Taking umbrage at her tone, he replied, “My cook is the only one Marina is not utterly terrified of, Miss Marks. Are you so judgmental with all your charges?”
At that rather provoking query, her lips snapped shut and while her expression wasn’t necessarily what could be called glaring, it was withering. Regardless, she remained there, shawl and reticule in hand, dutifully waiting to meet the child.
The awkward and utterly miserable silence stretched between them as she strolled past him to once more study a painting that he was growing to despise more by the minute. After a moment, as she stared at the Titian and he stared at her, there was a soft knock upon the door.
“Forgive me, your lordship,” came the high-pitched, jovial voice of his plump cook who’d been spoiling him since boyhood. “I’ve brought the wee one in to meet her new governess!”
“Come in, Mrs. Farrelly,” he said. “Though Miss Marks’ appointment as governess is hardly a forgone conclusion just yet.”
The cook stepped deeper inside the sitting room, Marina on her hip, the girl’s dark hair cascading over her shoulders in wild curls with her face tucked firmly into the older woman’s ample bosom. At three years of age, Marina had never spoken a word to Devil other than to shriek if he attempted to touch her. Mrs. Farrelly insisted the child could speak but did so very infrequently.
“Marina, this is Miss Marks,” he said, as if the child didn’t wish him to the devil. “She may be your new governess… if she thinks she’s up to the task.” He spared a glance at Miss Marks and saw that, for the moment at least, his needling was entirely worthless. Her attention was focused solely on Marina, and the little girl was staring back at her from the haven of Mrs. Farrelly’s embrace. They were rather like two tigers sizing one another up.
“Hello, Marina,” Miss Marks said.
Marina, in typical fashion, let out an ear-shattering shriek that almost laid him low. Much to his horror, as he clutched his head and prayed for death to take him swiftly, Miss Marks joined in. For as long as Marina shrieked, Miss Marks shrieked with her. After several long moments of torment, Marina abruptly stopped. She stared at Miss Marks, not with the terror she usually reserved for adults, but with curiosity and a little bit of confusion.
“I can scream, too,” Miss Marks said to the child, her voice slightly roughened from her vocal exertions. “But it’s terribly loud, and it only makes my throat hurt when it is done. I’d much prefer to just say what I want. What do you want, Marina?”
“Mama,” the little girl said and then collapsed against Mrs. Farrelly’s bosom once more. She wailed again, but it wasn’t the terrible screaming. It was so much worse. She sobbed as if her heart was broken. And it must have been. Her mother was gone, and death was an impossible concept to explain to a child so young.
“There you have it, Lord Deveril. She is not impossible at all. She is grieving. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am set to meet friends for tea. Have a good day,” Miss Marks said. “Goodbye, Marina.”
And then the termagant was gone.
Chapter Two
Willa walked swiftly, ignoring the slight sting of tears, as she made her way back to the Darrow School. The child was hurting and not a single person in that house knew how to help her. But for the sake of her own reputation, her own sanity, and her own virtue, she could not. Lord Deveril was not a man to be trusted, and willingly going into his house, to live under his roof, even if it was for the sake of that child, would only see her ruined. She had told him she cared nothing for the opinions of others, and while that was certainly true to a degree, she did care about her reputation and her employability. She had to, after all. And heaven knew, he was a threat to both!
Even filthy, rumpled, possibly still drunk and utterly full of himself, the man was more handsome than Lucifer himself. It wasn’t just his family’s title that earned him the nickname Devil. He could easily have been a fallen angel with his thick, coal black hair and sinfully long eyelashes. She tried to recall what she knew of the family. There was some scandal about the grandfather marrying a gypsy girl. Her contribution to the current generation could clearly be seen in their exotic beauty.
Marina was the image of her uncle if, in fact, he was her uncle. Rumors abounded that she was one of the many bastard children society gossip insisted he had fathered. Though Willa supposed that if the child was actually the Devil Lord’s, he’d just have said so. He was infamous for always telling the truth, no matter how damning it might be.
