“So stop standin’ about wi’ yer mouth open and wringin’ your ’ands like a feeble old woman. Get boilin’ water right away, so I can see to this gentleman’s arm.” She glared meaningfully at Devlin. “I’m sure ’is Grace will be very glad to attend to the gentleman’s affairs while he recup’rates tonight.”
“You are an eminently sensible woman, Mrs. Priddy, and I am sure the Duke will be happy to do as you suggest.” Sir Marcus patted his pocket with his left hand as he spoke and looked at Devlin. Devlin gratefully retrieved the key and sped up the stairs to release the by now tousled and irate Miss Preston.
As he opened the door, Fenella bounced out, her cheeks flaming red and her hair awry.
“At last!” she cried. “It’s about time someone had the good sense to release me.” She saw it was Devlin in front of her. “What are you doing here?”
If Devlin had had visions of a wan and fragile maiden falling with gratitude into his arms, he was speedily disabused of this idea.
“What do you mean?” he asked in astonishment. “I’ve come to rescue you.”
“Rescue me? Ha!” She stood with her arms akimbo and her chin set in determined fury. “And what makes you think, Sir, that I need rescuing?”
“The fact that the door was locked and I had to retrieve the key from your kidnapper at the point of a sword.” Devlin retorted, growing angrier at each passing moment. He was furious at the ingratitude of the woman. She was incorrigible.
At the word “sword,” Fenella blanched. “What have you done to him? I suppose you just marched in here with that overbearing manner of yours.” She turned to run down the stairs.
Devlin caught her arm in a painful grip.
“Cannot wait to run to your lover?” he sneered. “Well, say goodbye, because whether you like it or not, you will return with me to Deverell House.”
She glared back at him. Her violet stare was almost blinding in its intensity. “And then?”
“Then you can depart in the morning, with decorum, having taken proper leave of my mother. It will not be said you sneaked off like a lowly servant girl to her suitor.”
“Is that what you think to be true?” Her voice was low and trembling with rage. Her body shook with suppressed anger.
By now, Devlin had severe doubts about his judgement of the whole situation. If Fenella was Sir Marcus’ mistress then surely he had no need to lock her in a room. It was obvious she had been brought under duress to the inn. Yet her eagerness to see Sir Marcus caused him to rethink; perhaps she was the kind of woman who liked the excitement of make-believe ravishment. He made a wild guess.
“It’s what I know to be true.” The words grated through his teeth.
“Then, Your Grace,” she replied with exquisite sarcasm, “you are entitled to and must hold to your beliefs.” Her gaze came to rest pointedly on his hand, which still held her arm. He flushed and released her.
Fenella ran down the stairs to the parlour. Upon opening the door, she saw Sir Marcus lying on the sofa, his one arm bandaged and Mrs. Priddy packing her bandages and medicines into a basket. A bowl of red-tinged water on the table was all that remained of the woman’s ministrations.
“What has happened?” she gasped, although the train of events leading up to the scene in front of her was evident.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Sir Marcus. His voice was weak but his tone firm. “Do not upset yourself,” he said quickly as she sank down on the floor next to the sofa. “I know you are worried but all is well.”
There was a note of warning in his voice and she remained quiet as he continued, “What a ridiculous accident, to be sure.”
He shot a glance at Devlin, who had entered the room behind Fenella. “His Grace has been so gracious as to offer to escort you to Deverell House while I stay here and recover.” He gave Mrs. Priddy a kindly look, which had her blushing like a young girl.
“Now don’t you be worryin’ about anythin’,” said Mrs. Priddy to Fenella. Scandal was neither welcome nor entertained for very long at the Pig and Whistle. In her experience, gossip always brought the wrong kind of attention.
“I’ll be takin’ care of the gentleman myself and there’s no need for the surgeon,” she said with a meaningful glance at Devlin. “Things will be on the mend in a day or two.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Your Grace,” Sir Marcus said solemnly. “Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of calling on me at your earliest convenience tomorrow morning.” His tone was heavy with implication.
