CHAPTER 8
Irritation sent Dev several blocks away from the opera house before he even thought of where he was going. He certainly did not want to return to his house. Stuart and one of his friends were back at the opera with Leona—Good God, there would be hell to pay for walking out on her like that—and even if they had been free, he didn’t feel like seeing them. Nor did the thought of any of his usual haunts—taverns, gambling dens, bordellos—appeal to him. He simply was not in the mood for entertainment. He wanted…he wasn’t sure what. To be free from the demons that haunted him, he supposed. The specter of poverty and ruin, the threat of a loveless marriage to a woman who held him in contempt, the prospect of treading this useless path of his life forever…
Perhaps it was the gloom of his thoughts that turned his feet in the direction of his brother-in-law’s palatial home. He soon reached the gate of the mansion, which, in its parklike grounds with a high stone wall all around, took up a large chunk of the fashionable area of London.
Once, hundreds of years ago, this wall and gate had been guarded by the Duke of Cleybourne’s soldiers. Now it was merely a footman who stepped out of the small sentry box inside the gate and peered through the iron bars at him. “Oh! My lord. Been a while since we’ve seen you here. Just a tick, sir.”
The man bustled out with a ring of keys and opened the lock, pushing the wide gate back far enough that Devin could step through. “His Grace will be that happy to see you, my lord,” the servant said chattily. Richard’s servants were notoriously fond of their employer and loyal to him. Devin’s mother deplored their familiarity, but Devin found it rather pleasant. It was a trifle odd that Richard, whose title was one of the oldest and highest in the land, was the least high in the instep of any peer Devin knew.
The footman who answered the front door to Devin’s knock also knew him and greeted him with even more delight, escorting him immediately to Richard’s study. Devin found Richard seated beside the fire, gazing into the flames. There was no other light in the room, and the firelight lit Richard’s face oddly, casting deep shadows across his cheeks, giving him an even more saturnine appearance than usual.
At the sound of Devin’s footsteps, he turned, saying gruffly, “What the devil do—” He stopped when he saw Devin, and a smile creased his face. “Dev! Come in, come in.” He stood up, motioning to the footman. “Light some of the lamps, Harper.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Harper replied happily, going around to light the wall sconces, as well as the oil lamp on the small table beside the Duke’s chair.
Devin now understood the reason for the servant’s delight in seeing him; obviously Richard had been sunk in one of his glooms this evening, and the footman hoped that Devin’s visit would bring him out of it. Richard had once been a man who enjoyed life—of a more serious nature than Devin, of course, but still a man who enjoyed a party or a night spent touring the taverns with his friends. However, ever since the death of his wife four years ago, he had become something of a recluse. He shunned his country estate, where the fatal accident had occurred, and lived in the London ducal mansion, but despite being in a thriving city, he rarely went anywhere or saw anyone, except for the times when some friend or in-law ventured in to see him. Sometimes he even refused to receive visitors, which worried his loving servants terribly.
Dev remembered a little guiltily that he had not been to call on Richard in several weeks. He recalled now that Rachel had said, frowning, that Richard seemed to be getting worse, not better, as the months and years passed. Richard, like most men of Devin’s acquaintance, was not the sort to talk about his grief. Consequently, he and Devin rarely broached the subject of Caroline’s death, though they had been the two men who loved her most on earth.
Devin glanced involuntarily now at her portrait. It was one he had painted himself a few weeks before Caroline’s marriage to Richard. She had asked him to do it, wanting it as a present for her future husband. It had hung over the fireplace in the great room of their estate house, but Richard had brought it here, where it dominated one wall of the study. In the painting, Caroline was smiling in that dreamy, almost sleepy way she had, a young woman on the verge of her adult life and expecting to enjoy it to the fullest. She was dressed in the elegant satin gown she would wear at the wedding, and she wore the famous parure of Cleybourne emeralds: a circle of emeralds and diamonds that clung to her throat, dangling a pendant of a single huge emerald; earrings of perfectly matching emeralds centered in tiny diamonds; a bracelet of linked emeralds; and even a dainty diamond tiara decorated with five exquisite emeralds. It seemed to be an extravagance of jewels that would have overwhelmed the young girl wearing it, but Caroline was tall, like most of the Aincourts, and possessed of a vivid beauty. Nestled in her raven hair and caressing her pure white skin, complementing the brilliant blue of her eyes, the jewels looked magnificent and correct.
