by Holly Newman
Lady Lucy sat on the bench at the end of the bed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counterpane, her chin in one hand. "Everyone wants to capture your attention, to say they really know Leona Leonard, heroine par excellence."
"Piffle. If that is to be everyone's attitude, I shall return to Crawfords Dean post haste."
"No, you won't Nigel won't let you. He is determined that you shall accept our hospitality and our thanks."
Leona bristled, though with another portion of her mind she noted that Lady Lucy made no mention of safety. Knowing Deveraux's archaic attitudes, it was an easy wager he'd not thought to tell her either! The man was a monster! She set her cup of chocolate down on the tray at her side and placed her hands on her hips. "Deveraux has no right to dictate to me, regardless of how he rules here! He shall have his ears boxed if he tries to order me about."
Lucy giggled. "Nigel does not suffer interference well."
"Well, then it is past time he learned! How did he get to be so autocratic? He acts as if he were the Earl of Nevin."
A stricken look twisted tender Lucy's features. She sat up. "Oh, no. Please don't say that. Whatever you do, please don't say that to Nigel."
Leona tipped her head, giving Lucy an odd look. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
Lucy sucked in her upper lip, the tip of her pink tongue peeking out as she paused in thought "All his life," she began slowly, "the people on the estate and in the village have treated Nigel like he was the heir. It is really no wonder. Physically he is more lively and athletic than Brandon. His is more the commanding presence. When Nigel strides into a room, you know he's there!"
"That is certainly true."
Lucy paused as she thought of her eldest brother. "Brandon is reed slender and-and more the recluse, given to a world of books and quiet contemplation. It's like—well, it's like Nigel is the wild, raging thunderstorm and Brandon the gentle, nurturing shower." She blushed. "That's a rather fanciful analogy I suppose, but I want you to understand how different they are. For all their differences, Nigel adores Brandon. He would most likely cut off his right hand before he'd do anything to hurt Brandon! But you see, when Father died and Brandon became earl, there were problems. Not between the two of them! There were problems with other people and their reactions to them. People inadvertently began addressing Nigel as if he were the new earl! They came to him with their problems and their questions. At first he didn't realize what was happening, that he was undermining his brother's authority. Then, one day, he gave an order that conflicted with Brandon's. The tenant involved chose to follow Nigel's direction over Brandon's."
"Egad! What happened?"
"Nothing as devastating as one might imagine. Brandon took it lightly, finding humor in it. But then again, that is Brandon's way. Nigel, on the other hand, was furious. He came close to throttling poor Jem Webster, the tenant involved. He made him shout one hundred times: Brandon Deveraux is Earl of Nevin. His word is law."
"Gracious, that is one way of making sure the notion stuck, and, I'll wager, for more people than poor Mr. Webster!"
'True. But Nigel was not content with that. He felt it would be best for Brandon if he left Castle Marin so no one else could be tempted to the same unfortunate circumstances. Nigel knows his personality is far stronger than Brandon's. For Brandon's sake, he could not be around to overshadow him, so he used his inheritance money to buy a lieutenant's commission and sailed to Portugal to join Wellington's army. He said at the time it was his duty to remove himself from the local situation, for the sanity and strength of all involved. Then, too, the army agreed with him. He did well and earned promotion after promotion. We all thought he would make a career of it."
"But he's back now and, it appears, ruling Castle Marin as if it were his."
"What you don't understand is that he doesn't want to be here. Especially now that Boney has escaped. He positively chafes at being away from his regiment. You see, the only reason he is here is because Brandon is sick."
"It's consumption, isn't it?" Leona asked gently.
Lucy nodded. "Brandon wanted to go to Switzerland for treatment. He asked Nigel to come home—for him. Reluctantly Nigel agreed."
"Then it is far worse. The earl is not even dead, and Nigel is anticipating that event by taking over his responsibilities."
"Only because Brandon asked him to," Lucy stressed.
"I'm afraid I don't understand the distinction you're trying to make."
