The Devil's Own

by Liana Lefey

  Sitting across from the reverend was likely less disturbing than being seated at his side would have been, but nonetheless, Mary found it unnerving. For one, his gaze fixed on her whenever he wasn’t talking to someone else. She prayed nothing got stuck in her teeth.

  The conversation was pleasant, if a bit stilted at first. But by the time the second course was served and everyone had taken some wine, it relaxed into comfortable geniality.

  If Mary was embarrassed by some of the stories her parents told about her childhood, it was mitigated by the growing warmth in the reverend’s eyes whenever he looked at her. They were especially blue tonight, sparkling with good humor and something else that made her pulse quicken. She’d suffer any number of “Mary in nappies” stories if it meant he looked at her so.

  After dinner when they retired to the drawing room, she showed off her skill at the harpsichord. Her fingers flew over the keys, and her sweet, high soprano soared, every note in perfect pitch. Again, he seemed unable to look anywhere else.

  When she was finished, he surprised all by offering to play as well, with one condition—Mary had to turn the pages and accompany him. Blushing, she happily acquiesced. Although she knew he had a fine voice, he declined to sing with her, but rather allowed her to carry the vocal melody alone. She marked that his eyes rested neither on the keys nor the sheet music, but on her.

  He must know this piece by heart…

  The world around her receded until there was naught but the two of them and the music. His shoulder brushed against her arm like a caress as he played, eliciting a pleasant shiver each time. The act of reaching across him to flip the page brought them closer than they’d been all evening. Her fingers itched to touch him instead of the sheet music. Her lips tingled, and the thought of him kissing them made her tense with want.

  At the end of the song, he simply sat, seemingly oblivious to their audience’s applause, and stared at her as if she were something new and entirely foreign. A flush heated her cheeks. Could he tell what she’d been thinking?

  Augie came forward to take her place, and Mary sat down with her parents. She tried to slow her runaway heart, but every time she looked at him it seemed only to want to race. He and Augie played well together, but she noted with intense pleasure that he kept his eyes trained on the music and did not look up at his accompanist until the song’s end.

  Then it was her mother’s turn to play. Mary was delighted when the reverend chose to sit beside her. “I do hope you are enjoying yourself this evening,” she murmured, taking the opportunity to lean toward him so he could hear her without having to raise her voice. Although they sat far enough apart to satisfy propriety, she swore she could feel the heat of him across the scant inches that separated them. Again, desire stabbed through her.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “I have not had such a wonderful evening since before Christmas.”

  “Do you not visit them every weekend?”

  His face colored slightly, and he nodded. “Normally I do, but not since the accident. And that is a routine family affair. Tonight I am being treated with good food, beautiful music, and excellent company untainted by sibling squabbles or ill news from distant relations. To experience such unblemished enjoyment is rare for me.”

  Inside, her heart sang a song of triumph in counterpoint to the music being played. “Then I hope you’ll join us often. I know my parents will not object if I extend to you an open invitation.”

  Suddenly, his gaze became shuttered, his manner subdued. “That is most generous. But I’m uncertain as to how often I can manage such an extended visit. As much as I took pleasure in this evening’s enjoyments, I cannot neglect my duties to the parish. There is a great deal of preparation to be done before Easter.”

  Again, the thought of spring’s arrival cast a shadow over her heart. “I’ll gladly help you if it means you are free of an evening to grace us with your company.”

  “Tonight was special, and I shall always remember it,” he said softly. His mouth then hardened. “But I’m afraid it’s impossible for me to commit to anything further.”

  The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach increased. He was speaking as if this had been a one-time event, almost as if he were saying goodbye. “It does not have to be,” she offered. “I’m sure we can find a way.”

  But it was already too late.

  “No, we cannot,” he said crisply. “Some things simply cannot be altered.” Gone was the warmth of a moment ago, and in its place was cool, distant cordiality. “Purely social events like tonight are to be savored, for they are few and far between for a clergyman. But rather than regret that it must be so, I will instead look forward to our Sunday outing, weather permitting, of course.”

  Sunday. Yes. She relaxed again, though not completely. Something was wrong. Something was keeping him from allowing them to grow closer. Or at least, it was attempting to do so. I won’t let it. “Until Sunday, then. I sewed some doll clothes to give to little Beth,” she said, moving on to a safe topic. “And after telling Cook of our efforts, she has donated five jars of last summer’s strawberry preserves from her personal store.”

  “That’s very kind,” he said, sounding oddly deflated. “A taste of summer will be greatly appreciated during these bleak months. I’ve all but forgotten what the sun on my face feels like.” He swallowed and looked away. “Sometimes, it seems like all I’ll ever know is winter.”

  All the joy seemed to have bled out of him. She ached to reach out, turn his face toward her, and make him smile again. But such was not possible in their present company. It would not be possible even if we were alone, she sternly reminded herself. He would see it as an impropriety.

  She waited in silence until he looked askance at her. What she couldn’t communicate through touch or direct speech, she did with her eyes, seeking out and holding his gaze. Her words were chosen with great care. “Though it be gray now, the warmth of the sun lives in my memory. It can never be forgotten. So, though I am deprived of the sun itself, the memory of its light will sustain me through the bleak months and keep me warm.” She lowered her voice, trembling a little at the risk she was about to take. “For me the sun shines brightest now, and the bleak months are yet to come—if indeed they must.”

