Deverell's Obsession: A Risqué Regency Romance

by Sahara Kelly

  The unobtrusive entrance to the Mitra club graced Boswell Street, a quiet thoroughfare near Russell Square. It had been named as a homage to the Indian Goddess of meetings, since the rooms were perfectly arranged to house such activities. It was less formal than many of the other, better known, gentlemen’s clubs, and Dev liked the quiet buzz of conversation that always greeted him.

  He also enjoyed the scent of cigars, the whiff of good leather and the personal welcome he always received from whichever doorman was on duty.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Deverell, sir. Always good to see you at the Mitra.”

  Smiling, Dev let the doorman relieve him of his overcoat, which he needed in spite of the season. This was, after all, England. Rain and cold winds in the summer were part of its charm. At least that’s what the residents asserted if asked.

  “Anyone of note around, James?”

  The doorman thought for a moment. “You just missed His Grace the Earl of Leicester. And Lord Thomas Hillier enjoyed a hearty breakfast this morning. But at the moment it’s quite quiet, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “We do have one newcomer…a Scottish gentleman. Goes by the name of McPherson.” He leaned over. “But I believe he is a little more than just a simple Mr.”

  “What gives you that idea?” Always curious, Dev had to ask.

  James tapped his nose. “I can sense these things, Mr. Deverell. Years of experience.” He paused. “Plus he was put up for membership by the Duke of Lochloden.”

  “Hmm.” Dev considered the matter. “Well in that case, you’re probably quite right. Where might I find this Scot, do you know?”

  “I believe he’s in the Shakespeare room, sir. Enjoying a brandy, I believe.”

  “Well, I think I might join him. In the room and the brandy, if you would be so good…?”

  “I’ll have one sent right along, sir.”

  “Good man.” Dev nodded his thanks and strolled off down a corridor leading to the room dedicated to one of England’s greatest playwrights. The dedication took the form of a rather imposing alabaster bust of the chap himself and about two thousand copies of Hamlet.

  Or so it seemed to Dev, who wasn’t particularly fond of the play but was always amused by the reverence it received from others.

  Walking through the open door, he was pleased to see a good fire warming the room, and several chairs placed appropriately around it, and also around the few tables gracing the space.

  There was only one man inside though, and all Dev could see was the back of his head over the top of one of the fireside chairs.

  “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” said Dev politely. “But that fire looks damn cozy on a day like this one.”

  The man stood and turned…and blinked. “Good Lord. I know you.”

  “And I you.” Dev was stunned in his turn. “Charles and Hannah and that God-awful Derby mess. You were there. You were leading the forces of justice if I remember rightly.” He shook his head. “Damn. You’re a Bow Street Runner.”

  “At times, yes.” He held out his hand. “Ian McPherson. And I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again under less trying circumstances. Deverell, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” said Dev, shaking the hand. “Talk about coincidences.”

  “Sit. Please join me.” Ian waved a hand. “This is a lovely club, but it’s always nice to share a conversation as well.”

  Intrigued, Dev took a seat and welcomed the sight of his brandy as a servant appeared with a tray. “I took the liberty. Will you join me?”

  “Already ahead of you.” Ian gestured to the snifter beside him. “Perfect day for a good fire and a drop of brandy.”

  “Not Scotch?” Dev grinned.

  “Sometimes.” Ian grinned back. “But…when in London, do as the Londoners do. And that, dear sir, is brandy at the club.”

  “Your health.” Dev raised his glass and sipped, appreciating the warm burn of the liquor. “Ah, that’s good.”

  Ian did the same. “It is indeed.” He put his glass down. “So what brings you to the club today?”

  Dev took another sip and considered the situation. He did not want to make a fuss about his inquiries—it was early and he had no real idea of the direction they would take. He had hoped for a light and casual conversation with one of the town know-it-alls, who would place Elwyn for him with no difficulty.

  However, meeting Ian McPherson might be more than a coincidence. It might be Fate helping Dev’s inquiries along. After all, who could possibly be more reliable than a Bow Street Runner?

