Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  • • •

  Jessica avoided the yellow rose garden. She chose, instead, the small herb patch beyond the kitchen for her sojourn into the brisk twilight. Her midnight blue slippers pinched her little toes, so she kicked them off, and removed her stockings.

  Her feet had become sensitive to the tiniest pebbles, no longer toughened to the abuse of briars and stones. Rather than tromping around the meager space, she propped herself against the wall of the cistern, set her shoes and stockings on the ledge, and crossed her arms over her middle curling into herself.

  An ant on his way back to his hill, took a shortcut over her foot. Drowsily, she saw him stop. She yelped when he stung her, dusted him off, then laughed at the insect’s unmitigated gall. Had he thought to kill her with one sting, making him hero of the colony?

  “He showed poor judgment,” she muttered to the closing darkness. “One should devise a plan and summon an army before such an ambitious undertaking.” She wondered if, in the ant’s position, humans would be as bold. Would an ambitious man recruit allies to guarantee success? Had Devlin’s enemies united to overcome him?

  She must discuss it with someone, but who?

  The urgency diminished a day later with the abrupt departure of Lattie and his two friends.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the ladies made afternoon calls, the dowager was subtle, introducing her protégé and mentioning the dowry the duke had placed behind “this dear, lovely, creature.” She spoke of the dowry only to her close friends, careful to do so within the hearing of select members of their staffs — particularly those known to have a penchant for gossip.

  Also, she let mention of dowry slip at the dressmaker’s, disregarding ladies eavesdropping from the next fitting room.

  Jessica’s wardrobe was not completed before she began receiving invitations from single men — young and old — for carriage rides in the park, and other off-season events, properly chaperoned, of course.

  More curious than flattered by the flurry of attention, Jessica sought Devlin’s advice when they met incidentally in the library one morning as Patterson supervised the arrangement of new books on shelves there.

  “Is your mother weary of me that she tries to auction me to every household with an eligible male?”

  His eyesight present for most of each day now, Devlin saw the perplexity in her lovely face and was scarcely able to keep himself from telling her not to pucker that captivating mouth. His restraint did not extend to denying himself entirely and he opened his arms.

  Neither of them seemed to retain any memory of the tutoring session in the yellow rose garden. She looked to assure Patterson remained in the room before she sidled to the duke like an obedient pup and, like that soulful whelp, wriggled close.

  Devlin thought his affliction was almost worth the closeness he and this young woman had achieved in past weeks, particularly since his blindness wasn’t permanent. He wanted to tell her his sight was almost fully restored. Now, perhaps, might be a good time.

  “You look lovely,” he began.

  She snuggled closer. “I saw you watching me at supper last night.”

  “I have been able to see with very little lapse for the last two days.”

  She tilted her head back to look into his face. “You do mean see. You don’t mean with your fingers?”

  He returned her gaze, diving into the shimmering pools as her trusting eyes stared into his with genuine concern.

  “No, darling, I mean my sight apparently has returned.”

  She had prayed for this day, and dreaded it, too.

  She pushed out of his embrace, and withdrew several paces. He saw her turmoil.

  “That is wonderful,” she whispered. “Truly it is.” Her forced fervor turned to anguish. She swallowed, an obvious effort to get control of volatile emotions. “Although it is wonderful, the return of your sight is devastating; for me, I mean. Nor may it bode well for you entirely.”

  She shot a quick glance at Patterson, who did not seem to be paying any attention to them. Her expressions changed comically. Devlin couldn’t help smiling at her distress as she stammered. “I mean of course, it is the answer to all our prayers.” Her voice dropped. “Truly it is.” She kept blinking as if she could not see clearly.

  “Nightingale, it does not have to change our arrangement. You may continue living with the dowager and me, here and at Gull’s Way.” He reached for her shoulders, thinking physical contact would help convey the sincerity of his message.

  She shrugged out of his grasp and lowered her voice. “Devlin, hear me.” Her voice rose as she spoke, frantically reeling out a confused tale of a shadowy figure she thought was Peter Fry walking with Martha at Gull’s Way the night before the maid’s violent death. Jessica was more definite in naming Fry as the man she saw in Welter riding with John Lout and his minions.

  “I think Fry hired John Lout to attack you on the road that night, perhaps even to murder you.”

  Devlin cast her a disbelieving look. “What reason would Fry have to do such a thing?”

  It was just as she thought. He didn’t give her theory credence. “Perhaps to provide Lattimore your title.”

  He began shaking his head, his expression concerned, as if she had taken leave of her senses. Desperate to convince him, she stammered, which made her sound addled, even to her. “I thought possibly Lattimore was involved, that he might have asked Fry to hire John to perform the awful deed.”

  Devlin regarded her strangely as she spun what he obviously considered a fanciful tale. Frantic to lend credibility to her account, she continued.

  “It was Bear who discovered how much influence Fry wields over Lattimore. Devlin, the man holds gaming vouchers from your brother in the amount of eight hundred pounds. With that amount of leverage, he could have coerced Lattie into attempts against you to give him the wherewithal to pay that outrageous debt.”

  Devlin’s look of incredulity deepened again as she hurried on.