  To her surprise, a look of intense pain crossed his face. It was gone again in an instant, but she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She prayed she hadn’t just made another mistake.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In that moment, Devlin knew he was the world’s vilest blackguard. He’d been unable to help himself tonight. He’d basked in the light of Mary’s presence, in her trust and affection, soaking it up as if he had a right to do so.

  As if I have the right to fall in love with her.

  Admitting to himself that he’d fallen in love with her made him feel as if his insides had been rearranged. It had happened so gradually that he’d not realized he was cooked in the kettle until it was too late. Worse, he knew she returned the sentiment. Or at least she thought she loved him.

  The truth would break her heart.

  Every curse he knew in five languages crowded behind his teeth, all of them directed at himself. He’d thought to do this more slowly for her sake, to stitch up the gaping wound he’d given her and then, over time, withdraw bit by bit so it wouldn’t hurt her so much when the time finally came for them to part ways. He’d wanted to leave her free of bitterness and pain, but instead of easing away, he’d mired himself only more deeply.

  He should have known better than to attempt such a foolhardy endeavor. Such was his remorse that he could hardly bear it. The truth was that he’d sought her out again not just for her sake, but his own. He’d felt the sting of her absence, and he’d selfishly come back in order to assuage it. And now things were much, much worse.

  Though he knew it would end only in misery, Devlin knew what had to be done. He looked at her, at the h
ope and love shining in her beautiful eyes, and quailed. He couldn’t break her heart tonight, not here with her family looking on. Not here, in front of her friend.

  Coward. He didn’t bother refuting his conscience’s excruciatingly accurate conviction.

  Forcing a smile, he nodded as if he agreed with her. “Would that we could prevent the seasons’ turn so that it might always remain warm and bright.” A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed to ease it. “If I could, I would.”

  And in that moment, he truly meant it. If he could somehow permanently exchange lives with his twin, he would. He’d become the vicar of Harper’s Grove. He’d give up his riches, his notoriety, all of it, just to stay here with her.

  Her responding smile shook a little at the corners, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Saying nothing, she stood and walked over to the window. Taking up his cane, he followed, and as he approached saw her surreptitiously swipe at her cheeks.

  Damn me for a devil. Anger and self-loathing threatened to choke him with his own bile. He couldn’t do it now, but it needed to be done soon. Sunday. I’ll do it Sunday.

  Throughout the remainder of the evening, he tried to maintain the appearance of good cheer. With all his heart, he wished there was a way to tell her the truth—that he was Daniel’s twin, and that he’d fallen in love with her while perpetrating a terrible ruse—without causing a scandal that would end in her hating him and his brother being defrocked.

  If only Daniel had chosen to become anything but a priest!

  He had no choice but to perpetuate the lie. She must continue to believe he was Daniel, and in his brother’s guise he must reject her utterly. She’d be upset for a time. He’d be completely miserable. But his family would be safe.

  Smiling and holding polite conversation when all he wanted was to rage and hit inanimate objects grew increasingly difficult. Every time he looked at Mary, his chest felt like it was going to crack open and spill his beating heart out onto the floor.

  I wish I had no heart. For the longest time, he’d thought himself incapable of loving any female besides his mother and sister. But Mary Tomblin had found his heart and had somehow gotten inside it, and now he couldn’t displace her.

  For the rest of his life, he would love her. And for the rest of his life, he would live with regret.

  It’s what I deserve. This time, there was no escaping justice. He deserved to be alone and wretched, to feel the painful absence of the one he loved.

  She didn’t.

  He prayed, and for the first time in nearly a decade, he actually meant it. Silently, he prayed that she took his betrayal with as little pain as possible. Gritting his teeth, he prayed she found someone worthy of her heart and that it healed her of all injury. And he asked the Lord’s forgiveness, knowing it was likely to be the only forgiveness he’d receive for what he was going to have to do.

  When at last the evening was at a close, he left with fading smiles and false promises to return again.

  Saturday, he put a notice on the church door canceling Sunday’s services. That night, he absented himself from the vicarage and rode his brother’s horse to the nearest neighboring village to stay the night at an inn. Sunday he spent in bed staring at the ceiling.

  She was warm and safe in the embrace of her family, with no inkling of what was to come. For now, he could imagine her still happy. It wouldn’t sink in until later in the week, until he failed to acknowledge her in passing. Then, she would begin to understand.

  By the time he made it back to Harper’s Grove, it was Monday evening, and he was tired, angry, and desolate. He felt like a thief, sneaking into the vicarage under the cover of darkness.

  I am a thief. He’d stolen Mary’s heart. And now, he must break it.

  Sleep was long in the coming, and took him only after most of the remaining brandy was gone.

  Tuesday dawned grim and gray. Shutting the curtains and closing himself off from the world, he went about tidying the vicarage to burn off his anger and scrub away his despair. It didn’t work.