“Stop thinking about it. Not about him. Not about her. You can’t save every child, and you certainly can’t save one living under the roof of a notorious rogue who would seduce you on a whim!” The words were muttered low and under her breath, but apparently talking to one’s self outside Hyde Park was still somewhat of a faux pas, as evidenced by the askance stares of other pedestrians.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Willa elected to put Lord Deveril and his beautiful but very troubled young niece from her mind. She would return to the Darrow School, have tea with Effie, and write a letter to Lillian in the wilds of Scotland and not give it another thought.
Marching through the street, her stride purposeful and perhaps a bit too enthusiastic for a proper lady, she reached the Darrow School at Cavendish Place in record time. It was a posh address for an all girls’ school, and certainly one that catered to girls such as herself. Bastards.
It was an ugly word, but one she’d heard often enough growing up. When she’d been at the Millstead Abbey School, she’d certainly had it hurled at her by other pupils, teachers, and the headmistress. Marina’s face came to mind again. She’d likely hear it, too, Willa thought bitterly. Children could be ever so cruel and spiteful. For a little girl that had already lost so much, it seemed horribly unfair that she’d have to be teased and tormented for it. That was assuming, of course, that the child was ever well enough to be around other children at a school or to have friends. If her behavior continued to consist of only shrieking at others, there might well come a time when she’d be locked away in an asylum. It was a terrible, gut wrenching thought.
You cannot save them all. It had been only a week earlier when she’d uttered those same words to Effie after word reached them that a former student, cast off by her lover, had taken her own life.
Willa didn’t knock. The school was her home, after all. Instead, she opened the heavy door herself and breezed in past the few maids who were present. There was no butler. There were also no footmen. It was a household of women only, and Effie was quite strict about it. Men were permitted to enter the premises if they were there to enroll their daughters or other wards. Then and only then could they step inside the hallowed halls.
Passing the drawing room where several young girls were taking tea and practicing their manners, Willa made her way to the small study that Effie used to manage her little empire. Knocking softly, she waited for her former headmistress and dearest friend to bid her enter.
“You look positively terrible,” Effie said the very moment Willa stepped inside.
“I feel terrible. I refused the appointment.” Though technically it had never been offered. As much as she’d been immediately off put by Lord Deveril, he’d been equally off put by her. That much had been glaringly apparent in their verbal sparring.
“You knew that you would before ever going there, my dear. His reputation is quite terrible,” Effie replied easily. “Why is it distressing you so?”
“Because I think the child needs me. She’s terrorized by whatever has happened in her life to this point, Effie. She’s afraid of everyone in the house save for an elderly cook whom she clings to,” Willa admitted. Saying it out loud, admitting the truth that had filled her with guilt from the moment she walked out of his exquisitely appointed home, was both freeing and damning.
Effie’s expression was one of empathy as she said, “You cannot save them all. Those were words of wisdom, Wilhelmina. That is the sort of wisdom you should adhere to rather than simply mete
out.”
Willa seated herself in one of the chairs that faced the delicate writing desk. “I’m aware of that. But she’s such a young child. If I were to reconsider and take the appointment, I could help provide considerable change in her behavior in a very short amount of time. Then perhaps, we could transition to a different governess. One of the ladies who taught here and isn’t quite ready to be pensioned off but no longer wishes to shepherd a dozen girls at once, perhaps?” And one who would be old enough to have no fear of what Lord Deveril might do to either her reputation or her honor.
Effie rose and closed the door, turning the key in the lock. “It’s a bit early in the day for this but, under the circumstances, I think that hardly matters.” She returned to the desk and from the adjacent secretary retrieved a bottle of sherry and two glasses. She filled each liberally, far more so than was appropriate, and passed one to Willa.
“I just took Lord Deveril to task for being a drunkard. Perhaps I am no better,” Willa said as she sipped the liquid.
