Devil's Match (17 page)

T
he library was in darkness except for a single candle that flickered on the carved marble mantelpiece. Crump pushed the door open and peered within anxiously, his eyes following the wedge of light cast from the chandelier in the hallway.

“Milford?”

He said it softly, tentatively, while hesitating from the safe distance of the doorway. A lone figure sitting slumped back in a leather wing chair before the empty fireplace stirred slightly but did not turn around.

“Aye.”

“I brought you some food.”

“Crump …” Patrick's voice was slurred slightly as he lurched to his feet. “A man does not want food when he is in his cups. Wine—bring me some more wine.”

“But, my lord—”

“Aye, I'm foxed.” Patrick moved unsteadily to the table and held up a bottle. “Never mind, Crump—thersh more here.”

The butler's attention was suddenly diverted by the sound of the huge brass knocker on the front door. With the tray of food still in his hand, Crump backed out to answer it. Relief flooded his face as he admitted Albert Bascombe.

“Hallo, Crump—Patrick in?”

“Aye, and in the devil's own temper, he is—won't eat, won't bathe, and won't stir from his library! Mayhap you can reason with him!”

“Me? Un-uhhh—if he's in a taking, I'll come back.”

“Master Bascombe,” the butler fixed Bertie with an icy stare and demanded, “if you were overset, would he leave you be?”

“No.” Bertie hesitated for a moment and then capitulated. “All right, I'll see to him.”

He found Patrick leaning back in the chair, his long legs crossed and resting on the empty metal grate in the fireplace. A near-empty wine glass sat precariously on his chest, bearing testimony to the fact that he was all but disguised with drink. While Bertie watched, Patrick raised the glass to contemplate the dregs, then drained it and consigned it to shatter against the fire bricks.

“Damn!” he muttered in frustration. “She cannot prefer him to me—I at least have some fire! The man's cold as ice!”

“Who?” Bertie asked without thinking. “Oh, I collect you mean Rotherfield, don't you? Shouldn't think that, Pat—I mean, the fellow's been in a deuced lot of trouble over women, ain't he?”

Patrick looked up at the sound of Bertie's voice, casting such a baleful glance that Bertie recoiled. “I said he was cold as ice,” Patrick repeated awfully.

“Well, I ain't a female, of course,” Bertie hastened to add. “Don't know what she sees in him, either.”

Uncrossing his feet, Patrick kicked the grate forcefully, and came out of his chair. For the briefest instant he swayed slightly and then maintained his balance. “He's damned handsome—devilish handsome—that's what it is,” he pronounced with authority. “Don't matter that he's cold! She can sit around looking at him!” He moved to tower over Bertie, shouting, “Deny it! He's a damned handsome fellow!”

“Well—”

“You cannot—can you?” Patrick turned away, muttering, “Well, neither can I … neither can I. Damn him! Damn her!”

It had been a long time since Bertie could remember Patrick being in such a taking. Not even when goaded into a duel had Patrick displayed such temper. Bertie tried to touch his shoulder, only to be shaken off. “I say, Pat,” he asked in alarm, “you ain't thinking of meeting him—you ain't, are you?”

“No! That's the devil of it, Bertie! I cannot call him out even! 'Tis no matter of honor, and if I did, the clubs would be full of gossip about her! I should look the veriest fool and she would be ruined.” He ran his fingers through his thick dark red hair in distraction.

“The clubs are full of gossip anyway, Pat,” Bertie reminded him. “I mean, what with you dangling after Mrs. Lyddesdale, there's betting everywhere that you'll win the Danvers fortune. It ain't all bad, neither,” he consoled, “ 'cause the odds are tipping in your favor.”

Instead of mollifying the viscount, this news seemed to enrage him further. “They are betting I can win Anthea Lyddesdale?” he demanded in strangled accents. “I cannot even be seen in the company of a respectable female without ruining her reputation! Crump!”

“My lord?” the butler responded from the safety of the door.

“Order my bath!” Patrick rubbed the stubble on his chin and growled, “I need a bath, a shave, and evening clothes.” Turning back to the perplexed Albert Bascombe, he snapped, “Where is the wagering the heaviest?”

“I don't know … uh … White's, I think, but—”

“I mean to go there then.”

Bertie stared. Patrick's anger had cleared his bleary-eyed look and replaced it with one of steely determination. Shuddering involuntarily, Bertie protested, “But, Pat—”

“Just because my life is ruined is no reason to allow the slander of an innocent female!”

“But—”

“Bertie, I mean to call a halt to this nonsense—I am paying Charlie off,” Patrick flung over his shoulder as he left the room.

