Devil's Lady

by Patricia Rice

  Mountjoy was turning purple again as he looked from one man to the other. “You wouldn’t. You’ll all be scalped and in your graves before the year is out. I’ll not have it. Indeed, I will not. You will stay here and look after what is yours already.”

  Edward looked bored again, but the smile didn’t leave Morgan’s face. “I do intend to look after what is mine.” He placed a possessive hand on Faith’s shoulder. “I understand Wesley is not averse to having Faith lend a hand with his writings. It will be a bit touch and go for a while, but I’m not a man to be idle long. We’ll get along comfortably enough, though I must agree with Faith, it will be easier once we return to Virginia. She’ll not lack for anything, I assure you. You may keep your coins, Mountjoy. We have no need of them.”

  Faith sent him a smile. “I’ve already told Miles to give your trust fund to the Wesleyans, Morgan. Don’t be too smug.”

  Morgan choked a little, and Edward coughed into his hand at this revelation.

  But the love that passed between husband and wife was impossible to overlook. They grinned at each other like demented lovebirds.

  Edward twitched uncomfortably on the hard settee. “I think that quite settles it, then, Pater. If de Lacy prefers the colonies, I will send them to see to my purchase. I believe he will make an excellent partner, if I do not mistake. You can always look to Thomas’ child for an heir, if you like. He doesn’t seem to have inherited the Montague disability to produce a son. You have not forgotten Thomas had a wife and child, have you?”

  Cornered, Mountjoy continued to glare at his offspring. “She’s a whore, for deuce’s sake! Who’s to say the brat is even a Montague?”

  Edward shrugged. “Who’s to say I am? Or George? It’s a nasty world we live in, Pater. Don’t muddy it any more. Faith bears our name, and so does Sarah. Be content that they are alive and well and have both produced male children to carry on this accursed title. I do not foresee my imminent demise. There will be time to decide which should carry the name of Mountjoy. Let them be happy until the time comes.”

  Faith relaxed. Morgan caressed her cheek, and she leaned into him. His was a rough hand, browned and hardened by years of weather and work, but it was ever gentle where he touched her. Remembering the nights of lovemaking they’d enjoyed on their journey here—after a hasty shipboard wedding to guarantee the legality of their vows—Faith blushed. She turned a heated gaze toward Morgan’s bold silhouette. He caught her look and returned it, and the air crackled with tension.

  Mountjoy took in this scene with irritation. The damned Irishman was a handsome devil, and women were fools for a pretty face, but he’d produced a son. And Edward was right that there was Sarah’s whelp to consider. The thought of two babes in the nursery made his heart swell with pride. He dared anyone to say that Montagues didn’t have it in them to procreate.

  “Nobody’s going anywhere,” the marquess snorted, rising with the use of his cane. “I’ll disinherit the lot of you if you try.” At the rebellious look on the faces around him, he waved the cane. “You can have your bloody Irish bogs and Virginia plantations, I don’t care. You can bury your noses in books and gnash your teeth with the Wesleyans—but if I catch you lighting candles to any damned statues, I’ll have your heads.”

  Mountjoy glared deliberately at Morgan. “But you’ll conduct your affairs from here. I’ll not let those children out of my sight, eh, Lettice?”

  His audience looked startled at the mention of “children,” as there was only one inhabitant of the nursery at the moment, but the frail woman in the corner nodded understanding. She rose to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “You are quite right, Harry. We’ve lost enough time with our children. We’ll not have any more of these ugly quarrels.”

  The marquess nodded vigorously, glared for effect, and stomped from the room. Uncertain as to how the argument had been resolved, Faith turned questioningly to her uncle. He smiled benevolently and rose from his seat.

  “I’ll have the papers drawn up immediately, if I have to keep a bevy of solicitors up all night. He’s tired of managing the estate, has been for years, but he’s been too proud to admit it. Let him think he’s teaching us, and he’ll come around. Well, de Lacy, do you think you can adopt a family of Sassenachs if you can help run the show?”

  At the earl’s use of the Gaelic imprecation, Morgan looked suspicious, but he nodded. “I’ll raise my son as I see fit. And if I don’t like what’s happening here, I’ll take my family and go where I wish. I’ll not be hobbled and tied for any man.”

  Edward shrugged. “I’m not one for travel. I’ll leave that up to you. Between us, we can manage. Is that land in Ireland really a bog, or does it have potential?”

  Faith watched Morgan’s eyes light with eagerness and knew the decision made. Perhaps they would live in Ireland for a while. And she knew they both wanted that land in Virginia. London would never hold Morgan for long. But that suited both of them quite well. She fully intended to follow where he went, taking her father’s teachings with her. There was work enough for two.