Devlin muttered his assent and escorted Fenella out the door.
* * * *
Devlin helped Fenella into the saddle and got up behind her. As Lucifer galloped back to Deverell House, both rider and passenger were silent. Devlin held Fenella close and cursed himself for feeling that familiar surrender to her scent and the aura of her feminine seductiveness. Fenella sat rigid, as if trying to avoid contact with him. Devlin was in a state of hopeless confusion. His pride prevented him asking for an explanation of the night’s muddled events. Her behaviour contradicted what he thought, yet she did not explain her actions or feelings. They rode in silence, each longing for the opportunity to unburden their hearts, yet each stubbornly refusing to break the silence between them.
When they rode back into the stables, the clip-clop of Lucifer’s hooves sounded very loud in the still night air. Devlin was not surprised to see Finch hurry toward them; he had almost expected his faithful retainer to be there when needed. Finch avoided looking at Fenella and merely said a gruff good night to them as he led Lucifer to his stall. Fenella shook off Devlin’s hand, and marched, stiff-backed, into the house. Once inside, at the foot of the stairs, Devlin opened his mouth. “I—”
“Leave me alone!” Fenella snarled at him.
Astounded at her vicious retort, Devlin bowed and went into the library. He had no idea what to say to her on the morrow but consoled himself, as he poured a large brandy, with the thought that no doubt his mother would smooth things over.
The next morning, as promised, Devlin rode back to the inn and walked into the parlour. The invalid was just finishing his breakfast of scrambled eggs, which Mrs. Priddy was spooning into his mouth.
“Thank you, Mrs. Priddy. Will you leave us now?” asked Sir Marcus. Mrs. Priddy patted his mouth with a napkin and rose.
“Now don’t you be tirin’ ’im out, Yer Grace,” she tittered as she left the room.
“Well, Solesby,” Devlin said with false heartiness. “How do you do this morning?”
“Well enough, Deverell,” Sir Marcus replied. “I’m glad you came because there are things you should know.”
Devlin had spent a sleepless remainder of the night pondering the questions in his mind, concluding that he had behaved despicably to Fenella and had hopelessly embarrassed himself. However, he was not going to tell Sir Marcus that.
“There’s no need to tell me anything,” he said stiffly. “I was wrong to stand in Miss Preston’s way. If she wishes to make her life with you, then so be it. I merely wanted to save my mother the humiliation of her companion eloping with a guest.”
“Oh, shut up for once with your pontificating,” growled Sir Marcus. “You’ve got it all wrong. It’s you she loves, not me, and she did not come willingly, as you correctly surmised. I kidnapped her.”
Devlin’s mouth fell open in astonishment as Sir Marcus continued to unravel the whole chain of events and motives behind the situation. Finally, he lay back against his pillows, exhausted and pale, but looking strangely satisfied.
“You say it was entirely Penelope’s idea?” Devlin stammered. Although he had suspected as much, it was still a shock hearing that his suspicions were, in fact, the truth.
“Yes! But don’t blame her completely. I am also responsible. Once I had met Miss Preston, you can understand how my motives changed and how I wanted to win her for myself, not discredit her for Penelope’s advancement. Nevertheless, it remains that I wished to continue with the courtsh
ip. If I had refused, perhaps we would not be in this difficulty.”
“But Penelope was prepared for you to ruin this woman? To go as far as seduction?” Devlin murmured, with his thoughts once more in complete turmoil. This information changed everything.
Sir Marcus reddened slightly. “I can’t deny my reputation as a dissolute scoundrel, Deverell, and I don’t know if you will understand when I say this, but Miss Preston is not the kind of woman one with whom one dallies.”
“I do understand, more than you can imagine.” Devlin’s response was almost mechanical. He was stunned at the revelation. Fenella did not love Sir Marcus. He could hear Sir Marcus’ voice, but was not listening to the words. His own thoughts consumed him.
“No, she does not love me, she loves you. Deverell, did you hear me?”
Devlin jerked out of his reverie. “What did you say?”
