by Laura London
“Absolutely not,” Devon said. “I don’t trust her. She’s already nearly drowned, contracted malaria, and fallen through a roof into a goose trough trying to get away from me. There’s no telling what new way she’ll find to kill herself in London.”
From that position Devon was not to be moved. Cathcart himself brought a woven cover of dyed lamb’s wool and a dish of the herring salad that had lately formed a part of his own supper as well as a compote of nectarines, some biscuits, and milk. It was better for the servants to see him rummaging distractedly in the kitchen than to come into the library and find Devon had tied up a young girl. Aline, at least, would be spared being regaled with that tale over tea.
The girl herself said nothing through it all, nodding or shaking her head when asked a direct question, the determined set of her shoulders disclaiming his pity even while exciting it. It did not seem to occur to her that Cathcart might really be able to help her. She made no appeal to him, and it became increasingly obvious to Cathcart that she had come to accept as the natural state of affairs that any man she met would collude in her internment. It said much about the impropriety of the conditions under which she had been living that she was able to accept with aplomb the indignity of having to lie down on a couch before two men, one a stranger, and try to sleep fully clothed. But when the time came, and the couch had been prepared for her, she stood by it uncertainly, seeming unable to do it after all.
Devon came to her and physically laid her back against the cushions, removing her pattens, handling her as if she were a doll.
“Have no qualms,” he said to her. “Lord Cathcart is a gentleman.” As if he was answering a mute appeal in her eyes, Devon drew a thin dagger from his boot. Quite unsurprised by this unorthodox and alarming action, she accepted unflinchingly the passage of the shining blade between her wrists as Devon sliced open her bonds. He tossed a blanket over her and said, “Go to sleep, brat.”
The fluid ease with which Devon handled the dagger ought to have been enough to throw most young ladies into hysterics, but the amazing creature on the couch merely blinked twice, said thank you to Devon in a soft, cultured voice, and went immediately to sleep.
Scarves of blue and violet flame twisted on the black hearth logs as Devon delivered to Lord Cathcart the letter that came, disappointingly, from Rand Morgan and not the disinterested son Cathcart longed for. The first part of Cathcart’s conversation centered on that boy, the young pirate, scarred and braided, whose image resided like a burr in Lord Cathcart’s heart. And when he reached the point where, as always, the pain in his voice grew too great to expose even to Devon’s articulate sympathy, the talk became general, reviewing systematically the events of the last year, the affairs, both public and private, that had taken place in Devon’s absence. An interested, always intelligent listener, Devon drew from Cathcart a comprehensive account of English life during the past ten months, save one important development that Cathcart was steeling himself to reveal. As so often happened with Devon, Cathcart found himself expressing thoughts that had existed before only as experiments in the quiet of his own mind. Considerations of time became secondary. The hour was past two when the conversation turned to the Bourbon government in France, to Devon’s lack of confidence in the peace with that country as long as Whitehall refused to blockade Elba, and to the soon-to-be-convened Congress of Vienna.
Lord Cathcart made silent note of the frequency with which Devon’s gaze strayed to the sleeping girl. Several times the Duke of St. Cyr walked to the couch and stood looking down at her, seemingly unaware that he was doing so, though once, when the girl’s petal lips fell apart and she began to snore lightly in breathy, feminine gasps of utter exhaustion, Devon had leaned over the back of the couch smiling at her with an absorbed tenderness. The cover had fallen from her shoulder, and he gently pulled it up with hardly a break in thought, while Cathcart, watching them, was hard put to remember what in the world they’d been talking about. Clearly this relationship was not simple.
The conversation moved logically from Napoleon to Devon’s grandmother. Rather suddenly Devon said, “Twice I’ve asked you what mischief Grandmother has been about. Twice you’ve altered the subject. If it’s going to be that bad, shall I pour myself another brandy?”
Cathcart smiled reluctantly. “I don’t mean to be overdramatic. But I’m afraid she’s been plotting again on your behalf.”
