The Prince of Ravenscar (3 page)

His mother cleared her throat. “The truth is Bethanne Wilkie and I always wished to have our families united.”

His stomach dropped to his dusty Hessians. He had a terrifying image of the skinny twelve-year-old gowned in white standing beside him in front of a vicar, a long veil covering her face, the beautiful Ravenscar ruby ring sliding off her small finger to land on the floor and rolling, rolling—“Good grief, Mama, she's a little girl! When she wasn't trailing after me, she was tucked against her mother's skirts or lurking behind curtains to stare at me. As I recall, I once said hello to her, and she turned pale and ran from the room.”

“Little girls become ladies.”

“Why have you never spoken to me of this young lady before?”

“When you married Lily, she was far too young for you. When Lily died, she was still too young, but it didn't matter, because you sailed from England for three years.”

“I don't recall her name.”

“Her name is Sophie Colette Wilkie. Sophie is spelled quite in the French way, since her father, a clergyman, adores the French, a people few can stomach, and rightfully so, but so he does, particularly the classical French, particularly the playwright Molière. Sophie even has a French second name—Colette.”

He had no memory whatsoever of the little girl's name. Sophie Colette—it was enough to curdle his innards. Julian had come home to find peace. And instead, his mama wanted to present him with a bride named Sophie Colette? He said, “I like Molière as well.”

“Yes, he is classical enough, I fancy, but I mean, who cares? Now, I have informed Sophie's father that I shall present Sophie in London at the Buxted ball Wednesday evening, exactly two weeks from today. You will be there, naturally. I understand dear Sophie will be chaperoned by her aunt, Roxanne Radcliffe, who is one of Baron Roche's daughters, and they will stay in the Radcliffe town house on Lemington Square. Since Roxanne was Bethanne's sister, she must be well advanced in her years. Bethanne always told me Roxanne preferred the country, and so I simply must travel to London to assist her in bringing out my dear Sophie.” She paused, raised her dark eyes to his face, the look that always pierced him to his gullet, and had, obviously, pierced his father's gullet as well, ancient though his gullet was at the time.

He tried once more. “If you tell me Sophie Wilkie is fresh out of the schoolroom, I will board one of my ships and sail to Macao.”

“I don't know where this Macao place is, but it sounds nasty and foreign. Oh, no, dearest. Since her mama died two years ago, followed quickly by her grandmother, Sophie has worn black gloves
forever,
poor child. She is well into her twentieth year, not a child at all, indeed, very nearly a spinster.”

Twelve years between them, an acceptable age difference by society's norms, but too many years for him. She'd been naught but a little girl when the Duke of Wellington finally vanquished Napoléon at Waterloo. She would have no memory of what was happening in the world during his first twelve years. Julian realized he might as well batter his head against the huge stone fireplace in the great hall of Ravenscar. No hope for it. He folded his tent. “When would you like to leave?”

His fond mama wasn't a fool. She never rubbed her fist in a face when victorious unless it was that of her stepdaughter-in-law, Lorelei. She gave him a sweet smile as she rose to kiss his cheek and pat his shoulder. “Did I tell you she is a beauty? Her hair is dark brown, her eyes a light blue like a summer sky. She is no small mincing miss. Indeed, I find my eyes must travel upward a goodly distance to meet hers.” She patted him again. “You are a remarkably fine son, dearest.”

“Do you think, Mama, that I might have a week at home to see to estate matters?”

She patted his face. “With your exquisite brain, I believe four or five days will do the trick nicely.”

He wasn't stupid. He had four days.

Julian hadn't been home in three years. Why hadn't he waited three more months, until, say, August? The wretched Season would be over. But he hadn't. He would go to London, he would meet Sophie Colette—spelled in the French way—and he would pat her head and leave her to the younger gentlemen.

EIGHT DAYS LATER

 

 

 

L
ord Devlin Archibald Jesere Monroe, the seventh Earl of Convers and heir to the Duke of Brabante, and only son to Lorelei Monroe, stood quietly in the doorway of his half-uncle's estate room, watching him study a sheaf of papers, his concentration so profound he hadn't even heard his butler, Tavish, announce him. Devlin realized he'd missed Julian very much. Three years, it was too long a time.

