Chapter 18

 

“Wherein a dismal world envelops our hero, and our heroine suffers a greater shock.”

It had been a month. A month that felt like an eternity.

Dev stared at the rain falling outside his window. London was grey. Grey clouds, grey weather, dirty, dingy, devoid of any colour. It was as though losing Charity had sucked the vibrancy from the entire world, not just his life.

He’d tried to keep hope alive, remembering that Mrs Baxter was on his side. Yet he knew the passion with which Charity hated Viscount Devlin. He’d been there when she’d raged against his dissolute lifestyle, against his selfishness and his cruel lack of regard for anyone but himself. He still had the letters she’d sent him. The ones where she had done such a thorough job of revealing how low an opinion she held of him. He’d read them several times now, as if he sought penance for his past sins in their pages. Every time he read her words his hopes diminished as he saw the truth of the man he’d been, the one she’d seen him to be. How could she ever forgive him when he could not forgive himself?

He’d allowed his hatred for his father—his hurt at his father’s rejection and his mother’s neglect—to colour every aspect of his life. He’d allowed that taint to spread so far he’d ruined every hope of ever being anything different than them, anything better.

Since he’d returned to his London home, he’d tried to act as Charity would have wanted him to. He was polite to his staff; he learned their names and enquired after their families. That, at least, had brought rewards. Mistrust had been their first reaction, perhaps suspecting a trap, but little by little they accepted the changes in their devilish master. Now he was greeted with smiles that appeared genuine, if a little cautious. It was… nice.

His life had changed beyond recognition because of her.

Dev no longer socialised, staying out until all hours and awaking in strange beds. He didn’t want that life back. Although he’d known it was shallow and contemptuous when he’d lived it, he’d felt there was no alternative for him, no other way. He’d believed he deserved no better, hadn’t even known what better looked like. Now, however he’d lived for a brief time in a life so utterly different from his own it had been like being reborn, only to have it taken away from him.

Now he couldn’t sleep because he dreamed of her. He couldn’t eat because he longed for simple wholesome fare that tasted real and fresh. There was something satisfying in eating produce you’d picked with your own hands. It was such a modest pleasure his old self would have sneered and had a scathing remark to make, but now it seemed important to him.

Tonight, he felt his hopes were little more than a flickering light, burning with defiance in the dark of a raging storm. He wouldn’t give up. He would return to Brasted Farm and try again… once he had mustered the courage to face her.

For the moment he was drowning his sorrows.

It had been awhile since he’d drunk with such single-minded determination, but it appeared he hadn’t lost the knack. The decanter at his elbow emptied as the skies darkened, the streets below evacuating as everyone hurried home to get out of the filthy weather.

Dev closed his eyes and remembered the sun upon his face, the sound of John and Jane laughing as they played with the kittens. In his mind he heard Kit cursing everyone and yelling for quiet and inhaled the smell of dinner drifting from the kitchens as he rubbed down the horses, their contented whickering a soft sound in the cool of the barn.

Most of all he remembered Charity, her sun-browned face and the little scattering of freckles over her nose. He saw the warmth in her eyes, and the fire when she was cross with him. He remembered with too much clarity the feel of her in his arms when he’d held her close, and how willing she’d been to give him everything… before she’d known the truth.

Dev rubbed at the ache in his chest, knowing it would never leave him.

Not until he got her back.

***

Charity watched the imposing sight of Devlin Hall as it got closer, her heart beating so hard she felt it might break free of her ribs.

She didn’t know what she was doing here, what she would say, but she had to say something, to thank him at least for… for giving her the farm.

She didn’t know if she ought to tell him he was forgiven.

If what he’d said to her was true, if he really wanted to court her, then if she forgave him he might repeat the offer, and she could never live the life he would need her to. She had no notion of how a fine lady behaved, or what would be expected of her, and—what was more—she didn’t want to learn. She belonged here, in the wild expanses of Dartmoor, where the wind felt like it would wipe every living thing from the face of the earth and everything clung on, determined for survival. Spending half the year in town and going to parties and the theatre and endless dinners….

Her throat grew tight, panic closing in on her at the thought. It seemed such a narrow world, so confining, stealing her breath and making her feel trapped.

