by Rue Allyn
Accusation darkened her eyes. “Am I the most thoroughly ignorant female you have ever met?” She did not allow an answer. “I underestimated your cunning, never expected reprehensible behavior from you. Was that the point, to tutor an ignorant country girl and, at the same time, exploit her?”
He tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind, as she sneered. “The mantle of honor placed upon a nobleman’s noble shoulders. Did you swear an oath to protect those who are dependent upon you — the children of peasants, and foolish women in your own household?”
Devlin jutted his chin becoming defensive. “You scald me to the heart, you … you ungrateful … ” He stopped, staring at her. She returned the look, seething. When he finally spoke, his words were deliberate.
“Dear one, do not ever trust any man’s pledge or his will where your delectable body is concerned. You must assume sole responsibility for keeping yourself chaste, to protect what you alone may bestow. Do not be lured to private places.” He looked directly into her eyes. “Under some circumstances, proper or improper, all men are bounders and cads. We are none of us to be trusted with the allure of a beautiful woman.”
She took advantage of the ensuing silence to ask, “Are all men able to … to arouse … shall we say … sensations in women?”
He smiled the teasing smile she had grown to love. “To what sensations do you refer?”
She blushed from her wrapper to her hairline and spread all ten fingers in front of her torso. “Those that raise goose flesh,” she ran her hands up her arms, “all over. Those sensations.”
Looking defeated, Devlin stood, bowed slightly from the waist, and strode to the door to his study. Before abandoning the garden completely, however, he turned to face her. He did not allow his gaze to meet hers. Instead, he frowned at the ground.
“My apologies, darling. A man … particularly after a rather a restless night … No, my angel, that is incorrect.” He interrupted himself, then delayed a long moment. “I have no excuse. I behaved improperly.” He drew a breath. “Perhaps my sight will continue through the sun’s course. If it does, when evening comes, I will pay you the five hundred pounds and you may return to Welter with no further imposition from me.”
He wheeled and disappeared into the house.
Jessica shivered silent ascent, even though he was no longer present. Fumbling, she caught the sides of her wrap and lapped them before securing them with the tie. She looked down verifying her efforts, but she was unable to see anything through the sudden, blistering tears.
The distractions during their time together sent all thought of Peter Fry flying straight out of her head. She had intended, on their next meeting, to tell Devlin all she had observed and suspected and solicit the duke’s thinking. Now, there might not be another opportunity, particularly as he had cautioned her against solitary meetings with single men, including him. She did not want to discuss the matter in anyone else’s hearing.
• • •
Devlin spent the morning in a black mood. His mother worked quietly, surprised when he remained in the same room with her. His gloom was, no doubt, precipitated by something Jessica had done or said or thought. He was attuned to the young woman’s humors, and she to his.
The dowager could guess the cause of their mercurial ups and downs. If and when Devlin’s eyes were healed, he would have no further excuse for insisting Jessica remain. Losing the girl was a dismal prospect for the entire household. Both the dowager and the duke benefitted most from Jessica’s effervescence, her optimism. Why, her very presence could lift the spirits of a room, salon or scullery.
Lady Anne set aside her knitting and watched her son stare at the same page of a book as he had been doing for half an hour without turning a page. Perhaps he could not see the words, his reading pretense.
“Will you miss her as desperately as that?”
He didn’t bother to look up. “Yes.” His voice sounded brittle. “I am afraid I shall.”
It was a wonder, the dowager supposed, that he had mentioned his returning sight to anyone at all. Had he realized the depth of his feelings for the girl and entertained thoughts of maintaining the deception of his blindness?
No, he was not a man to rely on artifice. Certainly, he had enough experience of women to know his feelings for Jessica were different than those he had felt for any other. As she thought about it, no women had held his interest for long, particularly no woman with whom he spent time.
Jessica was different. She was important to him.
Did he mean as much to her?
Lady Anne smiled, thinking of how they cast secret glances, how they bickered and challenged one another. Also, she conjured mental pictures of the beautiful children they would produce, intriguing mixes of his blond good looks and flashing blue eyes and Jessica’s dramatic dark features.
Their regard was mutual, but did they realize it? She would like to be the one to point it out, but perhaps it would be wiser to allow them to discover that on their own.
The duke’s recovery signaled separation, unless they negotiated a new agreement.
Lady Anne stood, placed the fingers of both hands at her waist and massaged the stiffness in her back. She hoped there was not too much pain involved in the metamorphosis they must all endure. Still, the anticipated joy might justify some little discomfort.
• • •
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 remaine
d 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 en
visions 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.”