It took a few moments for Bascombe to assimilate the import of Patrick's words, and then Bertie ran after him. “I say, Pat—you cannot! You'll lose a bloody fortune! Take the Lyddesdale woman! If I am to be leg-shackled to Miss Canfield, you deuced well can take Mrs. Lyddesdale! At least she don't seem to be high-spirited!”

“I don't want her!” Patrick shouted from the stairs.

With a groan, Bertie sank into a foyer chair. A dozen thoughts floated through his mind and he didn't like any of them. Ten to one, someone would force a quarrel on Patrick Danvers, and the vicious cycle would begin anew. This time, he'd have to flee the country or face the ridicule of his entire family.

He was still waiting and still shaking his head when Patrick emerged bathed, shaved, and dressed less than an hour later. There was nothing in the viscount's manner now to indicate that he'd spent the better part of the day imbibing a large quantity of Madeira or that he was still in the devil's own temper. Only a certain whiteness at the corners of his mouth, the determined set of his jaw, and an uncharacteristic coldness in his hazel eyes betrayed him, and Bertie was afraid that a casual observer would miss the danger that lay shallow beneath that now calm exterior. Manfully he stood up to intercept Patrick in the hall.

“I am going with you.”

“The deuce you are. 'Tisn't your affair, after all.”

“But it is,” Bertie insisted. “If I had not abducted Miss Ashley, none of this would have come about.”

“Suit yourself then, but ‘twill not be pleasant, I'll wager.”

It wasn't until they were in Patrick's carriage that an even more disturbing thought occurred to Bascombe. “I say, Pat,” he asked in the darkness, “but you ain't armed, are you?”

It was the first time in days that Patrick had smiled even faintly. “Alas, I am not. When I dispatch mine enemies, Bertie, I do it in the civilized way. And I have not the least intention of calling anyone out tonight, old fellow, because to do so would defeat my purpose.”

Thus reassured, Bertie fell back against the squabs and stared dolefully out the window at the passing gaslights. It was late and many of the streets were nearly deserted, but he had little hope that White's would be thin of company yet. “I still think you could get Miss Ashley,” he said finally.

“Do you truly think I would stoop so low, would act so dishonorably, as to steal another man's—even Rotherfield's—betrothed?”

“Oh.”

Their arrival at White's was not unremarked. Even as Patrick handed his hat, cloak, and cane to the footman, there was a mild stir around him, a stir that spread as word traveled through the place that Devil Danvers was there. Play at the baize-covered tables slowed as he entered and stopped as he passed. A murmur of curiosity followed him through the rooms. Jaded gamesters long used to the vagaries of fortune merely looked up, while newer, greener young gentlemen just recently come to town scraped their chairs against the carpets and rose to trail a man they knew only by reputation. Bertie looked back in consternation and hissed to Patrick, “Carrion come to crow over your bones.”

Behind him, Patrick could hear someone murmur in a low undervoice, “He's killed three men.” His jaw twitched perceptibly, but his hazel eyes were veiled.

At one of the tables, Charles Danvers looked up and paled. Bertie groaned inwardly and hoped futilely that Patrick would not notice his cousin. To his utter horror, Patrick made his way to where Charlie sat, standing behind him until he threw down his cards in disgust. “The luck's all yours tonight, gentlemen,” Charles said as he pushed back from the table.

“Not quite,” Patrick murmured above him. Taking a slim leather folder from his coat, he opened it and counted out one thousand pounds. Laying the sheaf of banknotes on the green wool cloth, he met Charlie's stunned expression coolly. “Your money, Cousin.”

“ Wha—” For several seconds Charles Danvers stared at the banknotes as though afraid to pick them up. “I don't—”

“It's yours,” Patrick repeated. “I am settling the wager.”

“Settling!”

Words were whispered covertly from table to table and then the entire room was enveloped in silence. Charlie's fingers crept toward the money slowly at first and then grasped it greedily. A perplexed frown crossed his forehead, creasing it. “But your year is not up,” he protested lamely. “And Uncle Hugh—”

“I'll get my money back from him, but I would settle this now. Let us just say that I find it repugnant to have my name bandied about with that of every female unlucky enough to speak to me. When I marry—if I marry—I would not have it said that I took any lady merely to gain my fortune.”

Charlie paled and beads of perspiration formed on his high forehead. The hand that held the money shook visibly. “But I have not—”

“I did not say you had,” Patrick cut in coldly.

“I say, Danvers!” a buck of the
ton
protested loudly.

