A Heart in Jeopardy (3 page)

Curiously, for all her volubility, Chrissy made no mention of her parents other than the mention of her father last night at Lion's Gate. Leona tried once to question her about her parents, but the sad, haunted expression on the child's face made her quickly change the subject.

She gathered Lord Nevin was ill. What could his illness be? Consumption? That was typically what sent people to Switzerland for long periods of time. Inwardly Leona shuddered at the thought. Again her heart went out to the delightful, talkative child who sat on the stool before the fire licking jam from her fingertips and jumping like a noisy cricket from subject to subject.

"Aunt Lucy's getting married this spring to Uncle Nigel's best friend in the whole world. Uncle Nigel tells David he's making a mistake to marry Aunt Lucy, but David just laughs. He says one day Uncle Nigel will fall in love, too. Uncle Nigel then gives David one of those looks like I told you, where his eyes are almost closed, and says
Bah!
David quietly smiles and ignores him." Her brow furrowed, and her bow-shaped mouth puckered. "Sometimes I don't see how he could be Uncle Nigel's best friend. Uncle Nigel hardly ever laughs or smiles. He is too serious, Grandmamma says. But I think he's sad."

"Sad?" From all Chrissy said, sad seemed the last word to describe Nigel Deveraux. "Why sad?" Leona asked, curiosity creeping through the dull heaviness in her head.

"Because of Castle Marin," Chrissy succinctly answered, leaving Leona mired in more confusion.

"But—"

"Listen!"

From outside came the sound of a horse stamping its hooves against crackling ice.

Chrissy set down her cup and saucer with a loud clatter and ran to the front window. "He's here! He's here!" Clapping her hands, she jumped up and down then twirled around, her young face alight with happiness. She raced for the cottage door.

"Wait! You don't have any shoes!" Leona struggled to untangle herself from the nest of blankets Maria insisted in swaddling about her.

"Leona Leonard, you stay right where you are!" Maria ordered from the low parlor entrance. "Chrissy, give him room to come in and close the door. You're letting in a draft, child. Remember Leona!"

"Oh, piffle, Maria," protested Leona.

"Uncle Nigel! Uncle Nigel!"

Chrissy launched herself at the tall dark gentleman who ducked his head under the lintel to enter the cottage. He caught her and lifted her high in his arms. "Chrissy!" his deep voice cried, exalted.

"I thought I'd never see you again!" Chrissy wailed, and the child who moments before had been laughing and happy now laid her head on his broad shoulder and burst into tears.

Pain ravaged the gentleman's bluntly carved features. He closed his eyes tight against his own tears and buried his face in Chrissy's hair. "Oh, Chrissy, Chrissy," he moaned against her neck, her name wretched from his soul.

As Nigel Deveraux had ridden up to the neat thatched cottage situated in the middle of a small glade, he'd been afraid to hope, afraid to believe the three-week-long nightmare might be ending. The only other time in his life he'd felt as helpless was when his brother, Brandon, told him of his disease and his desire to enter a sanitarium in Switzerland to seek a cure. That night Nigel drank until he passed out. When he woke, he repeated the procedure until three days passed into oblivion and his brother came to say goodbye, smilingly confident in Nigel's ability to manage the family.

The day he learned Chrissy was gone, somehow spirited away into the English countryside, he'd become wild. This time there was no descent into an alcoholic fog. He'd been responsible for her well-being and he'd failed. Duty and responsibility weighed heavily in Deveraux. They always had. The feeling of helplessness clawed at his insides, feeding and growing on fears long buried. The agony twisted deep when he realized that merely paying the ransom was not enough. For some inexplicable reason the kidnappers wanted the money from Brandon's hand. They wanted Brandon to come back to England and die without a drop of blood spilling across their hands. What could anyone have against gentle Brandon? A more giving and kind man never walked the earth.

Or was the revenge against himself? The one thing Nigel feared more than his own mortality was that he should live to inherit the earldom.

But no one knew of that deeply hidden fear. Thankfully it eased as he held Chrissy and let the reality of her safety consume him.

Tears welled in Leona's eyes. She dashed them away with a handkerchief and pushed the last of the blankets off her legs. She hadn't cried in years, and this was certainly not the time to start again. She stood up shakily. Maria took the gentleman's curly brimmed beaver hat from his fingers and gently pushed him toward the parlor. Instinctively he ducked his head under that lintel as well.