  He tried reading. But his mind kept going back to her. Finally, he tossed aside his book and finished off the last of the brandy. A knock at the door just before sunset went unanswered, despite the caller trying to raise him several times. He was afraid to peek through the curtains, afraid he’d see her standing there, afraid he’d not have the will to resist temptation. And so he stayed quiet until whoever it was went away.

  That night, pure mental exhaustion allowed him to fall asleep quickly, but his slumber was disturbed. Twice he awakened in a cold sweat, his heart racing. There was no brandy left to burn away his thoughts and dreams or grant him even temporary respite from his guilt.

  Time’s march was slow and relentless. Wednesday dawned. He stayed abed for several hours, his mind’s eye full of Mary. When he tired of self-torment, he hobbled downstairs. It was just as bad there with nothing to do but stare at the hearth, fiddle with the handle of his cane, and watch the fire convert wood to ash while he turned over memories of her, regretting words both said and unsaid.

  The light filtering in from around the drawn curtains waxed and waned.

  When the clock struck two, Devlin rose, washed, and dressed himself, eschewing the garb of his brother’s vocation in favor of a comfortable old sweater and trousers. He was done with wearing crow’s black, even if only for the day.

  The Harper’s Arms inn—or, more accurately, the pub it boasted—beckoned, and it was high time he stopped denying its siren song. There was no rule that said clergymen couldn’t have an occasional pint or two at a public house. If the lure of a good dark ale wasn’t enough of an incentive to draw him out of hiding, then he was weary unto death of his own company.

  Anything was preferable to being alone with his thoughts without the succor of liquid fortitude. Entering the establishment, he saw only a few men inside. Making his way up to the bar, he took a seat, set aside his cane, and fished a shilling out of his pocket. “A pint of your best bitter, if you please,” he told the barkeep quietly, plunking his money down on the polished wood. “And don’t bother making change. Just keep it coming until that’s finished—or I am.”

  At two pence a pint, he’d run out of sobriety long before he ran out of drink.

  Mr. Siskin’s brows rose. Devlin knew that for as long as the man had known Daniel, he’d only ever brought him a dish of whatever the inn was serving for dinner when he came in here. But Siskin held his tongue as he poured and then slid over a tall glass of deep amber ale with a nice head of froth on it.

  Thirsty, Devlin downed it, earning himself a surprised look from his nearest neighbor. He ignored it and tapped the empty glass for Mr. Siskin to refill.

  George’s piles, but it feels good to be an ordinary man again. Gone were the trappings of his false identity and along with them all burden of appearing pious. He was just a man, like any other.

  “Oh, I have a letter for you from London, Reverend,” said Siskin, eyeing him with open curiosity. After he filled the glass, he disappeared in back for a moment, and when he returned set before Devlin a letter bearing his own seal.

  The second pint went down more slowly, his mood improving with every sip he took and every line he read. Danny had done it; St. Peters had signed the contract! Such was his good cheer at this news that he took up the tune when a couple of the pub’s occupants broke into song. They welcomed him with broad grins and hearty slaps on the back, and by the time the third pint began making its way down his throat, he was feeling positively optimistic.

  All would work out as it ought.

  This time when his glass emptied, he called for a brandy instead of another ale. An hour later, he sent his new friends off to their homes in the best of cheer. He’d made a man-to-man connection with the men of the village today that he felt could only benefit his dear brother when he returned.

  Daniel. The thou
ght of his twin coming home left Devlin ambivalent. Before he could explore any of those feelings too deeply, he tapped his glass for yet another refill, determined to drown the gnawing, empty sensation in his chest with more brandy. But Mr. Siskin answered with a regretful shake of his head. Devlin dug down into his pockets and found naught but a handkerchief. Then he remembered he’d spent his last coin to buy the previous round for his new friends.

  Sighing, he nodded thanks to the barkeep and slid off his stool. For a moment, he found himself bewildered at how unsteady he was—until he remembered his injured leg and found his cane. Then he realized it wasn’t just his leg that was making him unsteady.

  Time to go. Before anyone else comes in and discovers their “vicar” in such a state. He tried to remember how much he’d had to drink. It couldn’t have been that much, considering he’d had only a half crown and a couple of shillings in his pocket when he’d arrived, and a good deal of that had gone down other men’s throats.

  The sun was westering, but nowhere near the horizon, as he hobbled unsteadily out into the light. Cold nipped at his face and hands, helping diminish the effects of the drink, though not nearly enough to recall sobriety. His head ached—almost as much as his heart.

  “Self-reflection and drinking is a bad combination, Dev,” he muttered to himself. The longer he stayed in Harper’s Grove, the more mistakes he seemed to make. Getting drunk with a bunch of farmers was just another in a long line.

  His head spun as he stumbled up to the door of his brother’s house. When he opened it, warmth hit him in the face, and he felt his stomach churn.

  Water. He needed water. Cold water. Fumbling his way around the side of the house, he found the pump and brushed off the thin layer of snow blanketing it.

  …

  Mary was just passing the church on her way home from a visit with Augie, when she heard a stream of profanity issuing from around the corner, where lay the vicarage. The voice sounded just like Reverend Wayward’s—but surely he would not utter such blasphemy?