  “Fry may plan to manipulate your brother, if he can give Lattimore the title.”

  Telling him all this was breaking her heart, suggesting his own brother might be responsible for an attack that might have left him permanently injured, if not dead. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, struggling to maintain her composure. “Don’t you see, if I’m right, you are in mortal danger.”

  He saw her fear, but considered it as he would the bleating of a kitten trapped in a tree. The indulgent smile that broke over his face only fueled her despair.

  “Darling, darling child.” He clasped her shoulders and stared down into her face. “First, contrary to your opinion, eight hundred pounds is not a significant sum of money.”

  “Not to you, maybe, but certainly to John Lout and even to Peter Fry. Perhaps to your own brother, it may be … ”

  “Shhh, shhh.” He tried to pull her close, but she put her hands on his chest and stiffened her arms. He let her prevail, holding his position. “You have let bits and pieces of would-be evidence spur your imagination into fanciful theories.”

  She blinked, but try as she might, she could not stop the tears. They ran down her cheeks. Her voice quivered and broke. “Your life is in … danger. I must … I simply must … make you see your peril.” She grabbed the front his coat. “You must believe me.”

  Patterson turned a curious look, then returned to his cataloguing of books as if Jessica’s angst and Devlin’s cool responses were matters of indifference.

  “Darling, you are overwrought,” Devlin crooned. “Is the return of my sight what has brought all this on? My being able to see again can be a good thing, my lamb, for all of us. You do not have to conjure up imaginary danger to stay. You may continue living with the dowager and me, searching for an appropriate match or a respectable position.”

  She wilted, as if
a pin had been inserted, releasing her courage, her determination and her energy all in one whoosh.

  “Devlin, please,” she whispered.

  He swallowed his smile. Maybe he should take more serious note of her concerns. It was probably insensitive of him to dismiss them without at least pretending they could have merit.

  He tugged her shoulders, but she staunchly refused to let him hold her. She appeared to have lost control of her emotions as she stood there, nose and eyes dripping like well-primed pumps.

  Studying her, he felt flattered. Her distress seemed centered on regard for his safety. That was the illuminating aspect of this discussion. Perhaps he could comfort her best by reminding her that he was no longer vulnerable to unseen attacks. With sight, he could defend himself ably, as he had all his life. The next step, of course, was to convince her that Lattimore had never aspired to the title.

  He might have better success if he answered each of her accusations calmly, one at a time.

  “Let’s sit down over here,” he offered, indicating the pair of high-backed chairs across the room and, perhaps, out of Patterson’s hearing.

  Having dissolved into sniffling and blowing her nose into dainty handkerchiefs, Jessica moved reluctantly as Devlin nudged her toward the chairs.

  “First, dear one, I suspect John Lout and his ragamuffin cohorts are the ones who attacked me on the road that night.”

  “What?”

  He nudged her into the chair and put a footstool under her feet.

  She sat stiffly. “Robbery on the highway is a capital offense, is it not?”

  “Yes, but Lout’s involvement is conjecture on my part. I have no proof.”

  She bowed her head over clasped hands, relieved and troubled. “You would not bring charges anyway, would you, against the man to whom I am betrothed?”

  “Your alleged betrothal to John Lout is altogether another matter and will demand its own thrashing out at another time.” He waited for her to agree before he continued.

  “My second point on the subject is my younger brother has little ambition and absolutely no desire for any responsibilities other than seeing to his own amusements. Lattie’s greatest aim in life is to enjoy himself and provide entertainment for his mates. Your intuition told you as much on your first meeting. You said he reminded you of your father and brother as you cast aspersions on all too-handsome men. I remember the sting of those words, implying you did not consider me attractive enough to qualify.”

  She sputtered to come up with an explanation, but he held up a hand to prevent her. “The point is, I do not believe Lattie considers either you or me a threat to his goals.”

  Disregarding his hand, she said, “Certainly I am no threat to him. He assumes my greatest ambition is to be a maid in a fine house.”

  “I doubt he envisions you as anything so lowly as that.” He liked the fact he was coaxing her away from her dark imaginings. “You would be a gifted governess, Jessica, not only meting out information, but infecting children with your verve for life; with your optimism and energy.

  “As an alternative, you may choose to marry one of the swains inundating our home with invitations and flowers and poetic declarations of undying devotion.”

  She looked stricken and struggled to stand, stepping around the small stool at her feet and keeping beyond Devlin’s reach.

  “I must return to Welter, Your Grace, to my mother, my birds … my life.” Her voice caught. “And leave you to yours.”

  He, too, stood, but did not step toward her. “Dearest, you have a new life now. It is here, for the time being at least, with the Lady Anne and me.”

  “I cannot stay here and watch you … ”

  “I am going to continue as I always have, Jessica, seeing to my own needs and those of people I love.” Suddenly the prospect of life without his Nightingale seemed real and bleak. “No one has evil intentions toward me. You will neither endanger yourself, nor be a threat to me, by staying.” His voice took on volume and authority. “You belong here, Jessica.” He sounded more desperate than he wanted. To dispel the urgency, he lowered his voice. “You are part of our lives now, and we of yours.”

