Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  “Dolan, Yer Grace. Michael Dolan.”

  “How long have you been employed here, Dolan?”

  “Goin’ on eleven years, Yer Grace.”

  Devlin nodded. “Does Lady Jessica know your name, Dolan?”

  “Aye, she does. She calls me Mike.”

  “For how long?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When did she begin calling you by your Christian name?”

  Still at that time sightless, the duke had heard a grin in the man’s tone. “The second day she was here, Yer Grace.” The lightness of his manner dropped to a groan as if the man had been brought up short by something he saw in the duke’s expression.

  “Oh, it ain’t just me. She calls everyone on the place by their given name, from the boys mucking out the barns, to the scullery gels in the kitchen. She knows little things about ever’ one of us, just like she knew about Mr. Fagin’s finger yesterday, not an hour after it happened.” At the duke’s glowering silence, Dolan continued. “The one he cut off which was the reason she decided he had need of the poultice.”

  “I see.” The duke made an effort to relax his pinched expression.

  Dolan’s voice lifted as he seemed to develop sudden insight. “What ye’r asking, Yer Grace, is that we treat her gentle like without telling her ye’r the one ordered it done?”

  “I believe that would be best, Dolan. Yes.”

  “That may not always be easy to do, Yer Grace.”

  On that day, Devlin had walked away muttering to himself. “An observation worthy of an Oxford man schooled in the humanities.”

  Distracted by his own thoughts at the otherwise empty dining table, Devlin rose before he finished his second course and went upstairs to dress. Now that he had regained his sight, he could spend the evening, as he did before, at his club. He felt oddly indifferent at the prospect.

  By her absence, was Jessica punishing him for forbidding her attendance at Benoits? He didn’t consider her a vindictive woman. Pondering that, he hoped in his soul that she was not.

  Why had his mother taken her meal in her room as well? Certainly she was not vindictive. Sometimes, however, she tried to enlighten him by making a point with her behavior.

  He consoled himself with the thought that the ladies would remain in residence this night, thus, though his method might seem harsh, he had succeeded in foiling the attempt to kidnap his Nightingale.

  • • •

  Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, received a warm welcome at Dracks that evening. Many of those greeting him with rare enthusiasm quickly managed to guide the topic of conversation to the matter of his ward.

  Had he received many offers for her? Had he narrowed the field? When did he think he might announce her betrothal?

  He found their eagerness disconcerting and took sanctuary at a table of whist until Marcus Hardwick, Lattie’s friend, strolled in shortly after ten.

  “Avoiding the tables, Miracle?” Hardwick asked, his tone taunting.

  “I find whist more relaxing.”

  “I am glad your brother has a more adventurous nature, of which I am a regular beneficiary.”

  Devlin smiled as the game concluded and his partner tallied the score. “Do you and Lattie gamble seriously?”

  “Whimsically, Your Grace. On everything, from roaches racing the floor at Malloy’s Pub, to which latecomer will order brandy.”

  “How does he fare?”

  “Not well. He pays off regularly. Fry, on the other hand, prefers to accumulate Lattie’s vouchers. He holds nearly one thousand pounds of Lattie’s markers.”

  Devlin’s light mood darkened. “Why has Fry not demanded payment?”

  “He likes having Lattie obligated to him. Here, now, will you join me at the bar? I’ll buy you a drink and we can discuss my friend’s foibles in greater detail.”

  Curious, Devlin agreed, but once at the bar, Hardwick promptly opened the conversation by rhapsodizing about … Jessica.

  Doubly annoyed, Devlin gulped his brandy. “Good God, man, is every bachelor in London enthralled with one thin eighteen-year-old female?”

  “To a man.” Hardwick appeared pleased at the question. “You would have seen the nauseating fact with your own eyes if you had been at Benoits tonight when she arrived wearing that … ”

  “WHAT?” Devlin’s bellow drew startled looks from those at the bar and even a couple of curious fellows who glanced in from other rooms. Veins suddenly grew noticeable at his neck and temples. “You have seen her tonight? Out?”

  Hardwick looked bewildered as he nodded, and retreated a step. “Yes.”

  “At Benoits? You are saying you saw her there with your own eyes?”

  Hardwick studied his friend’s brother curiously. “Yes, but she was well-chaperoned, old man. Your mother was at her side.”

  “WHAT?”

  The amiable man-about-town eased back another pace, but the move proved unnecessary as the duke trembled in what appeared a devilish contest to bring himself under control. Devlin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles popped, and his fists clenched until he pivoted and executed a determined march to the exit. The expression on his face made the barman shiver involuntarily. Rumors buzzed as gentlemen asked one another and Hardwick what had prompted the duke’s relapse into temper.

  Hardwick replayed each word of their conversation. Men pulled writing materials from their pockets and began jotting wagers. Shortly thereafter, Dracks was virtually deserted as occupants, young and old, left for Benoits, whether they had been invited or not.

  People in society had commented on how Devlin’s fabled temper had mellowed following his temporary blindness. Some speculated that God had struck him blind specifically to bridle that tempestuous side of him. Others suggested it was the lady Jessica’s quiet manner that had brought him to heel. There were other theories along the pendulum’s swing between those two extremes.

