The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  Rafe charged in and grabbed the handle of the iron-headed maul. As it arched over Mr. Cole’s head, Rafe ripped it from his grasp. “Destroy one more thing, Cole, or even knock a loose pebble with the toe of your boot, and this hammer will find your head.”

  “That belongs to me,” Cole barked, shoving Rafe with his barrel chest. “Whoever you are, you have no rights here.”

  Rafe shoved back. “I have every right!”

  “That is where you are wrong, Mr. Danvers,” Ursa spat.

  Mr. Cole folded his arms over his chest and smirked. “Danvers, eh? I’ve heard about you. Say, you’d better put down that hammer before you hurt yourself.”

  “Be careful, darling.” Ursa smiled and sauntered over to slip her arm through her husband’s. “The mad have difficulty understanding reason. You may be forced to prove your point by humiliating him.”

  Hammer in hand, Rafe strode across the room to stand beside Hedley. “This is your sister’s home. You’ve no right to destroy it.”

  Ursa didn’t even bother to look at her. “That simple creature standing there has not reached her majority and therefore is still beneath her family’s care. Greyson Park, whatever is left of it, also belongs to the Sinclairs. Which is my family, Mr. Danvers, not yours. And not your concern.”

  “You call destroying Greyson Park taking care of your family? You wouldn’t understand the meaning of it.” He turned to Hedley and said in a low whisper, “I am at your command. If you want me to throw them out, I will.”

  Startled that he would ask her permission, as if he truly did see Greyson Park as hers, her heart gave into a poignant squish. “Thank you, but no. I will show them out.”

  Ursa scoffed. “How dare you suggest such a thing. We don’t need to be shown out by you. I meant what I said—though you may not be able to understand it—you hold no true right over Greyson Park.”

  “Then prove it. In writing. I should like to see the document that erased my inheritance,” Hedley challenged. She’d learned quite a bit in the recent weeks and had a fair understanding of the society to which her sister belonged. And that there were rules to follow. “What if the ton were to discover how the Sinclairs have treated a member of their own family? Think of the scandal.”

  “No one even knows about you.” Ursa released a haughty laugh and dismissed Hedley with a flick of her fingers before addressing Rafe. “And if you have thoughts of interfering, you might want to abandon those as well. After all, do you imagine, even for a moment, that society would believe a Danvers over a Sinclair? Why concern yourself with such a property, for that matter? I’d never understood why you wanted this estate in the first place. But when I heard the story of treasure, I realized that it must be true.”

  Now, Rafe laughed, a low, hollow sound as he shook his head. “You believed the story of treasure, because I’d asked to have Greyson Park as part of your dowry? You’ve given me much credence. The truth is far simpler. This estate once belonged to my family. I’d merely wanted to return it to its proper ownership.”

  “All this time and at such lengths.” Ursa clucked her tongue. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Perhaps.” Rafe shrugged. “After all, how can it say much for your wits if you’ve spent any time at all believing the ravings of a Danvers? We are all quite mad, Mrs. Cole.”

  That statement seemed to hit the mark. Ursa blinked. Her smug grin fell. “Are you saying . . . that there is nothing here? No treasure?”

  Rafe set the hammer on the floor and rested the handle against the doorframe. “Am I so mad that I wouldn’t have absconded with it by now?”

  It was almost comical to see how dejected Ursa looked in that moment. Her steadfast Mr. Cole settled an arm around her as she turned into his embrace with a sniff. “No treasure.”

  Hedley stepped forward, trying not to be envious of the familiarity her sister and her husband openly shared. “That leaves the matter of Greyson Park. If it is as you say, and I am still beneath my family’s care, then who will repair the damage you have inflicted on my home?”

  Ursa lifted her face—one completely devoid of tears—and narrowed her eyes. The hatred within those black pools was palpable. “We both know that the only part of you that is a true Sinclair is the ink on the register of your baptism. Greyson Park, and its inhabitant, is of no real concern to the family.”

