In My Wildest Fantasies (4 page)

"Welcome back, my lord!" the footman shouted into his ear.

What was it about the rain that made people think they needed to shout? "Thank you. It's good to be back."

It was partly true, at least.

He started up the stairs with the footman at his side holding the umbrella for him, but as soon as they passed through the open door and entered the grand hall, the servant was gone, and Devon's mother, the duchess, was striding toward him with a smile.

He stopped. She was as beautiful as ever with her golden hair swept into an elegant twist, her form-fitting gown the color of a ripe peach, the long, trained overskirt caught up at the sides and draped with pleats in the front. She was almost fifty, but possessed the slender, attractive figure of a woman half her age, and an ivory complexion few women could rival.

She crossed the hall to him. "Oh, my dear, you are home at last." She rushed to him and took his hands in hers. Her eyes sparkled. She seemed too excited to breathe.

Devon bent forward and kissed her on the cheek. "How wonderful to see you, Mother," he said. "You look exquisite. More lovely than ever, if that is possible."

She raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. "I see my son has not lost his charm. I'll wager those American girls were very sorry to see you board that ship back to England." He shook his head, and she slapped him playfully on the arm. "Don't be modest, Devon. You know I'm right. Oh, I thought this day would never come."

Another set of heels came clicking across the marble floor. It was his half sister, Charlotte. "Devon!" His mother had to step back to clear the way as she dashed straight into his arms. "At last! You're here!"

"Yes, Charlotte," he replied. He was pleased the past year with all its painful emotional heartbreak over her fiance had not broken her spirit as well. She was still as boisterous as ever. He held her away from him. "Let me get a look at you." Charlotte was golden-haired like their mother, and equally as lovely with deep blue eyes, long lashes, and a flawless complexion. "What a beauty you have become."

She smiled. "And you are still the same handsome heartbreaker you were before you left. I must admit, however, I am surprised you did not come home with a rich American wife."

A wife? Him?

"It's been in all the papers lately," she explained, "about Lord Randolph Churchill marrying the Jerome girl from New York just last week. Did you hear about it?"

"Of course. The New York papers printed every detail of the engagement."

"They say she's very beautiful."

"I am sure she is, and I hope some day to meet her." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag. "My only wish at the moment, however, is to see you, my dear sister, wearing the gift I brought you."

"Oh, Devon." She reached for the bag. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out."

She slid her fingers into the drawstring opening, withdrew a pearl bracelet, and held it up to the light. "It's stunning. Help me put it on?" She handed it to him, and he wrapped it around her slender wrist, then fastened the silver clasp. "It's perfect."

"I have something for you, too, Mother," he said, "but it's wrapped up in one of my trunks."

"You didn't have to, Devon. Your presence here in the house again was the only gift I wanted."

He noted a slight melancholy in her voice, a weariness in her eyes, and recalled a similar look on her face the day he had left, when the family had seemed to split apart at the seams with heartbreak and hostility.

"Is Vincent here?" he carefully asked.

She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No. He is still in London. I'm very sorry."

He watched her for a moment. "No need to apologize, Mother. I didn't expect him to be here."

Blake's voice sounded from the saloon. "Devon, you're back!"

He felt a swell of pleasure at the sound, then strode forward to shake his brother's hand, noting that the young man he had left behind three years ago had matured. At twenty-six, his looks had not changed much--he was still tall and dark and broad-shouldered--but something in the way he carried himself was different. He had always been a calming influence in the family, but now, he seemed to know it. He appeared relaxed and confident, and Devon felt certain that whatever problems had arisen while he was gone, they had been kept well in hand.

"Good God, man," Blake said, pumping his hand firmly and squeezing his elbow. "You've been in the sun. You look like a pirate."

Devon laughed. "I spent every possible minute up on deck during the crossing, which I am sure you would have done, too, had you been there. This rain...." He turned to direct his comment at Charlotte and their mother. "Will it ever stop?"

"We are all wondering the same thing," Blake replied, then his voice took on a twinge of resignation. "But the weather is a taboo subject around here. Isn't that right, Mother?"

She nodded. "Yes, it is."

Devon narrowed his gaze, looking at each of them in turn.

He faced his brother again. "You have all worked very hard to drag me home from America, and I can see you are itching to tell me something. Accompany me to the library, if you will, Blake. You know how I hate being kept in the dark."

Blake's face clouded over with uneasiness. He took a deep breath and let it out. "Indeed, there is much to discuss, and there is no point putting it off. The library it is, then. Is it too early in the day for a brandy?"

"Not by my watch," Devon replied. "Judging by the look of dread on your face, something tells me I'm going to need it."

"So here it is in a nutshell," Blake said, his voice somber as he handed a glass to Devon. "It's Father. I am sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he appears to be...Well, there is no polite way to put it. We all believe he is..." He paused a moment and took a drink. "Father is going mad."

Devon accepted the glass without looking at it, because it was all he could do to keep his eyes steady on his brother. "Mad, you say."

"Yes, mad. Rattled in the brain, nutty as a fruitcake, cuckoo, loony, out of his tree..."

Devon held up a hand. "I get the picture, Blake. Has the physician been summoned?"

"Yes, a few times over the past few months, but he assures us Father is in perfect health."

"But you believe otherwise," Devon said, watching his brother carefully as he sipped his brandy. "Did you tell this to the doctor?"

