Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

  Whatever it might be like to go to bed with this man . . . it would be anything but mediocre.

  Phoebe was so lost in the explosive sensuality of the moment, only one sound could have snatched her back to full alertness . . . her son’s small voice.

  “Mama?”

  Jerking her head back with a gasp, Phoebe looked toward the sound, blinking in confusion.

  Justin stood in the corridor, near the breakfast room, wide-eyed and uneasy at the sight of his mother in a stranger’s arms.

  “It’s all right, darling,” Phoebe said with an effort at composure, disentangling herself from West. She teetered on ramshackle legs, but West grabbed her reflexively and adjusted her balance. “It’s Mr. Ravenel,” she told Justin. “He looks a bit different because of his beard.”

  It surprised her to see the way her son’s face lit up.

  Justin charged forward, and West bent reflexively to catch and lift him in the air.

  “Look at this big fellow,” West exclaimed, holding the child against his chest. “My God, you’re as heavy as a clamp of bricks.”

  “Guess how old I am now,” Justin boasted, and held up a spread-fingered hand.

  “Five? When did that happen?”

  “Last week!”

  “It was last month,” Phoebe said.

  “I had plum cake with icing,” Justin continued eagerly, “and Mama let me eat some for breakfast the next morning.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it. Fortunately, I’ve brought presents for you and Stephen.”

  Justin squealed happily.

  “I arrived in London late last night,” West continued, “after Winterborne’s department store was already closed for the evening. So Mr. Winterborne opened it for me, and I had the entire toy department all to myself. After I found what I wanted, Winterborne wrapped your toys personally.”

  Justin’s eyes turned round with awe. In his mind, a man who could have a department store opened just for him must possess magical powers. “Where is my present?”

  “It’s in that bag on the floor. We’ll open it later, when there’s time to play.”

  Justin studied West intently, rubbing his palms over his hair-roughened jaw. “I don’t like your beard,” he announced. “It makes you look like an angry bear.”

  “Justin—” Phoebe reproved, but West was laughing.

  “I was an angry bear, all summer.”

  “You have to shave it,” Justin commanded, framing the man’s smiling mouth with his hands.

  “Justin,” Phoebe exclaimed.

  The boy corrected himself with a grin. “Shave it please.”

  “I will,” West promised, “if your mother will provide a razor.”

  “Mama, will you?” Justin asked.

  “First,” Phoebe told her son, “we’re going to let Mr. Ravenel settle comfortably in the guest cottage. He can decide later if he wants to keep his beard or not. I for one rather like it.”

  “But it’s tickly and scratchy,” Justin complained.

  West grinned and dove his face against the boy’s neck, causing him to yelp and squirm. “Let’s go see your brother.”

  Before they went to the breakfast room, however, his gaze met Phoebe’s for a searing moment. His expression left no doubt that their impulsive kiss was a mistake that would not be repeated.

  Phoebe responded with a demure glance, giving no hint of her true thoughts.

  If you won’t promise me forever, West Ravenel . . . I’ll take what I can have of you.

  Chapter 23

  Raw-nerved and unsettled, West went with Phoebe on a tour of the manor after breakfast. The majesty of the house, with its portico and classic white columns and banks of windows on all sides, couldn’t have provided a greater contrast to the Jacobean clutter of Eversby Priory. It was as elegant as a Grecian temple, occupying a ridge overlooking landscaped parkland and gardens. Far too often a house seemed to have been placed carelessly upon a site as if by a giant hand, but Clare Manor inhabited the scenery as if it had grown there.

  The interior was open and lofty, with high vaulted ceilings of cool white plasterwork and sweeping staircases. A vast collection of fine-grained marble statuary gave the house a museumlike air, but many of the rooms had been softened with thick fringed rugs, cozy groupings of upholstered furniture, and palms in glazed earthenware pots.

  West said little as they went from room to room. He was feeling everything too deeply and struggling to hide it beneath the façade of a normal, reasonable person. It seemed as if his heart had just resumed beating after months of dormancy, forcing blood back into his veins until he ached in every limb.

  It was clear to him now that he would never find a substitute for Phoebe. No one else would ever come close. It would always be her. The realization was beyond disaster . . . it was doom.

  West was no less troubled by the fondness he felt for her children, both of them bright-eyed and heartbreakingly innocent as they sat with him at the breakfast table. He’d felt like a fraud, taking part in that wholesome scene, when not long ago he’d been a scoundrel other men wouldn’t want anywhere near their families.

  He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Ethan Ransom in London the night before, when they’d met for dinner at a west-side tavern. An easy friendship had struck up between them during Ransom’s recuperation at Eversby Priory. On the surface, their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different—West had been born into a blue-blooded family, and Ransom was an Irish prison guard’s son. But they were similar in many ways, both of them deeply cynical and secretly sentimental, well aware of the darker sides of their own natures.

  Now that Ransom had decided to discard his solitary ways to marry Dr. Garrett Gibson, West was both puzzled and envious of the other man’s certainty.