Charity sucked in a deep breath, her fingers tightening on the simple cotton of her best day dress. There was no need for fancy silks and muslins and fine fabrics that would only get torn and dragged in the mud or end up snagged and tangled in a bramble. That was not her world. This was.

She stared around her at a landscape that rolled as far as the eye could see. A man could walk into that wilderness and disappear, never to be seen again. It appeared barren and yet teemed with life; it was rugged and harsh and dangerous… beautiful, and where she belonged.

With all her heart, she wanted him back. She wanted him to be David, to come and live in her world and fit back into the part of her life that was now empty. There was a gaping, ragged hole where he had made a space for himself, forcing apart that tender spot under her ribs and making a void only he could fill.

But he was the Viscount Devlin, not David, and she wasn’t foolish enough not to know that made them an impossibility. Their lives did not fit together, could not intertwine, and trying would only make them both miserable.

Mr Baxter eased the cart to a halt and Charity frowned, exchanging glances with him as they looked at the activity around the vast building. There were rows of covered wagons, and staff hurrying in and out of the building, removing furniture, carrying endless chests and containers.

Charity got down from the cart, moving through the melee and wondering what on earth was going on, though it was clear enough.

He was leaving.

Her breath hitched and she ran for the stairs, hiking her skirts and running as she ignored the curious looks from the men who worked around her.

The snooty butler was nowhere to be seen and Charity’s heart crashed against her ribs harder than before. He couldn’t have left already, surely? She had to at least say goodbye.

With panic tightening her chest and making her breathless it was hard to get the words out, but she grabbed at each man in turn as they passed her and lugged paintings or carpets, or heavy boxes of Lord knew what.

“Where is Lord Devlin? Is he here? Please, could you tell me—”

“Lord Devlin no longer owns this building.”

A deep, rumbling voice filled the now echoing entrance hall, as though the house was already hollowed out without its master in residence. Charity turned and then gasped at the sight of the man before her, if he was a man. He seemed more a giant, some hulking monster from a child’s story.

“W-What do you mean?” she asked, a cold sensation creeping under her skin. “This is Devlin Hall, it’s been their seat for generations, he….” Charity stopped in her tracks as a terrible truth occurred to her. David, Devlin… whoever the hell he really was, had been selling their farm and the land to raise money to pay a debt to a Mr Blackehart. A ruthless man who would likely not take kindly to not being paid.

A dangerous man.

The man who stood in front of her would certainly fit that description.

She swallowed, taking an involuntary step away, though the man had made no move towards her.

“Lord Devlin sold the hall to me,” he said, watching her, a curious look in his dark eyes. He had a rough voice, a harsh accent that spoke of back alleys and low company in a big city.

“You’re Mr Blackehart?”

He nodded, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips. A scar ran the right side of his face, pulling his eye down and she suppressed a shudder. A dangerous man indeed.

Charity reached out, grasping the newel post as the ground seemed to lurch beneath her feet.

“Are you quite well, Miss?”

To her surprise he crossed towards her and then hesitated, as if he would steady her but was aware his nearness would frighten her. She sank down to sit on the stairs, uncaring that she was making a show of herself, too shocked to worry for it.

“You, there. Bring me some brandy.”

Charity watched as Mr Blackehart barked out an order, still too dazed to point out that there would be unlikely to be such a thing in the house as it was being packed up and taken away. From the authoritative tone of the man’s voice and the terror in the eyes of the one he’d addressed, however, brandy would be found from somewhere.

“You didn’t know he’d gone?” Blackehart demanded, a considering look in his eyes.

Charity shook her head, still trying to come to terms with the enormity of what David—he would have to be David for now—of what he’d done, for them, for her. He’d sold his inheritance, his history, the home of generations of Devlins before him, just to save a small farm that scrabbled for survival in a rough environment.

She frowned, remembering that Squire Thompson was buying another farm, so why …

Casting a glance up at Mr Blackehart who was still watching her, his dark eyes full of interest, she knew he was not a man to wait for what he wanted. Had it been the only way David could get out from under his grasp alive?

Charity shivered, forcing herself to stand as a beleaguered looking servant hurried up with a tray bearing a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Blackehart poured a small measure and handed it to her.

“Drink it.”