Julian's black hair was standing on end, his collar was open at his throat, and he wore a linen shirt nearly as white as Devlin's face but not quite. Devlin smiled as he cleared his throat.

Julian jerked up, his pen spluttering ink on the final page of a document he was on the point of signing. He shot a glare at his half-nephew. “Damnation, Dev, look what you made me do. Now Pennyworth will have to recopy this page.”

“Pennyworth was last seen flirting with one of your downstairs maids, so your butler told me. Her name, I heard Tavish say to Mrs. Stokes, is Emmy.”

Julian laid down his pen, rose, stretched, gave his nephew a lazy smile, and strode to him, hugging him close. “It's been too long, Dev. How are you?”

Devlin grinned. “I remember things were always more stimulating when you were about. I trust you have not become dull and sober in your old age?”

“We will spend the evening together, and you will tell me.”

He realized Devlin was nearly his size. How could he have forgotten that? He clasped his shoulders, studied his face. “You look as pale and healthy as the last time I saw you. No, since it's been raining interminably, you're paler than I remember.”

Devlin laughed. “I worship the rain, I chant for its coming, since I must maintain my otherworldly vampire persona.”

Julian remembered that at eighteen, Devlin had become enthralled with some ancient manuscripts he'd read at Oxford and decided that being a vampire would amuse him. It had. Devlin, Julian thought, made an excellent vampire.

“Would you like a brandy, or do you need to drink some blood?”

“Do you know Corrie Sherbrooke once offered me her neck at midnight?” He laughed again. “It was only six months ago. I remember once when I rode with her in the middle of a sunny day, I took a huge risk and didn't wear a hat. It must have been a wager, I don't recall.”

“You did not burn up. That is a relief. So she wed James Sherbrooke, did she?”

“Yes, last fall.”

“I remember the Sherbrooke twins. Didn't all the ladies consider them gods?”

“Curse James, he does look like a bloody god, the bastard.”

Julian said, “I've got something better than brandy or blood.” Julian walked to the sideboard and held up a crystal decanter. “Whiskey from the wilds of America.”

“I hear it is a nasty drink,” Devlin said.

“Here, give it a try.”

Devlin eyed the whiskey. “You insist on forcing me to burn out my stomach?”

Julian laughed. They clicked their glasses and drank.

Devlin felt the brutal fire all the way to his heels, but he wasn't going to cough. He nearly turned blue, the effort was so great, then he lost the battle and wheezed until Julian, grinning like a bandit, smacked him hard between his shoulder blades.

“You are my elder,” Devlin whispered. “You should protect me, not torture me. Give me brandy, Julian.”

Once he'd drunk some of Julian's very fine Spanish brandy—Gran Duque D'Alba, no less—he was able to collect himself and sit down, his color restored, but since there wasn't much color at all on Devlin's face, Julian couldn't tell. He crossed his legs and swung a booted foot.

Devlin said, “My mother told me this morning she received an impertinent missive from your upstart mother informing her that you were home at last and she would be in London for the Season, you as her escort. I was pleased. It really has been too long. I'll say, the thought of dumping insults on your mother's head perked my mother right up. Your mother is well, Julian?”

“My mother is always well. I was dragged here to meet a young lady, the daughter of my mother's bosom friend, Bethanne Wilkie is her name, now dead, and thus the daughter has been in black gloves and not as yet had a Season. Her name is Sophie, spelled in the French way, you know, and thank the good Lord she isn't fresh out of the schoolroom, else I would flee to Scotland to hunt grouse.”

“How old is Sophie, spelled in the French way?”

“Twenty, but that is still too young for me.”

Devlin grinned. “As long as men must insist on not wedding until they're in their dotage, young wives will continue to flourish. It is said they are more malleable.”

“What idiot said that?”

“Still, twelve years between husband and wife isn't anything out of the ordinary.”

“It is to me,” Julian said.