The narrow green bottle in Devon’s hand paused halfway to the glass. In the ensuing silence Cathcart saw the girl open her eyes and lie quietly, staring without focus at the bust of Homer in a wall niche.
The brandy bottle clattered briefly against the rim of Devon’s glass. Setting the bottle down, Devon said mildly, “Well?”
“She’s back to her worries over the succession.”
“That’s hardly a surprise.” Laughter softened the golden eyes that were fixed upon Lord Cathcart. “God forbid we shouldn’t pass on the dynasty. Someone ought to let her know I can breed without her help. She must have presented me with two hundred hapless prospects. I didn’t know there was another eligible woman in England left unsurveyed.”
Sharply aware of the young girl knuckling her eyes on the couch, Cathcart said, “Precisely. As far as I can follow her train of thought this time, she seems to have the added notion that a wife and heir would keep you in England. She’s old and lonely and—” Cathcart broke off, watching Devon walk restlessly to the mantel. This clearly was a poor moment to mend fences. More loath than ever to reveal the whole of the fruitless debacle, he forced himself to begin again. “Anyway, she’s taken a new tack in finding you a bride.”
“Useless,” Devon said. “The slot stands to be filled shortly.”
Staggered as much by the flat dispassion of the announcement as by its content, Cathcart waited for his godson to say more. When nothing was forthcoming, he disciplined his composure and said, “Not being privileged with that information, she’s attempted to produce for you a girl. One can’t be sure what she has in mind. A notion, perhaps, that through it she might somehow win back your esteem.”
“Damn,” Devon said succinctly. “What girl?”
“To wit, a well-bred American maiden.”
Devon eased one lean shoulder against the mantel. “I wasn’t aware she knew any.”
Cathcart wasted no time trying to figure out whether Devon was referring to Americans or virtuous girls. “She doesn’t. The young girl in question is one Rand Morgan has an interest in.”
“I can assure you,” Devon said, giving his godfather a hard look, “that Rand Morgan isn’t interested in young girls.”
A man of profoundly conservative instincts, Lord Cathcart had worked hard, particularly in the last several years, to keep himself from becoming a prig. Still, there were certain things he would never be able to hear with equanimity, and among them were references to Morgan’s broad-based decadence. Morgan’s morals were no matter of indifference to Cathcart, and could never become so as long as his son remained one of the pirate captain’s most famous disciples. Cathcart flushed, glancing at Merry, who was beginning to look disorientedly around the room. To Devon he said, “Does the name Wilding mean anything to you?”
The younger man thought a moment before he said, “James Wilding—Assistant Secretary of the United States Treasury. His son is a young firebrand of some renown; the only brain, they say, on Armstrong’s staff. He gives British Intelligence fits. But, then, they’re stupid. I recall the name coming up once in conversation with Morgan. He never told me he had a connection with them.”
“The connection was with the firebrand’s mother, from the days before she married Mr. Wilding. The lady was British and has evidently been dead for some time. How Morgan knew her, or when, I don’t know, but he had formed enough of an attachment to have placed someone in the household staff to watch over the motherless Wilding daughter, a tar from the original crew of the Black Joke named Cork; a rascal, so Morgan told your grandmother, but reliable in his way.”
Merry, on the couch, had grown deathly white, her eyes wilting gentians. Thin, waving strands of her hair were glinting captives on her damp brow. This was too cruel. Lord Cathcart made himself the promise that as soon as he was done telling Devon about this particularly unpleasant business, he was going to insist that she be sent to bed. Or at least try to insist. If there was one thing Devon was not, it was malleable. Cathcart went on, “Your grandmother corresponded with the Wilding girl’s aunt in America at Morgan’s request. Morgan seems not to have ever told your grandmother in so many words he intended one day to bring Miss Wilding to England, and yet that was somehow the impression she was left with. In consequence, she got it into her head to bring the girl to visit her—”
“The devil she did! In the midst of a war?”
“I’m afraid so. She seems to have been taken with the idea of having a disposable bride awaiting you who was of such little social consequence that she might be rejected if you didn’t find her to be…” He seemed not to be able to find a way to express it.