"Of course. Mother and I both have, but whenever he comes to perform an examination, Father is perfectly lucid and explains everything quite sensibly, so the doctor thinks we are overreacting, and that we simply do not understand his eccentric disposition." Blake strode across the room to the desk in front of the window and leaned back upon it. "Dr. Lambert's a bloody brownnoser if you ask me. He's been the family physican for thirty years and he expects something from Father in the will, no doubt. He doesn't want to cross him." His voice grew resigned. "Father is sixty-nine now, Devon. He is not going to live forever."

Devon gazed down at the brandy in his glass. "I am aware." He took a slow sip. Outside the window, the rain came down harder, driving against the panes. "But tell me of his behavior. What evidence do you have to support your suspicions?"

Blake's dark brows lifted--as if he had a whole list of examples, but didn't know where to begin.

"About six months ago, he began to have trouble sleeping. Now, every night, he gets up and wanders the dark corridors for hours in his nightshirt and slippers. He often talks to himself and speaks about our ancestors and what he knows about their lives."

Devon went to the sofa and sat down. For a long moment, he considered what his brother was describing to him.

"I admit," he said, "that this is disturbing to hear, but perhaps the doctor has a point. You said yourself that Father is sixty-nine now. This sounds to me like nothing more than the eccentricities of old age. He is simply reminiscing about the past. Perhaps that is why the doctor is not overly concerned."

His brother took another sip of brandy. He looked tired all of a sudden and shook his head.

"You seem disappointed," Devon said, as a small twinge of displeasure nipped at his mood. "Were you expecting that I would come home and simply wave a hand and make the problem disappear?"

When his brother gave no reply, Devon studied his expression carefully, then leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Or perhaps you are remembering that I am not the hero everyone always imagined me to be."

It was why he had left home in the first place three years ago--because he had disappointed everyone to impossible degrees. Vincent and Father especially.

No...Disappointed was not a strong enough word. Because of his own youthful passions, he had betrayed Vincent's trust and shattered and crushed his father's grand and lofty opinions of him. He had annihilated the man's unfathomable pride in his eldest son.

Devon remembered every word of their argument as if it happened only yesterday--how his father had told him what a useless failure he was as a son and especially as a man.

Why hadn't he been able to control the horse? he had asked. How could he have been so foolish as to take that slick, muddy path through the woods that time of year? And what had he been doing with MaryAnn in the first place? Had he no sense of honor or decency? She was his brother's fiancee.

Devon had listened to all of this at a time when he was leaning on crutches, when the stitches over his eye still burned, and when the guilt over what had occurred was worse than death itself.

Because MaryAnn--the woman Vincent had loved and intended to marry--was dead.

You are no longer my son, his father had snarled at him from behind the desk.

Their argument had ended there. Devon did not even say goodbye the next morning when he struggled awkwardly into the coach to leave for America. He had never written to his father, nor had he received any letters from him, but he had not expected it, such was the intensity of the man's rage that night.

"We need you," Blake quietly said, interrupting Devon's recollections. "You are the head of the family."

"No," he firmly replied. "Our father, the duke, is head of the family."

"Not if he is mad."

Devon stared uneasily at his brother, then set down his glass. "I am not yet convinced he is mad, Blake, nor will I be until I speak to him myself. As I said, it is probably just old age. There is nothing to be done about that except to be patient and tolerant as best we can until the end comes."

"Until the end comes, you say." Blake chuckled with some bitterness.

"Is there something amusing about that?"

Blake stood and walked to the window. "It is not amusing at all. I only chuckle at the coincidence of your remark. You see, I didn't get to the most distressing part of all this."

"Which is?"

Blake faced him. "Father has spoken of the end more than a few times himself over the past month. Come here." He waved Devon over to the window. "Look outside and you'll see what I mean." Devon stood and approached Blake, who pointed at the Italian Gardens. "There he is, out there in the rain."

Indeed, there he was--their father, the exalted Duke of Pembroke, powerful patriarch of this family, on his knees in the muddy garden. Or at least, what was left of it, for all the plants had been dug up, and there was nothing left but deep holes and piles of dirt. He was now digging up one last rose bush with a shovel.

"He's been moving all his favorite flowers to higher ground," Blake explained.

Devon felt his temper rising. "God in heaven, where is the gardener? Why is he not doing it? And why is there no one out there with an umbrella over his head?"

"Father won't let anyone help him," Blake said. "He insists on doing it himself, and just last week, he fired a footman who tried to push the garden cart for him."

"But what is he trying to accomplish?"

"He says he is saving the palace, Devon--his beloved gardens especially--because he believes we are victims of some ancient curse, and that a great flood is coming and we are all going to be swept away."

"A curse!" Devon blurted out. "Bloody hell, Blake, has he lost his mind?"

His brother sank down into the chair behind the desk and took a drink. "Now you're finally getting it."

Devon looked out the window again at his father, who had placed the rosebush in the wheeled cart and was struggling to push it across the muddy terrain.

"But the real reason we are thankful that you have returned," Blake said, "is because he believes you are the only one who can stop the curse."

"Me? How, for pity's sake? I'm the one he declared no longer his son."

"We do not know how," Blake replied, "but we are eager to find out, which is why we wanted you to come home. He will want to see you, Devon, the very minute he hears you are back."

Devon looked out the window at his father again. "I am no one's hero, Blake. Nor do I ever wish to be. Ever again."

"I know that. I remember what you went through. But that does not concern him. You'll have your work cut out for you, trying to convince him of it."