  She took Morgan’s hand, and diverted his attention. “Remember you left Mordred and Dolly with Toby. He’d be a fine one to ask to look around for a plantation. He already knows the best property around Williamsburg, and was talking of going farther west, where they’re opening up new lands.”

  She was relaxed and confident, a woman capable of standing on her own and taking on the world’s troubles—a far cry from the battered, half-starved child who had fallen at Morgan’s doorstep.

  He lifted a hand to her curls, crushing them between his fingers. “I’ll not forget the lad and what he’s done for us, cailin. But it’s you we must think of now. It will take me time to make a place for us. Will you be happy here? Or shall I have Miles look for a wee place for us?”

  Faith touched the linen at Morgan’s throat. He looked so handsome in his midnight-blue silk, just like the earl he purported to be. “Shall I be Lady de Lacy, then? And what do we call George?”

  She slid her hands higher, encircling his neck, and he caught her waist with both his hands and smiled that heavenly smile.

  “We could have a wee cottage in Ireland if that is where you go next,” she said. “Or a cabin in Virginia. Or the dower house in Essex. Or we can take the fourth floor and climb out the windows when you wish to prowl about London. It makes no difference to me. Just take me with you, and I’ll be happy.”

  “Bean sidhe,” Morgan muttered against her hair. Then, remembering their company, he turned to Faith’s uncle, only to find the room mysteriously empty. Grinning at the earl’s discretion, he turned back to the faerie-woman in his arms and lifted her clear of the floor. “We’ll ride together, my cailin, have no fear of that.”

  Faith laughed as he swung her high in his arms and strode toward the door. She would rather be kidnapped by a black highwayman any day then be rescued by a white knight. Flinging her arms about his neck, she buried her lips against his throat and proceeded to show him just how much she feared his forward ways.

  Author’s Note

  The 1700’s were a fascinating transition from the richly embroidered tapestry of Renaissance life to the rigid Victorian era of black and white. People who were just beginning to learn to eat with forks instead of knives lived side by side with generations who developed elaborate place settings requiring twenty-eight pieces of silverware at each plate. At the same time, people who were accustomed to giving full rein to their lusts in the most public of places (since privacy in Elizabethan households was at a minimum) were hindered by a new morality that confined their desires to hidden chambers.

  A lusty era that produced such masterpieces of sexual fantasy as Tom Jones and Fanny Hill, also produced highly moral tomes and simpering platitudes like Pamela or Hannah More’s morality essays. In England, perhaps the turning point can be documented with the Marriage Act of 1753 (which actually didn’t come into effect until 1754), when an Act of Parliament finally forced marriage into a legal state
. No longer could a drunken sailor get off a ship and wake up married to the prostitute he had bedded the night before. Marriage became not only a sacrament in the eyes of the church but also a legally documented requirement in the eyes of the law.

  One postscript for those already familiar with the thief-taker general: the character in this story is only a pale imitation of the original who operated a decade or two earlier. All real-life characters have their imitations somewhere, and no doubt there were many who attempted to follow in the general’s footsteps in the years after his ill-fated demise.

  About the Author

  With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today's bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance's hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. Her books have been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories.

  A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.

  For further information, visit Patricia’s network:

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  Copyright & Credits

  Devil’s Lady

  Patricia Rice

  Book View Café Edition

  February 26, 2013

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-243-3

  Copyright © 1992 Patricia Rice

  First published by New American Library, 1992

  Cover design by Kim Killion

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  v20130126vnm

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  Sample Chapter: A Dash of Enchantment

  (previously: Touched by Magic)

  Patricia Rice

  Chapter 1

  March 1816

  Soaring marble columns bearing gilded sculptures carried the gaze upward to a staggering arched ceiling accented with carved moldings bearing the certain stamp of Robert Adam. Beneath the canopy of tinkling crystal chandeliers and between the brocade-and-velvet-covered walls milled a procession of soberly black-clad gentlemen and extravagantly arrayed ladies in the silks and flounces of the current Season.

  Despite the hubbub of orchestra and hundreds of people speaking at once, none of the distinguished guests raised their voices above a civil level. They circulated with well-trained precision, balancing punch cups, napkins, fans, dance cards, and other necessities.

  The couples in the center of the gleaming waxed ballroom swayed with stately grace to an old tune, not the rackety waltz the Regent had accepted at court two years before. Harmony prevailed among sedately wigged musicians and modishly styled dancers alike.

  Only a few noble guests blinked at the rash whirlwind bursting from behind an elaborate sculpture of a draped Diana. Their serenity was only disturbed when the young lady dashed headlong through the center of the floor.

  The dancers gasped in surprise and hastily parted. They waved their fans and raised their quizzing glances at a glorious mass of sunset-gold hair flying past their noses. A tall, exquisite figure, garbed in daring primrose, she vanished through the doorway before any could correct her behavior.