  “Devlin, did you think to recreate me? To empty my mind of my family, my experiences and memories, and refill it with frocks and sweet-smelling baths and vapid people? Did you think to expunge my true responsibilities?”

  Her lack of gratitude — her entire attitude — had begun to grate. Devlin kept his arms at his sides by sheer force of will. “Now, see here, Jessica, I like to think I rescued you from the mire of a destitute existence, dusted you off, outfitted you with lovely clothing and presented you into the bright sunlight of my world, reborn.”

  “Think again, Your Grace. It was not you who rescued me. I was the savior whose efforts linked our lives, if you will recall.”

  She could see his temper rising in the flush of his face, yet she felt no regret for speaking the truth.

  “I see,” he said, the words clipped as the muscles in his jaws flexed. “So all the time you have been here, you have pined for that other existence. No wonder you fought the bit like a foppish colt. You were eager to get on with the business of mucking up after a bunch of misbegotten hens, catering to a mother who relies on fictitious ailments for attention, pining for John Lout, and continuing in service to a scoundrel like Maxwell. All of that should be clear to me, now that I have my sight.”

  Jessica’s eyes rounded and he could almost imagine steam coming off the top of her head, venting the anger about to detonate within. He retreated a step, uncertain about the explosive potential of his companion’s wrath. At the same time, he was acutely aware of his eyesight growing more distinct. Colors became more vivid with the heightening tenor of their exchange.

  Her voice seethed with contempt. “I don’t know why I concern myself for you, Devlin Miracle. You are a vain, useless bit of fluff, very like a bright feather atop a lady’s hat. Your entire existence has no more significance than a bit of frippery.”

  He lunged for her, but she sidestepped, staying beyond his grasp as she continued, her words spewing venomously. “What good do you perform anyway? You have so much,” she swept a hand indicating the expensive accoutrements in the library, “yet what effort do you make toward the good of common men and women? You have a wealth of talents. God has blessed you richly. Yet, what benefit is any of it to Him or to His creation? What contribution do you make?”

  She glanced about startled that she had worked herself into a corner. As Devlin closed on her, he raised a hand. She ducked, as if expecting him to strike her. He propped that raised hand on the mantle and froze in place, glaring at her, his face flushed, his free hand fisted at his side.

  “How can you shrink from me? Have I ever, ever given you cause to cower from me?” With the flinch, she had offended him more deeply than either of them thought possible.

  “How can you speak to me in that tone or accuse me of doing no good, when you have reaped every benefit I have been able to bestow upon you? How, when you have been closer to me than anyone has ever been? You have been cherished. You’ve seen the work I do, the effort I make to benefit commerce every day?”

  Her temper answered his. “Your efforts add more wealth to your coffers, but you do not care about people or their lives. You deny the members of your household the one greatest compliment you could bestow, as limited, as crippled as you are by your own conceit.”

  “What compliment?”

  She dropped her voice as if the point were too important to be shouted. “How long has Patterson been in your employ?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “How long?”

  “He worked for my father and my uncle before him. Patterson has been here longer than I have. The man has been like another father to me.”

  Her voice was barely a whi
sper. She shot a glance at Patterson, who was midway up a library ladder and appeared to be completely absorbed in his work and oblivious to their conversation. “This man whom you consider as close to you as blood kin, can you tell me his first name?”

  A deadly silence settled over the room.

  A stray voice from above startled them both. “Tims, Your Grace. My Christian name is Tims.”

  The man, supervisor of all the workings of Gull’s Way, the townhouse in London and every other estate held by the Duke of Fornay, gave Jessica a withering frown as he descended the ladder. “There has been no occasion for the master to know my familiar name, Miss. The noblemen in this family and I have long honored our respective stations. I, for one, prefer it that way.”

  Duly chastised, Jessica ducked her head, slipped past the duke, darted by Patterson into the hall and flew up the stairs. Both men watched her departure in somber silence.

  Jessica scarcely hesitated as she reached a decision. It propelled her along the second floor hallway, down the back stairs, through the kitchen, and out.

  • • •

  Arriving at the stablemen’s quarters, Jessica knocked on the door. Moments later, she asked Latch, who opened the door, to summon Bear. She needed to speak with him.

  When Bear appeared, she motioned him to follow.

  “Devlin’s sight has returned,” she began and her dreary visage defeated the older man’s joy. “He may go to his club to celebrate. I am afraid for him. I fear the thieves who beat him before may not be thieves at all, but friends, maybe even family. I fear they want him dead and his authority in other hands.”

  She stopped short of suggesting a course of action. Peering at her down his bulbous nose, Bear nodded. “I’ll see to it, Miss. I’ll keep ’im safe. Don’t fret yerself.”

  “Bear, suspect everybody, particularly Peter Fry. I’m almost certain I saw the man in Welter, riding with John Lout and his friends. He may have been the father of Martha’s baby. Perhaps he could be the person who murdered her. I suspect Fry initiated the attack on Devlin. There may be others involved, more influential men who commissioned him. Maybe Marcus Hardwick as well. Fry could even have been acting on orders from … from … someone closer to the duke. A man who has far more to gain from Devlin’s demise than Fry.”