The Devil Earl (36 page)

Prudence chewed on her pen and considered the question. She knew Sebastian was eager to begin the renovations, which would take up much of his attention. And, despite his injury, they managed to keep their lovemaking exciting. But what of tomorrow and the next day?

Although her husband spoke very little of his past, Prudence knew that he had spent his dissipated youth in every manner of gambling hell and brothel, seen every play and opera, visited the grandest homes and walked the seediest alleys. He had, in a word, experienced everything. How could such a man be happy very long, doing practically nothing?

A low thump, step, thump, made Prudence lift her head, and she realized the object of her contemplation was coming down the secret passage. She held her breath, still delighted by the way the case swung open to reveal Sebastian, darkly disheveled from sleep, a silk robe thrown over his nakedness.

The pen dropped from Prudence’s mouth.

He smiled, a sleepy, enticing movement of his lips, and ran a palm across his face. “What are you doing down here, Pru, dearest? Have you been struck with inspiration?”

Prudence sighed, knowing he would see through any lies she might attempt. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact Sebastian, I am stuck.”

“What?” He moved across the room, the only man on earth who could manage to look both graceful and mysterious while handling a pair of crutches

“Well, you see, I have locked my people in the cellar, and I am not sure what to do with them,” Prudence admitted, picking up the abandoned sheet of foolscap.

“That sounds awfully familiar,” Sebastian said, perching on the corner of the desk and placing his crutches beside him. “Simply have your hero climb down from the window, as I did when we were trapped in the tower room.”

“No,” Prudence muttered. “That won’t do at all. They are in the cellar, you see.”

“Yes, well, has the cellar no windows?”

Prudence glanced up at him, and suddenly she felt as if she had been hit by one of the lightning bolts that flashed outside. “That is it!” she cried.

“What?” Sebastian asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

Prudence thrust the paper at him. “The answer to… everything!” she cried. “You, Sebastian, must help me! You must get my people out of the cellar.”

“Oh, Pru, I do not think—”

“Nonsense!” She hushed any protests he might have made by rising from her seat and putting the pages directly into his hands. “I shall brew us some tea, and when I get back I shall expect you to have effected an escape.” Brushing her lips across his forehead, she hurried out of the room, expelling a long-held breath.

Prudence walked through the darkened rooms of the abbey with a giddy sense of elation. To think that the solution to all her worries had been staring her right in the face! Sebastian had an imagination to match her own, and he had proved before his Gothic tastes, his dark interests. Why not use all that to her advantage?

Prudence remembered the countless times she had been struggling through a particular passage or mired in a bit of plot that she could not seem to work out. Now she would have help, and not just any help, but the supremely capable assistance of the earl of Ravenscar! Her publisher would probably dance a jig at the prospect, for the public was always scrambling for books written by society’s elite. Now, he would have not only a countess, but an earl, too, sharing authorship: the Devil Earl and his wife.

Her mind dancing ahead to all the advantages of a partnership with her spouse, Prudence prepared a lovely tray with tea and sugar and some little pastries the new cook had set out. The storm had died down by the time she carried it
back to the library, where Sebastian had sprawled back in the chair, his bad leg stretched out before him, his head bent over a pile of pages.

“Sebastian?”

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not even hear her. Smiling, Prudence set the tray down on a side table, and poured the tea. Obviously, there were some disadvantages to her plan, too, but…

“I have it!” he suddenly shouted, and by the time the dawn arrived to chase away the last of the rain, they had moved their adventurers from the cellar into a hidden cavern, used up all the paper in the library, and made love in the massive chair behind the desk.

All in all, it was a good beginning, Prudence decided.

I
see the Devil Earl is up to his old tricks,” Mrs. Home said with a wink, and her shopkeeper husband roared with laughter.

“Aye! ‘Tis a sight he is, to be sure. The Devil Earl, indeed!” said Mr. Horne, inclining his head toward the window. Several customers joined him, the women tittering behind their gloves while the men guffawed loudly.

Trying to appear undisturbed by the outbursts, Prudence glanced surreptitiously outside, and what she saw made her groan inwardly. Of course, it was just the sort of thing that would elicit amusement from everyone. Everyone except herself—and Mrs. Bates. Before Prudence could stop her, the matron peeked out the doorway and gasped in outrage.