"Leona, Nigel is not Prince John trying to steal the crown from his brother, King Richard. Though like John, he rules in the king's stead."
"And ruling comes naturally to him."
"Yes, it does. He sees it as his duty."
Leona smiled as she leaned back against the pillows. She took a sip of chocolate. "Our situations are much alike. Perhaps that is why we chafe one against the other. My brother, the heir to Lion's Gate, is out of the country. I am ruling the estate, as it were, in his absence for it is my duty to the family to do so. But for some reason I as yet cannot fathom, your brother would deny that I have a duty, or even know the word's meaning!"
Lucy shook her head, then smiled ruefully. "I don't suppose there is an accounting for it but as you said the other night men are not as rational and logical as we women."
They laughed together at that. Then Leona declared it was time she was up. She tossed aside her covers and got up, put on her dressing gown, and crossed to the vanity to do her morning ritual of one hundred brush strokes to her hair. Lucy trailed behind her. She knelt backward on a fiddle-back gilt chair with her chin resting on the top, her hands gripping the sides.
"I should send my dresser, Sarah Jewitt, to you. She is a wonder with hair, and yours has a natural wave that I'll wager she can coax into some of those beautiful new styles ... I was really quite fortunate to get Jewitt, you know. Dressers are a cut above abigails, and they rarely communicate with other household servants. Only the cream of the abigails ever make dresser. It is quite a distinction. And they know everything there is to know about fashion and style. They can tell in a trice if a color or style would suit one."
"They sound quite intimidating."
"Oh, they are—to other people, not to their employers. They go about with the most serious of expressions on their faces. I've tried to get Jewitt to laugh, but I've not been successful. She is sober, but I tell you, Leona, she has saved me from many a poor choice when it comes to my wardrobe. I don't know how I got along without her! She's only been with me a little more than three months, and yet it seems I've learned so much, and there is still more to learn!"
"That I do believe, for it is a sad fact of life that there is more to learn in the world than we have days in our lives to learn. I long ago gave up trying to learn everything. I just concentrate on a few subjects," she said with a jesting smile, "like teasing elder brothers."
Lucy gave a crow of laughter and slid off the chair. She sauntered over to the dressing table, her fingers idly moving the glass jars and bottles about. "Leona, do you truly not wish to come to my betrothal ball? I mean, last evening we rather pressured you, I know. But if you'd rather not...."
Leona stopped brushing and turned to look up at Lucy. "I am a stranger to all of you. I do not want to intrude on such a personal happy occasion."
"Oh, believe me, Leona, you wouldn't be. We want you to be here. I want you to be here. Please stay."
Leona stared, at her a long moment. "And Deveraux hasn't put you up to this?"
Lucy shook her head.
She sighed. "All right. I promise—but only because you wish it. Is that understood?"
Lucy smiled sunnily and nodded. "Perfectly."
Too late Leona realized her tactical error in committing to Lucy to attend the ball. Word of her capitulation spread rapidly through the manor house. Lady Nevin thanked her, David Fitzhugh winked and called her a capital fellow (he must still be dwelling over the stories of her male attire), Miss Sprockett tittered excitedly for it was to be
her first ball (reason enough to agree to stay), and Deveraux smirked. Distressingly, that was getting to be his habitual expression.
All in all, it proved to be a trying morning. But the sun was up, quickly drying the puddles of water in the lanes, and the air was clean with the first taste of spring in the air. When a riding expedition was proposed for the afternoon, Leona happily agreed to participate, even though it meant riding in Deveraux's company, too. She came jauntily downstairs in her worn brown riding habit trimmed with dark gold braiding and frogs. She suffered only a moment over her habit's patched condition, then proceeded to ignore it, for nothing was going to take away the fun of a good ride in the country with perhaps an energetic gallop or two.
Deveraux studied her quietly for a moment, his regard drawing Leona's nerves tight. "I suppose you can ride?" he drawled.
Leona bristled. "Since I was seven I've ridden without the lead rein," she said waspishly. Then she paused, closed her eyes, and brought two fingers up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I apologize," she said reluctantly, "but I do wish you would stop treating me like some overgrown child."
