Prince of Ravenscar

by Catherine Coulter

  Both men turned down the offer of tea and took themselves off to clean up. It was some time before Julian and Devlin presented themselves again to the ladies and spoke about the fire.

  “There were no obvious signs that someone set the fire,” Devlin said. “But we all know someone did.”

  Julian rose when Sophie asked if he would take them about the house—no, the palace, she corrected, and he smiled. He turned to Vicky. “You wish to accompany us? You know every nook and cranny in this pile of stones.”

  “No, Julian, I don’t wish to walk anymore today,” Vicky said, and took a small bite of yet another slice of saffron cake. “Ravenscar is not a pile of stones. There are water closets in the new family wing. Six of them, I believe. Later, I wish to inspect the ruin.”

  Once in the entrance hall, Devlin paused in front of a suit of armor. “Look at this one knight, Roxanne. Can you imagine a man inside that thing? He would die of heat prostration.”

  “Look at this rust, Devlin. Do you believe it to be ancient dried blood?”

  Sophie and Julian left them to the discussion of waging battle while entombed in armor and walked toward the back of the house.

  “You still smell like smoke,” Sophie said, sniffing Julian. “I suppose it will take a while to wash it all out. At least you did not burn yourself. Did you?”

  He shook his head. “My valet, Pliny, does not take such a sanguine view, I’m afraid. He is currently moaning and wringing his hands, blaming me at great sustained volume for ruining a good set of clothes. He is quite enjoying the drama.”

  “Have him take the clothes and toss them on the embers at the Dower House.”

  “Destroy the evidence?”

  “That’s right. No proof left.”

  He eyed her, smiling. “A good idea.”

  “So everyone here calls you prince?”

  He laughed. “Don’t unsheathe your wit on me. I promise I have no plans to become an insufferable fat idiot who orders everyone about. To be honest, I really don’t pay it any attention anymore, since everyone has called me that all my life.”

  When Julian paused in front of a large portrait of a gentleman in a ruff and velvet pants, Sophie said, “Pouffer says cloven-hoofed young’uns set the fire.”

  “I doubt that, particularly since I’ve never seen a single cloven hoof in the area.”

  “It was Richard, of course,” Sophie said dispassionately. “He probably hired a local to do it for him. I really do wish to stick a blade through his gullet, Julian. I smelled dog when we came in. Where are the spaniels?”

  “They’re very probably in the estate room; that’s where they spend most of their time. Unlike the Hardcross estate room with its small, enclosed garden, here there is no garden but rather a stretch that goes to the cliffs, walled in on either side. It’s been a dog run for years. The spaniels bark their heads off as they race directly to the edge of the cliff, a very low cliff. It’s as if they are daring each other to see who will get closest to the edge before stopping. No, not one of them has ever slipped over the edge, not that they would get hurt.”

  “I’d like to meet them. My pug died last year from extreme old age. I have missed him.”

  “All right.” Julian turned them down a corridor that led into another wing of the house. “They’re King Charles spaniels, from the same litter and only a year old. You will take care of your gown. Even though they are well behaved, you are new and thus a possible enemy. They seek only to protect me.”

  “Well, why not? You are their prince.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow at her.

  They heard frantic barking before Julian opened the stout oak door. Four floppy-eared spaniels ran madly to Julian, paused, then danced around him, barking their heads off, their tails waving so fast they were blurs. They ignored Sophie completely. They were some protectors, she thought. She watched Julian tug on ears, call out names, and pet each one—scratching bellies as he accepted frantic licks. Then he rose. “Sit!” All four of the spaniels dutifully sat in a line in front of him. “This is Sophie. She is a girl, so be kind and patient with her. Say hello now. Sophie, this is Cletus, Oliver, Hortense, and Beatrice.”

  They didn’t dance and leap around her, they lightly sniffed at her skirts, gave soft little barks, then returned to their line in front of Julian.

  “Pouffer has continued to train them,” Julian said. “He is magic with them. If he told them to spit out a well-cooked piece of meat, they probably would. They were learning when I left to go to London with Mama. Sit down, Sophie.”

