Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (250 page)

Jessica would never have asked for a rig of her own, but he had seen her eying the young matrons who enjoyed the independence of driving themselves, a practice that was the latest rage.

Another thought: Margolin owned a well-behaved black filly that Jessica would enjoy, tall enough to accommodate her long legs, and black, like Sweetness. They would make a handsome, pair, stallion and filly, taking the afternoon air. Devlin scowled, before he allowed a smile of surrender. Jessica had him thinking of Vindicator as Sweetness.

Grinning, he thought of the many differences the girl had brought since she exploded into their staid, well-ordered lives. He had not, of course, realized his life was dull. Now he did not know how they had managed without her.

How might they fare when she was gone? He sobered.

There was no need for her ever to be gone from them again, at least not permanently. Unless she married someone who took her far away … or she chose to return to Welter.

Those random thoughts startled him. How would they get on without her? Without her joy? When he no longer heard the staff laughing and her musical giggling in the far reaches of this house or the keep at Gull’s Way?

At first those sounds had been foreign, even annoying. Later on, however, when his study grew too quiet, he would prowl about until he found their little interloper doing those many unexpected — even menial — tasks she enjoyed.

She might be in the stables admiring a new arrival or currying a horse, or digging in a garden of roses or weeding a patch of radishes, ever alert to the occasional fishing worm for a stableman or someone’s child. Once he found her wading barefooted at the edge of a pond, squishing mud through her toes. Late one afternoon at Gull’s Way, when a prolonged search did not produce his prey, he sought advice from a footman.

She had taken a crude wooden wagon and driven to the home of a cook’s assistant to deliver a poultice. It seemed the woman’s husband had cut off the tip of his finger while cleaning game.

The footman stammered as he explained that neither he nor the men in the stable felt they had the authority to prevent her going.

“I don’t expect you to stop her when she decides to go off like this,” Devlin said, scarcely able to control the tumult boiling in his stomach at the thought of her driving a team and rickety wagon on roads that were often little more than footpaths. He didn’t finish his thought, uncertain about what he did expect them to do.

He heard chagrin in the man’s voice. He himself had dealt with Jessica and not fared any better than the footman. His anger mellowed as the man tried again to explain. “You were not about, Yer Grace, to ask yer leave to abandon our regular duties.”

“Yes, well, from this day on, you have my permission to escort young Jessica wherever and whenever she goes. I do not want her traipsing about the countryside alone. Heaven knows what harebrained scheme might take her wandering into trouble.” He hesitated. “You must, perhaps, express it as your personal concern for her welfare. It might be better not to tell her you accompany her on my orders.”

“Pardon, Yer Grace, but ye’re the duke.”

Devlin well remembered that his shoulders had slumped at the reminder. “Yes, I am … the duke.”

“Every man of us moves at your command.”

Devlin offered the footman a sheepish smile. “You know, I don’t believe I properly appreciated willing compliance before Miss Blair arrived.” Committing the man’s voice to memory, he changed the subject. “I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Dolan, Yer Grace. Michael Dolan.”

“How long have you been employed here, Dolan?”

“Goin’ on eleven years, Yer Grace.”

Devlin nodded. “Does Lady Jessica know your name, Dolan?”

“Aye, she does. She calls me Mike.”

“For how long?”

“Pardon?”

“When did she begin calling you by your Christian name?”

Still at that time sightless, the duke had heard a grin in the man’s tone. “The second day she was here, Yer Grace.” The lightness of his manner dropped to a groan as if the man had been brought up short by something he saw in the duke’s expression.

“Oh, it ain’t just me. She calls everyone on the place by their given name, from the boys mucking out the barns, to the scullery gels in the kitchen. She knows little things about ever’ one of us, just like she knew about Mr. Fagin’s finger yesterday, not an hour after it happened.” At the duke’s glowering silence, Dolan continued. “The one he cut off which was the reason she decided he had need of the poultice.”

“I see.” The duke made an effort to relax his pinched expression.

Dolan’s voice lifted as he seemed to develop sudden insight. “What ye’r asking, Yer Grace, is that we treat her gentle like without telling her ye’r the one ordered it done?”