Devin had captured her happiness and even that hint of smugness in her smile and eyes that indicated that she knew she was making a splendid marriage to a man who loved her above all else. Her skin gleamed in the pale light that poured over her through the window beside her, and her eyes were so alive one almost expected to hear the girlish giggle that was her trademark.
“It is the most beautiful portrait I have of her,” Richard said, following Devin’s gaze. “That’s why I have it here, where I can see it the most.” He looked on past the portrait to the smaller one of a young girl beside it. “I only wish I had had you draw one of Alana. The artist couldn’t do her justice—she was always moving about, you know.”
Devin looked, too, at the portrait of his niece. She was about four; it must have been done not long before the accident. Richard was right. The artist had gotten her features correct, but the sparkle that animated the child was not there, nor was the smile that lit up any room she entered. Devin would have painted her outside, washed in sunshine, laughing and playing with one of the cats or dogs. But then, by that time, he had given up painting.
“Have you ever thought of taking it up again?” Richard asked.
“Painting?” Devin looked at him in surprise. “No. I’m past that. It was nothing but a hobby. Something I liked when I was young.”
“Really? Care for some port?” Richard turned toward the hallway and raised his voice slightly. “Harper! I presume you’re still lurking out there in the hall. Bring us a bottle of port and two glasses.”
Richard turned back to Devin and gestured toward the two chairs in front of the fireplace. “I would have thought you would sometimes want to draw a particularly interesting face, or that you would see some scene that struck you so you had to paint it.”
Devin shrugged, his thoughts going, strangely, to Miranda Upshaw’s face—too strong a jaw and wide a mouth for beauty, but with those arresting gray eyes and such a determined set to her chin that one could not help but notice her. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to get those eyes right.
“I’m afraid I lost the interest,” Devin said dismissively. “No doubt the skill, too, by this time. As Father used to say, scarcely the occupation for a gentleman.”
“Ah, I see. In the way drinking and gambling are.”
Devin glanced at him sharply. Richard was watching him, a faint smile on his lips, and Devin had to chuckle.
“You know me well. And, no, I don’t think my father ever regarded those as fit occupations for a gentleman, either. His idea of a proper life was prayer, morning, noon and night, with a little chastising of sinners and three good meals in between. He was, if you remember, a man who liked his food, which is why he rarely addressed his Maker on his knees. It took two servants to haul him up afterward if he did.”
“Yes. I remember the old tyrant. He once told me I was too worldly to marry his daughter, but fortunately my father’s illness meant that I would come into the title soon, and that apparently made up for my sins.”
“I am sure it did. And your well-stocked coffers even more so.”
At that moment Harper came back into the room, carrying the tray of port and glasses. He set the tray down on the small table beside the Duke and started out of the room.
“Oh, and, Harper…close the door behind you, and then you can go to bed. There’s no need to stand watch out in the hall. I assure you that I do not plan to put a period to my existence, at least not while Ravenscar is here.”
“I am relieved to hear that, Your Grace,” Harper replied with little indication of chagrin, and bowed out of the room, closing the door.
Devin looked at Cleybourne, his eyebrows raised. “Are they expecting you to end your life soon?”
Richard grimaced and reached over to pour the port. “They have too much time on their hands, and they use it to come up with absurd fears. Unfortunately, now they have planted that seed in your sister’s head. Rachel has paid a call on me three times in the past two weeks, usually with no purpose. I suspect that Bal-dock—my butler—decided to confide his fears in her.”
Devin was silent for a moment, taking a sip of his drink. Finally he said, his voice carefully indifferent, “And are you planning your imminent demise? Attending a funeral would put rather a crimp in my plans, I must warn you.”
Richard smiled faintly. “No. I shan’t put you out like that.”
“Good.”