“Sufficiently nubile?” Devon offered in a silky tone. “Poor Miss Wilding.”
“Poor Miss Wilding indeed,” Cathcart agreed grimly. “Your grandmother had few choices as to how to bring the young lady to England. She penned a letter to Miss Wilding’s aunt that included a half promise to arrange an advantageous marriage for the young girl and gave the letter into Michael Granville’s keeping with the instructions to deliver it himself and bring the two women back with him on the neutral ship.”
“And you let that happen? With Granville behind me in succession to the title?” There was icy incredulity in Devon’s eyes.
“You know I would not have,” Cathcart shot back angrily. “But Letitia made sure I heard nothing of it until after Granville sailed. Wires were pulled at the highest levels. Your grandmother stands as close to the Queen as ever she did; I don’t need to remind you how the royal family feels on the subject of your marriage.”
“No,” agreed Devon, pushing himself away from the mantel and setting down his untouched brandy on the side table with a loud clack. “You don’t. From your expression I take it that Granville killed the girl?”
“So I fear,” Cathcart said, regret searing his voice. “There’s no proof of anything, but the girl disappeared from the Guinevere perhaps even before she was out of port. The girl’s aunt is here now—staying with your mother—and it was the aunt’s belief at first that the girl ran away to be with her father; since then we’ve learned that the girl did not arrive at her father’s home, and the father claims the aunt had no authority to remove her from the country and demands that she be restored to him immediately. It’s become an issue at the peace talks, because the Americans are understandably skeptical about Whitehall’s claim that we don’t know where she is.…”
Devon was no longer listening. He had turned to stare at Merry. She was looking back at him, handfuls of the blanket clenched like knots beneath her fingers. Her sleepy lips were parted, and in her wide-open eyes was an expression of utter wonderment. Slower than they to understand what had happened, Cathcart found Devon’s features difficult to read, though Merry, apparently, was having no trouble. She murmured something, an inarticulate flutter in her throat; and bolted toward the door.
Chapter 25
Devon caught her before she could run out of the room, slamming the door shut. She desperately tried to kick him. He deflected it expertly, but she had spent a lot of time with Cat in the last weeks learning to defend herself, and it was a small, tired triumph to see that though Devon could hold her, it was not easy for him.
“I demand to be taken to my aunt!” she panted, struggling against his grip, her wrists twisting and turning under his palms, despairing that the resolute facial expression Cat recommended she adopt in all struggles with Devon must be losing most of its effectiveness with her hair flying over her face.
“All in good time, daffodil. Oh, no, don’t try that again or you’re going to arrive in front of her in little tiny pieces. How much do you think—Ouch!” He slid a bent finger between the small sharp teeth that had just clamped down on his forearm, trying to loosen her bite, watching sardonically as the feminine jaws opened only to close again ruthlessly on the new target of his finger. “Do you want to speak,” he asked, “or gnaw?”
The finger tasted like leather reins and horse sweat. Expelling it from her mouth, she was brought up short by his long hard hand, which caught the length of her jawline and forced her face to look upward into his. “Enough, you little tiger. Tell me just how far this conspiracy has gone.”
“What conspiracy?” she shouted back. “I’ve told you the truth from the beginning. Part of it, anyway. I was dragged from my bed by those monsters Cat hired to search Granville’s cabin. I was there because of the ants. I told you that! I even told you”—her voice had begun to shake—“about Henry Cork.”
“So you did,” he said with false civility. “Coming to England, you were. To marry a duke?”
“I didn’t know anything about that, and if I had, you can rest assured they would have had to pin me down like bobbin lace to get me on that ship. All I knew was my aunt was homesick and she wanted to visit England.” She broke, exasperated past bearing by the contemptuous rake of the hard gold eyes. “But there’s never any use talking to you!”