  “Unless of course you had something to gain,” Hedley replied, her voice faltering. She looked down at the toes of her red shoes, feeling invisible for the first time in weeks. She had no family. No clothes of her own. And the man she loved did not want her.

  “Hmm . . . No. Not even then.” On the arm of Mr. Cole, Ursa crossed the room and swept past Hedley and Rafe. At the front door, she paused to issue one more cutting remark. “You have never been anything other than a burden to all of us. It’s a shame that you weren’t the one who died in the carriage accident that day. But I suspect you know that.”

  In two strides, Rafe crossed the foyer and slammed the door closed behind them. The action made Hedley aware of the hole in the center of the door. Through it, she could see Ursa climb into her carriage and Mr. Cole follow. Gradually, the driver set off, and soon there was nothing to see, other than the ironical brightness of the sun during such a dark moment.

  Returning to her, Rafe drew her against him, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her back. “What she said about the accident, pay no heed. Your sister enjoys tormenting people.”

  But it was true. Hedley allowed herself to enjoy his embrace for a minute before she pulled away and walked toward the center of the parlor. Kneeling down, she began to put the pieces of her table into one pile.

  Rage scorched Rafe. The heat of it filled his stomach and chest as if he himself were a furnace hot enough to melt sand and soda ash into glass. He’d never been this furious in his life. He’d never felt such complete and utter hatred. Not even when Ursa had left him at the altar. And not even when Lord and Lady Fitzherbert had given his father the cut direct.

  This was new to him, and he didn’t know what to do with this all-encompassing need to right all the wrongs that had been done to Hedley. Including what he had done. Some of his anger was directed at himself for how he’d left things unsaid between them. And that he’d missed his opportunity to tell her when they’d been in the carriage house.

  Now, with the ruin of the parlor all around them, he knew it was the wrong time to unburden the tumult of emotions burning through him. In this moment, it shocked him to realize that he would sacrifice anything for her. Everything.

  Yet still, that rage was inside him, roiling together with a love so raw and powerful that it frightened him.

  Rafe paced from the parlor to the foyer, his breathing audible, as if he’d finished running up and down the stairs a dozen times. “I will fix this, Hedley. Greyson Park will outshine any manor in Lincolnshire. I’ll make a chandelier for every room, dripping with crystals. I’ll—”

  “No, you won’t,” she interrupted and stood to face him. “You’ve done nothing to destroy Greyson Park, and it isn’t your place—or in my best interest—for you to fix it. I will have Mr. Tims drive me to London, where I’ll meet with the family’s solicitor so that I can see what my rights are. Afterward, I will meet with your antiquarian society and make sure that the Danvers family gets complete credit for the legacy that is here. I assume it is in the locked attic?”

  “It is.” But the legacy was the last thing on his mind. Rafe raked a hand through his hair. “You cannot stay here.”

  “I will call upon Calliope this afternoon,” she acquiesced. “But not yet. I plan to stay here for a while. And I should hurry. Mr. Tims is likely waiting for me in the cellar to see what can be salvaged.”

  I plan to stay here for a while. In other words—alone.

  Yet he understood her need to remain. This was her home. And he was going to help her reclaim it, any way he could. He was sure to find laborers in the village.

  Rafe hesitated
, one foot pointing toward her and the other toward the door. He didn’t want to leave her. “Not long,” he said, already worried about her being here without him.

  She offered a short nod, her expression full of a determination that rivaled his own.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Requiring an outlet or else running the risk of truly going mad, Rafe headed for the market. His first stop was Lynch & Twyck, where he paid nearly four pounds for a perfume cask that contained six bottles and no stoppers. He could have haggled, he supposed, but the truth was, he would have paid any price. Hedley’s needs, her happiness, and her hopes were his priority now, and he respected her enough to give her the space she required.

  Leaving that shop, he went directly to the laundress. As was his usual arrangement with the widow, he walked to the back door.

  By the time Hedley and Mr. Tims sorted through the rubble that was once the cellar, she realized that her dream of living here at Greyson Park was just that . . . a dream.

