Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) (28 page)

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Authors: Mia Marlowe

BOOK: Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)
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A single tear trembled on her lashes and then coursed down her cheek. “Monty, I doubt very much that will happen, and now I must tell you why.”
Not because she feared Monty’s illness would flare up again and carry him away too soon, but because by this time tomorrow, the only man whose children she wanted to bear might well be dead.
By Theodore’s hand.
And if Griffin survived and Teddy fell, she knew he’d be burdened with such crushing guilt, there’d be no room in his heart for anything else. He might deny it, but he’d never forgive her.
She’d never forgive herself.
C
HAPTER
31
T
heodore’s mount picked its way over the uneven ground in the pearl gray of pre-dawn. Since the horse seemed to know its business as they made their way through the woods, Ted was free to let his dark thoughts wander.
Behind him on a milk-mild gelding, Dr. Farnsworth clung to the pommel of the saddle, making unhappy little grunts each time his horse broke into a short trot to keep up with Ted’s. The professor may have been an indifferent horseman, but he’d agreed to be Theodore’s second. Since it would’ve taken too long to send for one of his friends from London, Ted couldn’t afford to be choosy.
After all, the professor wasn’t the one who’d betrayed him. That was Emmaline.
And his brother.
The first flash of rage had burned down to a low simmer, but the acidic brew of having been duped still roiled in his gut.
Gullible Teddy. So easy to fool.
How Devon and Emmaline must have laughed at him under the sheets together.
He ought to have seen it coming. Hadn’t he caught them in the garden alone that very first day? Like a randy hound, Devon had been sniffing around his intended from the beginning.
Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. At least, Emmaline had never said she loved him. Perhaps she never intended to lead him on. Perhaps her reluctance to accept his offer of marriage even once they arrived in England wasn’t because she was unsure of her feelings for him. Maybe it was because she’d fallen in love with his brother that first morning at Devonwood House.
The letter she’d slipped under his door last night had been so heartfelt, so desperate sounding, he couldn’t fail to be a little moved by her misery. There was a smudge that might have been made by a teardrop near her signature.
The fact that she wept for his pain made Ted a little more disposed to forgive her for being weak. Though he wouldn’t have believed his staunch Emmaline would succumb, it was in a woman’s nature to be easily led.
But Devon knew better.
His iron-willed brother had gone into this betrayal with his eyes wide open. Emmaline begged forgiveness for Devon, not herself, but Ted wasn’t in a forgiving mood.
“You know, my boy, I’m not educated on all the nuances of dueling,” Dr. Farnsworth said from behind him, “but I gather there’s still time to call this off.”
“Not without being accused of showing the yellow stripe.”
“Suppose your brother apologizes?”
“He won’t.”
Devon never apologized for anything. He did as he bloody well pleased and the rest of the world could go hang.
“I hear he’s a crack shot,” the professor muttered.
“Would you rather be
his
second?” Ted said testily and the old man grumbled his denial.
Alongside Theodore’s smoldering rage, an ember of fear sprang to life. Devon
was
wickedly lethal with any sort of firearm. His brother rarely hunted because he claimed there was no sport in it for him.
Dueling pistols had smooth bore barrels in order to hamper the shooter’s accuracy and thus leave place for God to determine the outcome in a contest of honor. Even so, a few years ago, Ted had watched Devon pick off a squirrel on the far edge of the clearing with one.
If his brother wanted to kill him this fine morning, he’d be dead before breakfast.
 
“Cheer up, Devon.” Northrop had arrived in time for supper last night. After finding no one but Lady Devonwood, Louisa, and her friend Lady Cressida at table, he’d helped himself to the well-spread board and unfettered feminine companionship, then after a suitable interval, went in search of Griffin. The pair of them had emptied several bottles of more than passable port while Griffin let the whole sordid tale spill out. Till well after midnight, they reviewed all possible scenarios for the impending disaster, but ultimately decided there was nothing for it but to see the game played out. “Theodore may not show.”
“Yes, he will,” Devon said with certainty. He was beginning to think of himself solely as his title again. The time of being simply Griffin was gone.
“How can you know that?”
“Because if I were in his place, nothing could keep me away,” Devon said.