  And Dev had seen the man in action. He’d been very impressed indeed.

  “Well, have you decided to trust me?” Ian looked at him, with one eyebrow aloft.

  Dev sighed. “You’re good.” He returned his brandy to the small table beside his chair and leaned back. “I think I have. But I will stress that I would prefer our conversation to remain private.”

  Ian nodded. “I understand. Your confidences are safe with me, Mr. Deverell. You have my word.”

  Dev accepted that oath of honor and began his tale. “At this time I have a guest at Deverell House. A young woman who was set upon before she could make formal contact. She’s…she’s the niece of my Aunt’s old friend…” he improvised on Bertie’s creation, “…and she has unfortunately lost some of her most recent memories.”

  “How unpleasant.” Ian frowned.

  “We have high hopes that her recovery is underway, of course. But I am trying to learn more about her and possibly the reason for the attack on her. One of the only clues I have is a note from one Lord Aubrey Elwyn, recommending she seek “sanctuary” at Deverell House. The word “sanctuary” is a direct quote, by the way.”

  “The attack was recent?”

  “Early yesterday. At the docks. Wharfside.”

  That gave Ian pause and he continued to frown. “No companions or anything?”

  “None. She was fortunate that a couple of good Samaritans rescued her and contacted me.”

  “Lucky indeed.”

  “I will add that my Aunt wasn’t aware she was arriving, and I’ve not seen her before.”

  Dev’s conscience kicked him on that point, but how on earth could he explain his obsession to a man still practically a stranger?

  “Hmm.” Ian stared into the fire, lost in thought. “Elwyn, you say? Aubrey Elwyn?”

  “Yes. That was the signature on the note.”

  Ian’s deep blue gaze returned to study Dev’s face.

  Dev grinned. “Well, have you decided to trust me?”

  “Touché.” Ian laughed. “Yes, Mr. Deverell, I think I have.”

  “In that case call me Dev, for God’s sake.”

  “Only if you’ll call me Ian.”

  “Done and done.” Dev nodded. “So what can you share with me that might have anything to do with this business?”

  “Aubrey Elwyn was found dead two nights ago at his home in Whittingford.”

  “Really?” The statement stunned Dev.

  “Yes.” Ian’s face was serious now. “Murdered, Dev, along with his housekeeper. Their throats cut from ear to ear.”

  “Well….fuck.”

  Chapter Six

  Léonie was surprised to find herself napping on and off throughout the first real day of her residence at Deverell House. She’d never been the sort to retire after lunch for a snooze, nor had she been anything less than active for most hours of the day.

  But Aunt Bertie reassured her that rest was the very best way to get back on her feet, and that if she wanted to accomplish that in the fastest way possible, she would listen to her body and obey its commands.

  So it was quite late when she awoke from another restorative sleep, to find Jenny stoking up the fire.

  “Goodness, what time is it, Jenny?”

  “Gone seven, Miss Léonie. I was just coming to see if you might fancy a spot of dinner? Something light of course, but Lady Bertrande says you gotta keep your strength up.”

  “Hmm.” Léonie
levered herself up on the pillows. “You know, I might be able to eat something.” She examined the state of her appetite. “Yes, I definitely might.”

  The maid beamed. “That’s ever so good, miss. And Mr. Deverell’s been enquiring about you. I think he wants to know if you’ll take tea after dinner with him and Lady Bertrande, downstairs.”

  Tired of not knowing much about where she was housed, Léonie smiled with enthusiasm. “Absolutely, Jenny. I would like that very much indeed.” She paused. “But I can’t go downstairs in a nightgown…”

  “Never you worry about that, miss. Lady Bertrande sent up what she called a robe-dew-chamber or something. Says it’s quite acceptable for an at-home evening. I’ll help you after you’ve had a bit of supper.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  The food was just as she would have ordered for herself, and the robe du chambre turned out to be a lavish silk dressing gown that buttoned to the neck. The style was probably well out of date by now, but it didn’t require that she do anything other than slip it over her nightgown.