  There was no way she could come back from this level of destruction and rebuild. She had little enough money for food, let alone repairs of this magnitude. Besides that, who would do the work? Mr. Tims? Right now the caretaker was wheezing as he made his way up the cellar stairs.

  While she might have been insane enough to believe that Rafe could have loved her despite her family, she was not going to delude herself about Greyson Park. Not any longer.

  Brushing the dirt from her once-beautiful muslin dress, she drew in a breath of resolve and hoped it would help her keep the heartache inside. “Mr. Tims, there is nothing for us here. Nothing of the cellar can be salvaged, and I fear that the foundation walls are crumbled to the point of being unsafe.”

  “Right you are, m’girl. I fear for this old place. Without a foundation beneath this corner, there’s no telling what might happen next.” His dust-roll eyebrows flanked his sorrowful gaze. “Perhaps it would be better if you stayed with your friends at Fallow Hall until something can be done.”

  Nothing could be done—not by her, anyway. She exchanged a look with Mr. Tims, who seemed to share the sentiment. “Before I go, would you allow me to fix you a pot of tea in your cottage and perhaps share a cup with you?”

  He reached out and patted her hand. “I’d be honored.”

  They both knew this would be the last time.

  Rafe placed the coin in the widow Richardson’s waiting palm. “I’ll be sending a footman for soda ash in the future.”

  “You’ve said but two words in the same number of minutes since your arrival. Won’t you come inside for a proper greeting and then stay for a fare-thee-well?”

  Rafe shook his head but smiled to soften the refusal. Their affair had been the longest one he’d had thus far. There’d been no expectations. No promises. No pretense. Just two people who enjoyed physical pleasure. During all that time, it had been enough. Now, he realized, he wanted more. He wanted what Rathburn and his sister had found, and what Everhart had discovered.

  “As a fellow hunter, I would not wish to make an enemy of your new husband,” he said to her. “The butcher is a good man. I hope you find contentment with him.”

  “Listen to you,” the widow said in a singsong manner. “Since when do you care about contentment? I thought such rubbish beneath you, but now”—she tilted her head to the side to study him—“you look like a man in love.”

  Rafe laughed. He wasn’t in love. What he felt for Hedley was too intense and raw to be compared with a mundane, flowery sentiment. The blistering, roiling mass of emotion that filled his entire body was a great deal more than love. It went soul deep. So deep, in fact, that he knew he could not draw another breath on this earth unless Hedley was part of it.

  “Pity that,” the widow said on a sigh and let her gaze roam over his form. “But if you change your mind . . . ”

  “I won’t.”

  She sighed again. “No. You’re not the type who does.”

  After her lengthy visit with Mr. Tims, which included preparing a stew for his dinner, Hedley went back into Greyson Park to gather a few items of clothing. When she returned, however, she saw that the kitchen door was opened. It had been closed before, hadn’t it? Then again, how could a broken door remain closed?

  Thinking that it was nothing more than the wind, she went inside.

  Hedley knew she could not live at Greyson Park, nor could she return to Sinclair House. And she would not impose upon her friends at Fallow Hall. Walking up the stairs that now creaked and groaned beneath each step, her options felt limited and restricting. It wasn’t until she reached the top that she realized what she could do.

  She still planned on going to London to meet with her solicitor and also with the gentlemen from the Society. So why not look for employment while she was there? A large city must have hundreds of opportunities. While the village here had wanted only an experienced modiste, she was certain there must be shops that could use her skills.

  And then perhaps . . .

  Hedley stopped cold when she reached the door to her bedchamber. This door had been knocked off its hinge as well. The trunk that Calliope had sent over with the day dresses and underclothes lay open. Torn strips of pastel muslin draped over the sides of the portmanteau and littered the floor. Even the plum-colored walking dress lay in shreds. Ursa had been here as well.

  Staggering into the room, Hedley reached out with one hand as the other held back a choking cry. “I thought they hadn’t gotten this far. I thought they’d only destroyed the downstairs.”

