Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

  She had the look of someone who had been nurtured: educated and well dressed. Someone who had always been lovingly sheltered. But there was a shadow in her gaze . . . the knowledge that there were some things no human being could be protected from.

  God, those eyes . . . light gray, with striations like the rays of tiny stars.

  When she smiled, West had felt a hot tug deep inside his chest. But immediately after he’d introduced himself, her winsome smile had faded, as if she’d just woken from a lovely dream into a far less pleasant reality.

  Turning to her son, Lady Clare gently smoothed a cowlick at the crown of his dark head. “Justin, we have to rejoin the rest of the family.”

  “But I’m going to play marbles with Mr. Ravenel,” the boy protested.

  “Not with all the guests arriving,” she countered. “This poor gentleman has much to do. We’re going to settle in our rooms.”

  Justin frowned. “Do I have to stay in the nursery? With the babies?”

  “Darling, you’re four years old—”

  “Almost five!”

  Her lips quirked. There was a wealth of interest and empathy in the gaze she bent on her small son. “You may stay in my room, if you like,” she offered.

  The child was appalled by the suggestion. “I can’t sleep in your room,” he said indignantly.

  “Why not?”

  “People might think we were married!”

  West concentrated on a distant spot on the floor, struggling to hold back a laugh. When he was able, he took a steadying breath and risked a glance at Lady Clare. To his secret delight, she appeared to be considering the point as if it were entirely valid.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I suppose it will have to be the nursery, then. Shall we go look for Nanny and Stephen?”

  The boy heaved a sigh and reached up for her hand. Looking up at West, he explained, “Stephen is my baby brother. He can’t talk, and he smells like rotten turtles.”

  “Not all the time,” Lady Clare protested.

  Justin only shook his head, as if the point weren’t worth debating.

  Charmed by the easy communication between the two, West couldn’t help comparing it to the stilted exchanges he’d had with his own mother, who had always seemed to regard her offspring as if they were someone else’s children who were bothering her.

  “There are far worse smells than a baby brother,” West told the boy. “Sometime during your visit, I’ll show you the foulest-smelling thing on the estate home farm.”

  “What is it?” Justin demanded in excitement.

  West grinned at him. “You’ll have to wait to find out.”

  Looking troubled, Lady Clare said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Ravenel, but we won’t hold you to that promise. I’m sure you’ll be quite busy. We wouldn’t wish to impose.”

  More surprised than offended by the refusal, West replied slowly, “As you wish, my lady.”

  Seeming relieved, she curtsied gracefully and whisked her son away as if they were escaping something.

  Baffled, West stared after her. This wasn’t the first time a highly respectable woman had given him the cold shoulder. But it was the first time it had ever stung.

  Lady Clare must know about his reputation. His past had been rife with more episodes of debauchery and drunkenness than most men under the age of thirty could ever hope to claim. He could hardly blame Lady Clare for wanting to keep her impressionable child away from him. God knew he would never want to be responsible for ruining a fledgling human being.

  Sighing inwardly, West resigned himself to keeping his mouth shut and avoiding Challons during the next few days. Which wouldn’t be easy, since the house was bloody full of them. After the newly wedded couple’s departure, the bridegroom’s family would stay on for at least three or four more days. The duke and duchess intended to take advantage of the opportunity to spend time with some old friends and acquaintances in Hampshire. There would be luncheons, dinners, excursions, parties, picnics, and long nights of parlor entertainments and conversation.

  Naturally all this would have to take place at the beginning of summer, when the estate farms were in a ferment of activity. At least the work gave West a justifiable reason to spend most of his time away from the house. And as far from Lady Clare as possible.

  “Why are you standing here dumbfloundering?” a female voice demanded.

  Torn from his thoughts, West glanced down at his pretty dark-haired cousin, Lady Pandora Ravenel.