  Her modesty thus preserved, she was able to greet Dev when he tapped quietly on her door.

  “Hallo.” He peered around. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, Mr. Deverell. Please do.”

  He smiled. “I’m so happy to see you looking a lot better, Léonie. I’m going to carry you downstairs, with your permission, to the small salon. Aunt Bertie and the tea tray await.”

  “Oh but you don’t need…”

  He held up his hand. “Hush. I do need, and I will, so no arguments, please.”

  She looked at him, her spirit of independence flickering back to life. Then she observed the determination in his eyes and decided that this was not the moment to put her foot down about anything.

  “Very well.” She acceded graciously.

  “Smart girl.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I do not say things to exert control, you know. That’s not my style. If I suggest something, it is logical and sensible. Since you’ve been bedridden after a nasty injury for the last forty-eight hours, it’s rational to assume you are a bit wobbly yet. Thus I will carry you and hope I don’t stumble on the stairs and kill us both.” He stepped forward and swept her off her feet.

  “Most reassuring, Mr. Deverell,” she replied. Her voice was tranquil, but the rest of her was experiencing a rather odd turmoil as she felt the strength in his arms and the warmth of his chest. He carried her with ease, as though she weighed little more than a cat coiled into his body.

  And despite his quip, he was steady and surefooted as he carried her along a corridor toward the main staircase.

  She looked around with interest, noting the lovely paintings, one or two pieces of graceful statuary and two vases of flowers decorating a couple of niches on the upper landing.

  The staircase was a swirl of marble leading down to the foyer, but instead of being intimidating, it was welcoming. The floors were also marble, but a warm ivory, against which the blues of the rugs and the glowing tones of the mahogany furniture shone like jewels.

  “How pretty.” Léonie gazed around her with interest. “And how warm your house is.”

  Understanding, Dev nodded. “Thank you. Most of it is my mother. She wanted it to be a home, not just the Deverell house in town.”

  “She succeeded.” She glanced up at him, noting the pride in his eyes as he carried her down the final step.

  “I’m glad you think so. Here we are.”

  The room he carried her into was brightly lit and soft with tones of creams and yellows. Even though it was dark, Léonie felt sure that during the day it would shine bright as the sun.

  The fire was glowing, the curtains drawn, and a tea tray laden with delectable pastries was set and waiting for them to indulge.

  “Aunt Bertie—I’m here.” Léonie smiled at the older woman.

  “I’m so glad, my dear. You look better every time I see you.” She helped Dev with cushions and a soft blanket.

  “Really, please, don’t fuss. I’m very well.”

  “You’re better. Not well yet, though.” Dev poured tea with a masterful hand, wielding milk and sugar with the dexterity of a dowager three times his age.

  Léonie wondered how hold he actually was. Perhaps thirty? Or younger? She couldn’t tell.

  “Thank you. No sugar, but if you wouldn’t mind…one of those tarts looks quite mouthwatering.”

  “You have good taste,” Aunt Bertrande commented as she put a plate together for herself and included two tarts. “The fruits have been good this year. Fresh and sweet.”

  “Now if I was the perfect drawing room gentleman, I would immediately comment something to the effect of…no more so than you two lovely ladies.”

  His comment was greeted with two rather wry expressions.

  “However, I see that such eloquence would go unnoticed, so I won’t say it.”

  “Thank you dear. That’s very kind of you to spare us such encomiums.” Aunt Bertrande nodded at him dismissively. “Now, Léonie. Let’s fill Dev in on what we talked about this afternoon.” She turned to her nephew. “Léonie and I have had a chance to talk a few times today. We’ve been going over her childhood, her family, all the things she can remember about her past.”

  “Ah, splendid.” Dev leaned forward. “That is exceptionally good news. The more we know, the more chance we have of solving this little mystery.”

  Léonie lifted a hand to the back of her head. “It didn’t feel little to me.”