  Thoughts like that were pointless now. It was obvious that Ursa and Mr. Cole had come upstairs. Upstairs—

  Hedley whipped around and rushed into the hall, sprinting around the corners until she reached the short stairway leading to the attic door. Rafe’s legacy was the only thing on her mind.

  At the top of a short staircase, the attic door was open. Nails protruded from the doorframe where it had once been fastened to the door. Beyond it, she could only see darkness. An icy chill slithered over her skin, making her feel clammy and cold.

  She hated attics.

  Still, she held her ground at the base of the stairs. The need to make sure Rafe’s legacy hadn’t been destroyed overrode her desire to turn and walk away. After a peek down at her shoes for courage and a quick check of her hair to ensure that all her pins were in place, she mounted the stairs.

  At the top, she was careful to stay away from the nail tips surrounding the frame. She was wearing the only dress she had left and would need it in order to go to London. Which seemed an absurd preoccupation when her pulse was pounding in her ears, and she couldn’t draw a full breath.

  Once she’d left Sinclair House, she’d sworn never to return to an attic. And now, here she was, standing alone in the darkest room of Greyson Park. In the light that reached her from the hall at her back, she couldn’t see any ruin or objects laid to waste on the floor. In fact, the floor was quite tidy, albeit dusty. There wasn’t any furniture up here, or crates, or anything. Whatever had been here was gone now. Oh, Rafe. I’m so sorry.

  “I knew you’d find your way here, simpleton,” Ursa hissed from the hall behind her.

  Hedley turned with a jolt to see her sister looming in the hall outside the attic. “I thought you were gone. I thought you’d given up the idea of the treasure.”

  “And take your word for it?” she scoffed, coming up the stairs. Closer. The tapping of her shoes echoed around them. “Mr. Cole and I drove nearly halfway back to my aunt’s before I realized that you probably wouldn’t know the treasure if you were sitting on it every single day. As you can see, we were very thorough this time.”

  Hedley held her breath. “Did you find something, then?”

  “No. You and your poor excuse for a home are still every bit as disappointing.” Ursa had the audacity to reach out and brush dust from the edge of Hedley’s shoulder.

  Hedley swatted her hand away. She’d had enough. She’d endured enough over the years. And after makin
g new friends and seeing how they treated each other and how they treated her, she knew she deserved better. Hedley had allowed Mother, Ursa, and everyone at Sinclair House to look through her. She’d allowed herself to become invisible. No longer.

  “Not nearly as disappointing as you.”

  “What did you say?” Ursa asked, enunciating every syllable. Her eyes narrowed, and her nose wrinkled as if her entire face had been pinched.

  “You are not the only one who has longed for a different sister,” Hedley confessed. “If I had been given the choice between having a sister like you or being locked away in an attic for the rest of my life, I never would have chosen you.”

  “Why you little ingrate! If it wasn’t for me, you never would have had any clothes. Not to mention a nice easy life at Sinclair House. I’m the one who talked Mother out of sending you away to a workhouse. If I hadn’t reminded her of the fact that you might reveal your family to other people and risk exposure to us, then you wouldn’t even be here. You should be thanking me.”

  Her sister’s tone sounded accusatory. It was almost comical, in a way that reminded Hedley of what she’d said to Rafe about the laundress . . .

  Then it hit Hedley—a long-awaited epiphany. “You were jealous. All this time, and I never understood until this moment. You were jealous of me and all the attention I’d received.”

  “From having fits? Hardly.” Ursa offered her best glare.

  “No, from before then,” Hedley corrected. “Although it has been many years since, I do recall Mother brushing my hair and telling me that it was bright as sunshine.” That had been one of the only moments of kind attention she’d ever offered.

  Her sister’s mouth parted on a gasp. “You were her disgrace. Her punishment. You didn’t look like us. And soon, it was obvious. Then, after the accident, everyone knew it too.”

  “And you never let her forget it.” Hedley felt pity for her sister and for the jealousy that had taken over her life. “I’m sorry, Ursa. I’m sorry that you never liked yourself enough. One thing I can say—after years of my own company—is that I do like myself. And I don’t need fancy clothes or money to tell me what I’m worth.”