Devlin laughed again, stretched his arms behind his head, and regarded his step-uncle. “Do you remember when you and I sailed to the Isle of Wight in your yacht
Désirée
and those drunk young men from Oxford plowed into us?”

“I do, although they were about your age, as I recall.”

“Possibly, but I was more mature, more governed in my habits. In any case, do you remember that one very young girl we saved when she got tossed overboard?”

“I remember. What was her name?”

“Giselle, quite French, she told me, as she coughed up water all over my shirt, like your French Sophie.”

“What happened to her? You never said in your letters.”

“Ah, I brought her to London. We quite enjoyed each other for a time. She is now in Plymouth, I believe.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Trust you to save a girl and take her to bed.”

Devlin said in his world-weary voice, “Do tell me your point, old boy.”

Julian laughed, couldn't help himself. Three years had made a difference in his half-nephew. Devlin was more sophisticated, he supposed, much more confident, at ease in his world. He realized he loved his half-nephew and quite enjoyed his vampire affectation. How strange life was, he thought. Julian's very old father had married his very young mother, produced him, and he'd instantly become the half-uncle to the future Duke of Brabante. As for Devlin's mother—the evil witch Lorelei, according to Julian's mother—he found her amusing and blessedly predictable in her bone-deep dislike of him. He said to Devlin, “I daresay she considered you a fine protector.”

Devlin said, “It is always quite nice when there is only a question of recompense involved between a man and a woman. Now I will take you to my tailor and boot maker. You are in grave need of polishing up, Julian, before you meet this Sophie, spelled in the French way.”

 

 

 

R
oxanne Radcliffe bounded out of her chair when her niece, Sophie Wilkie, appeared in the doorway to the drawing room.

“My dear girl, you are hours late. I've been so worried!”

Sophie tossed her cloak to Mint, the Radcliffe butler, whose mouth pinched at such careless behavior in a young lady. He'd traveled from Allegra Hall with Miss Roxanne to attend her during her upcoming travails in this huge city that was a cesspit of both wickedness and delight. He'd said to Mrs. Mifflin, the Allegra Hall housekeeper, and his occasional mistress, “I fear it will be a proper travail, what with that wild sprat, Miss Sophie, ready to turn her poor aunt's hair gray.”

He had assured Lord Roche that he would protect Miss Roxanne with his life. He recalled Lord Roche had nodded gravely and thanked him. He did not know, however, that Lord Roche was quite certain that if such an unlikely occasion should arise, it would be Roxanne to protect Mint, who was of a very modest size, unlike his mistress. Mint watched Miss Roxanne skip like a wild sprat herself to Miss Sophie and embrace her.

“Oh, goodness,” Sophie said, “I forgot how wonderful you smell. What is it? Jasmine with a hint of lemon?”

Roxanne laughed. “Yes, a hint. What delayed you?”

“A carriage wheel broke outside of Marleythorpe, but let me tell you, I quite enjoyed myself at a local inn—the Screaming Gander—drinking lemonade. Well, mayhap there was a minuscule dollop of brandy mixed in, made me shiver all the way to my toes and laugh at everything the owner, Mrs. Dolly Grange, said to me. She joined me, but I fear there was more than a dollop of brandy in her glass. Do you think Cook could prepare this sort of lemonade? No matter, ah, it is so good to see you, Roxanne. Why would a gander scream?”

“Doubtless she was being pursued by a lusty goose.”

Sophie laughed, hugged her aunt again, then danced around the Radcliffe drawing room, her full skirts a beautiful kaleidoscope of greens. She untied the ribbons beneath her chin and gently laid her very new and stylish green crepe bonnet on a chair. “It is so good to be with you. At last I am to be presented. I had wanted to be with you a fortnight ago, as you know, but my father was overset by some local matters—ah, you know how he is—”

Roxanne knew exactly how he was.

“—but that's not important now. I'm here to dance until there are holes in my slippers, and”—she looked utterly wicked—“I can flirt and flutter my eyelashes and slay all the gentlemen within ten feet of me. What do you think?”