He smiled to himself, thinking how he had lain in his tent on the Peninsula picturing her covered with jewels and reigning as the queen of London society. If there was any truth in the ton gossip, she had never accepted any of the hundreds of invitations she’d received during her tenure as the Duchess of Sheffield.
Nor had she ever been seen at Rundell and Bridges or any of the fashionable Bond Street shops. Hatchard’s Book Store, on the other hand, had counted her as one of its most frequent customers. As a result, she had earned herself a reputation as a bluestocking and a dangerous recluse who kept the old duke under her spell by dabbling in the occult. Devon wondered if she knew or cared about what was being whispered of her in the fashionable salons of London—and if he would ever learn the whole truth about the perplexing woman.
“My lord, may I ask you a question?” Elizabeth’s plaintive voice roused him from his ruminations and he smiled across the table at her, determined to play the proper guest for the balance of the meal.
“Ask away, dear lady,” he said, then took a good look at her and lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. She was ghostly pale and he could see, from her red-rimmed eyes, she had been crying. No one had to tell him why. Stamden had bid him goodbye shortly after dawn and Devon had cursed himself ever since for his infernal meddling. Maybe, left to their own devices, the lonely marquess and the equally lonely vicar’s daughter might have found a way to give each other the comfort they both so sorely needed.
“Why did the marquess have to leave so suddenly?” she asked, her lip trembling noticeably.
The sad little query stabbed at Devon’s conscience like the thrust of a knife blade. He swallowed hard. “Stamden said there was some trouble at his estate in Northumberland which needed his immediate attention,” he said in a flat voice. It was not exactly a lie, but neither was it entirely the truth.
Elizabeth grasped at it like a drowning person who’d just spied a life raft. A light turned on in her soft, brown eyes. “Then, of course, he had to go, for he is the most conscientious of men, but mayhap he’ll return once his task is completed,” she said, one word tripping over another in breathless confusion. Devon felt more guilty than ever to have raised her hopes.
“I suppose he might,” he murmured. “Who can know what a man like Stamden may do.” Devil take it, one expected a woman of five and twenty to have a bit more starch in her backbone and a few less feathers between her ears. Had Elizabeth learned nothing while serving as the duchess’s companion? No man would ever reduce that lady to tears.
He stared across the table at the fiery black-haired beauty, who neither asked for nor gave quarter to any man, and realized that the hatred he had once held toward her had slowly evolved into a grudging respect. He could understand why the duke had chosen her to raise his son. She was the strongest, most independent woman he had ever known—and as ferociously maternal as any she-wolf where young Charles was concerned.
How could his naïve young brother have imagined he could take such a woman to wife and keep her content as a simple farmer’s wife? There was a passion in her, a fire so hot it burned like the raging inferno Devon had once seen sweep through a tinder-dry forest in the mountains of Spain. Blaine could never have tamed such a fire to crackle merrily on a cottage hearth.
But could any man tame such fire? Or was she, as Stamden had judged, a law unto herself—a mysterious, exotic creature no man could ever call his own. For the first time Devon admitted to himself that his desire for Moira was far deeper and more profound than simple lust.
She was a fire in his blood, a madness in his soul. He had kissed her but twice—once in anger, once in a dream. Yet the touch of her lips had burned the memory of every other woman from his brain.
He must know more of her and if the knowing should destroy him, as it had destroyed Blaine, then so be it. He had always been a risk-taker and this was the greatest risk he had ever been tempted to take. Heretofore he had only gambled his life; now he stood to gamble his heart.
Surreptitiously, Moira studied the face of the man across the table from her, startled by the myriad emotions reflected on his handsome countenance. She had heard the ambivalence in his answer to Elizabeth’s question and sensed he was stretching the truth in order to give the poor woman a brief respite from the heartbreak she was suffering. It was not the first compassionate thing she had seen Devon St. Gwyre do. The man was an enigma—infuriatingly pompous one moment, amazingly sensitive the next.
She watched the candlelight glisten in his golden hair and turn his tawny eyes into amber gemstones. She shivered, his uncanny resemblance to the legendary Golden Warrior of gypsy myth sending chills down her spine.