  “Won’t you mind bedding only one woman for the rest of your life?” he’d asked Ransom as they’d talked over mugs of half-and-half, a drink of equal parts ale and porter.

  “Not for a blessed minute,” Ransom had replied in his Irish brogue. “She’s the delight of my soul. Also, I know better than to betray a woman with her own collection of scalpels.”

  West had grinned at that, but sobered as another thought occurred to him. “Will she want children?”

  “She will.”

  “Will you?”

  “The thought freezes my innards,” Ransom admitted bluntly, and shrugged. “But Garrett saved my life. She can do whatever she likes with me now. If she decides to put a ring through my nose, I’ll stand there docile as a lamb while she does it.”

  “First of all, you city toff, no one puts a nose ring on a lamb. Second . . .” West had paused and drained half his drink before he continued gruffly, “Your father used to beat you—buckle, strap and fist—just as mine did to me.”

  “Aye,” Ransom said. “Rightsidin’ me, he called it. But what has that to do with it?”

  “You’ll likely do the same to your own children.”

  Ransom’s eyes had narrowed, but his voice remained even. “I will not.”

  “Who will stop you? Your wife?”

  “I’ll stop me damn self,” Ransom had said, his brogue thickening. He frowned as he saw West’s expression. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t believe it will be easy.”

  “Easy enough, if I want them to love me.”

  “They will anyway,” West had said grimly. “It’s something all violent men know: no matter what evil they commit, their children will still love them.”

  Ransom had stared at him speculatively while draining his own mug. “Ofttimes after my father gave me a black eye or a split lip, Mam would say, ‘’Tis not his fault. ’Tis too strong a man he is, hard for himself to manage.’ But I’ve come to realize Mam had it all wrong: the problem was never that Da was too strong—he wasn’t strong enough. Only a weak man lowers himself to brutishness.” He had paused to signal a tavern maid to pour them another round. “You may have a hasty temper, Ravenel, but you’re not a b
rute. Neither am I. That’s how I know my children will be safe from my raising. Now, as for your red-haired widow . . . what are you going to do about her?”

  West had scowled. “I don’t bloody know.”

  “You might as well marry her. There’s no escaping women.”

  “I’m hardly going to throw myself on the sacrificial altar just because you did,” West had retorted. “Our friendship doesn’t mean that much to me.”

  Ransom had grinned and leaned back in his chair as the tavern maid approached the table with a foaming jug. “Take my advice, you daft block o’ wood. Be happy while you’re living—you’ll be a long time dead.”

  West’s thoughts were drawn back to the present as Phoebe led him to a spacious reception room with silk-paneled walls and a gilded ceiling. Above the marble fireplace hung a large three-quarter-length portrait of a young man. A slant of light from the windows caused his face to glow as if with its own illumination.

  Fascinated, West drew closer to the portrait.

  “Henry,” he said with a faint, questioning lilt.

  Phoebe nodded, coming to stand beside him.

  The young man was clad in a loosely painted suit, shadows hollowing the fabric here and there. He posed next to a library table with a touch of self-conscious grace, one hand resting lightly on a stack of books. A handsome and touchingly vulnerable man, dark-eyed and chiseled, his complexion as fine as porcelain. Although his face had been rendered with precise edges, the borders of his coat and trousers were softly blurred, seeming to melt into the dark background. As if the portrait’s subject had begun to disappear even as he was being painted.

  Staring at the portrait with West, Phoebe said, “People always tend to idealize the departed. But I want the boys to understand their father was a wonderful, mortal man with flaws, not an unapproachable saint. Otherwise, they’ll never really know him.”

  “What flaws?” West asked gently.

  Her lips pursed as she considered the question thoughtfully. “He was often elusive. In the world, but not of it. Part of that was because of his illness, but he also didn’t like unpleasantness. He avoided anything that was ugly or upsetting.” She turned to face him. “Henry was so determined to think of me as perfect that it devastated him when I was petty or cross or careless. I wouldn’t want—” Phoebe paused.

  “What?” West prompted after a long moment.

  “I wouldn’t want to live with such expectations again. I’d rather not be worshipped, but accepted for all that I am, good and bad.”

  A wave of tenderness came over West as he looked into her upturned face. He longed to tell her how completely he accepted her, wanted her, how he adored her every strength and frailty. “I’ve never thought of you as perfect,” he told her flatly, and she laughed. “Still,” he continued, his tone gentling, “it would be hard not to worship you. I’m afraid you don’t behave nearly badly enough to bring my feelings into proportion.”

  A hint of mischief glittered in Phoebe’s light gray eyes. “If that’s a challenge, I accept.”

  “It’s not a challenge,” he said quickly, but she didn’t appear to hear as she led him from the room.

  They went to a glass-and-stone corridor connecting the main block of the house to one of the side wings. Sunlight poured through the paned windows, warming the corridor agreeably.

  “The guest cottage can be reached through the east wing,” Phoebe said, “or by way of the winter garden.”

  “Winter garden?”

  She smiled at his interest. “It’s my favorite place in the house. Come, I’ll show you.”