They finished off their glasses, and Richard refilled them. He raised his glass toward Devin. “I forgot—congratulations, Dev. We should drink a toast to your impending marriage.”
“My im—” Devin stared at him, glass halfway to his mouth. “How the devil did you hear about that? Oh—Rachel, of course.”
“Of course. She was here Monday and told me all about the estimable Miss Upshaw.”
“Well, there is to be no marriage, so you may save your toast.”
“Indeed? Rachel sounded very hopeful.”
“She is. So is my mother. But I fear both of them are doomed to disappointment.”
“Why? It sounded a good thing for you. I mean, she is an American, no name and all that, but…”
“I know. In my position, one cannot afford to be too choosy. Money overcometh all.”
“Actually, I was going to say that Miss Upshaw sounded as though she would make you an excellent wife.”
“Hmm. If I cared to be shackled to a shrew.”
“My. That scarcely resembles Rachel’s description of the woman.”
“Rachel doesn’t face marrying the wench. Miss Upshaw is hard, manipulative and entirely without feeling.”
“Indeed?” Richard took a sip of his drink, watching Devin with interest over the glass. “It sounds as though she has made a rather bad impression on you.”
“She accused me of selling myself to the highest bidder. Well, not accused, exactly, because she seemed to have no problem with my doing it. As if it were a matter of course for a British peer to go on the block. ‘Several Americans are purchasing nobles for their daughters to marry. My fellow countrymen seem to be peculiarly fond of titles,’” he mimicked savagely. “That’s when I told her that this British peer was not for sale.” He sighed, looking down darkly into his glass. “Of course, it is all the more infuriating because I am for sale. One title, man attached, for the price of enough money to live as I am accustomed to.”
“And save Darkwater,” Richard pointed out. “That is scarcely a small matter. Your estate is in desperate shape, from what I’ve heard, and not just the house itself. There are a number of people who depend upon you and your family. I am afraid that Americans find it hard to understand the concept of duty to one’s family and to the people who have depended on the family for years. There is a feudal quality to it that escapes them.”
“I’m not a saint, Richard. You know that.” Devin downed the remainder of his drink and got up to pour another one. “If I married her, it would be because I can’t fancy myself in debtor’s prison.”
“I can’t say that I would, either. You know, Dev, if you need some funds…”
“I know. You’re a generous man. But I have reached point non plus. A temporarily plump purse will not suffice.” He sighed. “Uncle Rupert assures me that the estate is tapped out. It isn’t making money anymore, it’s losing it. And it would need massive infusions of cash to make it profitable for future generations. The house is falling down about their ears, and the grounds are choked with weeds and brambles.”
“Ah. Thus speaks the man who is concerned only with the state of his own pocket.”
Devin grimaced. “I don’t give a damn about Darkwater. But Mother will plague me to death about it.”
“Then why not marry the girl? You will have your money, and Lady Ravenscar will cease to plague you. There is no one else you’ve a mind to wed, is there?”
“No. And you needn’t tell me that no one of good family will marry me, anyway. Everyone delights in pointing that out to me.”
“Rachel tells me the American girl is attractive and charming.”
“Attractive, she is. Charming? I wouldn’t say that. She is blunt, aggravating and completely impossible.”
Richard’s eyebrows lifted, and he hastily took a sip to cover the smile that came to his lips. “Indeed? Well, obviously she would make your life miserable.”
Devin shrugged. “I can pack her away to Darkwater. That is what they all tell me.”
“All who?”
“Leona, Stuart, even Uncle Rupert. But…”
“But what? It goes against your conscience to take the woman’s money, then immure her in Darkwater alone?”
“A little,” Devin admitted. “And I would have to, because I know I could not live with the witch.”
“Why is that? What does she do?”
Devin shifted uncomfortably, then burst out, “Dammit, I don’t know, Richard! She just makes me feel…she looks at me with contempt. She says things that no one in polite company would say. She is utterly cold.”
“Well, you would not have to occupy her bed frequently,” Richard stated.