At the moment, flickering shadows softened the fierce line of his jaw and played across the bridge of his narrow, aristocratic nose, rendering him deceptively mellow, even as the patina of time might mellow a vivid painting.
But if the truth be known, there was nothing soft or mellow about Devon St. Gwyre. Forged of steel and tested in battle, he was a courageous man, strong in his convictions and firm in his sense of duty. He might be capable of pity for a weaker member of the human race, but she strongly suspected the passions that drove him were of the flesh, not the heart. Any woman foolish enough to give her love to such a man would be asking for heartbreak.
But she was not just any woman. Heartbreak was nothing new to her. A mestiza—a half breed—and outcast. It had been her legacy from the day of her birth. Many men, both gypsy and gaujo had lusted after her; she had never been tempted to give herself to any of them. Not even to Blaine, who had truly loved her.
Only one man—Devon St Gwyre—had awakened the inchoate sensuality that lay deep in the core of her being. So what did she have to lose if she succumbed to the desire she saw in his eyes whenever he looked at her?
She sighed. Not a thing except her pride in her own worth. But since that was the only thing of value she would ever possess, she must accept the fact that without it she would be as meaningless as the wind-scattered ashes of a deserted gypsy campfire.
No, the lusty Earl of Langley would have to whistle himself up another warm body to fill his bed until he returned to London and his accommodating opera dancers. In the meantime, what harm could there be in a mild flirtation with him as long as she set the limits? Surely the gods would not deny her that small pleasure when they had already denied her so much.
A nagging little voice in the back of her head reminded her that this was much the same argument she had used to justify her disastrous flirtation with Blaine, but she chose to ignore it. Devon St. Gwyre was nothing like his gentle young brother; the only heart at risk this time would be her own.
The dinner Moira had been so certain would be a complete disaster had actually turned out to be a great success, considering what even she could see was a strange mixture of diners.
Blackjack had been on his best behavior—most of the time. In truth, he had quite outdone himself with his stories of past adventures and youthful triumphs, most of which Moira recognized as having grown considerably more colorful since the first time she’d heard them. But even she had to admit, the rogue had a grand way of making a story come alive for his listeners.
Elizabeth had perked up considerably after Devon’s talk with her and even added a word or two to the conversation.
Alfie had said little but had eaten everything in sight, and for the first time since they met, had refrained from openly challenging everything Blackjack said. Only once was he heard to mutter under his breath. “Whose tail is the bloody old windbag tryin’ to twist now?”
Even Devon had appeared to enjoy himself, if the number of times his hearty laughter had rung out was any indication. Twice his gaze had locked with Moira’s and the warmth of his look had set her pulse racing so wildly, she’d lowered her eyes for fear he would see the shocking effect he had on her.
And then there was Charles. The very thought of him made Moira’s heart sing. It had been a long time since she’d heard
him talk so freely or laugh so often. While he’d toyed with his food as usual and eaten about nothing, he’d ended the meal by looking about him and declaring happily, “Everyone I love in all the world is right here at this table…except Papa, of course, who is in heaven.”
Moira felt a lump rise in her throat, and reaching over to ruffle her stepson’s hair, found her fingers tangled with Devon’s—who had apparently had the same thought at precisely the same instant.
For one brief moment, their fingers entwined and she felt as if everything inside her had melted into a great pool of lava that flowed through her veins like liquid fire. Slowly she withdrew her fingers and bending over, dropped a kiss into Charles’s mop of silky black curls.
“If you gentlemen will excuse us,” she said in a voice that sounded shaky even to her own ears, “Elizabeth and I shall leave you to whatever it is you do when the ladies retire.” She placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Come, sweetheart. We have lingered so long over dinner, I am afraid it is well past your bedtime.”
“Not yet, Mama, please.” Charles’s dark eyes searched her face beseechingly, “Grandpapa Blackjack has promised to tell us a story about the Spanish gypsies.”
