ring away was a foolhardy thing to do,” her grandfather said, scowling at her from the opposite side of his desk. “What on earth possessed you?”
Her cousin Edwin and Uncle Oscar looked equally baffled as they waited for her answer. It had been an impulsive move sparked by an instinctive need to defend herself against that awful man’s contempt. The odd thing was how easy it was to give her wedding ring away.
“I want to see what he does with it,” she said. “It will tell us what sort of man he is.”
Oscar sat in a chair near the window, rolling an unlit cigar in his hands. “If you want to know who he is, I’ll commission a dozen Pinkerton detectives and have a complete report by the end of the week, but why do you care about this no-account laborer?”
Uncle Oscar had been on the witness stand most of the morning. He hadn’t seen Liam and didn’t understand their concern.
“He looks like Theodore,” her grandfather said. “The same eyes. The same coloring, the same shape of his jaw.”
Oscar set down his cigar, his expression hardening as he understood Frederick’s reasoning. “Preposterous. Willy Blackstone is dead and gone. So is Theodore. Don’t start imagining things.”
“We can’t bury our heads in the sand and pretend this doesn’t exist,” Edwin said.