“I believe that would be best, Dolan. Yes.”

“That may not always be easy to do, Yer Grace.”

On that day, Devlin had walked away muttering to himself. “An observation worthy of an Oxford man schooled in the humanities.”

Distracted by his own thoughts at the otherwise empty dining table, Devlin rose before he finished his second course and went upstairs to dress. Now that he had regained his sight, he could spend the evening, as he did before, at his club. He felt oddly indifferent at the prospect.

By her absence, was Jessica punishing him for forbidding her attendance at Benoits? He didn’t consider her a vindictive woman. Pondering that, he hoped in his soul that she was not.

Why had his mother taken her meal in her room as well? Certainly she was not vindictive. Sometimes, however, she tried to enlighten him by making a point with her behavior.

He consoled himself with the thought that the ladies would remain in residence this night, thus, though his method might seem harsh, he had succeeded in foiling the attempt to kidnap his Nightingale.

• • •

Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, received a warm welcome at Dracks that evening. Many of those greeting him with rare enthusiasm quickly managed to guide the topic of conversation to the matter of his ward.

Had he received many offers for her? Had he narrowed the field? When did he think he might announce her betrothal?

He found their eagerness disconcerting and took sanctuary at a table of whist until Marcus Hardwick, Lattie’s friend, strolled in shortly after ten.

“Avoiding the tables, Miracle?” Hardwick asked, his tone taunting.

“I find whist more relaxing.”

“I am glad your brother has a more adventurous nature, of which I am a regular beneficiary.”

Devlin smiled as the game concluded and his partner tallied the score. “Do you and Lattie gamble seriously?”

“Whimsically, Your Grace. On everything, from roaches racing the floor at Malloy’s Pub, to which latecomer will order brandy.”

“How does he fare?”

“Not well. He pays off regularly. Fry, on the other hand, prefers to accumulate Lattie’s vouchers. He holds nearly one thousand pounds of Lattie’s markers.”

Devlin’s light mood darkened. “Why has Fry not demanded payment?”

“He likes having Lattie obligated to him. Here, now, will you join me at the bar? I’ll buy you a drink and we can discuss my friend’s foibles in greater detail.”

Curious, Devlin agreed, but once at the bar, Hardwick promptly opened the conversation by rhapsodizing about … Jessica.

Doubly annoyed, Devlin gulped his brandy. “Good God, man, is every bachelor in London enthralled with one thin eighteen-year-old female?”

“To a man.” Hardwick appeared pleased at the question. “You would have seen the nauseating fact with your own eyes if you had been at Benoits tonight when she arrived wearing that … ”

“WHAT?” Devlin’s bellow drew startled looks from those at the bar and even a couple of curious fellows who glanced in from other rooms. Veins suddenly grew noticeable at his neck and temples. “You have seen her tonight? Out?”

Hardwick looked bewildered as he nodded, and retreated a step. “Yes.”

“At Benoits? You are saying you saw her there with your own eyes?”

Hardwick studied his friend’s brother curiously. “Yes, but she was well-chaperoned, old man. Your mother was at her side.”

“WHAT?”

The amiable man-about-town eased back another pace, but the move proved unnecessary as the duke trembled in what appeared a devilish contest to bring himself under control. Devlin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles popped, and his fists clenched until he pivoted and executed a determined march to the exit. The expression on his face made the barman shiver involuntarily. Rumors buzzed as gentlemen asked one another and Hardwick what had prompted the duke’s relapse into temper.

Hardwick replayed each word of their conversation. Men pulled writing materials from their pockets and began jotting wagers. Shortly thereafter, Dracks was virtually deserted as occupants, young and old, left for Benoits, whether they had been invited or not.

People in society had commented on how Devlin’s fabled temper had mellowed following his temporary blindness. Some speculated that God had struck him blind specifically to bridle that tempestuous side of him. Others suggested it was the lady Jessica’s quiet manner that had brought him to heel. There were other theories along the pendulum’s swing between those two extremes.

When Lattimore and his company entered Dracks moments after the place emptied, the barkeep stared at the duke’s younger brother, prompting the nobleman to interrupt a ribald story being told by one of his party.