“He has to know you can outshoot him.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t matter.” Devon wished he’d held onto Emmaline’s button a little longer so the vision it had tried to
Send
had scrolled out to its conclusion. Maybe then he’d know whether what he intended to do was the right thing. He’d done so little of the right thing lately, it was hard to be sure.
But he’d cut off another vision after that as well and it continued to plague him though he didn’t understand why it should. When he’d handed Emma her dressing gown, he’d
Seen
her in the eerily sharp lines of a
Sending,
seated at a table, sipping from an ornate china cup. It wasn’t the most earth-shaking of visions, but the image niggled at his brain with dogged persistence.
“Where the devil is Kingsley?” Northrop said.
Their friend knew about the duel. Every man in Devonwood Park knew about it, even among the ranks of servants. By tacit agreement, no one had told the women of the household and Emmaline had kept to her rooms, so she wasn’t about to upset Lady Devonwood by carrying the tale.
Devon had considered asking Kingsley to be his second, but according to Baxter, he hadn’t appeared for dinner last night either. Before Northrop showed up, Devon had resigned himself to drafting his butler into service as his second. Now that worthy domestic was serving as the impartial referee, taking exquisite care to load the pearl-handled pistols so each would be exactly the same. Baxter had also arranged for Dr. Walsh, the physician from Shiring-on-the-Green, to be present in case of injury which required his care.
The fact that Dr. Walsh also served as the hamlet’s undertaker did not escape Devon’s notice.
“Kingsley’s probably still abed,” Northrop said. “He’s turning into quite the odd duck these days.”
“Odder than someone about to duel with his brother?”
Northrop shrugged. “I didn’t ask last night because you were too upset, but how in hell did you let this happen?”
“It’s quite simple. I fell in love with the lady. It blinded me to other things.” Devon removed his jacket and handed it to Northrop. He’d never allowed his heart to rule his head like that before. “I won’t let it happen again.”
“You should,” Northrop said. “I rather think that’s how love is supposed to be.”
“No, it’s not.” Love wasn’t supposed to upend a family and destroy lives. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Aren’t you the one who always says the future’s fixed? If that’s the case, there is no room for ‘shouldn’t have.’ ”
Devon nodded in gruff acknowledgment of his friend’s logic, but something in him still cried out that he ought to be able to change what was coming. Everything in his experience argued for a predetermined fate. Everything in his gut demanded that a man’s choice should rule the day.
“What’s done is done,” Northrop said. “Let it alone.”
Ted and Dr. Farnsworth broke through the woods and entered the clearing. Northrop clapped a hand on Devon’s shoulder.
“Besides, you have enough
now
to worry about without bothering about what’s past.” His friend jerked his head toward the approaching horsemen. “And maybe this is a good time to give you something to fret about for the future.”
Devon raised a quizzical brow.
“I’d like permission to court your sister.”
“Louisa?”
“You don’t have another female sibling hidden in the attic, do you?” Northrop drawled. “Of course, Louisa.”
“You’re asking my permission?” Devon narrowed his eyes at his friend. “That’s a strangely honorable request coming from you.”
“It is, isn’t it? Ordinarily, I’d seduce the girl and be done with it. I confess to surprising even myself with my unusually honorable intentions,” Northrop said with a charming smile as Theodore and his second dismounted and headed toward them. “Of course, since this is an aberration in my character and behavior, one must hope the honorable bent continues, but I cannot guarantee it.”
“If you do anything to shame my sister—”
“I make no promises. I simply advise you to make sure you’re here to keep me on the side of the angels.” Northrop’s smile faded. “Live out the day, Devon. Do what you must, but live out the day.”
 
Emmaline stood by the tall window in her chamber and peered in the direction of the mill. The lowering sky brightened by the smallest of degrees as the sun tried unsuccessfully to break through thick clouds. It was a dawn without sun.
Almost time.
She hadn’t slept. She’d found herself talking to God most of the night, asking a deity she’d largely ignored for most of her life for the biggest favor she could imagine—for both brothers to be spared after this dance with insanity. She wept. She prayed. Now she was an empty husk, filled only with the hollowness of waiting.
