Tuesday's Child
Page 8
Tess's temper flared. "I'm not surprised."
Mrs. Davenport sniffed. She had been prepared to graciously condescend to the Devereaux's houseguest. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the young woman had the looks and grace to put her own daughter in the shade.
"I wonder, my dear, how you can bear to accept the hospitality of an enemy?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Lord Langley is a British statesman. Perhaps it would be less difficult if he had no ties with the government, but under the circumstances, I should think you'd rather leave."
Tess stood, her eyes blazing like twin jewels in her set face. "Under the circumstances, Mrs. Davenport, I believe I will leave."
Just then the door opened and the gentlemen entered the room. With a sigh of relief, she saw Devereaux making his way toward her. She noticed that his limp was more pronounced than usual. She smiled warmly. She waited for him to reach her side. If she had anything to say about it, he need not be plagued by the odious Mrs. Davenport anymore tonight.
James recognized the invitation, ignored the pain in his leg, and increased his pace. More than one person noticed the look in his eyes as they rested on the blond head and slim graceful figure of the American woman.
Cynthia Davenport caught her breath and turned away, a resigned smile on her lips. She could wait. Teresa Bradford was married. Whatever her relationship with Langley, it could never be permanent. It was the nature of men to have their diversions and the nature of women to look the other way.
Chapter 8
No one who happened to encounter James Devereaux two days later at Westminster would have guessed that behind the ice-blue eyes and implacable demeanor was a man as close to elation as he had ever been. France had invaded Moscow and among members of Parliament there was little interest in a prolonged war with America. Most of the statesmen James had polled were in favor of pulling troops out of the United States. Wellington would finally get the support he needed.
At precisely two o'clock, Devereaux presented himself at Downing Street. Lords Liverpool and Castlereagh were already there, and Lord North, accompanied by William Grey, arrived shortly after. One look at Langley's dark, arrogant face told them the matter was of great importance. In the ten years since James had taken his seat in the Lords he had developed an almost legendary reputation. The duke did not often speak to issues unless he was completely prepared to justify his point of view. The four men settled down to listen.
"I wish to speak on the subject of suing for peace with America." He came directly to the point, the clipped, lucid tones of his voice completely without emotion. "Wellington needs help, gentlemen. Without sole concentration of our troops and navy in Europe, we don't stand a chance against Napoleon."
"What about British deserters?" protested Grey. "Are we to turn our backs and ignore our own traitorous seamen?"
"Not at all," answered Devereaux. "We must refrain from trade with America until the war in Europe is settled."
"You can't be serious," Grey's eyebrows lifted to his hairline. "It would break us."
"Is the blockade of her ports and the maintenance of an army on American soil not breaking us?" countered Devereaux.
"Nothing can be worse than the existing situation," Castlereagh spoke firmly. "We are not now benefiting from trade with America, nor are we likely to until the conflict is over. They, on the other hand, may consider sending their ships into British ports if we are no longer enemies." He looked at Devereaux. "Do you think the terms will satisfy Madison and the American Congress?"
"I don't know," replied James frankly. "But our only alternative is to garrison an army overseas permanently. The American people are British descendants, gentlemen. They won't take to subservience easily."
"I have never approved of impressment and embargoes with relation to the United States," said Liverpool unexpectedly. "I will do what I can to persuade the Cabinet."
Castlereagh looked with amazement at the dark head and strong hawkish nose of James Devereaux. The mere strength of his personality had persuaded the most powerful men in England to plead his cause. For a moment he experienced a twinge of envy at the sheer magnitude of what had just occurred.
* * *
It was late at night when Devereaux reached Langley. He stopped for dinner at the White Horse Inn but decided against staying the night. Everyone had retired for the evening by the time he had stabled his horse and walked wearily into the library at Langley. A glass of something warm and sustaining was needed after his solitary ride.
Pushing open the door, he saw Tess, her figure bathed in moonlight, standing by the window. In her pale embroidered nightdress with her loose silvery hair hanging about her shoulders, she looked like an angel of the dawn welcoming him home.
"Hello," he said, as if only moments had passed since he'd seen her, instead of weeks.
She stared back at him. Moonlight reflected on his black hair and startling blue eyes. The look on that harsh, aristocratic face told her more than anything else, what she had long tried to deny. He wanted her more than ever and, God help her, she wasn't strong enough to withstand him alone, especially when it was something she wanted very much herself.
"How did you fare?" she asked, striving to keep her voice normal.
"Very well. I believe we have a chance at abolishing impressment and once again establishing trade with your country."
She nodded her head, the smoky grey of her eyes intent on his face. "Thank you." She could see the pulse beating evenly in the smooth brown of his throat. His mouth was no longer grim. A frightening sensation consumed her, as if her bones had turned to liquid under her skin.
He took a step toward her.
"Don't," she whispered. Her legs lacked the strength to move away.
Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her to the door. "Good night, Tess," he said, his voice strong and sure and faintly amused. "I'll see you in the morning."
* * *
Leonie Devereaux was not prone to illness. Her frequently recurring headaches, she was sure, had everything to do with her son's impossibly pigheaded behavior.