“What’s going on?” Lattimore asked, glancing through doorways at the nearly empty rooms.

“The duke just raged out of here.”

“Devlin?” Lattie’s expression sharpened. “What set him off?”

The barkeep stopped wiping a tankard. “The way I understand it, he and the baron, Marcus Hardwick, were discussing the girl.”

Lattie nodded. “Jessica,” he said, prodding. “What about her?”

“Nothing at all. Hardwick said something about how well she looked when she arrived tonight at Benoits … ”

Lattimore Miracle’s eyes rounded and he laughed knowingly as he turned and bolted toward the exit scrambling his entourage.

“You’ve gone and done it again,” a straggler said, speaking to the barkeep. As they stared at one another, their faces twisted in puzzlement. Raising his voice the straggler called loudly at Lattimore’s back. “Lattie, my boy, where are you going?”

Without missing a step or muffling his rousing good humor, Lattie shouted back, “To prevent a throttling.”

The remaining members clustered and their voices rose as they speculated on his meaning.

Mystified, definitely intrigued, more club members moved to the exit, calling to footmen and runners at the door, summoning carriages. Something was about to erupt at Benoits and they wanted to be there to give an accurate account when asked to bear witness later.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jessica enjoyed being the most sought-after young lady in attendance. She was hard-pressed to understand why she felt haunted by a sense of doom.

Her foreboding worsened when Peter Fry stepped up to claim his dance. She went reluctantly to his arms, wondering at his reason for asking Lady Anne for a place on Jessica’s card.

“Why did you insist we dance, Mr. Fry?”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. I know about your connection with John Lout and with Martha, the housemaid at Gull’s Way who was,” she lowered her voice, “murdered by the nobleman whose babe she carried.”

“You believe I am that man?”

“Possibly. Yes.”

“I am not. You are wrong. Have you voiced those wild assertions to anyone else? If so, I shall charge you with slandering my good name.”

“If your name were good before, it might come away from such a hearing tainted indeed.”

His fingers bit into her waist and she winced, unable to break free of his hold.

“She was a simple country girl,” he said, “not a woman who mattered.”

“She mattered to me.”

“You, my dear, share her lack of consequence, yet you will soon be wed and beyond my concern.”

“I may wed someday, but I shall remain aware of your activities, Mr. Fry.”

“Then perhaps I should get rid of you the old-fashioned way.”

“Murder me as you did poor, dear Martha? I think not.” Her words reflected an assurance she did not feel.

“I have friends, Miss Blair, who would gladly assist should your death become necessary.”

“Lattimore might add his own accusations rather than aid in your defense, Mr. Fry.”

Fry gave a wicked laugh. “Lattie is in no position to oppose me. I hold his vouchers. One reminder brings him to my side. I can ruin Lattimore Miracle by demanding payment in full of what he owes me, and he is finished.”

“Is that why you want Lattimore to have the title? Because you hold his markers and think them enough to control him?”

“You obviously lack proper appreciation for the power of money or the peerage, Miss Blair. You have fooled many who suppose you wiser than you are. In truth, you are more of a nuisance than an obstruction. I have a plan to see you gone.”

“Devlin might not deal kindly if you murder me.”

“Nothing so dramatic. My plan is underway. When you realize what has transpired, remember to credit me.”

“What are you talking about?”

The music ended and Fry turned her toward the terrace displaying tender attention, as if they spoke of pleasant things rather than murder. “It’s stuffy in here. Let’s take some air.”

She yanked hard to pull free of Fry’s grasp, determined not to go anywhere with the man, and spun about directly into the arms of Donald Preston, the younger son of one of Lady Anne’s close friends. A large, muscular fellow, Mr. Preston decisively pulled her into his possession.

“I believe I have the next set.” Preston spoke quietly, but his eyes conveyed another message to Peter Fry, quelling the fellow’s plans. Fry shrugged, threw a meaningful glare at Jessica, and stepped aside. She went weak with relief.

In the ladies’ retiring room later, Jessica stared at her reflection in the mirror and wondered about her premonition. Something seemed to be charging the air. Possibly it had to do with Peter Fry. If some plan of his truly were in motion, she needed to be vigilant.