Devil in Spring

As he made the last shot, Gabriel became aware of a presence in the doorway. Still leaning over the table, he glanced up and met his father’s light, vibrant gaze. A smile touched his lips. “I wondered how long it would take for you to find out.”

Deceptively nonchalant, Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston, entered the room. He always seemed to know everything that occurred in London, even though he lived in Sussex for months at a time. “So far I’ve heard three different versions of the story.”

“Pick the worst, and I’ll vouch for that one,” Gabriel said dryly, setting aside his cue stick. It was a relief to see his father, who’d always been an unfailing source of reassurance and comfort. They clasped hands in a firm shake, and used their free arms to pull close for a moment. Such demonstrations of affection weren’t common among fathers and sons of their rank, but then, they’d never been a conventional family.

After a few hearty thumps on the back, Sebastian drew back and glanced over him with the attentive concern that hearkened to Gabriel’s earliest memories. Not missing the traces of weariness on his face, his father lightly tousled his hair the way he had when he was a boy. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“I went carousing with friends for most of last night,” Gabriel admitted. “It ended when we were all too drunk to see a hole through a ladder.”

Sebastian grinned and removed his coat, tossing the exquisitely tailored garment to a nearby chair. “Reveling in the waning days of bachelorhood, are we?”

“It would be more accurate to say I’m thrashing like a drowning rat.”

“Same thing.” Sebastian unfastened his cuffs and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. An active life at Heron’s Point, the family estate in Sussex, had kept him as fit and limber as a man half his age. Frequent exposure to the sunlight had gilded his hair and darkened his complexion, making his pale blue eyes startling in their brightness.

While other men of his generation had become staid and settled, the duke was more vigorous than ever, in part because his youngest son was still only eleven. The duchess, Evie, had conceived unexpectedly long after she had assumed her childbearing years were past. As a result there were eight years between the baby’s birth and that of the next oldest sibling, Seraphina. Evie had been more than a little embarrassed to find herself with child at her age, especially in the face of her husband’s teasing claims that she was a walking advertisement of his potency. And indeed, there had been a hint of extra swagger in Sebastian’s step all through his wife’s last pregnancy.

Their fifth child was a handsome boy with hair the deep auburn red of an Irish setter. He’d been christened Michael Ivo, but somehow the pugnacious middle name suited him more than his given name. Now a lively, cheerful lad, Ivo accompanied his father nearly everywhere.

“You go first,” Sebastian said, browsing among the rack of cue sticks and selecting his favorite. “I need the advantage.”

“The devil you do,” Gabriel replied equably, setting up the game. “The only reason you lost to me the last time was because you let Ivo make so many of your shots.”

“Since losing was a foregone conclusion, I decided to use the boy as an excuse.”

“Where is Ivo? I can’t believe he let you leave him at Heron’s Point with the girls.”

“He nearly worked himself into a tantrum,” Sebastian said regretfully. “But I explained to him that your situation requires my undivided attention. As usual, I’m full of helpful advice.”

“Oh, God.” Gabriel leaned over the table to make the opening break. Staying down on the shot, he struck the cue ball, which struck the yellow ball and knocked it into the net. Two points. With the next shot, he potted the red ball.

“Well done,” his father said. “What a sharper you are.”

Gabriel snorted. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me two nights ago at the Chaworth ball. You’d have called me a prize idiot—rightly so—for being trapped into marriage by a naïve girl.”

“Ah, well, no bull can avoid the yoke forever.” Sebastian moved around the table, set up his shot, and executed a perfect in-off. “What is her name?”

“Lady Pandora Ravenel.” As they continued to play, Gabriel explained in disgust, “I didn’t want to attend the damned ball in the first place. I was pressed into it by some friends who said that Chaworth had spent a fortune for a crew of self-styled ‘fireworks artisans.’ There was supposed to be a ripping exhibition at the end of the evening. Since I had no interest in the ball itself, I walked down to the river to watch the workmen set up rockets. As I returned”—he paused to execute a carom, a three-point shot that hit two balls simultaneously—“I happened to hear a girl cursing in the summer house. She had trapped herself arse-upwards on a settee, with her dress caught in the carved scrollwork.”

His father’s eyes twinkled with enjoyment. “A fiendishly clever lure. What man could resist?”

“Like a clodpate, I went to help. Before I could pull her free, Lord Chaworth and Westcliff happened upon us. Westcliff offered to keep his mouth shut, of course, but Chaworth was determined to bring about my comeuppance.” Gabriel sent his father a pointed glance. “Almost as if he had an old score to settle.”

Sebastian looked vaguely apologetic. “There may have been a brief dalliance with his wife,” he admitted, “a few years before I married your mother.”