by Rue Allyn
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 whisper. 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.”
Bear regarded her a long moment, and then spoke as if reading her thoughts. “I doubt Lattie has thrown in with them, Miss.”
“But you will protect him from Lattie as well, if it comes to that?”
“Aye, Miss. I will.”
• • •
Having seen the duke settled at Dracks, Bear went directly to the stable where Marcus Hardwick boarded his horses. It did not take him long to coax the story from Hardwick’s groom.
“It was Mr. Fry’s plan,” the man stammered as he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, a result of Bear’s coaxing. Leaning against an upright, the man kept a jaundiced eye on his interrogator. “The two a’ ’em, Fry and Hardwick, met here on their way to Welter that night. They knew the duke was headed for his country place and he was alone. He likely would be stopping from time to time to quench his thirst, don’t ya know.”
“They said all this in front of you?”
“Well, not to my face, if that’s yer meaning. I was nearby and they was talking, keeping ther voices low, but not so low as I couldn’t hear ’em. I wasn’t precisely included in their conversing.”
“And what else did you hear of this plan?”
“Fry was the one wanting to waylay the duke and lift ’is purse as a way a’ paying off debts young Lattie owed ’im, don’t ya see? Said it was also in the way a’ doing a favor for a friend.”
Bear nodded, encouraging the man to continue.
“Hardwick didn’t want no part of it and said so. Mr. Fry knocked him off ’is feet, left ’im laying right there about where yer standing.”
“Did Fry go alone then?”
“I doubt he did. He said he’d git some local fellas to help ’im with the business once he was down in the country.”
Bear handed the groom a cloth to mop a trickle of blood from his nose. “Did Fry say who else might have been involved?”
The groom looked confused for a moment, dabbing the cloth against his nose and regarding it closely in the dim light. “No, can’t say that he did, except maybe the friend he mentioned. I remember wondering why he didn’t just go beat the blunt outta the duke’s brother, which was the one owing ’im in the first place, but I figured then maybe he give the markers because he didn’t have the money, so Fry was going to collect from the duke who did, don’t ya see?”
Bear knew Fry had not gone to Welter to demand payment. He had attacked Devlin when the duke was riding alone at night on a remote highway. From Devlin’s injuries, it appeared to Bear that the assailant had meant to do more than injure him, and might have succeeded, if things had gone differently.
Bear scowled at the groom, who suddenly broke for the do
or. Lost in thought, Bear didn’t follow. He liked Hardwick, but he had bad feelings toward Fry. If Fry had hired riffraff at Welter to help him attack Devlin, John Lout would likely know something about it.
Setting his jaw, Bear squinted hard at the stable door the groom had slammed shut as he left. Bear would keep a watch on Devlin until the duke was tucked in for the night; then he and Figg would travel to Welter to have a talk with Lout. If Lout was involved in the attack on Devlin, Bear hoped he would resist. He owed Lout for frightening Lady Jessica. If this were another debt — Bear opened and closed his fists and his face took on a sinister frown — he would enjoy setting things right.
• • •
Late in the afternoon, Devlin slapped his cards face down on the table, rocked his chair back, balancing it on its back legs and cast his eyes toward the ceiling.
“What has come over you, Devlin?” Lord Gadspar asked, gathering the playing cards to shuffle and redistribute them. “The lovely Elsabar is newly widowed, and you are newly recovered, yet you’ve not joined the pursuit?”
Devlin continued regarding the ceiling. “Elsa had some allure beyond her virginal years, but she has been too well ridden of late and her dalliances reported too broadly.”
“Which probably only means she has learned methods to please a new beneficiary.”
“I suppose.” Devlin had no interest.
“What of the newest lady coming to court and to the attention of every man in the ton? Is she of no interest to you either?”
“Who might that be?”
“The Lady Jessica, of course. Surely you have heard of her.” Gadspar threw his head back and shouted a laugh at the ceiling as if his words were riotously funny.
Surprised that there was a new lady about with his Nightingale’s familiar name, Devlin smiled. “I know nothing of a Lady Jessica.” His voice reflected idle interest, but he remained rocked back and impassive.
“Come now, man. The last two seasons have produced some well-dowered ladies, but few beauties, a situation that has caused complaints among the young gentlemen. Now a most fetching female living under your own roof promises to be the belle of the coming season and you disavow knowledge? What are you playing at?”
The two upraised legs of Devlin’s chair hit the floor with a thud as he pushed upright.
“My Lady Jessica? You are speaking of Jessica Blair? Are you saying that she is a member of the aristocracy?”
Gadspar gave his companion a suspicious glance as his eyes narrowed. “That is the lady. Your cousin, if rumors are true. She is the rage among the young swains, and even a few of the old ones. I hear the Earl of Steen is smitten and prepared to offer for her.”
Devlin glared at Gadspar, forcing the man to yield another bit of gossip.
“I know, Steen has a reputation as a rogue, Miracle, and he is old, but the man is as rich as Croesus.”
“And a slayer of wives, if servants can be believed.”
“That may be true, but he first swaddles them in silks and jewels and spoils them lavishly as he toys and plays with them, sometimes for years, before he tires of her.”
“Then he murders them.”
“He is of the old school, Miracle. He considers a wife as chattel. I understand he never intends harm, only grows a little exuberant at play. You and I both know that as a man ages, it takes more stimulation to bring him to performance level.”