Devin scowled, his loins tightening involuntarily at his brother-in-law’s words. “She’s not cold in that way. In fact, she’s quite—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “She confuses me. She plagues me. I keep thinking about her. Tonight I saw her at the opera, and she looked at me in such a way—as though she found me amusing. She has eyes that can look right into you. And she’s utterly maddening. I am sure we would fight constantly. We have fought every time I’ve been around her. She turned me down, you know. I proposed to her, and she just looked at me and said in that flat way, ‘No.’ Then the next time she told me that she saw the advantages of marrying someone with my name—there was Darkwater to restore and the title, though she doesn’t care that much about it, and then, of course, the most important thing, she could bring out her sister into London society. Of course, she also told me, I couldn’t hope for anything better than a nameless American, being such a profligate and drunkard and womanizer.”
Richard choked on his drink and began to cough. “Did she actually say that?”
“Of course. I told you, she says anything that comes into her head. She would send my mother into a swoon, no doubt.” He grinned. “Although it might be worth it just to see that.”
“Hmm. You might want to latch on to this girl. Think of the dustup she could cause at Almack’s.”
Devin chuckled, and they were silent for a moment, drinking, absorbed in their own thoughts.
“You know, Dev,” Cleybourne said finally, “marriage might not be such a terrible thing, even to Miss Upshaw.”
“Are you hoping it will make a decent man of me? That is what Rachel thinks—though she tries to express it more tactfully, of course.”
“No,” Richard replied quietly. “I think you are a decent man, no matter how much you try to convince people otherwise. But you might find that life would be more…interesting with a wife like Miss Upshaw.”
“Then you think I should marry her, too?”
“I think you should do what is best for you.” Richard shrugged. “Of course, in this situation, I don’t see that you really have any choice in the matter. She turned you down, after all.”
Devin shot him a sideways glance. “I could change that any time I wanted.”
Richard let out a short burst of laughter. “Damme, you probably could.”
“Enough of such somber things,” Devin said, downing the remainder of his glass. “Drink up, and I shall challenge you to a game of Ecarte.”
“Ah, you will soon be out of debt, then, as you will doubtless beggar me. Let us remove ourselves to the game room.” Cleybourne stood, wrapping his hand around the bottle, and they left the room to settle down to a long night of drinking and card playing.
* * *
To her surprise, Miranda found that her stepsister was curled up in a chair in Miranda’s room, sound asleep, when Miranda returned from the opera that night.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked playfully, touching Veronica’s shoulder to bring her awake.
Veronica jumped a little, startled, and looked up at Miranda, blinking. “Oh! I was waiting up for you. I wanted to hear all about the opera.” She stretched, rubbing her neck. “I don’t get to do anything fun! Mama says I cannot go to the opera until I make my coming out.”
“I am sure your mother knows all about such things better than I.”
“But I didn’t get to go to the ball, either. Do you know that I’ve never even seen this Ravenscar fellow? And you didn’t tell me about the ball. So I decided I would wait up for you and get all the latest information. Only I fell asleep.”
“All right,” Miranda said with a smile. “You be my maid, and then we won’t have to awaken Rosie. And I’ll tell you all about the opera.”
“And the ball.”
“And the ball.”
Veronica jumped up to undo the long row of buttons down the back of Miranda’s dress. Miranda described the opera house and the music, the glittering array of jewels and dresses on all the women attending. She also did her best to recall the details of the ball—the arrangements of flowers, the dresses, the lights blazing from every possible place, the music that had played. Veronica listened avidly, her eyes lighting up as she imagined all that Miranda described.
“What about the Earl?” she asked when Miranda paused, seemingly done. “Don’t stop there. Tell me about the Earl of Ravenscar. Did you see him tonight? Did you dance with him at the ball?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“Don’t stop there!” Veronica cried.
“What do you want to know? He’s a passably handsome man.”
“You can do better than that.”
“All right. He has eyes as green as glass in the sunlight, and his hair is black as coal. There is a little scar here on his cheekbone, close to his eye. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and wickedly handsome, and not at all the sort of person young girls like you should be daydreaming about.”
“But are you going to marry him?” Veronica pressed.
Miranda paused, looking off into space for a moment, then back to her stepsister. “You know…I think I just might.”