  The winter garden turned out to be a glass conservatory, two stories high and at least one hundred and twenty feet long. Lush ornamental trees, ferns, and palms filled the space, as well as artificial rock formations and a little streamlet stocked with goldfish. West’s opinion of the house climbed even higher as he looked around the winter garden. Eversby Priory had a conservatory, but it wasn’t half as large and lofty as this.

  An odd little noise seized his attention. A series of noises, actually, like the squeaking of toy balloons releasing air. Bemused, he looked down at a trio of black-and-white kittens roaming around his feet.

  Phoebe laughed at his expression. “This room is also the cats’ favorite.”

  A wondering smile spread across West’s face as he saw the sleek black feline arching against Phoebe’s skirts. “Good Lord. Is that Galoshes?”

  Phoebe bent to stroke the cat’s lustrous fur. “It is. She loves to come here to terrorize the goldfish. We’ve had to cover the stream with mesh wire until the kittens are older.”

  “When I gave her to you—” West began slowly.

  “Foisted,” she corrected.

  “Foisted,” he agreed ruefully. “Was she already—”

  “Yes,” Phoebe said with a severe glance. “She was a Trojan cat.”

  West tried to look contrite. “I had no idea.”

  Her lips quirked. “You’re forgiven. She turned out to be a lovely companion. And the boys have been delighted to have the kittens to play with.”

  After prying one of the kittens from his trousers as it tried to climb his leg, West set it down carefully.

  “Shall we continue to the guest cottage?” Phoebe asked.

  Knowing he couldn’t trust himself with her if there was a bedroom in the vicinity, West suggested, “Let’s stay here for a moment.”

  Obligingly Phoebe sat on the stone steps that formed part of a bridge over the goldfish stream. She arranged her skirts to keep them from bunching beneath her and folded her hands in her lap.

  West sat beside her, occupying a lower step so their faces were level. “Will you tell me what happened with Edward Larson?” he asked quietly.

  Relief flashed across her face as if she were eager to unburden herself. “First,” she said, “will you promise not to say anything insulting about him?”

  West rolled his eyes. “Phoebe, I’m not that strong.” But as she gave him a reproachful glance, he sighed and relented. “I promise.”

  Although Phoebe made an obvious effort to remain composed while she explained her difficulties with Edward Larson, tension strung through her quiet tone. “He won’t talk to me about the estate’s business. I’ve tried many times, but he doesn’t want to discuss information, or plans, or ideas for improvement. He says it’s too difficult for me to understand, and he doesn’t want me to be burdened with the responsibility, and that everything is perfectly fine. But the more he tells me not to worry, the more worried and frustrated I become. I’ve started to wake up every night with a nagging feeling and a pounding heart.”

  West took one of her hands, warming her cool fingers in his. He wanted to kill Edward Larson for causing her even one minute of needless anxiety.

  “It’s hard for me to trust him now,” Phoebe continued. “Especially after what he did with the account ledgers.”

  West glanced at her sharply. “What did he do with them?”

  As Phoebe proceeded to explain how Larson had removed the account books from the estate without permission and had let three months go by without returning them, she became visibly agitated. “. . . but Edward kept forgetting to bring them back,” she said without pausing for breath, “because he was very much occupied with work, and then he said they were too heavy, and finally after he left yesterday morning, I went to the offices in town to fetch them myself, and I know he won’t like it at all when he finds out, even though I had every right to do so.”

  West stroked the back of her hand slowly, letting his fingertips delve into the valleys of her slim fingers. “When your instincts are trying to tell you something, don’t ignore them.”

  “But my instincts must be wrong. Edward would never act against my interests. I’ve known him forever. Henry introduced us in childhood—”

  “Phoebe. Let’s not tiptoe around this. Larson’s delay in bringing back the account books wasn’t because he was too busy, or unable to lift them, or trying someho
w to ease your burden. The fact is, he doesn’t want you to see them. There’s a reason for that, and it’s probably not a pleasant one.”

  “Perhaps the estate farms aren’t doing as well as he claimed.”

  “Perhaps. But it could be something more. Every man has his secret sins.”

  Phoebe looked skeptical. “You expect to find secret sins listed in a farm account ledger?”

  “I expect to find discrepancies in the numbers. Sin is never free: there’s either an up-front cost or an invoice to pay later. He may have reached into the wrong pot to settle a debt.”

  “But he’s not that kind of man.”

  “I wouldn’t make judgments about what kind of man he is until you find out the truth. If we uncover a problem, you can ask him about it. Sometimes people do the wrong thing for the right reasons. He deserves the chance to explain himself.”

  Phoebe glanced at him with a touch of surprise. “That’s very fair-minded of you.”

  West’s mouth twisted. “I know what his friendship means to you,” he muttered. “And he’s Henry’s cousin. I would never try to poison you against him.”

  He went still with surprise as he felt Phoebe lean against him, her beautiful head coming to rest on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The trusting and natural gesture felt better than anything he’d ever known. Gradually he turned his face until his lips touched the molten red gleam of her hair. All his life, he’d secretly yearned for this moment. For someone to turn to him for comfort.