No one stirred on the third floor. Not even the maids had come to scrub the hearths yet, but Emmaline had dressed herself in a serviceable traveling suit without assistance. If someone came over the hill with news of the duel’s outcome, she intended to make a beeline to the castle portcullis to greet them.
Though perhaps the only thing worse than not knowing would be . . . knowing.
When the door opened behind her, she didn’t turn at first, thinking it was the maid. Then she realized it would’ve been odd for her not to knock.
She glanced over her shoulder, unwilling to leave the window for a moment. “Lord Kingsley, what are you doing here?”
“It’s not in the safe. It’s not in your father’s chamber.” His face was taut with frustration. “Where is it?”
“What? You shouldn’t be here. I insist that you leave immediately.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket and Emma found herself staring down the snub-nosed barrel of a derringer. “I have no time for your games, girl. Where is the statue?”
She’d brazened her way out of confrontations with angry marks before but none of them had held a loaded gun. “I believe my father explained that he wouldn’t sell it to you before he uses it to discover Tetisheri’s tomb and recovers the rest of her funerary treasure.”
“I’ll show you funerary if you say another word. As if I’d be taken in by the likes of your father. Now bring me that statue and be quick about it,” he said, leveling the barrel at her midsection. “I’m told a gut shot is a particularly nasty way to go.”
C
HAPTER
32
D
evon walked to the center of the clearing with the eerie sense of having lived through this moment. Low-lying mist swirled around his knees and the edges of his vision blurred. He met his brother in the middle of the miasma with their seconds, Farnsworth and Northrop, a step behind. Baxter stood between them, sweat trickling from his temple to his cheek despite the chill in the morning air, and holding open the case that housed their father’s pistols.
Theodore’s face was pale, bloodless as a vampyre, but his jaw jutted in determination.
“My lords,” Baxter said, his glum expression making him resemble a repentant hound who’d soiled the rug, “is there any hope this matter might be resolved without gunplay?”
“No,” Theodore answered before Devon could speak.
He allowed his brother to choose a firearm first. Then Devon hefted the pearl-handled piece that remained and turned his back to Ted.
While Baxter intoned the rules for the engagement, Devon was remembering the time when Teddy had taken a tumble from the big oak at the far end of this very clearing and broken his arm. Devon was supposed to have been watching out for his little brother that day. He’d felt so wretched about the accident, their father hadn’t even punished him over it.
“One.” Baxter’s voice echoed back from the woods as if he had a doppelganger hidden in there mimicking him.
Devon took a mechanical step forward. The scent of honeysuckle drifted by, filling his nostrils with such sweetness, the back of his throat ached.
“Two.”
Another step. A breeze stirred, setting all the hairs on his forearms at full attention. Dew-wet grass tugged at the soles of his shoes and damp, fecund earth squelched beneath them.
He took another step, and then another, reveling in the way muscle, bone, and nerve moved in concert to propel him across the clearing. Strange to think this body, so crackling with life now, might be reduced to cooling meat in a matter of moments.
He was suddenly glad he hadn’t
Seen
the whole vision about the duel, after all. It was freeing not to be burdened with the future. He could cling to the hope that things might yet turn out all right for another few heartbeats.
Baxter called out another number and Devon stepped. He was losing count. He forced himself to attend to his butler’s voice, but the shimmering beauty of the woods, all bearded with mist, made his chest ache.
Thank God,
he thought,
that the sun is not shining.
A dreary gray day in England was glory enough for any man. He couldn’t have borne the thought of leaving it if the morning had been spangled with light.
 
Theodore marched with grim purpose, setting his heart like flint to what he was about to do.
Damn Devon for bringing us to this.
He tamped down the flicker of fear. It wouldn’t help his aim and he needed his hand to be steady. Devon could probably outshoot him, but blast it all, he had right on his side, didn’t he?
“Twenty!” Baxter’s voice was rimmed with a hysterical edge.
Ted pivoted and froze. He knew his brother was devilishly fast with a firearm, but he was unprepared for just how fast that was. Devon’s arm was already outstretched, the barrel of his pistol leveled at Ted’s chest.
He hadn’t even had time to raise his gun.
“Don’t move,” Devon said. “And I will not shoot.”
Ted’s face burned. Even now, his brother shamed him, holding him motionless, impotent.