Leona, not a small woman in her own right was amazed at the gentleman's height. Nothing Chrissy told her in her artless prattle adequately prepared her for the Honorable Mr. Nigel Deveraux. He seemed to fill the entire parlor. His stained and muddy great coat sported only two capes, but given the breadth of his shoulders, any more would have made the man appear wider than he was tall. His face was all harsh planes and angles. Lines of experience bracketed firm lips and an arrogant, square-cut jaw that defied argument. His hair was close-cropped and gleamed softly in the morning light like a rich Chinese black lacquer. It was the only softness discernible in him. When he finally raised his head and looked across the room at Leona, she was gripped by the sweeping, suffocating intensity of emotion she glimpsed on his face. It was a panoply of emotions so swiftly veiled as to deny their very existence if it weren't for the residual watery gleam in his blue eyes. In the next moment, Leona found herself being assessed and weighed by eyes turned gem-hard. Her own eyes flared wide in surprise, then faded back into calculated cool disinterest as she tilted her chin up and invited him with a sweep of her hand to sit down.

Nigel Deveraux carefully assessed the woman in the parlor. From what Sir Nathan Cruikston said, he gathered this woman was Chrissy's supposed rescuer, a Miss Leonard. His mouth firmed into a grim line. Was this woman really the heroine of the day, or was she somehow involved in the conspiracy? What did she hope to gain? She was neat as wax and simply dressed, but her posture and the arrogant little lift of her chin spoke of another position in life. His eyes narrowed. Why was her color so high, and why that unusual glitter in her large hazel eyes? Eyes that reminded him of forest paths. But now was not perhaps the best time for speculation. Chrissy was the one who needed all of his attention, not some conniving woman.

He nodded curtly to Leona's unspoken invitation. Carrying his crying niece, he took the chair nearest the fire.

Maria Sprockett frowned at the pantomime between Leona and Mr. Deveraux, but other than pursing her lips, she said nothing before scurrying off to the kitchen to fetch refreshments.

For several moments the only sounds to be heard in the parlor were the ticking of the clock on the mantel, the crackle of the fire in the grate, and the gulping sobs of a little girl. The large man helplessly patted and rubbed the child's back until the sobs slowed to an occasional hiccup, and then ceased. Finally Chrissy lifted her head from her uncle's shoulder and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Swiftly Leona pressed a handkerchief into her hand, winning a faint smile from Chrissy.

"Thank you," she murmured, then sniffed. She looked up into the concerned face of her uncle and then into Leona's. Her lips compressed, then her tongue slipped out to touch her upper lip just as Leona saw it do last night. She slid off her uncle's lap to her feet, carefully shaking out the folds of the old dress of Leona's that Maria had hastily altered for her. "Miss Leonard, I'd like you to meet my uncle, the Honorable Nigel Deveraux," she said slowly and carefully as she'd been taught. "Uncle Nigel, this is Miss Leonard." A proud smile curved up the comers of Nigel Deveraux's lips as he rose to his feet to treat the introduction with all the solemnity his niece endowed it with. Uncomfortable with his towering presence, Leona rose as well.

"I saw the local magistrate when I stopped at the inn to ask directions. He told me of your actions last evening." His dark voice rumbled along Leona's nerve endings like an approaching thunderstorm. His words were spoken calmly enough, but a wild electricity crackled in the air between them. Leona felt her breath tighten in her chest.

"She was wonderful, Uncle Nigel," Chrissy enthused. "She melted a candle on the door hinges to keep them from squeaking and made shoes for me out of a woolen cloak. Then we ran through the woods as fast as we could."

Leona felt color rise in her cheeks. "Chrissy, please! It was nothing. I only did what had to be done."

Disconcerted, she sat down again and fumbled with her handkerchief to blow her nose, missing the quick frown that came and went from Nigel's face. He sat down again and pulled Chrissy onto his lap, anchoring her firmly against him with a broad, well-defined hand.

There was something about his manner that unsettled Leona. He was polite enough. Perhaps that was it—he was too polite, too distant toward her, while toward Chrissy there were obviously close bonds of love and affection. Leona had not expected him to show love and affection toward herself, but a modicum of warmth and gratitude toward the person who rescued his niece would surely not be out of place!

Unless he didn't want her rescued.

Nonsense. She banished that thought from her head. His feelings for Chrissy were too genuine to desire her abduction. Maybe he was naturally a taciturn man around strangers.

Or perhaps he thinks me involved with the kidnapping.

Tensely she admitted to herself that that was not beyond the realm of possibility. Leona's blood ran cold at the thought. Chrissy was held on Leonard property, property heavily encumbered and in need of cash. Furthermore, the Norths had very conveniently managed to escape sometime during the night or early morning hours. The evidence, though circumstantial, could be damning.