Her instincts bristled, unused to being ordered about and disliking it. Bravery seemed in short supply as the man towered over her though and she did as she was bid, she needed it too much to protest. As the liquor pooled in her belly, creating a warm glow that eased through her, calming her shattered nerves, she knew she had to see David again. She had to know why… why had he done it? Had it been for her?

“Thank you, sir,” she said, replacing the glass and turning to leave.

“He has a house in London.”

She paused, eyeing the man with distrust.

“I didn’t leave the poor bugger destitute, if that’s what’s got you in such a pucker.”

The man folded his huge arms and Charity pitied his tailor as she saw the way the fabric strained over his biceps. It must be like clothing an oak tree. He might dress like a gentleman, but no amount of fine tailoring could hide the fact he certainly wasn’t one. What the locals would make of Devlin Hall going to a man of his ilk she couldn’t fathom. There’d be uproar.

“You’ll find him on Harley Street, if you care to look. All arms and legs intact last I saw.”

There was a devilish glint of amusement in his eyes at that comment and Charity gritted her teeth.

“Thank you for the information, sir,” she said, her tone brittle as she glowered back at him. “I will bid you a good day.”

***

Charity stared up at the grand house on Harley Street and gripped her umbrella tighter as the wind threatened to snatch it from her grasp. Certainly not destitute, then.

This had been a ridiculous idea.

It had taken a deal of persuasion to get Kit to accompany her to London. Getting out of their lodgings before he’d woken and without arousing the notice of the busybody of a house keeper had been worse. She’d been careful not to share David’s precise address with him, so he wouldn’t know where to look for her.

Now she’d done it, she rather wished she hadn’t.

If Kit had been here David could not say things that would stir up her heart and her hopes and fears. He could not give her hope, nor shatter her forbidden dreams. It would simply be a polite visit in which they expressed their gratitude and he told them it was really nothing… selling his family’s inheritance meant nothing at all. What nonsense.

She’d not hear polite nothings. Charity had never been a coward and she’d not start now. She’d have the truth and face it and… and she didn’t have the slightest idea what came next.

Telling herself she was made of sterner stuff than this, she marched up the stairs and knocked on the door. She turned and watched the carriages roll past as she waited, glimpsing a fashionable lady with an extraordinary hat plumed with huge feathers in one. Her bored expression flickered over Charity, a look of contempt on her face as she turned away.

Charity flushed, aware that her best dress marked her out as a country mouse, a poor relation, perhaps, and an embarrassing one at that. She didn’t belong here. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known it, but everything she’d seen in the short time she’d been in London made her realise her instincts had been right. The gulf between those wealthy creatures that David must call his friends and her was even more marked than she’d realised.

The sensation only intensified as the door opened and a scandalised looking butler took in the sight of her, alone on the front step. Oh, Lord. She ought to have brought Kit. Charity put up her chin, looking the man in the eye.

“Miss Kendall, to see Lord Devlin, please.”

The butler looked over the top of her head and intoned in a bored voice: “His lordship is not at home.”

The snooty devil went to shut the door but hadn’t banked on Charity’s temper. Furious at being dismissed in such a manner after the God-awful journey she’d endured to get here, she stuck her umbrella in the gap before the door slammed in her face and levered it open again, slipping through the space she’d created.

“Tell his lordship that Miss Kendall is here,” she said, thrusting her sodden umbrella into the startled butler’s grasp and giving him a hard stare. “I promise you, he will wish to see me. What’s more he’ll likely throw you out on your ear if he discovers I’ve been turned out and you didn’t inform him.”

The man was obviously unused to such hoydenish behaviour and just gaped at her for a moment, too stunned to react as her umbrella dripped all over his shiny shoes.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Charity muttered, folding her arms. “Where is he?”

“Miss…!” The butler spluttered, coming back to his senses as Charity took matters into her own hands and began to open doors, looking inside for any trace of Dev. “This is outrageous! I must insist that—”

“Lord Devlin!” Charity shouted at the top of her lungs, as none of the doors downstairs revealed the man she was looking for. She hoped to God he was here and not away from home as the butler had suggested. If he wasn’t, she might have to lock herself in somewhere to stop from being ejected. She squealed as the butler made a lunge for her, and hurried towards the stairs. Ejection appeared to be more imminent than she had hoped. Not stopping to look behind and see if he was following, she ran, praying she would find what she was looking for.