“Great God in heaven, what have we come to, that we consider murder an acceptable prelude to intercourse?” Devlin stood and shoved his chair, which fell sideways with a resounding thud. “If you are speaking of my ward being wed to a blackguard like Steen, then you … ” Seeing amusement on his friend’s face, Devlin stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”
Gadspar grinned broadly. “You are in exceptional voice today, Your Grace. I don’t believe I have heard you expound so fiercely on any subject in all the years we’ve been friends. Is it the girl? Is she arousing you like this? I say, old man, no wonder the dandies rhapsodize. Has a simple country maid worked her wiles even on you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Effecting a dismissive shrug, Gadspar said, “I suppose it would be of no interest to you, then, that Steen plans to steal her away as soon as Saturday, from Benoits. He has hired a pair of scoundrels to ambush his carriage after he spirits her from the house. They are to take the couple to an unnamed location and hold them captive a full twenty-four hours.”
Devlin bent to pick up his toppled chair. “A full day?”
“Long enough to ruin her reputation and … ”
Grabbing the much-abused chair by one leg, Devlin hurled it against the wall with enough force to startle men playing cards at the other end of the lounge. The sturdy chair shattered, a leg flying one way, a broken slat another.
Undeterred by noisy objections and grumbling from bystanders, Devlin raged. “Does the man intend to leave me no choice? Shall I be forced to kill him?”
Gadspar shook his head. “Action which would further damage the lady’s reputation. No, I suspect he intends to make it impossible for you to refuse his offer, to force you to allow him her hand.”
“Never.”
“What other option will you have if you are to preserve her reputation, and your own?”
Studying Devlin’s face, Gadspar retreated; placing himself safely out of reach of the duke’s clenching fists. He marveled then as Devlin’s expression softened.
“Ah, friend Gadspar, thanks to you and your timely warning, I shall not allow Steen’s theatrical farce to take place. I will simply negate his plan with one of my own.”
Gadspar took a step closer to ease an arm around Devlin’s shoulders. “Glad to have been of help, old friend. Actually, I thought you might be relieved to have the girl off your hands.”
“Who or what made you think her a burden to me?”
“Let’s see now. You are a man seasoned in the strategies of females. I, and others of course, naturally assumed this novice to be of no interest to you. I supposed she was pretty enough. The watchers say she was a bit ungainly immediately following her arrival, but has taken control of her length and looks quite well in her clothing. Still, I would hardly have thought her a match for a man of your exotic tastes.”
Devlin shrugged the other man’s arm from his shoulders. “Then you and I, Gadspar, are not all that close these days, are we, that you should be familiar with my taste in women?” With that, Devlin turned on his heel and strode toward the exit.
“I thought you were one of his most intimate friends?” a man at the near gaming table observed, glancing up from his cards.
“Yes.” Gadspar chuckled good-naturedly. “It has been my experience, however, that love can make a beast of a reasonable man, a stranger to even his closest friends and family.”
The five men at the table regarded him soberly, their interest obviously piqued as he continued. “I confess I have never before seen this man in love. What a peculiar being it has made of him. In spite of his experience, he seems surprisingly unaware of his condition. This situation bears watching. I think I shall attend Benoits’ ball Saturday night and follow this drama. See where it leads.”
• • •
Devlin stood on the stoop at Dracks, squinting toward the setting sun and reviewing his conversation with his old school chum. He might need to go back inside and apologize. Just as he decided to do so and pivoted, he heard a familiar pop as a missile ripped the air just below his ear. Fingers pressed to the spot came away sticky. Blood. He had been shot, or at least grazed.
That was the trouble with civilians carrying firearms. There was a constant danger of inadvertent discharges, which was the reason he preferred not to carry a weapon when he was in town.
Dabbing at the scratch with his neck cloth, Devlin hurried to his carriage, parked at the curb, and ordered an overwrought Latch, who had seen and recognized the sound of a gunshot, to take them home.
Meanwhile inside Dracks, members, unaware of the inciden
t on their doorstep, talked noisily of wagers.
“Mark my words, the Miracle matter will end in a duel between the duke and Steen,” one man said.
“Nah, Steen’s too old and too wily to allow things to progress that far,” said another.
“Devlin may offer for the girl himself,” Gadspar speculated quietly, staring at the door that had closed behind Devlin.
“I’ll wager a hundred pounds against that,” one shouted, his bet prompting joyous shouts of agreement and challenge as men gathered in the lounge.
The noisy debate escalated but Gadspar, looking skeptical, walked out the door wondering where he might find Lattimore Miracle. He wanted to discuss this rather surprising turn with someone who knew the duke and the girl. What was her name? Ah, yes, Jessica Blair. A perfectly respectable English name. His mother knew some Blairs. Maybe they had people near Welter who could throw some light on this mysterious little coil. He would inquire.
• • •
It was twilight as Devlin blasted into the foyer and blew by Patterson without a greeting, instead snapping a question. “Where is Jessica?”
“She is with your mother, Your Grace, in the South rose garden. Shall I summon her?”
“That will not be necessary.” Devlin’s tone and body language warned it might be best to let this gathering storm blow through unhindered.
The duke thundered into the rose garden.
His mother carried a basket while Jessica stooped to cut long stems of blood red roses to lay across it. Their murmured conversation ended with Devlin’s shout.
“Jessica, I forbid you to attend Benoits’ ball on Saturday. Is that understood?”
Devlin seldom addressed her these days in any but the most gentle tones. His sudden, unreasoning belligerence seemed undeserved.
“What?” both women said, almost in unison.
The dowager was first to challenge the statement. “We sent our acceptance a fortnight ago, darling. Jessica and I will be attending together. She will be well chaperoned.”
“She needs to be more circumspect about her attendance at these things,” he said.