  When she did, one of the spaniels jumped up and licked her hand. Soon Sophie was sitting on the Aubusson carpet, her skirts spread about her, the spaniels vying for her attention.

  Julian stood by the small fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, watching. He saw her pleasure, heard her laughter, and felt something he had no wish to feel at all move deep inside him. She was a child, nothing more than a charming, innocent child. That was it, she charmed him with her candor, her openness, her utter lack of artifice and deceit. She knew nothing of the world, of his world in particular. She was meant to be protected, to be cherished. He said, “Cletus, stop chewing on her hair.”

  Sophie, laughing, pulled Cletus into her arms and held him close, rocking him. “So you are Cletus, are you?”

  “Let’s take them out.” When the four spaniels were racing hellbent for the cliff edge some sixty feet distant, Julian drew Sophie to a stop.

  “I know what you are planning, I can see it in your face. I cannot prove Richard burned the Dower House, so I do not wish you to accuse him, all right?”

  “Do you know, Prince, as I believe I’ve said before, if I knew I wouldn’t be hanged, I should delight in sticking a stiletto between his ribs.”

  So much for protecting and cherishing this one, he thought. He told her about his childhood here, all the dogs he’d watched race toward the cliff. He told her about Pouffer, how he loved the old man, how he’d been in his life since he’d been born. Finally, he called out, “Come, let us go back inside.” All four spaniels came pelting back to them, tongues lolling, tails wagging. “You do not have to call me Prince.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, looking up at him. “I do.”

  33

  Devlin said, “I prefer cats to Julian’s brood of spaniels. I do not like to be licked.” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat. “Well, I must amend that. I should have said I do not like dogs scouring my face. As for licking—well, never mind that. What do you think?”

  Roxanne, who was pulling out a weed that threatened to choke a rosebush, looked up at him over her shoulder. “So you prefer cats to do the licking?”

  “Yes, of course, cats. My two princesses, Maybelle and Penelope, are small and white, and each one so sure of her own superiority I many times have to beg them to sleep with me. But eventually they come to bed and wrap themselves around my neck, or snuggle in behind my knees.”

  “Wouldn’t it be rather crowded?”

  “Crowded? What do you mean?”

  Roxanne said in a distant voice, “I have heard it said you have mistresses, my lord. What do your ladies think of your cats sleeping around your neck?”

  He said, “Wherever did you hear such a thing, Roxanne?”

  She heard his voice change, deepen, grow more austere. She shrugged. “It seems to be common knowledge. You, my lord, are known as a man of the world, as well as a man of possible other worlds as well, given your avoidance of the sun.”

  “Isn’t it also common knowledge that mistresses never sleep in a gentleman’s house?”

  Roxanne rose, dusted her hands on her skirts. She looked him straight in the eyes. “However should I know that?”

  He waved a hand. “You are twenty-seven years old, you were raised in society, albeit the salons of York, and I don’t believe you’ve ever even visited a convent. Ah, enough of that. I asked Sophie if you preferred cats or dogs, and she told me you worshipped cats as well. Is this tru
e?”

  “Yes. I miss Mathilda and William dreadfully. However, my father also adores cats. I wouldn’t doubt they are warming him at night now that I’ve deserted them. Where are Maybelle and Penelope?”

  He pulled her up, drew her hand through his arm. “My housekeeper at Holly Hill spoils them shamelessly both when I am there and when I am not. Let’s walk to the cliff edge and observe the movement of the waves on the shore.”

  The breeze was balmy, the day cloudy enough so that Devlin was not constrained to wear a hat. Roxanne saw a dozen palm trees and couldn’t help smiling. This place was amazing, and there was something of magic in the air. Finally, she couldn’t help herself. “Do you still love Corrie Sherbrooke?”

  Devlin stopped dead in his tracks, turned to face her. “Do you know, my dear, that inquiry throttles all attempts at sparkling conversation in my throat? Why ever would you ask me that?”

  Why, indeed? Shutting her mouth occasionally might be a wise course to follow, but she didn’t. “I believe you asked her uncle to marry her.”

  “Did I? That was more than six months ago. Perhaps, at the time, upon reflection, I felt compelled to give her a choice, and she made it. She is a married woman now, so revoltingly happy with James it makes me shake my head in wonder. Yes, yes, I know he looks like a god, but who cares? Who wants a face that makes ladies swoon in your path?”