  Cassandra! They shook their heads, whispered behind their hands, and returned to their peaceful occupations.

  The fleeing girl exploded into the mass of still-arriving guests. Top hats and fur-trimmed pelisses discarded, the latecomers lingered to greet old friends and smile at new acquaintances.

  Black swallowtail coats and silk breeches swung in startlement as the fiery explosion catapulted past. The men stifled admiring looks as their feminine companions frowned with disapproval.

  At the door, a tall striking gentleman had halted to help his lady adjust her yards of Kashmir shawl. His stern features retained an imperturbable expression as he listened to his petite companion’s comments. The lady herself was little more than plain, but she carried her looks with the arrogance of wealth and nobility. Even a stranger would know she was someone of consequence, at least to herself.

  When the spectacular trail of fiery beauty crashed to a breathless halt—grabbing the gentleman’s arm to stop her headlong flight—both gentleman and lady stared in confusion and surprise.

  “Wyatt! Thank goodness! You have to help me. Tell him you’ve already claimed my next set. I’ll escape somehow afterward, but he’s right behind me. Dash it all, Wyatt, don’t stand there like a looby! Look pleased to see me. He’ll never believe you elsewise.”

  The tall gentleman looked even more confused, but not unintelligent, nor inexperienced in what society requires of a gentleman, he gallantly covered her gloved fingers. “I do beg your pardon, miss. Are we acquainted?”

  “Wyatt! It is Cassandra! Have you completely lost your wits?”

  The short lady on his other arm hissed and tugged in a futile attempt to free him, but he resisted.

  “Cassandra! By Jove, little Cassandra?” In bemusement, he studied the outrageous sun goddess clinging to his arm. “It’s been how long? You weren’t above—”

  The goddess’s less-than-heavenly answer rudely cut him off. “Since last Wednesday. I promised you this set then. Smile, curse you, Merrick! Do not play the prim and proper with me now.” Her gloriously lovely smile spread across her face. None watching from a distance would have any knowledge of the biting tones with which she addressed him.

  “Lady Cassandra, there you are! I have been searching this age for you. Lord Eddings said I might have this dance.” A slender gentleman sartorially correct in tight black silk breeches and white satin waistcoat—but heavily festooned with more gold than the ceiling—bowed in front of them.

  Although immaculately turned out, he bore evidence of dissipation, and the glass in his hand smelled of spirits stronger than punch.

  Cassandra turned a blazing smile of condolence upon the newcomer. “Sir Rupert! What a pleasant surprise. I am so sorry, but this set is taken by an old neighbor of ours. Wyatt, Catherine, are you acquainted with Sir Rupert? Sir Rupert, these are my old friends, Lord Merrick and his fiancée.”

  The earl barely disguised his disdain for the rake. “We’re acquainted, my lady. I beg your pardon, but Lady Cassandra and I previously arranged this set, Rupert. I was just taking Lady Catherine to a friend of mine. Here he comes now.”

  Over the heads of the crowd he signaled a blond gentleman of muscular build who delightedly broke off in their direction.

 
Merrick could scarcely be indifferent to the angry intake of breath on one arm and the joyful exhalation of relief on the other, but he maintained his equanimity. Rupert appeared ready to protest, but the arrival of Merrick’s friend intruded.

  “Scheffing, if you will, the lady has requested a glass of punch while Cass and I carry out this next set. Would you be so kind...?”

  Smoothly Lord Merrick maneuvered Lady Catherine onto Scheffing’s arm. With a nod of dismissal, Wyatt Mannering, Earl of Merrick, led Lady Cassandra past the miffed baronet.

  The weathered lines about the earl’s mouth deepened as he guided his unexpected dance partner onto the floor. “You will explain what that was all about?”

  “That’s obvious, Wyatt,” she replied disparagingly. “Duncan promised that libertine I would dance with him, and I took exception to it. There simply wasn’t time to find my pelisse and summon a carriage. If you will be so kind as to dance me to the far staircase when the music’s over, I shall pretend to go to the powder room and make my escape. It’s quite generous of you to rescue me. I always knew you were the kind of man of which white knights are made.”

  “That’s doing it a trifle too brown, my lady.” Aside from the fact that there was a decade difference in their ages, and he was due the respect of his rank, Merrick had not seen the chit in a half-dozen years. She may have turned into a grand beauty, but her airy familiarity rankled. “Since your brother is your guardian, you’re obliged to obey his wishes. And I cannot remember giving you leave to call me by name, much less molest me in public places. I require a more thorough explanation.”

  Cassandra gave a great sigh and turned a pair of meltingly blue eyes up to him. “You haven’t forgiven me for stealing your apples yet, have you? I did not think you so petty.”