“ 'Tis not fair! There's men with money on you! Your time ain't up!”

“Aye!” several others chorused. “You cannot do it!”

“No?” Patrick asked evenly. “Ah, gentlemen, but I can and I have.”

“But why?” someone behind him demanded.

“I do not believe I owe anyone an explanation.” Patrick's eyes swept over the room, taking in the sea of disbelieving faces. “Is there anyone here who thinks that I do?” he challenged. He walked slowly toward the first protestor. “Do you, Kidwell?” There was an uncomfortable silence until the man looked away and mumbled that he thought no such thing. “Good,” Patrick approved. Turning back to the rest of the gentlemen standing around, he fixed them with a disdainful stare. “I should dislike having to call any of you out for slandering any females of my acquaintance, of course, but I am prepared to do so. I dislike having my name bandied about also.”

He turned abruptly on his heel and walked out between a crowd that parted silently to let him pass. A footman jumped to get his cloak, hat, and cane for him, and then brushed aside the coin Patrick offered him. Once outside, Bertie caught up.

“If you could have seen the looks on their faces after you left, Pat! You was magnificent!”

“No.” Patrick's expression was bleak. “I was Devil Danvers.”

T
he park was nearly deserted due to the early hour when Rotherfield and Caroline arrived. The mare he'd purchased for her was a sweet-goer, a pretty sorrel with a blaze, and it pranced stylishly. Delighted with the gift, Caroline put it through its paces and found it perfect. As she drew up from a canter, she leaned forward to pat the horse's neck.

“She's flawless, my lord. I can scarce thank you sufficiently, but you should not—”

“Nonsense, my dear.” The earl took in her flushed face and the wisps of dark hair that escaped her chic military hat. “A pretty lady deserves a pretty mount, after all. And I must compliment Cecile for your habit—'tis charming.”

She glanced down at the scarlet-and-black outfit with its frogged closures and polished brass buttons. “You think so? I feared to look like a remnant of Boney's wars.”

“Not at all. In fact, you are a credit to me, Caroline. Even Ponsonby, who has quite an eye for ladies, owned I'd done it right this time. He complained I had stolen the march on him before you'd been presented.”

Caroline considered the extremely handsome and charming Ponsonby and shook her head. “Spanish coin, my lord.”

“ 'Tis almost a quote, my dear. But do you not think you could bring yourself to use my given name, Caroline? I should hate to think we might be christening our firstborn before I ever hear you call me Marcus.”

A rueful smile acknowledged the truth of what he said. “Marcus then,” she managed with a lightness she did not feel.

“Good. I was beginning to fear that you would be like the Duchess of Wellington, whose conversation is peppered with ‘my lord the duke' until poor Arthur is forced to escape to Mrs. Arbuthnot for comfortable companionship. Not that I should do likewise, my dear, for I expect to be a pleasant husband.”

Steering him away from a discomfiting subject, she asked, “Are you acquainted with Wellington then?”

“We are not of the same circle, but 'tis not difficult to know him, my dear. He's not one to stand on ceremony despite the way he is lionized, you know.”

She nodded. “I have even heard that he blacks his own boots.”

“Remarkable what
on-dits
make the rounds amongst the
ton,
isn't it?” he observed sardonically. “I cannot vouch for that, of course. If you would confirm the rumor, you should have asked Westover—he at least served with him.”

“He did not tell me—only that he was wounded and came back.”

“I'm surprised he told you that. From all I've heard, he's remarkably closemouthed about the war. Not that he had anything to hide, but rather that he lost some friends, I understand.”

“Yes—well, I would rather not speak of Patrick, if you do not mind.”

“Patrick?” The black eyebrow lifted and the black eyes observed her shrewdly.

“Westover,” she amended. “I should not like to discuss Westover. Now, Juliana—”

“And I should not like to discuss Miss Canfield, my dear,” he dismissed flatly. “Let us just close those chapters and let the book lie. The betting at White's appears to be shifting in Westover's favor since he has been seen with Mrs. Lyddesdale, and Haverstoke and Lady Canfield are both in raptures over Bascombe's engagement. By the end of the Season, I expect everyone to be wed and the maneuvering to be over.”

“Yes—well, I daresay you are right,” she sighed, “but—”

“No,” he told her gently but firmly. “Have you given thought to going to Oakland?”

“No,” she lied, when in fact she'd spent considerable hours pondering what to do. “Lady Milbourne is determined I shall be married from Milbourne House, but she is scarce up to the excitement. And Lady Lyndon is equally determined that it will be her house, so I have tried not to think of it at all,” she answered lightly. “But we waste a lovely morning, don't you think? I shall race you to the corner if you will but give me a small lead.”