  “I cannot believe you said that.”

  Devlin sighed. “I can’t either, truth be told.”

  “You are not a troll, Devlin.”

  “No?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “You are even more handsome than your half-uncle, and he is renowned for his good looks.”

  “His mother started that rumor.”

  She grinned up at him shamelessly.

  He said, “Now, my girl, look out over the channel. It is calm today, so you know the fire was set at strategic spots in the Dower House, since there is no wind to whip up flames.”

  “It seems a paltry attempt at revenge,” Roxanne said slowly, tasting the salt air in her mouth. “I mean, why the Dower House and not a direct assassination attempt?”

  “Richard tried that in London last week, so Julian told me. But he wasn’t really serious, Julian said, because he knew he’d be hanged, so I suppose, as a man of little imagination, he was forced to destroy the Dower House as a sort of token slap in the face when he knew Julian would be riding here to Ravenscar. However, I do believe this time he has pushed my uncle to the brink.”

  “The brink? Surely you don’t believe Julian will shoot him?”

  “Who knows?” He shrugged.

  She wanted to punch him but managed to control herself. “Look at those stone walls. Why are they there?”

  “Those are protective walls so the four spaniels aren’t tempted to abscond to Land’s End and chase rooks. The run leads directly from Julian’s estate room to the cliffs. Well, some cliffs—they’re not at all high above the beach. The dogs can dash about here, daring each other to leap off the cliff, which wouldn’t hurt them, even if they leapt.”

  “But they don’t know that.”

  “No.”

  Devlin paused for a moment, lifted his face to the cloudy sky. “Do you know, I’m beginning to believe my uncle isn’t regarding your niece with an elder’s indulgent eye anymore. What do you think?”

  Roxanne tossed a rock over the edge of the cliff, watched it bounce on the rocks and fall onto the dirty sand some ten feet below. “I believe Julian has a fondness for her, since his mother does. Is it more? Maybe. Do you not like Sophie as well?”

  “Oh, yes, she sparkles, you know. I’ve watched her ignore the gentlemen who have tried to attach her, not that they’ve had all that much time. And why does she ignore them? I wonder.” He walked to the edge of the cliff and studied the beach below. He turned slowly to face Roxanne. Her vibrant hair haloed her head. He said slowly, “It is the strangest thing, but I have not visited any of my mistresses in over a week now. Do you not think that odd?”

  “It is possible,” she said, not looking at him, “that you are so charmed by Sophie you have no wish to indulge yourself.”

  “Indulge myself,” he repeated. “What a quaint way of putting it. No, being charmed by Sophie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

  A shout came from Ravenscar. It was Julian. “Devlin! My mother requests your presence.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps it’s best, you know?”

  “No,” Roxanne said. “I don’t know if it’s for the best or not.” She walked in silence beside him back toward the huge stone manor, mansion, castle, palace—she didn’t know what to call Ravenscar, and at that moment, she didn’t particularly care. She was twenty-seven years old, the same age as Devlin Monroe, the future Duke of Brabante. She wasn’t a young miss suffering in the throes of her first Season, terrified she wouldn’t gain one single marriage proposal or enjoy any gentleman’s exclusive attention. No, she was a seasoned matron—well, very nearly—and she knew what was what and how men and women behaved, but this: Did Devlin admire Sophie more than Julian appeared to? She didn’t know. It seemed to her, though, that Sophie hadn’t suffered a single throe of anxiety. On the other hand, she was twenty years old, not a young girl of eighteen fresh out of a protected schoolroom. Roxanne loved her, indeed, she did, she was so like Bethanne. Was she too young for Julian? If so, she was the perfect age for Devlin. She sparkled?

  Roxanne’s heart hurt, something she recognized even though she’d felt it only once before in her adult life, with her long-ago suitor John Singleton, who had only wanted her money.

  34

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Sophie stood facing Julian in his estate room, her arms crossed over her chest, the four spaniels sleeping on every available chair and the sofa—it was, in short, a dog’s room. That made her smile as she gently picked up Beatrice, sat herself down on the leather sofa, and laid the dog gently on her lap. She began to lightly caress Beatrice’s long, floppy ears, resulting in soft snorts of pleasure.