Moira’s heart stopped. What was that scoundrel up to now? She stared daggers at her father. “And what sort of story would that be, Blackjack?” she asked pointedly. “And how do I know it is fit for young ears or for that matter, any ears?”
“Ah, Moira girl, what a worrisome creature you’ve become these days. Can you not trust your old da’ to know what to tell and what not to?” His blue eyes, so like her own, sparked with mischief. “Tis a simple story, probably woven of whole cloth, that I heard in me seafarin’ days, but as entertainin’ a tale as any I’ve ever heard.
Charles tugged at her hand. “Please, Mama, please say he may tell it.”
“Let me add my voice to the boy’s,” Devon said. “For I too have recently developed a curiosity about Spanish gypsies.”
Moira gritted her teeth in frustration, knowing full well she had only herself to blame for whetting Devon’s curiosity on the subject. But this story Blackjack was proposing to tell was just more of his infernal mischief making. He loved to walk the edge; it was the danger that had intrigued him the most about smuggling, not the profit. But this time he was putting her in jeopardy. And Charles. If Blackjack did anything to upset the balance she was striving to bring into Charles’s life, she would never forgive him.
Moira could see from the expression of diabolic glee on her father’s face, he knew he’d outmaneuvered her, and she dare not make an issue of it lest Devon suspect there was more at stake here than simple storytelling.
“Oh, very well,” she agreed, giving her father a look that promised future retribution. “But it would not be fair if Elizabeth and I should miss such a wondrous tale, I think we shall have to break with tradition tonight and stay with you gentlemen while you enjoy your port.
“A small concession, ma’am, since everything else about the evening has been so entirely traditional,” Devon said with a chuckle that raised the hair up the back of Moira’s neck. He accepted a glass of port from the footman and raised it as if in a toast. “So, Squire Reardon, tell us about Spanish gypsies.”
“A fascinating people,” Blackjack said, assiduously avoiding Moira’s eyes. “Or so I’ve been told.” Blackjack held his glass to the candle so the port wine glowed with the fire of a fine ruby. “The proudest people on earth, actually. They firmly believe they’re a notch or two better than any other gypsies, as well as all gaujos, which is everyone else God created.”
“gypsies proud! Now that’s a bouncer if ever I heard one.” Alfie’s thin face puckered in disbelief. “There was nothin’ proud about the dirty buggers wot was skulkin’ abut the Haymarket, stealin’ everything wot wasn’t nailed down. And it was ‘stupid gorgios’ they called the lads of the watch wot hauled ‘em off to Newgate—not this gowho name you’re claimin’.”
“Then they couldn’t have been Spanish gypsies,” Blackjack declared firmly. “Probably Hungarian or Romanian or some such thing. Not all gypsies are the same, you know. Not that Spanish gypsies are above stealin’ when the necessity arises, but they’ll not be skulking about to do it. No need, when they’re so devilish clever they can steal a horse right out from under a man, and him not knowin’ it’s gone till he finds himself walkin.”
He gave Alfie a quelling look. “But back to me story, which I hope I may be tellin’ from now on without interruption.” He cleared his throat. “Some years ago, or so I was told, there was a gitano, a Spanish gypsy, living in a cave in the hills of Andalusia. Tall he was, which is unusual for a gitano and as handsome a fellow as ever walked on God’s green earth. But ‘twas not his comely face that set him apart. ‘Twas the magical way he had of playing a guitar.”
“A guitar?” Alfie scoffed. “Last I heard, it was violins wot gypsies played.”
“Spanish gypsies play guitars,” Blackjack said, his patience obviously wearing thin—almost as thin as Moira’s peace of mind. She could see where his story was leading and she didn’t like it one bit.
“Twas said his music was so beautiful and so powerful, those who listened believed they heard the voice of God,” Blackjack intoned reverently. “People came from all over Spain to hear him play—and not all of them gypsies either. Even the king himself once climbed the rocky path to the gypsy’s cave just to hear his magic guitar.”
In spite of her reservations, Moira found herself entranced by her father’s words. She stared into space, remembering how she’d sat by the hour as a child, watching strong, brown fingers move across the strings of a guitar as swiftly as summer lightening…remembering how she’d been swept up in the power and passion of the wild, exotic gypsy music.