“There would have been a great deal of use talking to me—if you had told the truth. In the tavern; that was your brother. That’s why you kept those rosy lips sealed all this time—to protect him? That’s rich. Do you understand what I might have done to you if I’d been a shade more convinced you were Granville’s light-skirt? And Morgan…” The taut grip on her jaw tightened unknowingly. “Did Morgan arrange to have you brought aboard the Black Joke?”
“I don’t know. No. I don’t think so,” she said, “or else Cat would have had to know; he brought me aboard. And I’m almost sure he didn’t know.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I don’t know.” She was trembling; her thoughts capered like leaves in a wind eddy. “Devon, please; that hurts.” The grip moderated at once. “I’m so tired. You know it all now. Everything. At least about me, and as for the rest of it, and about Morgan knowing my mother… I don’t know. I can’t believe it. I want to see my aunt. I want to go to her! I can’t think anymore. Take me to my aunt.”
“Not yet, Merry pet. There’s something we have to do first.” Devon glanced over his shoulder at Lord Cathcart. “Produce us a special license, Brian. Poor Miss Wilding is going to become a duchess.”
Merry Wilding had borne up as best she could under forced confinement on a pirate ship and malaria. She had seen the man who held her fate transformed bewilderingly from pirate to duke, weaving with terrifying speed from protector to persecutor and back again. Now, at two o’clock in the morning, and for motives unabashedly hazy, that same man had the arrogance to announce offhandedly over his shoulder that he intended to make her his wife. It was one peach too many in the fruit bowl. Every last gram of her strength went into the circular upsweep of her arm, every bitter degree of temper tightened her fist as she planted a bruising punch on his chin. The force of the contact ripped through her muscles, wrenching her every tendon from wrist to shoulder, and her knuckles crackled like wren bones, but there was no question who was hurt worst. Two inches higher and she might have broken his nose. In the fireplace even the flames cowered.
At least half a minute passed before he could speak. Then, weakly at first, he began to laugh, though he had no breath to spend, and because he couldn’t seem to stop the laughter, he collapsed into a chair, in a graceful descent of long-shafted limbs and tumbling blond hair. His shoulders shook like an isinglass jelly. It occurred to her suddenly that he was as tired as she was. The difference was that he had the discipline to disguise it more thoroughly.
“No, beloved,” he finally managed to gasp, “we have our clichés reversed. You strike a man when his proposal is indecent. When a man asks
you to marry him, you simper, blush behind your hand, and say, ‘Sir, you do me too much honor—’ ”
“I wouldn’t marry you—” she started, her eyes flashing.
“I know,” he said, gasping softly. “If I were the last man in Europe. For all the flax in Flanders. If I paid you.”
“If my life depended on it!” she snapped.
“Be reasonable.” Below eyes dewed winsomely by the side issue of his laughter, Devon was laying careful fingers on his jaw. “There’s only so much mortal danger I can arrange on your behalf.” He turned, smiling, at Lord Cathcart, who had been sitting in his chair as though someone had riveted him there. “Don’t feel you have to stay to protect me. I’ll try not to incite her to violence a second time.”
Cathcart bore the look of a man hovering unsteadily between outrage and the strong desire to laugh in spite of himself. “A more well-deserved punch I have yet to see laid. I can’t in conscience walk from the room and let you bully a distraught girl into an enforced marriage for reasons of expediency.”
“If there’s one word that doesn’t apply to this entire venture,” Devon said with real feeling, “that word is expediency. You wouldn’t use words like expediency to me if you’d been responsible for an eighteen-year-old girl left to wander at will on a Caribbean privateer. Please go, Brian. We’re beyond chaperonage.”
Merry saw that something in Devon’s tone must have convinced the older man, for he rose, though reluctantly. Halting before Merry, he studied her eyes calmly and touched her cheek lightly with his forefinger. “If you shout for me, I’ll come,” he said and went from the room, closing the door behind him without force.
Into the ensuing silence Merry found herself saying, “He’s much too nice to be a friend of yours.”
“I suppose he is,” Devon said equitably. “You know—or don’t you?—that after the months you’ve spent on the Black Joke that marriage is the only thing that can keep you from social ruin.”