  “She appears to like you, Sophie.”

  “She likes what I’m doing to her, that’s all. I will say it again, since you did not appear to hear me, Julian. I do not wish to return to Hardcross Manor. Why should I? I do not like the feel of the place, nor do I like the inhabitants. I do not trust the baron. He is all smiles and bonhomie, but there is something lurking in his eyes that makes me nervous. And there is Richard. I might forget myself and try to pound him into the floor. Actually, I don’t want to have to see Vicky across the breakfast table again, either.

  “I want all of us to remain here at Ravenscar, not go back to Hardcross Manor. If you wish to visit, why then, it is a short ride.” She paused for a moment, frowned. “As for Vicky, I was thinking she might be pretending to oddness. That way, she can say whatever she pleases, and from what I’ve seen, no one stops her and asks her why she’s saying such ridiculous things.”

  “An act?” Julian leaned down and picked up Oliver, and like Sophie, he began stroking the dog’s long, soft ears. “She didn’t used to be so odd,” he added.

  “What did she used to be?”

  “I remember her so clearly as a little girl, all giggles and smiles and mischief. I can see Lily scolding her for some childish misdeed, then hugging her. As Vicky grew older, though, she changed, as everyone must. I really can’t pinpoint when she became as she is now, but it has been a while.”

  “You were at Waterloo?”

  He stopped stroking Oliver’s ears. Oliver yipped, and Julian began rubbing his belly. He nodded curtly, “Yes, I was. How do you know that?”

  “Your mother told me about your commendation from the Duke of Wellington himself.”

  “You were very young at that time.”

  “Yes.” Sophie had known two other men in her village who’d fought with Wellington at Waterloo, and neither of them wished to speak of it, either. “So were you. You were a boy. And then you went into the shipping business?”

  �
��That’s right. This demonstrates to you what a small world we inhabit—I met Thomas Malcombe, the Earl of Lancaster, in Genoa. He is very successful in shipping. He saw my enthusiasm and asked me to join him, to see if I could be of use to him, I imagine. I was. Then he helped me strike out on my own. Thomas Malcombe is an excellent man. He lives part of the year in England, in Glenclose-on-Rowen; part in Ireland; and at least three months a year in Italy. He always takes his wife and four boys with him. They’re a grand family.”

  “So where is your small world in this recital?”

  “Malcombe’s wife is Meggie Sherbrooke, James Sherbrooke her cousin, the Earl of Northcliffe her uncle. Do you know, Pendragon—that is their home in Ireland—is the premier training mews for racing cats in Ireland?”

  “Racing cats?” Sophie said blankly. “How does one race a cat? I can’t imagine it. No, that’s not possible, you’re jesting with me.”

  “Not I. Actually, I once attended a cat race at the McCaulty racecourse near Eastbourne. Eight racing cats out of twelve actually crossed the finish line. There was betting and cheering and some fisticuffs; a tough sport, is cat racing. Thomas told me once that at the first cat race in Ireland, his dog got loose and decided to race with the cats. As you can imagine, it was pandemonium. If ever you meet the Malcombes, Meggie can tell you all about it.”

  Sophie studied Beatrice’s soft ear. “You’ve done so very much, Julian. No, no, don’t tell me it’s because you are so ancient and you’ve had simply dozens of years to click up your heels and do everything imaginable—no, you started when you were only a boy—Waterloo, for heaven’s sake—whereas I’ve only—” She broke off, sighed. “I’m whining, aren’t I? My twenty years on this earth have been excellent. I’ve never known want or been around bad people—well, there was Mr. Jack, who strangled his wife, but he was drunk at the time and never remembered a thing. My father is a trial, but he is not rotten like Richard Langworth. Let me get back on track. To me, all the inhabitants of Hardcross Manor worry me to my toes. To Roxanne’s toes as well, I think. I spoke briefly to your mother, and she thinks it a marvelous idea if we remain here until we return to London. Actually, when your mother sent you to find Devlin yesterday, she wanted to get his agreement to remain here as well.”