  When Lattimore and his company entered Dracks moments after the place emptied, the barkeep stared at the duke’s younger brother, prompting the nobleman to interrupt a ribald story being told by one of his party.

  “What’s going on?” Lattimore asked, glancing through doorways at the nearly empty rooms.

  “The duke just raged out of here.”

  “Devlin?” Lattie’s expression sharpened. “What set him off?”

  The barkeep stopped wiping a tankard. “The way I understand it, he and the baron, Marcus Hardwick, were discussing the girl.”

  Lattie nodded. “Jessica,” he said, prodding. “What about her?”

  “Nothing at all. Hardwick said something about how well she looked when she arrived tonight at Benoits … ”

  Lattimore Miracle’s eyes rounded and he laughed knowingly as he turned and bolted toward the exit scrambling his entourage.

  “You’ve gone and done it again,” a straggler said, speaking to the barkeep. As they stared at one another, their faces twisted in puzzlement. Raising his voice the straggler called loudly at Lattimore’s back. “Lattie, my boy, where are you going?”

  Without missing a step or muffling his rousing good humor, Lattie shouted back, “To prevent a throttling.”

  The remaining members clustered and their voices rose as they speculated on his meaning.

  Mystified, definitely intrigued, more club members moved to the exit, calling to footmen and runners at the door, summoning carriages. Something was about to erupt at Benoits and they wanted to be there to give an accurate account when asked to bear witness later.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jessica enjoyed being the most sought-after young lady in attendance. She was hard-pressed to understand why she felt haunted by a sense of doom.

  Her foreboding worsened when Peter Fry stepped up to claim his dance. She went reluctantly to
his arms, wondering at his reason for asking Lady Anne for a place on Jessica’s card.

  “Why did you insist we dance, Mr. Fry?”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. I know about your connection with John Lout and with Martha, the housemaid at Gull’s Way who was,” she lowered her voice, “murdered by the nobleman whose babe she carried.”

  “You believe I am that man?”

  “Possibly. Yes.”

  “I am not. You are wrong. Have you voiced those wild assertions to anyone else? If so, I shall charge you with slandering my good name.”

  “If your name were good before, it might come away from such a hearing tainted indeed.”

  His fingers bit into her waist and she winced, unable to break free of his hold.

  “She was a simple country girl,” he said, “not a woman who mattered.”

  “She mattered to me.”

  “You, my dear, share her lack of consequence, yet you will soon be wed and beyond my concern.”

  “I may wed someday, but I shall remain aware of your activities, Mr. Fry.”

  “Then perhaps I should get rid of you the old-fashioned way.”

  “Murder me as you did poor, dear Martha? I think not.” Her words reflected an assurance she did not feel.

  “I have friends, Miss Blair, who would gladly assist should your death become necessary.”

  “Lattimore might add his own accusations rather than aid in your defense, Mr. Fry.”

  Fry gave a wicked laugh. “Lattie is in no position to oppose me. I hold his vouchers. One reminder brings him to my side. I can ruin Lattimore Miracle by demanding payment in full of what he owes me, and he is finished.”

  “Is that why you want Lattimore to have the title? Because you hold his markers and think them enough to control him?”

  “You obviously lack proper appreciation for the power of money or the peerage, Miss Blair. You have fooled many who suppose you wiser than you are. In truth, you are more of a nuisance than an obstruction. I have a plan to see you gone.”

  “Devlin might not deal kindly if you murder me.”

  “Nothing so dramatic. My plan is underway. When you realize what has transpired, remember to credit me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The music ended and Fry turned her toward the terrace displaying tender attention, as if they spoke of pleasant things rather than murder. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s take some air.”

  She yanked hard to pull free of Fry’s grasp, determined not to go anywhere with the man, and spun about directly into the arms of Donald Preston, the younger son of one of Lady Anne’s close friends. A large, muscular fellow, Mr. Preston decisively pulled her into his possession.

  “I believe I have the next set.” Preston spoke quietly, but his eyes conveyed another message to Peter Fry, quelling the fellow’s plans. Fry shrugged, threw a meaningful glare at Jessica, and stepped aside. She went weak with relief.

  In the ladies’ retiring room later, Jessica stared at her reflection in the mirror and wondered about her premonition. Something seemed to be charging the air. Possibly it had to do with Peter Fry. If some plan of his truly were in motion, she needed to be vigilant.

  Eerily, the candles in the chandelier overhead flickered with the door opening and closing as ladies entered and left the fore chamber and, as they did, an image of Devlin’s face spiraled among the reflections. If only he were here. He wouldn’t be, of course. Her own presence at Benoits was defiance of his order. He probably had forgotten that ridiculous edict as soon as it was issued and he received benefit of its effect. He was only flexing his manly muscle, demonstrating his domination over women in his household. The declaration was too arbitrary to have been of actual consequence.

  In spite of tales shared by the household staff, Jessica had seen little of the duke’s infamous temper, certainly nothing she could not quell, if she needed to do so.

  Patterson went so far as to say His Grace’s close call with death or permanent injury had given him new humility and had made him a gentler man.