“Deditas de Oro! But of course, I heard of him when I was with Wellington in Spain,” Devon said. “He’s one of the Spaniards’ favorite folk heroes. Been dead nearly thirty years and still the people, peasants and grandees alike, speak of him as if they’d heard him play but yesterday.”
He stared straight at Moira. “And wouldn’t you know, he was killed over a woman. A typical Spanish tale of passion and tragedy. As I heard it from a Spanish grandee, the story was he fell head over ears for the daughter of one of Spain’s most powerful noblemen and when the girl didn’t respond to his overtures, he resorted to—there’s no other word for it—rape.”
Moira gasped. “But that’s monstrous. I don’t believe it.” She caught herself up short. “That is, it doesn’t seem as if a man who could create such beauty in his music would do such an ugly thing.”
Devon nodded. “No, it doesn’t. And apparently most of Spain, other than the girl’s father, thought she lied. But the gypsy had to flee for his life. Unfortunately, the nobleman’s henchmen hunted him down and hanged him. And shortly after, the girl threw herself off a cliff. End of story. What a terrible waste!”
“Ah, but ‘tis not really the end at all.” Blackjack smiled mysteriously. “For here’s where my story takes a twist. It seem that the paid assassins were music lovers like the rest of Spain and only pretended to hang him, then helped him escape, along with his wife and young daughter and thirty or more of his gypsy followers.”
“Escape to where?” Devon asked, and Moira held her breath.
“Well now that’s the question, isn’t it?” A wicked smile danced in Blackjack’s eyes. “But this much I know for certain. The young seafaring lad who told this story in a tavern in Penzance—and a fellow Irishman he was so I’ve no doubt that ‘tis true—said he was conducting a bit of business off the coast of France a year or so later, and the Basque gypsies offered him a handsome sum to transport twenty or so of their Spanish brethren to safety in England.”
“England! Are you certain of the destination, Blackjack?” Moira asked, her narrowed gaze locking with his. Picking up the knife she’d used to cut her mutton, she ran her finger along the blade as if testing its sharpness. “Andalusia being one
of the southernmost provinces of Spain, one would expect anyone escaping from there to sail across the Mediterranean—not travel the length of Spain and cross the Pyrenees which they would have to have done to reach France.
“It does seem illogical,” Devon agreed, “unless they feared the long arm of the nobleman could reach into Africa. But Moira is right. The Pyrenees, for God’s sake. What time of year was this? I guarantee a ragtag band of gypsies would never make it over those mountains in the winter.”
But they had made it in the dead of winter though they’d buried more than half their number, including pregnant women and small children on the way.
Moira stared at her father in tight-lipped anger. Never had she been more disgusted with the care-for-nothing rogue than she was at this minute.
Studiously avoiding her eyes, Blackjack picked up the serviette and wiped away the beads of perspiration that had sprung to his brow. “The lad who told the story was a bit foggy on some of the details—the exact time of year being one of them,” he said vaguely.
Moira sniffed. “The whole story sounds a bit foggy to me.”
Devon took a sip of wine. “But damned intriguing nevertheless.”
“I’ve heard better,” Moira said. She turned to her father. “And you’ve put Charles to sleep with the telling of it, Backjack, so you’d best carry him up to the nursery for me.”
Blackjack leaped to his feet, a sheepish look on his face. Moira bid good night to Devon and Elizabeth and picking up a candle, followed her father up the stairs with Alfie trailing behind.
At the nursery door, she turned the sleepy duke and his young companion over to John Footman’s care and taking her father’s arm, led him into the hall. “I’ll have a word with you, Blackjack,” she said, and closed the nursery door behind her.
“Now, Moira girl, I know what you’re going to say,” her father protested. “But there’s no cause to get all riled up. I was just having a bit of fun with your stiff-rumped earl.” He chuckled. “I’d a suspicion he’d have heard of your grandfather, spending so much time in Spain and all.”
The Gypsy Duchess Page 11