  “Well no. I apologize. In no way did I mean to diminish the importance of you getting hit on the head.” He frowned. “That didn’t quite sound the way I meant it.”

  Léonie pressed her lips together, and then made the mistake of looking at Bertie. Her expression of suppressed mirth was too funny, and Léonie gave way to a full throated laugh, deep and rich, surprising herself as much as anyone else.

  “Now that’s a joyful sound,” applauded Bertie. “Told you a good sleep would do you the world of good.”

  “I agree Aunt.” Dev was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Right. Now that we’re entertained, amused and full of tea, not to mention tarts, let’s get a little business out of the way.” He turned to Léonie. “Where were you born?”

  “St. Petersburg, I think.” She tilted her head to one side. “Mama was there while Papa was on some diplomatic mission. If not in St. Petersburg itself, then very near. Mama’s family lived close. But I cannot recall the name of the town.” She sighed. “It was bloody cold. That’s all I remember because I think we left for England when I was around four or five.”

  “So your Papa was a diplomat? For whom?”

  “Actually I think he worked for several embassies. He speaks quite a few languages, you see, and such skills are always in demand.”

  “I can believe that,” added Bertie. “Clear communication in political matters is always crucial.”

  “So from Russia to London?” Dev continued his gentle interrogation.

  “Yes. Then Brussels for a time. Finally London again. Although Papa came here alone at that time. Mama had passed before we left Brussels, so I lived with her family members there for a while.”

  “Your Papa was here in London then. When was this?” Dev was trying to keep track of years and dates and events in his mind.

  “Let me see. He came to London in ’13, and I stayed in Brussels until he said I could join him in Vienna. That was the following year.”

  “Vienna?” Dev sat up. “1814? You mean the Congress of Vienna?”

  “Yes.” Léonie folded her hands together on her lap. “Papa was with Lord Castlereagh’s staff.”

  Dev was caught off-guard, stunned at this simple pronouncement. The Congress of Vienna was spoken of as the reformation of an entire continent—the end result had shifted national borders like jackstraws, reshaping countries and creating a new solid balance of power.

  For Léonie to be there…well, plenty of women had been there. The wits of th
e time said that the Congress didn’t move—“it danced”. There had been affairs, scandals and all the usual drama that occurred when world leaders met in luxurious surroundings with no expense spared for their comfort and entertainment.

  But for Léonie to attend? Even in her father’s train? Well, it was something indeed. And, Dev realized, it explained the incredible perfection of her manners. He’d noticed that, even when she was crushed with pain. Barely a flicker of emotion crossed her features and her conversation was impeccable.

  He now understood the reason—good diplomatic training.

  “So that was a couple of years ago.” Dev eased the conversation forward, much as he’d like to have asked her about the Congress. That could wait for another time. “Forgive the improper nature of this question, Léonie, but how old are you?”

  She smiled. “I think, under the circumstances, Dev, there are few improper questions. I will be twenty-six in October of this year.”

  “And still unwed? My goodness, dear. What were your parents thinking?” Aunt Bertie stared wide-eyed at Léonie.

  “Aunt…” Dev began.

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” Léonie shrugged. “I was married, Aunt Bertie. When I was seventeen. In Brussels. Mama knew she was ill and was desperate to see me ‘settled’ as she put it, before she passed away. Times were very uncertain then and Papa…well, he was deep into his diplomatic life with little time for family matters. She found a young French subaltern of good lineage and I…I found him not unattractive.” She looked down at her hands. This wasn’t as easy as it had been in the past.

  Was it remembered pain or the presence of the man looking at her so intently? She didn’t know.

  “What happened, dear?” Bertie’s voice was kind.

  “He was called to duty. And his brigade fought at Talavera.” There was silence in the room for a few moments. “He never returned.”

  “How sad. How very sad.” Bertie sighed.

  “It was. We were both so young, and wed for less than a year.”

  “And yet you had your life to live…” Dev encouraged her to continue.