“Before these witnesses, I acknowledge that I have done my brother Theodore a grave hurt,” Devon said in a firm, clear voice. “I do not regret loving Emmaline Farnsworth. Love is rare enough that when it comes, we ought not shove it away because it does not come neatly or conventionally or conveniently. But in loving Emma, I have injured one whose life and happiness are dear to me. My brother Theodore. For that offense, I do humbly ask his pardon.”
Theodore swallowed back his surprise that Devon had stooped to apologize publicly for his private wrong, but he wasn’t ready to forgive. “You demand forgiveness while you hold me at gunpoint?”
“You’re right,” Devon said. “A penitent ought not to demand.”
Devon pointed his pistol skyward and pulled the trigger. The shot rent the morning quiet and reverberated against the distant hill. Then he spread his arms out, baring his chest to Ted, presenting the largest possible target.
“I am at my brother’s mercy.”
Murmurs of “well done” and “good form” came from the men gathered on the side to witness the duel. Even though Devon was clearly in the wrong, he’d found a way to come out on top. Again.
It was so grossly unfair.
All his life, Ted had felt the sting of being the spare heir, the second best. When he’d proposed to Emmaline, he felt at least he’d come out ahead on the race to the altar, though Devon always made it clear he wasn’t interested in that contest.
But he was interested enough to find his way into Emma’s bed.
“I’ll forgive you, Dev,” Theodore said coldly, “if you survive my shot.”
After all, that was the point of dueling, wasn’t it? To stand before another man and not flinch. He owed it to his brother not to cheat him of his full moment of bravado. He raised his arm and squeezed the trigger, not taking the trouble to aim.
If God wants to kill my brother, let Him do it.
The pistol left behind an acrid puff of smoke. When it cleared, his brother was still standing.
But a hideous patch of red blossomed and spread on the white lawn of Devon’s shirt.
 
“You have the statue,” Emmaline said as she and Lord Kingsley waited for the London ferry to arrive at the Shiring-on-the-Green quay. “I don’t understand why you need me.”
After she’d retrieved Tetisheri from its hiding place in the drawer containing her undergarments, Kingsley had ordered her to stuff it into a hatbox. Then he’d forced her to accompany him to the stable and into a gig and made her take the reins. They stopped briefly at the inn in Shiring-on-the-Green to collect a great hulking brute who went by the name of O’Malley. The big Irishman had driven them the rest of the way to the port on the Thames, while Kingsley kept the derringer in his pocket turned toward her at all times.
“I choose to keep you with me because you’re the only one who knows I have the statue and frankly, I don’t need anyone interfering at the moment,” Kingsley said, his voice the low rasp of a serpent gliding through dead leaves. “Later, of course, it won’t matter so much, but you needn’t concern yourself with that.”
That sounded ominous. “I’ll be missed.”
“No one saw us leave the stable. The men are occupied with their silly duel and once the ladies deign to rise, they’ll be anticipating the arrival of the rest of the guests this morning.” He narrowed his gaze upriver where the ferry was just coming round a bend. “No one will find it odd that you’ve kept to your chamber again today. Especially once word of the scandal breaks and trust me, it will.” Kingsley turned to O’Malley. “Take the gig back to Devonwood Park and try to ease it in along with the other equipages that will be arriving today so it’s not remarked upon.”
“Right ye are, guv.”
“Watch Devonwood Park till evening to make sure we are not followed.”
“And if ye are?”
Kingsley shot him a withering glance.
“Oh, oh, I see,” O’Malley said. “Make sure they don’t get far, right?”
He lumbered away from them, whistling a tuneful Irish ditty.
“Mr. O’Malley enjoys his job far too much,” Emma said dryly.
“Indeed. Pity he’s witless as a bag of hammers,” Kingsley said, “but O’Malley has his uses.”
“Lord Devonwood will come after me and he won’t let Mr. O’Malley deter him,” Emmaline said with more conviction than she felt. The Irishman was a monstrously big chap.
“If he’s still alive. And if he is, I doubt he’ll thank you for making him shoot his brother.”
They’d heard the pair of gunshots as they bounced down the disreputable country road to Shiring-on-the-Green. The hollow dread of not knowing returned to Emma’s chest.