  Pandora was an unconventional girl: impulsive, intelligent, and usually filled with more energy than she seemed able to manage. Of all three Ravenel sisters, she had been the least likely to marry the most eligible bachelor in England. However, it spoke well of Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent, that he was able to appreciate her. In fact, from all accounts, St. Vincent had gone head over heels for her.

  “Is there something you’d like me to do?” West asked Pandora blandly.

  “Yes, I want to introduce you to my fiancé, so you can tell me what you think of him.”

  “Sweetheart, St. Vincent is the heir to a dukedom, with a large fortune at his disposal. I already find him wildly enchanting.”

  “I saw you talking to his sister, Lady Clare, just now. She’s a widow. You should court her before someone else snaps her up.”

  West’s mouth curled in a humorless smile at the suggestion. He might have an illustrious family name, but he had neither fortune nor lands of his own. Moreover, the shadow of his former life was inescapable. Here in Hampshire, he’d made a new start among people who didn’t give a rag for London society gossip. But to the Challons, he was a man of ruined character. A ne’er-do-well.

  And Lady Clare was the ultimate prize: young, wealthy, beautiful, the widowed mother of an heir to a viscountcy and a landed estate. Every eligible man in England would pursue her.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Courting sometimes has the unpleasant side effect of marriage.”

  “But you’ve said before that you’d like to see the house filled with children.”

  “Yes, other people’s children. Since my brother and his wife are ably supplying the world with more Ravenels, I’m off the hook.”

  “Still, I think you should at least become acquainted with Phoebe.”

  “Is that her name?” West asked with reluctant interest.

  “Yes, after a cheerful little songbird that lives in the Americas.”

  “The woman I just met,” West said, “is not a cheerful little songbird.”

  “Lord St. Vincent says Phoebe is affectionate and even a bit flirtiddly by nature, but she still feels the loss of her husband very deeply.”

  West tried his best to maintain an indifferent silence. In a moment, however, he couldn’t resist asking, “What did he die of?”

  “A kind of wasting disease. The doctors could never agree on a diagnosis.” Pandora paused as she saw arriving guests funneling into the entrance hall. She tugged West toward the space beneath the grand staircase, her voice lowering as she continued. “Lord Clare was ill since the day he was born. He suffered dreadful stomach pains, fatigue, headaches, heart palpitations . . . he was intolerant to most kinds of food and could hardly keep anything down. They tried every possible treatment, but nothing helped.”

  “Why would a duke’s daughter marry a lifelong invalid?” West asked, puzzled.

  “It was a love match. Lord Clare and Phoebe were childhood sweethearts. At first he was reluctant to marry her, because he didn’t want to be a burden, but she persuaded him to make the most of the time they had. Isn’t that terribly romantic?”

  “It makes no sense,” West said. “Are we certain she didn’t have to marry in haste?”

  Pandora looked perplexed. “Do you mean . . .” She paused, trying to think of a polite phrase. “. . . they may have anticipated their vows?”

  “That,” West said, “or her first child was sired by another man, who wasn’t available to wed.”

  Pandora f
rowned. “Are you really that cynical?”

  West grinned at her. “No, I’m much worse than this. You know that.”

  Pandora moved her hand in a pretend swat near his chin, as if administering a well-deserved reprimand. Deftly he caught her wrist, kissed the back of her hand, and released it.

  So many guests had crowded into the entrance hall by then that West began to wonder if Eversby Priory could accommodate them all. The manor had more than one hundred bedrooms, not including servants’ quarters, but after decades of neglect, large sections were now either closed off or in the process of restoration.

  “Who are all these people?” he asked. “They seem to be multiplying. I thought we’d limited the guest list to relations and close friends.”

  “The Challons have many close friends,” Pandora said, a touch apologetically. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like crowds.”