  Others in the household suggested Devlin had become a dullard in comparison with his earlier, rowdier self. Recently, they said, instead of being the prowling predator of old, he had become as tame as a house cat.

  As two women her age, new acquaintances, prepared to leave the withdrawing room, Jessica dismissed her scowl in the mirror, put an errant curl back in place, and joined them.

  She was dancing by the time voices in the ballroom heightened with new excitement. Circling the floor in the rather limp embrace of a sweet, elderly contemporary of Lady Anne’s, Jessica looked around to determine the cause of the uproar.

  All eyes trailed to two tall, rather attractive men. Jessica assumed they were two of the older, sought-after bachelors who usually avoided preseason balls to avoid the sometimes noisy attentions of young ladies anticipating their first season.

  Both of the new arrivals were attractive, she supposed, but hardly worth the attention they received. Neither compared with either of the dowager’s sons. Jessica sobered as she realized that, in her opinion, both Lattie and Devlin set a high mark other men rarely approached.

  The younger swains, like the novice ladies, new to the heady atmosphere of the ton and its social intercourse, lacked the sophistication and practiced boredom of the older gentlemen.

  Murmuring swelled with other new arrivals. Jessica didn’t bother looking. The additions likely would be surrounded by doting females, fans aflutter, at first. She could join the gawking later.

  As the musicians ended the selection and Jessica’s partner escorted her back to the dowager, she was aware of people looking at them. She blushed, suddenly self-conscious, as people nearby grew quiet and stared her direction.

  Turning, she found herself looking down a human corridor, at the far end of which was a pair of ominous sapphire eyes staring at her from a face she nearly did not recognize. A second look verified: Devlin.

  As people greeted him congenially, he glided along the makeshift corridor, looking neither right nor left, never shifting his menacing stare from Jessica’s face.

  She attempted a smile, but the effort wavered at his unyielding glower. What could possibly be wrong? She reached for the old earl, might have taken his arm, but he had melted into the crowd. Looking at Devlin’s face, Jessica wished she might do the same, and vanish among the bystanders.

  Men loitering nearby laughed nervously. Ladies pulled fans in front of their faces and giggled. Even the musicians held silent, emphasizing the murmurings of the onlookers.

  Seeing no escape, Jessica stood paralyzed as Devlin’s jaws tightened and his lips thinned.

  When he loomed, towering over her, he stopped, so close she could feel his breath brushing the curls about her face.

  “Would you care to dance?” His voice was strained.

  “The next is promised to … ” She could not look at her card, unable to elude his gaze for even a brief glance.

  “He won’t mind.”

  “You are certain?”

  He nodded, his countenance grim. “Quite.”

  To her horror, the musicians struck up a waltz, requiring partners to be close.

  Devlin’s right hand slipped about her waist, gathering her roughly as his left caught her right too tightly.

  “You do not realize your own strength, Your Grace.”

  “And you, my dear, do not realize your own peril.”

  As his mother hurried to intervene, other couples moved onto the floor and Devlin swept Jessica into a turn which might have thrust her from him, if he had not held her almost indecently close.

  “Mrs. Conifer says it is not seemly, Your Grace, for a man to hold a woman thus.”

  She could have sworn steam issued from his ear
s. “Consider yourself fortunate that I am not behaving in an even more unseemly manner, my darling, and wringing your swanlike little neck.”

  “What?”

  “Do you pretend you did not understand my order that you were not to attend this affair?”

  Jessica tried to twist out of his grasp, but Devlin pressed their bodies closer in a convincing demonstration of his superior strength and, perhaps, proprietorship.

  Her anger piqued, Jessica gritted her teeth and, with the next step, brought an expensive heel down hard on Devlin’s foot. His biceps bulged against her breast as he lifted her feet from the floor and put his mouth against her ear. “If it’s combat you want, perhaps we should retire to the terrace where there will be more space and fewer witnesses.”

  Before she could respond, he lowered her feet back to the floor, clamped her arm in a viselike grip, turned and nudged her along ahead of him toward the terrace doors.

  As they stepped into the darkness and out of the sight of astonished observers, she yanked her arm from his hold and doubled her fists. “I will not be treated like this.” Her voice carried, drawing curious stares from onlookers attempting to follow the couple outside.

  Devlin flashed a hard look at bystanders and followers alike, which seemed to quench their interest and encourage them to drift quickly down the steps into the garden or retreat into the ballroom.

  “Treated like what?” he asked, his voice a low hiss. “Like a scullery maid? No, I forget myself, you had not achieved that, had you? You were a scullery maid’s assistant, were you not?”

  She stared at him, cut by his tone as well as the hurtful words. Although she occasionally alluded to her lowly status, he had never before done so.

  “At least servants treat one another civilly,” she countered. “Common folks see one another clearly, unlike the nobility,” she fairly spat the last two words, “who strut about pretending to be superior, as if human beings born without titles are somehow of less value. Even the most devoted servants are invisible to members of the ton.”

  Devlin looked as if he had been slapped. “At this moment, I wish to heaven you had remained invisible to me.”