He raised an eyebrow. "I assure you I am not, Miss Leonard. I presume, owing to your family's position, that you can sit a horse. What I was implying was that I assume you can also handle a more spirited animal over the sluggards normally reserved for ladies."
Leona had the grace to blush.
His mouth twisted into a wry grin. "I think you will be pleased with the mount I have chosen for you. Come, let me introduce you—"
He led her out the main door and down the front steps. Straight ahead were the old ruins of a Norman keep atop its man-made hill. Wide stone steps laid into the side of the hill wound their way up from the bottom of the hill to the keep. Leona slowed to admire it.
"The real Castle Marin," Deveraux said, noting her interest.
"It is beautiful."
He agreed. "The family has always been proud of our history. Unfortunately, wind, weather, and time are playing havoc with history."
She looked at him quizzically.
He nodded toward the ruined keep. "Some of those walls are dangerously unsteady. This summer I intend to have it in some measure repaired—it has always been a favored spot for a picnic—but until then I've had to declare it unsafe and off limits."
She nodded in understanding, then turned to look up at it again. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of silver light from one of the turret windows, but it was gone so swiftly she was certain it was her imagination. Deveraux touched her arm, recalling her attention, and together they turned to the right, around the side of the house. Leona was surprised to see the curtain wall did not extend past the house. She had not noticed that when she arrived last evening. Beyond where the curtain wall would have stood, one could gaze out across fields and clumps of wood through which a glistening river flowed. But close by there was whitewashed fencing enclosing a small paddock. Inside were four horses. Two were a variegated gray heavily spotted with black over their withers.
"Those gray ladies are Andalusian mares. I picked them up in Spain."
"Oh, how beautiful," Leona said, watching the grays cavort in the paddock. They were so dainty and light in appearance, but with a high, proud energy.
"I'm going to breed them. Do you think there will be a market for horses like these in England?"
"Oh, yes," breathed Leona, enraptured.
He smiled. "It was my thought to have one saddled for you to ride. That is, if you think you could handle it."
"Of course I can! How I'd love to handle one!"
He looked over her head toward the stable block. "Ludlow," he called out to a bandy-legged gentleman pitching hay. "Have Lady Talavera saddled and ready for Miss Leonard in half an hour."
The man spit, then nodded his understanding and went walking in a rolling, gaited fashion toward the paddock gate.
"Come," Deveraux said, giving her his arm.
Warily she hooked her arm with his and let him lead her back into the house.
"Breeding horses is not just a hobby with me, you know," he said as they crossed the wide marble hall floor. He led her into the library and to a worn armchair drawn up near the fire. "Can I offer you something to drink? Some Madeira, port, sherry?"
"Just a small glass of sherry, thank you. You were saying something about hobbies?"
He handed her a glass. "Yes, that I can't afford them." He shook his head and sat down in a chair opposite hers, splaying his legs out before him. He held his glass up to the sunlight streaming in the tall windows, turning it every which way to see how the sun caught the cut crystal facets and shone through the amber liquor. "I'm raising horses for profit. I have to. I'm a younger son without property and therefore without the assets to grow more money. I have to watch out for myself, but what is a scholarly educated, sporting mad, military man fit for?" He laughed harshly. "Nothing, Miss Leonard—Leona."
He grinned. "I have your problem with names, though not for the same reason. You've been Miss Leonard in my thoughts for too long."
She laughed and blushed, not knowing quite how to take his words. "I do not know anything about horse breeding, but those two mares looked exquisite," she said a trifle tightly. She coughed to clear her throat. "I should love to see their get!"
"I think they shall pay out—eventually."
"Do you have other investments?"
He laughed. "At the moment investments are all I have! There is one I'm fairly hopeful of. My friend Hugh Talverton comes from near Manchester and all the cotton manufactories there. They're vile places for the employees: dark, dank, and hot. He has a notion to build a modem textile mill utilizing new technology. I and some others are thinking of investing." He looked at her sideways. "Do you think I should be dirtying my hands beyond hope if I become involved in trade?"