“Done. You may have to the gaslight.”

She gave the mare her head, fully aware that Rotherfield's big black would take the lead long before they reached the corner. And it did. He reined in and waited for her.

“Marcus!”

A nattily attired military man in dragoon colors hailed Rotherfield and rode to meet him. The earl looked up in surprise.

“Hallo, Major Thornton.”

“Out early, ain't you?”

“Miss Ashley is trying out a new mare.” Rotherfield indicated Caro, who'd just reached them.

“Delighted to make the acquaintance, Miss Ashley.” Turning back to the earl, the major nodded. “Heard you was betrothed. Getting leg shackled at last, eh? Didn't credit it at first, mind you, but guess it's true.”

“Yes. Caroline, are you acquainted with Major Thornton?”

“Saw me at the Connistons' party,” Thornton reminded her.

“Of course.”

An inveterate gossip, the major gestured for Rotherfield's attention. “I say, Marcus, you have any money on the Westover thing? If you did, you'd best be collecting.”

“What?” Caro's world seemed to be spinning. “He got married?”

The major shook his head. “Latest
on-dit
—he paid up. Stupid thing to do, ain't it? Had plenty of time to win, too, by the looks of it. I had my money on the Lyddesdale widow—she wasn't afraid to be seen with him.”

“He paid up,” she echoed faintly. “But
why?
”

“Caroline—”

“Heard he was leaving town—someone said he was repairing to Westover, but then I heard he meant to go abroad—Italy, I think ‘twas said. Not that I credit all I hear, of course.”

“Italy!” she choked in dismay. “Oh!”

“I say, you all right, Miss Ashley?”

Suddenly conscious of the concern of both men, Caroline collected her disordered thoughts and nodded. “No—that is, I am fine, sir.”

“You are certain? You look queasy. Maybe the ride—”

“Major Thornton, I assure you that she is quite all right, aren't you, my dear?” Rotherfield cut in as he reached to take her reins. “Overtired, perhaps, but otherwise fine. Indeed, we were thinking of repairing to Oakland ourselves for a quiet wedding.”

“You don't say!” Thornton looked at Caroline again and tipped his hat. “Wish you happy, Miss Ashley—I do.”

“Thank you … uh … ”

“Surprising Season, I'd have to say,” the major rambled on, “what with you and Rotherfield here—caught the tabbies unawares, you did—and then there was Miss Canfield and young Bascombe.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Now, that was it, wasn't it? ‘Beauty and the Buffoon,' Brummell calls 'em. Don't know how he gets by with it—the Beau, I mean—son of a tailor and all that, but he does. Heard he was in deep to the tradesmen, too—better learn to watch his tongue before he finds himself alone to face 'em.”

“I am sure that Miss Ashley has no interest in George Brummell, Major,” Rotherfield interrupted sharply.

“Huh?” Thornton looked up and encountered those cold black eyes. “Oh, daresay she don't.” When Rotherfield's expression did not change, he squirmed uncomfortably in his saddle. “Well, best be going, I expect. Your servant, Miss Ashley … Marcus.”

“Pray do not let him overset you, my dear,” Rotherfield murmured as the major rode out of hearing. “He's a notorious prattle—nothing more.”

But she was barely attending. Her thoughts were on Patrick Danvers. He'd forfeited on his infamous wager and he was leaving London. Maybe she would never see him again. She closed her eyes for a moment to hide her pain from the earl. Well, she'd not expected to marry Westover, after all, so it should come as no surprise that he was leaving her life.

“Come, Caroline—I'll take you home. A little brandy and it will pass, I promise you.”

“No,” she answered slowly, “it will not.”

“It will,” he repeated firmly.

“Poor Juliana—she cannot help hearing of Brummell's gibes.”

“That will be forgotten also. Learn to rule your life by your head rather than your heart, my dear—'tis less painful.” He edged his horse so close that his leg brushed hers and the hand that held her reins clasped hers over the pommel. “When we return from Oakland, I'll make a push to gain admittance to Almack's, and you will have the position you deserve. If you like, we can leave tomorrow. I am sure that Lady Milbourne will not object, and Lady Lyndon will be delighted to see me in parson's mousetrap, whether she is there to witness or no.”

“ 'Tis so sudden, I—”

He nodded, a wry smile twisting his mouth. “All right then—I'll not press you for now, but I mean to be married before the Buffoon takes the Beauty, my dear.”