  The remark surprised West, who was about to protest that he did like crowds, when it occurred to him that Pandora knew him only as he was now. In his former life, he’d enjoyed the company of strangers, and had lurched from one social event to another in search of constant entertainment. He’d loved the gossip, the flirtations, the endless flow of wine and noise that had kept his attention firmly fixed outward. But since he’d come to Eversby Priory, he’d become a stranger to that life.

  Seeing a group of people entering the house, Pandora bounced a little on her heels. “Look, there are the Challons.” A mixture of wonder and unease colored her voice as she added, “My future in-laws.”

  Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston, radiated the cool confidence of a man who had been born to privilege. Unlike most British peers, who were disappointingly average, Kingston was dashing and ungodly handsome, with the taut, slim physique of a man half his age. Known for his shrewd mind and caustic wit, he oversaw a labyrinthine financial empire that included, of all things, a gentlemen’s gaming club. If his fellow noblemen expressed private distaste for the vulgarity of owning such an enterprise, none dared criticize him publicly. He was the holder of too many debts, the possessor of too many ruinous secrets. With a few words or strokes of a pen, Kingston could have reduced nearly any proud aristocratic scion to beggary.

  Unexpectedly, rather sweetly, the duke seemed more than a little enamored of his own wife. One of his hands lingered idly at the small of her back, his enjoyment in touching her covert but unmistakable. One could hardly blame him. Evangeline, the duchess, was a spectacularly voluptuous woman with apricot-red hair, and merry blue eyes set in a lightly freckled complexion. She looked warm and radiant, as if she’d been steeped in a long autumn sunset.

  “What do you think of Lord St. Vincent?” Pandora asked eagerly.

  West’s gaze moved to a man who appeared to be a younger version of his sire, with bronze-gold hair that gleamed like new-minted coins. Princely handsome. A cross between Adonis and the Royal Coronation Coach.

  With deliberate casualness, West said, “He’s not as tall as I expected.”

  Pandora looked affronted. “He’s every bit as tall as you!”

  “I’ll eat my hat if he’s an inch over four foot seven.” West clicked his tongue in a few disapproving tsk-tsks. “And still in short trousers.”

  Half annoyed, half amused, Pandora gave him a little shove. “That’s his younger brother Ivo, who is eleven. The one next to him is my fiancé.”

  “Aah. Well, I can see why you’d want to marry that one.”

  Folding her arms across her chest, Pandora let out a long sigh. “Yes. But why does he want to marry me?”

  West took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why wouldn’t he?” he asked, his voice gentling with concern.

  “Because I’m not the sort of girl everyone expected him to marry.”

  “You’re what he wants, or he wouldn’t be here. What is there to fret about?”

  Pandora shrugged uneasily. “I don’t really deserve him,” she confessed.

  “How splendid for you.”

  “Why is that splendid?”

  “There’s nothing better than having something you don’t deserve. Just say to yourself, ‘Hooray for me, I’m so very lucky. Not only do I have the biggest piece of cake, it’s a corner piece with a sugar-paste flower on top, and everyone else is sick with envy.’”

  A slow grin spread across Pandora’s face. After a moment, she said in an experimental undertone, “Hooray for me.”

  Glancing over her head, West saw someone approach—someone he had not expected to see on this occasion—and a breath of annoyed disbelief escaped him. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to start off your wedding festivities with a small murder, Pandora. Don’t worry, it will be over quickly, and then we’ll go back to celebrating.”

  Chapter 3

  “Who are you going to do away with?” Pandora sounded more interested than alarmed.

  “Tom Severin,” West said grimly.

  She turned to follow his gaze, as the lean, dark figure approached. “But you’re one of his close friends, aren’t you?”

  “None of Severin’s friends are what I would call close. Generally, we all try to keep out of stabbing distance.”

  It would be difficult to find a man still on the early side of his thirties who had acquired wealth and power at the speed that Tom Severin had. He’d started as a mechanical engineer designing engines, then progressed to railway bridges, and had eventually built his own railway line, all with the apparent ease of a boy playing leapfrog. Severin could be generous and considerate, but his better qualities were unanchored by anything resembling a conscience.