“You do not make a habit of this, and one generous sherry hardly makes you a drunkard. I understand what it feels like to want to save a child. But we have a responsibility to choose wisely, Wilhelmina, to choose to save the right ones so that we might save as many as possible. If you go into his home, knowing who and what he is, it could destroy you. All of us, after all, know the seductive power of men and the destruction such power can wreak in the lives of women who cannot resist them. Lord Deveril’s reputation is not that of a man who would ever force himself upon a woman. It is that of a man who would never have to force himself upon a woman… which may almost be worse! His ability to seduce is quite legendary. And I think I am not mistaken, given just how perturbed this meeting has left you, in assuming that legend is well founded.”
Willa sipped her sherry and tried not to let the guilt of it consume her. Handsome as he was, tempting as he was with his sardonic grin and wickedly arching eyebrows, it wasn’t Lord Deveril’s face that haunted her. It was Marina Ashton’s pale face and dark curls that were emblazoned upon her memory.
*
Devil was on the verge of tearing out his hair. It was nigh on the dinner hour and the entire household had been in an uproar for the entirety of the day. There was also no end to it in sight.
It had been terrible enough when Marina had shrieked and screamed at the sight of anyone but Mrs. Farrelly. Now, the child wailed. Not in a tantrum, but as if her heart were broken. The single word she’d spoken earlier that day, Mama, was the first word she’d spoken in his presence since he’d taken the child in his arms at his sister’s deathbed. And speaking that word had burst the dam, it seemed. The child grieved until he feared she would make herself ill.
“You must fetch that Miss Marks, my lord,” Mrs. Farrelly said. The woman’s round face was red with exertion and streaked with tears as she rocked and held the little girl to her bosom. “There is only so much I can do to comfort her. Your Miss Marks broke her, and she can very well come back and fix her!”
“She refused, Mrs. Farrelly. I cannot force her to work here!”
Marina wailed louder at his shout.
“I am begging you, my lord, try. Please. And not for my sake. For the little dumpling’s! She’s cried until I fear she will make herself ill. Not a single crumb has she eaten today, nor will she drink a drop. Please? Won’t you speak to her once more?” the cook implored desperately.
With that plea ringing in his ears, Devil let out a weary sigh and turned to go, shouting for his hat and his greatcoat. He would beard the lioness in her den. He was off to the Darrow School for Girls, and he would make Miss Wilhelmina Marks see reason whatever the cost.
The school was not far, and he elected to walk, hoping the evening air would clear his head and offer some sort of respite from the cloying headache that had been nagging at him all day in light of Marina’s insurmountable grief. He refused to admit that his headache might have anything to do with abundance of brandy and a lack of sleep.
The short distance between his home and the Darrow School was not nearly enough. He was still struggling when he reached it, his emotions and his temper heightened. Denial, self or imposed by others, was not something he’d had cause to become accustomed to. The very idea of not getting what he wanted when he wanted it was rather alien to him. Even exiled in disgrace, he had been a man of influence and affluence, after all. His father had deemed the army an acceptable solution to his wild ways, had bought him a commission and sent him off to India to kill or be killed. But it wasn’t the natives they’d had to fear. It was disease. All the wealth in the world hadn’t been enough to spare him and his compatriots from the raging fevers and illnesses that had taken so many. It was only by the grace of God, or perhaps the fact that the devil wasn’t quite ready for him yet, that he’d managed to survive.
Shaking off such bitter thoughts, he climbed the steps and rapped sharply upon the door. An aging and rather plump woman, a housekeeper by the judge of her black gown and apron, answered the door. “May I help you?” she asked, clearly nonplussed at his presence.
“I’m here to see Miss Marks,” he replied, his tone just as dry as hers.
“Miss Marks does not receive gentlemen in this house, sir. None of our residents do.” The disapproval in her tone was impossible to miss as was the coldness of her gaze as it trailed over him in a fashion that let him and everyone else know precisely how poorly she thought of his gender.