"Really, James," she sighed, confronting him across the breakfast table. "How long do you intend to prolong this deception? We leave for London tomorrow and Mrs. Bradford still doesn't know we're at war. How long do you think she'll remain in ignorance once we've reached the city?"
"I'll tell her as soon as I feel it's the right time," answered her son.
"For all your experience, you're really impossibly obtuse."
Leonie's exasperation was leading her into dangerous territory. "Do you think a woman, especially an intelligent woman like Teresa Bradford, will thank you for keeping such a secret?" She rubbed her aching temples.
"I'm not a complete fool, Mother," James answered. "Allow me to handle this in my own way."
"It could be very embarrassing for all of us," she warned. "Remember, there are others involved besides yourself. Georgiana's friendship is something to be considered, and Lizzie's as well. She has formed quite an attachment to Teresa."
"I'm aware of that." James refused to elaborate and sipped his coffee instead.
Sighing in resignation, Leonie stood and left the room without a word. Ten minutes later James left the table and proceeded to his study where he reviewed his correspondence of the last two weeks. He was in the middle of deciphering a wordy Parliamentary motion when a discreet knock on the door interrupted him.
"Come in," he called without looking up.
The door opened and Tess slipped inside, closing it behind her. Devereaux looked up in surprise and stood immediately. Her hair was braided and twisted on top of her head and her gown of peach-colored cambric brought out the delicate apricot color tinting her cheekbones. She looked young and nervous and exceptionally lovely. Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, she hesitated before speaking.
"Surely," Devereaux said gently, "I can't be all that formidable."
Tess smiled. "
It isn't that." She took a deep breath. "I forgot to ask you, but have you heard anything of my husband?"
James looked at her for a long moment. "Do you think if I had I would have kept it from you?"
"No," her eyes flew to his deeply tanned face. "Last night it was late and you were very tired."
"Rest assured, if I hear anything you will be the first to know."
"Thank you." She stood there, motionless, looking at him.
"Was there anything else you wanted?" he asked politely, moving around his desk to stand before her. He was very large, his shoulders blocking out the bookshelves and portraits behind him.
Tess shook her head.
"Come," he persuaded her gently. "It can't be that difficult. I thought you had learned to trust me." His eyes smiled down at her, warm with amusement.
At that moment Tess could have forgotten her citizenship, the pending war and her husband, everything but the brilliant light in those blue eyes, the thudding of her heart against her ribs, and the blood, dark and hot, searing a pathway through her veins.
She closed her eyes briefly. The scent of dust and old leather was familiar and comforting. "I do trust you," she said, surprised that she could find her voice.
He was about to speak when the library door rattled again. "I'm sorry, sir," the butler's dignified voice broke in, "but Captain Mottsinger is here to see you."
James sighed. "I suppose it wouldn't do to keep him waiting." He spoke to Tess. "Wait for me here. I'll return shortly."
She nodded. The library was steeped in shadows and very quiet. Tess walked to the window and pulled back the curtains, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. The clock ticked loudly, the only sound in the oppressive silence. Ten minutes passed. She sighed impatiently. Where was James?
After ten more minutes, she began to pace, her skirt accidentally brushing against a pile of papers perched precariously on the desk. They fluttered to the floor. She stooped to pick them up and caught a glimpse of the return address. It was from Mr. Rush, the American minister. Her eyes widened in disbelief and then narrowed in anger.
The door opened and closed. Tess stared at Devereaux, unable to speak.
He looked at her white face and the paper in her hand and cursed under his breath. Bracing himself, he waited for her to speak.
"How could you?" she said at last.
"Forgive me." He summoned his most charming smile.
Tess remained unmoved. "Tell me how you could possibly imagine I should remain ignorant of such a thing."
"I have no excuse," answered James, surprising her once again with his honesty. "The war began the day I met you at the American minister's residence. My only thought was to spare you grief."
"Are you sure that was your only motive, my lord?"
The skin was drawn very tightly across her bones making the hollows below her cheeks more pronounced than usual. A muscle worked in the tense line of his jaw. "Acquit me of selfishness in this, please, Georgiana wanted you here. I saw no need to upset her plans or yours because of a misguided declaration of war."
She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand to silence her. "You would never have been allowed to leave England," he explained. "I thought you would prefer to spend your time with friends rather than as a political prisoner under security in the minister's residence."
"I would rather that, than have everyone think I'm a traitor to my country," she protested.
"No one who knows you could possibly believe anything of the sort."
"What about those who don't know me?" she countered.
Devereaux smiled, sure of himself once again. "We can easily take care of that."
"What do you mean?"
"You wish to find your husband, is that not so?"
"More than anything else in the world," she replied fervently.
His mouth hardened. "How do you think it would help him if you were locked up in Mr. Rush's apartments for the duration of the war?"
"What choice do I have?"
Deliberately, giving himself time to compose his answer, he walked behind his desk and sat down in the leather chair. Pressing the tips of his fingers together he leaned his elbows on the rich mahogany.