Leona slowly raised her head to stare at Deveraux whispering to his niece and earning giggles in return. He must have sensed her regard for he looked up at her. The rough planes of his face appeared as if they were formed of granite. His black brows pulled together, and his eyes narrowed until only slivers of blue ice gleamed from behind the coal-black fringe of his lashes. Instantly Leona understood what Chrissy meant. Nigel Deveraux would not be a man to cross.

And he suspected her of wrongdoing!

The thought numbed Leona. Fragments of questions and suspicions raced through her mind, but complete thoughts remained elusive. For a heartbeat lasting an eternity she simply stared at him.

She was innocent!

How could he suspect her? Easily. But if she bristled, he'd likely call that proof. Far better, she decided, to understand him superficially, to avoid the treacherous undercurrents and navigate down the center of the channel. Unfortunately, her rational mind did not hold sway. It was falling before stampeding emotion.

Never had she felt so condemned. Near hysterical laughter welled up in her throat. She would not let it overwhelm her! Ruthlessly she clamped down on the rising emotional tide. Questions. Commonplaces. They could pull her away from the treacherous waters. She looked up at him brightly, smiling like a Bedlamite as she pulled her scattered senses together, searching through the emotional rocks for a safe harbor.

"Did you by any chance bring clothes for Chrissy? I'm afraid that sack-like dress she is wearing was the best we could find for her on short notice. Unfortunately we have no shoes that would fit her. Did you bring any shoes? If not, I suppose I could ask Mrs. Thrailwithe. Her daughter, Dorinda, is only two or three years older than Chrissy. She may have shoes or boots to fit."

Now she was babbling, running on like a fiddlestick! With chagrin, Leona bit down on her lower lip.

"That won't be necessary, Miss Leonard. I have a portmanteau strapped to my horse. Mother insisted I cool my heels for fifteen minutes while she packed it." A faint smile turned up his lips to compliment his deliberate attempt at humor. "I have every confidence it will contain more than Chrissy requires. Furthermore, my friend Mr. Fitzhugh follows me to Crawfords Dean in our carriage. It will meet us at the Golden Goose. I have faith it, too, will be loaded with needless amenities." Again that tantalizing ghost of a smile.

Chrissy squirmed around in his lap to face him. "David's coming?"

Mr. Deveraux looked down at his niece, smiling. This smile broadened until it lit his eyes, changing them from hard-cut gems to the softness of bluebells. The change unnerved Leona.

"Could you doubt it, poppet? I vow that if you were ten years older, it would be you he'd marry rather than Lucy."

Chrissy giggled- "That's silly. He's too old."

He tickled her ribs. "Old! He's thirty! I'll have you remember, minx, that he and I are of the same age," he growled playfully.

Leona was surprised to discover his age to be thirty. He had looked far older when he entered the cottage; but now, seeing him play with his niece and seeing some of the tension leave his face, the years visibly fell away revealing a boyish charm.

"Excuse me."

"Maria!" Leona said with a hint of embarrassed exasperation at the sight of her companion standing at the entrance to the parlor holding a tray in her hands like a serving maid.

"I do realize it is early, but I thought Mr. Deveraux could do with a nice glass of port to warm him after his long ride." She came into the room carrying their best silver tray on which rested a decanter of port, a cut crystal wineglass, and the chocolate pot to refill Chrissy's cup.

"Let me help," begged Chrissy, sliding off her uncle's lap. She cleared a space on a nearby table, retrieved her cup from the floor by the hearth, and handed it to Maria to refill.

Nigel Deveraux rose to greet Maria, and Leona was forced to make the formal introduction.

"Mr. Deveraux, this is my companion, Miss Sprockett."

Her tone was not as gracious as it customarily was. Fortunately no one noticed.

"Delighted, Miss Sprockett." He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

Leona smiled sourly behind their backs. He had never ventured to kiss her hand. Her suspicions were lamentably proving accurate.

Maria blushed rosily and bobbed a curtsey.

Leona was annoyed to see her friend in a flutter. It was obvious she was taken with the gentleman.

He nodded solemnly. "You're very considerate, Miss Sprockett. I should be happy for a glass of port. First, let me fetch Chrissy's portmanteau. And do you have a barn or shelter where I can stable my horse? I changed mounts at the inn so this horse is not heated, but nonetheless, I hate to leave him standing out in this weather." There was a hint of warmth in his voice when he addressed Maria that was lacking when he had spoken to Leona. It was as if he addressed her from a position atop the castle curtain wall while she stood on the ground on the other side of a moat, far below him. The imagery made her squirm.