“If Devon doesn’t emerge the victor,” Kingsley went on, “I doubt the hapless Ted will be anxious to see you, one way or the other.”
“My father—”
“Your father is a charlatan of the first water and we both know it.” Kingsley looked down his long nose at her. In repose, his aristocratic face might have been austerely presentable, but now he resembled a thin-faced weasel. “Once Farnsworth realizes he’s lost the statue, he’ll slink away looking for a new set of willing sheep to shear, devil take the hindermost.”
“If you’re so convinced my father and I are frauds, why not let me join him? We’ll not trouble you. One scoundrel cannot very well complain to the authorities about another.”
“Clever girl, but I think not. I need you yet.”
The ferry wallowed up to the quay. They stood aside to allow the passengers to disembark. Kingsley pulled the brim of his hat forward to obscure his face, obviously concerned about being seen by anyone who knew him.
Emma scanned the passengers, hoping she might recognize someone she’d met at Lord Whitmore’s ball. Lady Bentley waddled down the gangplank surrounded by a bevy of friends. She looked right at Emmaline once through the milling crowd, but showed no sign of acknowledging her or Lord Kingsley.
“Why do you need me?” she asked.
“You may as well know.” Kingsley bared his teeth in a feral smile. “You see, that substance you and Devon discovered inside the statue has . . . unique properties when taken in a tea of sorts. But since I’m not sure how it all works, I’d rather not be the first person to test it. I’ll explain its benefits once we determine whether the potion lives up to my expectations. Or rather, if you live through drinking it, my dear.”
Emma’s insides shivered. He intended to use her, to experiment on her like a pitiless vivisectionist. She started to dart away from him through the crowd, but he snaked out a hand and snatched her back.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Do not make a scene,” he whispered through clenched teeth, his lips barely moving. “Have you forgotten I have a gun trained on you?”
“Whether you shoot me now or use me as a laboratory specimen later makes very little difference.”
“Keep your voice down.” He yanked her close and hissed into her ear. “Do you see that mother with the pram boarding the ferry now?”
Her gaze followed the young mother and baby accompanied by an older woman who must have been the child’s grandmother as they moved up the gangplank.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll put a lead ball in
her
. Do you understand me?”
Emma drew a shaky breath and then nodded.
“Good.” He offered her his arm, his hooded eyes demanding she take it.
She would have sooner touched a toad, but he seemed so dangerously unhinged, she deemed it wiser not to antagonize him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Don’t forget your hatbox, my dear,” he said, loud enough for passersby to hear. “Wouldn’t want to mislay your treasures.”
 
The lead ball striking Devon’s flesh caused surprisingly little pain. At first. Then the burn started in his left bicep where the sticky red stain spread. Blood trickled down his arm to his fingertips and fell in great droplets on the green grass.
“Devon, Dev,” Teddy shouted and barreled across the clearing toward him. “I didn’t mean it. Truly, I didn’t. I didn’t even take aim. How bad is it?”
Dr. Walsh and the rest of the men plowed toward him, but it seemed as if they were running through pudding, their progress strangely sluggish. The sun broke through behind Devon and each blade of grass was edged with its own sharp shadow.
The doctor tore Devon’s shirt off to expose the wound. Everyone was talking at once, tugging at him, asking him if he was all right.
“No, I’m not all right,” he said testily. “My little brother just shot me.”
“You all but dared me to,” Ted countered. “It’s not serious, is it, doctor?”
“Any time lead insults flesh it’s serious,” Dr. Walsh said, clucking his tongue against his cheek. “But the ball appears to have gone clean through. We need to staunch the bleeding.”
Devon cocked his head and peered down at his arm. It seemed to belong to someone else. He bunched and flexed his fingers. He could control them, but the numbness remained except for the bolt of fire that burned along the path of the pistol ball.
“I’m sorry, Devon,” he heard Teddy say, his words cutting through the stillness and thudding into Devon’s heart.
“That makes two of us. Next time, take aim. I’ll be safer.” He punched his little brother with his good arm while the doctor bound up the other one. Ted punched him back, and they laughed together as if they were much younger and this had been only a schoolyard scuffle. Then Devon’s laughter died. “I won’t give her up, you know.”

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