"You could remain with us in London. As my sister's guest you will have the opportunity to mingle with the most influential men and women in England."
"Why would anyone listen to me?" She frowned.
He studied the proud tilt of her head and the silver-blond hair pulled loosely away from the clear, beautiful lines of her brow. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
"In England, men are the ones who vote, and there isn't a man alive who could resist you."
She looked startled, then to his delight, embarrassed. "Don't be absurd," she said.
"Think about it," he suggested, leaning back in his chair. "You needn't decide immediately. I'll ask for an answer when we reach London."
Tess bit her lip. There was something she needed to know and it was abysmally clear that she had nothing to lose by asking it. "James," she began tentatively.
"Yes?"
"You didn't want me to come here, did you?"
He frowned. "No. I did not."
Her voice shook ever so slightly. "Do you still feel that way?"
From across the room she could see the uncompromising stare of his level blue eyes. "More than ever," he replied tersely.
"I see." She forced a smile. "Perhaps your plan will work after all." Closing the door softly behind her, she hurried down the hall, hoping she could make it to the door of her room before bursting into tears.
Chapter 9
Teresa Bradford took London by storm. When she and Georgiana, escorted by the duke, were announced at Lady Jersey's ball, all eyes swung toward the entrance.
The Devereauxs were tremendously popular. Georgiana was a renowned beauty and the duke, a head taller than anyone in the room, was heartbreakingly handsome in an exquisitely cut black coat and dazzling white knee breeches. But it was Tess who drew wondering murmurs from the gathered assembly.
Her gown of white satin was cut high at the waist and low at the bodice, emphasizing her petite slimness and long delicate neck. Diamonds encircled her throat, sparkled in her ears, and glistened in the loosely coiffed silvery hair. The brilliant gems were no brighter than her eyes, clear grey, and calm as the sun-steeped Atlantic after a storm. With her arm on Langley's, she passed through the entrance and into the ballroom, brilliantly lit with ten thousand candles.
A murmur of approval traveled throughout the room. Lady Marjorie Weatherby, a Titian-haired widow who hoped to become the next Duchess of Langley, turned to her companion and whitened under her rouge.
The expression on William Fitzpatrick's narrow, lightly freckled face did not bode well for her plans. He was one of her most loyal admirers, despite the rumors of her association with Langley. To see this blatant defection from her ranks both frightened and enraged her.
"So that is why Langley has kept himself hidden away in the country," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. "Marjorie, my dear, you've been upstaged." Without even a by-your-leave he pushed his way through the crowd to Tess's side.
"Introduce me, Langley," he commanded, a dazed look on his face.
Devereaux frowned. William Fitzpatrick was twenty-seven years old and heir to a hundred thousand pounds a year. Upon his father's recent death he had inherited a seat in the House of Lords. Possessing a quick intellect, powerful friends, and a certain disreputable sense of humor, he wielded considerable influence among the ton.
James didn't trust him. There had been an incident with a serving maid years before and, later, another young female of his acquaintance left to visit relatives in America never to return. There was something speculative and dangerous in the admiring brown eyes gazing at Tess, something that hinted at dark secrets and a tarnished character.
Tess looked up expectantly. The question in her eyes forced Devereaux to perform the introduction.
"Mrs. Bradford, may
I present Lord William Fitzpatrick."
Lord William lifted her hand to his lips. "May I have the honor of the next waltz, Mrs. Bradford?" he asked.
"Of course," Tess smiled. "You've rescued me, m'lord. How dreadful it would be if I were a wallflower at my first London ball."
He looked down at the exquisite face that barely reached his shoulder. "There isn't the slightest possibility of that, Mrs. Bradford," he said wryly. "Devereaux, if you'll excuse us?"
With an arctic smile, the duke bowed his head and turned away.
"James." Marjorie Weatherby's husky voice reached his ears. "I've been waiting an age for you to notice me."
James looked around with a tight smile, trying to ignore the picture of Tess sailing around the room with her besotted partner.
"Nonsense, Marjorie," he teased. "I'm merely waiting for your circle of admirers to thin before I brave the crowds."
"Don't be absurd." She laughed, tapping him lightly with her fan. "Since when have we stood on ceremony with one another. You have only to ask." Pressing herself against him she looked up through her lashes. "Surely you know that by now, m'lord."
The slight smile on his lips did not extend to his eyes. He appraised the slanted green eyes and red hair, his eyes lingering on the ripe curves of her breasts, milk white and almost completely revealed by the daring décolleté of her gown.
She smelled delicious. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a woman to his bed. With the knowledge that he was a cripple, all physical desire had left him, until recently, until Tess. Marjorie was an experienced woman of eight-and-twenty. She knew what she wanted and didn't expect a marriage proposal in the bargain.
Lady Marjorie purred with contentment. She slipped her arm through his. "Dancing is really such a waste of time, isn't it, James, when we could be doing something else?"
James grinned. "Bless you, Marjorie. You have a knack for saying exactly the right thing." Pulling her closer than propriety allowed, he spoke close to her ear. "I'm pledged to stay with Georgiana and her guest."