“It’s you she loves, that’s why you’d better get back to her as soon as you can and explain matters.”
Devlin rose, almost in a daze. His worst enemy had done him the greatest favour; he had told Devlin what he longed to hear.
“You must sever this tie with Penelope,” Sir Marcus urged.
“I cannot.” Devlin sat down again with a heavy sigh. “You know it’s impossible. She’ll never release me.”
“No.” Sir Marcus shook his head. “Not possible by social means, but the threat of exposure will be too much for her. You must say you will make this news public; even go so far as to suggest placing an advertisement; anything to frighten her into ending the engagement.”
Devlin gazed at Sir Marcus, whose eyes met his in a steady stare.
“I have to ask you …the night before the ball, when I found you outside your bedroom.” Devlin coughed in embarrassment.
“Yes?” Sir Marcus was puzzled. “I was trying to get in and I thought my damn fool of a valet had locked the door.”
“So Miss Preston was not expecting you to join her?”
Sir Marcus roared with laughter and then winced with pain. “No, by God. I was quite alone, well not quite, if you count the brandy decanter. And set your mind at rest; when I offered Miss Preston my heart at the ball she sweetly, charmingly but firmly refused it.”
Devlin stood up. He shook Sir Marcus by his good hand. “You have been my enemy and yet you have done me a favour. How can I repay you?”
“Acknowledge me.” Sir Marcus’ gaze was steady. “We will not move in the same circles; we will not be friends in the way of friendship; but acknowledge me and take away this sword of Damocles you have over my head. You have my word it will never happen again.”
“It is forgotten.”
“My thanks. Now you had best be on your way.”
Devlin strode out the inn, and rode back to Deverell House with fiery determination speeding him onward.
Chapter Nineteen
Devlin arrived back at Deverell House in a foul temper. After flinging Lucifer’s reins into the hands of a gawping stable hand, he strode into the house. Blenkins, as impassive as ever, received his master’s hat and whip and awaited further instruction.
“Where is Lady Vane?” Devlin demanded.
A flicker of dislike crossed Blenkins’ wooden expression. “I believe her ladyship is in the fountain courtyard, Sir.”
“See that we are not disturbed.” Devlin strode toward the courtyard.
Blenkins scuttled off to share his opinion of the impending tempest with Mrs. Perkins, who was lecturing several parlour maids on the poor state of the dusting. As a result, it was a small but anxious gathering clustered on the second storey, overlooking the charming fountain courtyard. The courtyard in question was delightfully situated within a square formed by the various wings of the house. Surrounded on three sides by the house, but with the fourth side opening up onto a splendid vista of garden greenery, the courtyard boasted a large, beautiful fountain with Greek statues in the shape of Nereids, a dominant Poseidon, and a number of mythological stone creatures as the centrepiece. Several stone benches allowed visitors to rest while admiring the fountain; a variety of miniature flowering trees and shrubs in pots completed the enjoyment. The water tinkled delightfully as the large gold and orange inhabitants of the fountain swam slowly round, peeping out from under lily pads for unsuspecting insects to alight on the water’s surface. The last of the overnight guests had departed early that morning, anxious to get back to their homes. Deverell House was still.
Lady Penelope made a lovely picture as she sat watching the fish. The clatter of Devlin’s boot heels on the flagstones interrupted her thoughts. She leaped up and turned to gaze at him, her face glowing. Devlin noted her beauty. It was impossible to ignore a woman so exquisitely attired in butter-yellow muslin, her hair caught up with gold ribbons in a simple Grecian knot and stray curls tumbling loose onto her shoulders. She ran to him with her hands outstretched, reaching for him. The magnificent Deverell ring glittered on her left hand. Devlin shouldered past her.
Lady Penelope stopped, her mouth open in disbelief.
“My love,” she gasped. “What on earth is the matter?”
“You dare to ask me what the matter is?” His tone was scathing.
“Yes.” Lady Penelope clung to her strength. “Something has distressed you and I would like to know what it is.”