"Of course, Mr. Deveraux," Maria tittered.

Leona rolled her eyes.

"Go around the cottage to the left. It's just beyond the kitchen wing. . . . What a handsome man your uncle is," Maria told Chrissy after he left.

Sitting on a scarred and scratched wooden chair swinging her legs back and forth, the girl nodded happily. "He's the best!"

Leona looked from one to the other, hysteria bubbling up. Chrissy was naturally biased in favor of her uncle. Maria admired any single male over the age of twenty. Worse, she insisted on evaluating those single males as potential husbands for her friend and employer. It would serve no purpose to tell Maria otherwise. For all her sweet, wistful nature, when she chose she could be like a horse with the bit between its teeth. Over the years Leona discovered it safer to ignore her friend's actions than to take umbrage. She just hoped Maria did not say or do anything of a matchmaking tenor in front of Mr. Deveraux. That could prove a further condemnation.

Maria was right about one thing. There are times when duty does stand in the way of wisdom. She should have stayed abed today with the covers pulled up over her head!

Sniffing and blowing her nose again, she settled back against the cushions of the sofa. Oh, if she could only get rid of the pounding in her head! She was glad there were no mirrors in the parlor. She would hate to catch a glimpse of herself, for she could well imagine what she would see: watery eyes, flushed face, red nose. Not at all the image of a gallant rescuer or heroine. Perhaps it wasn't to be wondered that Mr. Deveraux should suspect the worst. She sighed and took another sip of tepid tea.

Mr. Deveraux returned moments later, stamping the ice from his boots. This time he removed his greatcoat and allowed Maria to hang it on a hook by the door.

He held out the portmanteau to his niece. "Here you are, poppet"

"I'll go help her, Mr. Deveraux, and make sure she has everything she needs while you warm yourself by the fire and have your port"

"Thank you, Miss Sprockett. I appreciate that" He watched the two of them mount the stairs. When they were out of sight he turned toward Leona and casually strolled into the parlor.

Wary, Leona watched him, unaware when she pugnaciously thrust her chin forward.

His eyelids drooped, obscuring but not hiding the icy aquamarine glitter in his eyes. "Well, Miss Leonard," he drawled, "now we may get down to the truth. How much do you desire?"

"I beg your pardon?" Though stunned by his directness, she managed to retain a reasonable semblance of aloof calmness.

He sat down across from her, crossing one booted leg over the other. He reached for his port glass and took a sip. He stared broodingly at the dark liquid. "How much do you desire for the return of my niece?" He looked up at her, a faint jeering smile on his lips. "In the nature of a reward, of course."

"Mr. Deveraux—" she began repressively, then paused, raising her handkerchief to her nose as she fought back a sneeze, her eyes watering with the effort. This was not the time to show weakness! The threat passed, and she blinked to clear her eyes. "Mr. Deveraux, I do not desire, nor will I accept, a reward for what was only my duty," she said, her naturally throaty voice husky with her illness.

"Duty, Miss Leonard?" His dark, rumbling voice was arrogantly mocking.

"Yes, duty!" she seethed, then composed herself again. She studied the shape of her fingernails. "I have been managing Lion's Gate since the ah—untimely death of my eldest brother, Edmund, three years ago. The estate is now the property of my brother Charles; unfortunately he has not been able to assume control of his inheritance for he is doing his duty to his country. He is in the army."

He watched her narrowly. So she was Captain Charles Leonard's sister. He was mildly annoyed he'd not put the connection together sooner. "I know Captain Leonard," he said dryly, reaching for the decanter of port that Maria had left on table.

Leona's head flew up to look at him. "You do?"

He smiled thinly. "Yes, and that explains many things." He refilled his glass and set the decanter back on the table, then leaned back in his chair to observe her objectively.

Her coloring was the same as Charlie Leonard's, but she lacked the female equivalent of his pretty-boy looks. Her coloring was more dramatic, her features stronger. It was her eyes, though, that truly set her apart from her brother. His were the soft brown that women claimed to die for. Hers were a mélange of green, brown, and gold. They reminded Nigel of the forest floor in autumn.

He remembered Leonard mentioning a sister. It was late one night when a group of officers sat around a scarred wooden trestle table set up outside a Spanish tavern. It was a night for stealing relaxation where one could find it and with whom one could find it. The next few days were hectic, and then there was Salamanca. But that night, in the light of the flickering flambeau, Leonard's face looked taut and dissipated. He crudely joked about his plain spinster sister back in England and what a millstone he expected her to be around his neck his entire life.

