~ Prologue ~

October 1830, Dublin, Ireland

Robert McIntire settled deeply into his high backed chair in front of the fire. The large hearth cast the only source of light into the otherwise dark drawing room. Robert raised his brandy glass and took a long, troubled drink. Lowering his glass, he sighed long and ragged for perhaps the seventeenth time in eight minutes. What was keeping his son? He'd sent for him an hour ago. Another few drinks into the late hour, and Robert was ready to throw his glass into the fire.
He was not a young man anymore. His once rich brown hair had been reduced to the color of dirt, and it was streaked thoroughly with gray. His sharp blue eyes no longer twinkled with the spark of a young and virile man. He'd raised his son and three daughters, who now ranged from the ages of twenty-five to thirty. His wife was deceased, and had been for three years now.
Robert was nearing the age of a man who'd like to consider retiring. Only he had not just considered the idea of retirement. He had his heart set on it. All he thought about in his waking hours was his publishing house, and how he longed to hand it over to his only son, Patrick. But, he just could not in good conscience do so. Patrick may have been twenty-five years old, but he acted like a youth of seventeen. He was a rogue. An irresponsible young man with no head on his shoulders for running a business. But, what choice did Robert have? He wasn't about to turn over his business to one of his daughters. All three were married off already, two with children, and one with a child on the way. His son Patrick was his only option. But bloody it, he had to make his son straighten his life out first!
Just as Robert lifted his weary eyes to the grandfather clock against the wall, there was a light rapping on the drawing room doors.
"Enter," Robert barked tersely, before he drained his snifter of its remaining brandy.
The glass pane French doors were drawn open by Bailey, the groom. Bailey was older than Robert, with completely gray and thinning hair and bushy eyebrows. A thinly pursed mouth was drawn tightly into a perpetual frown, and his slim shoulders were hunched from age. As the groom of the chambers, it was Bailey's job to announce visitors to the members of the household, which consisted only of Robert anymore.
"Young Master Patrick to see you, sir."
Before Robert could utter so much as a "See him in," Robert's youngest child and only son waltzed past Bailey and into the small drawing room. As always, he claimed an arrogant air about him. And why shouldn't he? Robert found himself wondering. Patrick was much taller than his father, with a broad chest and wide shoulders. He had a handsome face with his mother's black eyes, and he owned a mane of thick, dark hair. Robert had no idea where his son got his height from. Certainly not his father. Robert McIntire was only five feet and ten inches tall. Patrick stood over six feet.
"Ah, Patrick, my boy. Come in, come in." Robert, ignoring the fact that Patrick was already "in", motioned for his son to come closer and join him by the fire in the wing chair opposite to his.
"Good evening, father," Patrick said formally, not bothering to remove his coat before he made himself comfortable in the chair across from Robert. He sat gracefully, and drew one ankle up to rest on his opposite knee. He laced his long fingers together and rested them on his stomach.
"Patrick, I asked you here this evening because I wish to talk to you about something very important. It concerns you, more than I think you want to recognize." Robert was staring intently at his son and, as usual, Patrick retained an unworried expression. Calm and generally bored. And unlike Robert, he didn't seem as though he'd had even one drink yet that evening.
"What's it to be this time, father? Your last will and testament? I've already told you, I don't care who gets your cufflinks."
"Don't come in here thinking you're getting out of this conversation unscathed, Patrick, my boy." Robert smiled grimly and he raised his brandy snifter to his lips, only to realize he'd drained it moments before. Damn his failing memory.
Patrick quirked up one corner of his mouth in an amused sort of smirk while
Robert continued.
"As you know, I'm not getting any young-"
"Oh, father! It's not this talk, is it?"
"Oh, would you shut your mouth, you stupid article?" Robert snapped at his son's interruption. "Yes, it's to be this talk. Again!"
Patrick groaned quietly, lifting a hand to rub the space between his eyes.
"I'm not getting any younger, and I'm reaching the age where I'd like to retire while I can still enjoy my retirement. But God knows I can't very well turn over the business to you."
"What? Why not?" Patrick snapped his dark eyed gaze to his father. This bit had never come up in the old conversation before.
"Look at you, Patty! You're unmarried, irresponsible, and irrepressible. Would you give you a publishing house to run on your own?" Robert leaned forward in his chair and turned his head to look at Patrick's incredulous expression. It seemed his son's carefree exterior was not impenetrable. "Of course I would! Because I'd know I could handle it."
"But I don't know that you can handle it, Patrick," Robert countered ruefully. "You've got no responsibilities now. You've never had any. You don't even pay for that townhouse you've got. I do. You've got no duties, no obligations. Or even a wife to look after. How would you know the first thing about priorities or sacrifices or responsibilities?"
"Father, I don't believe you're saying this. You're not turning the business over to me, just because I'm not married yet?" Patrick stood up, moving to stand by the fire, crossing his arms over his wide chest. He turned his indignant expression back on his father.
Robert sighed and shook his head. "You're missing the point, boy."
"No, no. You think that if I got married, I would suddenly be fit to run the business?"
Again, Robert sighed. Settling back into his chair once more, he replied, "It would certainly be a start, Patrick. It would certainly be a start."