  Severin bowed as he reached them.

  Pandora curtsied in return.

  West leveled a cold stare at him.

  Severin wasn’t handsome in comparison to the Challons—of course, what man would be?—nor was he handsome by strictly conventional standards. But there was something about him that women seemed to like. West was damned if he knew what it was. Severin’s face was lean and angular, his build lanky and almost rawboned, his complexion librarian pale. His eyes were an unevenly distributed mixture of blue and green, so that in strong lighting they appeared to be two entirely different colors.

  “London was boring,” Severin said, as if that explained his presence.

  “I feel quite sure you’re not on the guest list,” West said acidly.

  “Oh, I never need invitations,” came Severin’s matter-of-fact reply. “I go wherever I want. I’m owed favors by so many people, no one would dare ask me to leave.”

  “I would dare,” West said. “In fact, I can tell you exactly where to go.”

  Before West could continue, Severin turned quickly to Pandora. “You’re the bride-to-be. I can tell by the sparkle in your eyes. An honor to be here, delighted, felicitations, et cetera. What would you like for a wedding present?”

  Despite Lady Berwick’s rigorous instruction in etiquette, the question caused Pandora’s propriety to collapse like a pricked balloon. “How much are you going to spend?” she asked.

  Severin laughed, delighting in the innocently crass question. “Ask for something big,” he said. “I’m very rich.”

  “She needs nothing,” West said curtly. “Especially from you.” Glancing down at Pandora, he added, “Mr. Severin’s gifts always come with strings. And the strings are attached to rabid badgers.”

  Leaning closer to Pandora, Severin said in a conspiratorial aside, “Everyone likes my presents. I’ll surprise you with something later.”

  She smiled. “I don’t need any gifts, Mr. Severin, but you’re welcome to stay for my wedding.” Seeing West’s reaction, she protested, “He’s come all the way from London.”

  “Where are we going to put him?” West asked. “Eversby Priory is packed full. Every room that’s slightly more comfortable than a cell in Newgate has been taken.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t stay here,” Severin assured him. “You know how I am about these ancient houses. Eversby Priory is charming, of course, but I pre
fer the modern conveniences. I’ll be staying in my private train carriage, at the quarry railway halt on your property.”

  “How appropriate,” West remarked sourly, “in light of the fact that you tried to steal the mineral rights to that quarry, even knowing it would leave the Ravenels financially destitute.”

  “Are you still miffed about that? It wasn’t personal. It was business.”

  Hardly anything was personal to Severin. Which begged the question of why the man was really here. It was possible he wanted to become acquainted with the well-heeled Challon family with future business dealings in mind. Or he could be trolling for a wife. Despite Severin’s staggering fortune and the fact that he owned majority shares in the London Ironstone railway company, he wasn’t welcome in upper-class circles. Most commoners weren’t, but Severin especially wasn’t. So far, he hadn’t found an aristocratic family that was sufficiently desperate to yield one of their wellborn daughters in matrimonial sacrifice. However, it was only a matter of time.

  West scanned the gathering in the entrance hall, wondering what his older brother, Devon, made of Severin’s presence. As their gazes met, Devon sent him a grimly resigned smile. Might as well let the bastard stay, was his unspoken message. West responded with a short nod. Although he would have enjoyed throwing Severin out on his arse, no good would come of making a scene.

  “I’ll need only the slightest excuse,” West told Severin, his expression deceptively pleasant, “to send you back to London in a turnip crate.”

  The other man grinned. “Understood. Now if you’ll pardon me, I see our old friend Winterborne.”

  After the railroad magnate had sauntered away, Pandora took West’s arm. “Let me introduce you to the Challons.”

  West didn’t budge. “Later.”

  Pandora gave him an imploring glance. “Oh, please don’t be stubborn, it will look odd if you don’t go to greet them.”