Devlin raised his eyebrows. It was clear his fiancée would not shrink from this battle. He would have to play his moves carefully. He related to her exactly what Sir Marcus had told him.
“What?” shrieked Lady Penelope, affecting shock and horror. “How dare you insinuate that I put Sir Marcus up to seducing that silly little girl? What a dreadful accusation.”
“I am not surmising at all,” Devlin shouted. “I am repeating what Sir Marcus himself has told me.”
“Of course he would say such a thing!” Lady Penelope folded her arms and assumed a haughty expression. “Any fool can see that since he has been caught out, he wants to shift the blame to me.” She sank down again on the stone bench and tossed her head. “Given that you had him at the point of a sword, he probably made a false confession out of sheer cowardice.”
“No, I think not,” said Devlin, sensing a protracted battle.
Lady Penelope rose from the bench and twirled to face him. Her face was triumphant and her smile smug.
“I see your machinations, my dear Devlin,” she sneered. “I am nobody’s fool. You want to taste the charms of this fresh young country girl, perhaps to revive your jaded city palate.”
She folded her arms and looked him up and down. Her lip curled in scorn.
“Well, you may do as you please once we’re married, although I hope you will be discreet. But if you think to cheat me out of what I have worked so hard and so long to attain, you had better think again. I will never release you. Never!”
She tossed her head again and looked away. Her face was hard and cold, her mouth a thin red line of malevolence.
“Then you leave me no option,” Devlin said as calmly as he could.
Her head flew round and her gaze locked with his.
“What do you mean? You’ll never allow any adverse publicity. I know how you cherish your precious good name and the family honour. Poor Mama must not be bothered with something as ugly and nasty as a scandal.” Her tone was mocking. “She’ll never stand for it.”
“I know my mother will put my happiness first and will remain confident I have done what is best,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Devlin saw the fear in her eyes and pressed home.
“I shall place an advertisement in the papers giving a detailed and true account of events, and with Sir Marcus’ admission of his role in this sordid saga.”
Although Devlin had no such promise from Sir Marcus, he was playing a desperate hand, hoping she would take the bait. It would all come out once Sir Marcus admitted his part. She would be disgraced, ruined. There would be no chance of a titled marriage with anyone else after that. However, a string o
f respectably placed names flew through his mind: she could have any of her devoted admirers in a flash, with no questions asked, just the happy suitor’s gratitude.
Lady Penelope blanched and gnawed her lower lip. Then she gave a squeal of pure rage, wrestled the Deverell heirloom ring off her finger and held it aloft.
“Very well then,” she screeched. “Take it! Damn you to Hell, Devlin Deverell!”
She threw the ring into the fishpond. It fell with a plop into the greenish water. He remained impassive, his face expressionless.
She whirled upon him again, her face contorted with evil glee. “I have something to tell you, high and mighty Duke of Wyndlesham. Whatever your plans for your little milkmaid, they will all come to naught. Not only will your pride forbid marriage with her, but also you cannot because her father was a gambler who lost all his money, and besides he is a suicide. Let’s see what the gossips make of that. Will you be putting that into your true and detailed account of what happened here?”
She shrieked the last words at him before rushing off in a flurry of skirts, screaming for the hapless Maria to begin packing at once.
Devlin bowed his head. Outwardly, he remained impassive under her verbal onslaught; inwardly he reeled. A gambler? Suicide? Her words struck him like a fatal blow. All his worst fears had come true. Not only was Fenella far beneath him socially but her father’s suicide effectively prevented any kind of liaison between them. He wondered idly why he kept thinking of marriage and Fenella at the same time. Then he knew.
With Fenella, it could only be marriage. He would never insult her by offering her carte blanche.
Devlin made his way to his mother’s apartments. He might as well tell her that her worst fears were over; there would be no union with Lady Vane.
“Mama,” he announced, bursting into the room. He stopped in surprise when he saw his mother had a visitor, a grey-haired, bearded man dressed as if he hailed from the Continent.
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