“My lord,” he said. “Not sir. And she most certainly will see me. I demand to speak with her.”
He’d begun shouting at one point, but the woman’s baleful stare was unflinching.
“My lord,” she finally said, and there was an inflection on the words that indicated precisely what she thought of him and his puffed up manner, “We are a household of women and, as such, we do not receive gentlemen callers unless they arrive during the hours of ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. At any other time, it would hardly be appropriate.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Wheaton,” called a female voice from just down the hall.
“But Miss Darrow—”
“I know it’s against the rules, but I am the maker of those rules, and just this once, I think we can bend them. Miss Marks will not meet with him alone. I shall stay with them the entire time to ensure that every propriety is observed,” the woman said as she drew closer.
It wasn’t the first time that Devil had been surprised that day. But it certainly took him a moment to get over the shock. He was looking at a woman who could only be the daughter of the Duke of Treymore.
Chapter Three
Shaking off his stunned stupor, Devil nodded in her direction. One of her dark brows arched upward, emphasizing the sharp peak of it which was very like her infamous father’s. The milk white skin, glittering green eyes, and coal black hair was unusual enough that there was no question in his mind as to her parentage. She was beautiful, more so than Treymore’s legitimate daughters who shared their mother’s sallow complexion, unfortunately. Yet, despite her rather startling beauty, he had absolutely no interest in her beyond idle curiosity at the story behind her current placement. It was the air of quiet dignity about her that discouraged inappropriate interest or advances. She had the governess, or headmistress in the current case, bit down pat.
“Do come in, Lord Deveril. I rather expected we would be seeing you, although I hardly anticipated that it would be during the dinner hour,” Miss Darrow said.
“The dinner hour? It isn’t even six o’clock,” he scoffed.
“And we are a school filled with young girls who will one day be working young women. They haven’t the luxury of accustoming themselves to late nights and lying abed all morning,” she said. Her words were cutting, though her tone never altered from its soft, musical quality. “Do follow me, Lord Deveril. I shall show you to my study, and then Miss Marks and I will join you there. I ask that you not leave the study without me, Miss Marks, or Mrs. Wheaton accompanying
you. The girls would be rather terrified to see an unescorted male roaming our halls.”
He wanted to challenge her, but it was his own mood rather than her request that prompted the urge. Wisely, he quelled it. What sort of ogre would intentionally terrify school girls, after all? Frustration and temper were getting the better of him.
Once in the study, he paced the lovely if somewhat worn carpet. How many girls had traipsed in and out of that room, he wondered? Had their infractions been enumerated in the soft and gentle voice of their headmistress as they waited for their punishments? It reminded him far too much of his own school, though he dared to hazard that Miss Darrow was infinitely more merciful than the headmaster at Eton had been.
It was only minutes later that Miss Darrow returned, Miss Marks in her wake. It took only one glance at the governess’ arched eyebrow and the way her full lips were pursed to know she was displeased at his presence. No more than he was displeased to once more find himself in hers, he thought.
“Miss Marks, I have come to beg that you reconsider your earlier decision and come to work for me. Marina needs you.” The entreaty was far more humble than he’d planned for it to be. But the words simply tumbled out.
“You are not the sort of client I would typically take on, Lord Deveril. Your reputation, and being in your employ, could very well render me unemployable in the future. No other person would believe that I could reside in your home and do so without risking my virtue and my morals. If I am to be entrusted with the care of someone’s children, they will want to believe me above reproach.” It was a simple statement, uttered matter of factly and without accusation.
“I would not attempt to dishonor any woman in my employ, Miss Marks,” he denied emphatically. “I admit to being somewhat profligate, but I am not a monster.”
“It isn’t about what you would or would not do, Lord Deveril. It is about what the world would think,” Miss Darrow said.
A Rogue to Remember Page 2