Sputtering loudly, she turned on Prudence. “I hold you entirely responsible for this!” she said, before exiting the shop in a huff, her new hat looking sadly bereft without its bright blue feather.

“Excuse me, please,” Prudence muttered, scooping up her two-year-old daughter and hurrying outside. Mrs. Bates was already down the street. Too late for an apology now, but she would make sure one was tendered later.

“Barto!” The little girl in Prudence’s arms pointed across the street excitedly.

“Yes, Barto,” Prudence said through gritted teeth. On the other side of the village’s main roadway, Bartholomew Penhurst, future earl of Ravenscar, was engaged in what one could only suspect was a very spirited game of wild Indians, his latest passion. Without the slightest compunction, he was chasing after the widow Adams’s chickens, having fashioned a bow and arrow out of sticks and strings and a headdress from the obviously purloined blue feather. His nursemaid was nowhere to be seen.

Clutching Evelina closely, as if her daughter’s presence might soothe her dangerously taut temper, Prudence marched across the street, just as the widow Adams emerged from her bungalow, broom in hand.

“Bartholomew!” Prudence shouted, acutely aware of the audience that by now was no doubt gathered around the Homes’ shop window, watching gleefully. Unfortunately, Bartholomew ignored her. Sebastian claimed the boy’s selective hearing came directly from her, but Prudence was in disagreement. She was a perfectly good listener, as everyone well knew. It was Sebastian who became so absorbed in his plotting that he was lost to the world at large.

Apparently unimpressed by Prudence’s show of authority, Mrs. Adams came down off the porch, swinging the business end of her makeshift weapon threateningly. “Stop that, you devil!” she cried, waving it for emphasis.

Devil Earl, indeed! Prudence knew she ought to be thankful that the dreaded appellation no longer struck terror into the hearts of the villagers. However, she was not pleased that her son was the one who had managed to accomplish that feat. He had earned the name at the ripe old age of two, when he toddled up to the vicar, kicked him in the shin and complained loudly about the length of the sermon.

Of course, technically, Barto was a mere viscount—it was one of his father’s lesser hereditary titles—but when the vicar, hopping painfully around on one foot, called him a
young devil, the name had stuck, and Sebastian’s mantle had been passed on.

Heaving a sigh, Prudence let the widow Adams chase after the Ravenscar heir, while she went in search of his new nursemaid, the fourth one to date. “Nana!” Evelina said, pointing to a tree, and sure enough, they found Nanny seated on the ground, her back against the trunk, about which her hands were securely tied.

“By God!” Prudence let slip Sebastian’s favorite expletive as she stared, horrified, at the bound maid.

The girl smiled up at her ruefully. “I didn’t think he would really tie me, my lady. Please give me another chance!”

Startled, Prudence let Evelina down and knelt to undo the knots. “You mean you want to stay on?”

“Oh, yes,” Nanny said, rising to her feet quickly. “I don’t think he’s a bad lad. He’s just got a bit of Old Nick in him.”

The devil again. Prudence frowned as she straightened.

“That is to say, lots of energy,” the nursemaid added quickly.

“Barto!” Prudence called. This time he came, presumably because the widow’s broom was following directly behind him. He relinquished the accoutrements of his role and was induced to apologize to Mrs. Adams, who refused to take any money for the upset caused her chickens.

As if nothing untoward had passed between them, the old woman asked after Barto’s uncle, whose shipping concerns had greatly profited the little village. While Prudence stood by, holding Evelina, the widow then asked after his father, whose continual renovations to the abbey employed those few residents who were not working for his brother. Of course, it had taken a few years for the superstitious villagers to accept a Ravenscar, but now even Mrs. Adams had come around. And, finally, she asked about the latest novel authored by the earl and his wife, which, she had heard, was a great success.

After listening to his polite answers and being charmed by his wicked grin, the widow waved the boy off with a mild scold. Struggling to hide a toothless grin behind one gnarled hand, she whispered, “God bless you, then, Devil Earl.”

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