"Captain Leonard was in my regiment in Spain for a time," Deveraux explained slowly. A wry smile lifted the comers of his firm mouth. "I sincerely beg your pardon. I had not realized until now that you were related."

"Oh." Leona bit her lip, uncertain how to interpret his dry tone. There was an undertone of commiseration there that she neither understood nor liked. She decided to ignore it and continue her explanation. "The villagers have been complaining for months about the tenants at Lion's Gate. Since I let the manor to them, they were my responsibility."

"Your duty," he clarified, smirking. Charlie Leonard's duty was clearly to himself and, according to gossip, it was the same with Edmund. No doubt a galloping family trait.

"Yes! My duty!" Leona's chest heaved. She pinned him with her autumn gaze. "I'm sorry, sir, if duty to one's family is not something you hold in high regard. It is something I hold very dear indeed!"

He threw his head back and laughed richly. "You have not the first inkling of what that word means, Miss Leonard. You play with it as if it were a toy." He studied her critically, his sneer more pronounced. Perhaps he was wrong in believing her an accomplice to kidnapping. Her brother would never have the guts for such a stunt, so it was likely she didn't as well. What Leonard would do was take advantage of any plum that was to fall within his grasp.

"You're like your precious brother. You like to be important, to be in the thick of things, don't you? You know if you went to London, you would be lost in that glittering metropolis among women richer, more beautiful, and wittier than you. You couldn't stand that, could you? So you stay here gloating at your perceived importance in this backwater village." He tossed off the last of the port and stood up, pacing the room.

Rage held Leona silent. She fought the violent trembling in her body as she lurched to her feet. "How dare you?" she hissed, stalking him. "How dare you come into my home and cast aspersions upon me and my family? What would you have me do? Ignore a possible crime on my family's property? Would you do so at Castle Marin?"

He cast her a dismissing glance. "That is different. I am a man." He turned away from her to face the window.

She grabbed his arm and spun around in front of him.

"What does being a man have to do with it? Are you saying women can have no sense of duty? Of honor?"

He stared at her. Grudgingly he had to admit she had more courage, more style than her brother did. The flicker of attraction that had glowed within him since he first saw her suddenly flamed. It shook him to the core of his being. But damnation, attraction did not negate her self-seeking behavior. If anything, it explained it further. He deliberately whipped that flame into anger.

How dare this woman use Chrissy to make herself important? He remembered the magistrate saying she'd climbed in a window to rescue Chrissy, but then led her out through the house risking recapture. Why had she taken matters into her own hands? Why didn't she notify Cruikston sooner? A muscle throbbed in his cheek. He grabbed Leona by the arms and shook her. "You risked Chrissy's life!" he roared, the careful mask stripped away, leaving a haunted visage.

"Wh-what?" Leona stuttered, confused.

"Uncle Nigel!" cried Chrissy from the stairs.

Numbly the two combatants turned to look at her. Her lower lip was thrust forward, and her blue-green eyes flashed anger. Though now dressed like a lady, she jumped down the two last steps like a hoyden and flew across the floor toward her uncle, hurtling herself at him.

"Stop it, Uncle Nigel! Stop it!" she wailed, pounding on his chest with her small fists. "She saved me! She
believed
me!" Fresh tears coursed down her pale cheeks. She whirled out of her uncle's arms to hug Leona while propelling her away from Nigel Deveraux.

"I'm so-sorry, Miss Leonard," she hiccupped. A shuddering sob wracked her small frame.

Leona stroked the child's hair. "Sh-sh. Hush. It's all right." She glanced over at Nigel Deveraux who stood rigidly where Chrissy left him. Deep furrows ran between his brows and alongside his lips. Leona sighed and looked back down at the small form that clung tightly to her.

"Y-you helped me," Chrissy sobbed into Leona's chest. "Y-you risked your li-life. You climbed up three stories in the rain and ice!"

Deveraux's head snapped around. Three stories?

Leona chuckled. "Only because I believed my brother, Charles's stories about how easy it was. Now I think it was all a hum, for let me tell you after I cleared the ground floor and looked down, I was too frightened to descend. I had to keep going up. But don't be too hard on your uncle." She looked up again, staring into his appraising light blue eyes. "I think the kidnapping placed a great strain on him. He was probably even a little bit frightened," she said slowly, feeling for the truth. "And all that emotion and fear built up inside him is like a great roaring bonfire. He has to release that, you know, and though I'm certain he'd rather release it against the Norths, where it truly belongs, barring their availability I am the next readily available target!" she said with a dry laugh.