She pursed her lips, seriously considering his question. "No, I do not think so. In the past, yes. But not today. We are entering a new age. Many of the rules from our father's and grandfather's times will need to be bent, if not broken."
Deveraux nodded. "I thought you would not hold with the past. Any woman who would dress in man's clothing must be republican minded."
There was a teasing gleam in his eye that Leona, showing great forbearance, refused to feed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips twisted wryly. "Mater artium necessitas. Necessity is the mother of invention."
"Latin yet! I am impressed—as I know you meant me to be." He held up his hands. "For the nonce, I retire from the lists, chastened."
Leona relaxed and smiled. "I don't know if I should allow that. Isn't it the better military strategy to get the enemy on the run?"
"If first you are certain that the enemy is in full retreat and is not luring you forward to be squeezed into obliteration from the flanks."
"Ah-hh. Yes, a possible scenario. Thank you for the lesson."
He tipped his head in acknowledgment He swung one long leg over the arm of his chair in a shockingly casual manner and set it to swinging as he sipped on his sherry.
Leona felt uncomfortable in the silence. She downed the last of her sherry and fidgeted in her chair. "Where are Lucy and Mr. Fitzhugh? I should hate to leave the horses standing."
Deveraux laughed. "If you stay here a while, Miss Leonard, you will discover that my sister is rarely on time and never before-times. It was worse before that Jewitt harridan of hers arrived, so I take comfort in small ways and scarce notice anything less than half an hour."
"What does Mr. Fitzhugh have to say to his fiancée's habits?"
Deveraux looked at her wryly. "You have perhaps noticed David's sartorial elegance? . . . Come to think of it can't but help notice it in comparison to me."
Leona noticed, but did not know what he meant, for to her his restrained attire suited his large frame admirably. In comparison, Mr. Fitzhugh's attire looked almost fussy. Of course, she could not admit that to Mr. Deveraux!
Deveraux lolled his head back against the chair cushion and
spoke lazily. "He and Lucy are well matched. We used to say that one day Fitzhugh's regiment would miss a battle while he dallied in his tent straightening a sash."
"You know, of course, that I could call you out for that," David Fitzhugh said amiably from the library doorway.
"You could, but if you were so inclined, you would have done so two years ago," Deveraux said without turning his head to look at him. "Is it too much to hope that you've brought my sister in with you?"
Fitzhugh laughed as he sauntered into the room.
Deveraux nodded, then turned toward him, swinging his leg to the floor and sitting up straight. "I have lately begun to wonder who will be the latest for your wedding—Lucy or you."
"Considering taking bets?"
Deveraux scratched his chin. "It has possibilities. Might set me up quite nicely, what do you say?"
"I say Lucy might have something to say about that."
Deveraux winced. "You're right. Best not to tease the she-devil. Last time I did I got a rather large vase pitched at my head."
"A vase?" Leona asked, trying to imagine the delicate and feminine-looking Lucy throwing a vase at anyone.
"Yes. She hit me, too. Always did have a good throwing arm on her. Take that as a word to the wise, friend." He rose from his chair and clapped David on the back.
"A point well taken."
"What is a point well taken?" Lucy asked, entering the library. She was a vision of elegant loveliness in her midnight-blue riding habit trimmed with light blue velvet. A jaunty little hat of matching light blue with darker blue feathers perched on top of a mass of black curls.
"Nothing important," reassured David Fitzhugh, grinning broadly.
"That's a matter of opinion," countered Leona. "Your brother was warning Mr. Fitzhugh that you have a good throwing arm."
"That's torn it," Deveraux complained.
Lucy sighed, mockingly. "That vase story again, Nigel? Haven't you—in all these years—been able to think up something better than that old tale? What my dear brother conveniently forgets to mention is that I was but eight or nine at the time, standing less than ten feet away, and he had his back to me. Furthermore, dear brother, you made an irresistibly large target."
