Devil's Daughter

“I’m not above you,” Phoebe protested.

“You’re too perfect to be entirely human. You belong to some higher order—not quite an angel, but close. No woman in my life, before or after you, will ever thrill me as you do. I don’t know what to call this. But I do know you should be worshipped by a man who’s earned the right—and that man is not me.” He paused. “I’ll take the cat now.”

“Wh-what?” Phoebe asked dazedly.

“The cat. Put her in a basket and I’ll take her back to the barn. Unless you want to keep her.”

“No, I . . . thank you, no, but—”

“Go get her. I’ll wait.”

Seeming disoriented, Phoebe disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Soon she returned with a large, lidded basket, a few plaintive mewls slipping through the woven reeds.

West took it from her. “When you leave, I won’t be there to see the carriage off. I can’t. If I try to say good-bye, I’m sure to do something that would embarrass us both.”

“Wait,” Phoebe began, sounding breathless, “I need to ask—”

West didn’t want to hear whatever it was. He couldn’t bear it. Keeping the basket tucked in one arm, he reached out with his free hand, clasped the soft nape of her neck, and kissed her. He felt her lips tremble beneath his. The delicious warmth of her response stole through him, melting through the frozen despair. Finally, he could take a deep breath again. He savored her full, sweet mouth, pulling and teasing the silkiness, stealing as much of her taste as he could. He wanted to spend years kissing her. Instead he finished with a strong nudge and let go of her.

“Let’s forget about that one too,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. And he left her while he was still able, carrying away the protesting cat in the basket.

“You can’t go anywhere,” Devon said, when West told him he was heading out to the barn. “The Challons will be leaving soon—you’ll want to bid them farewell.”

“No, I won’t,” West replied shortly, still holding the unhappy cat in the basket. “I’m going to stay away until I’m sure they’re gone.”

His older brother scowled. “I thought you might accompany them out to the railway halt.”

“I’m accompanying this vicious cat back to the barn.”

“What should I tell the duke if he remarks on your absence?”

“There are only three reasons anyone ever needs me around here,” West said sourly, “when something is broken, overflowing, or mired in a bog. Use one of those. I assure you, the Challons won’t give a damn whether I’m here or not.”

“Did you quarrel with Lady Clare? Is that why you appeared to be sitting on a hedgehog all through dinner?”

West’s lips twitched despite his bad mood. “Is that how it looked? I assure you, I wasn’t nearly that comfortable.”

Devon’s frown eased. “You can’t outrun your problems.”

“Actually, I can,” West said, walking away with the basket. “Look—I’m doing it right now.”

“Have you tried being honest with her about your feelings?” came Devon’s voice from behind him.

“Sweet mother of God, can you hear yourself?” West asked without turning around. “I’d get more manly advice from Kathleen.”

He exited the back of the house and didn’t stop walking until he’d reached the group of farm buildings. The familiar sights and rhythms of the farm helped to restore his balance and blunt the sharp edges of misery. The coming days would be filled with no end of hard physical work, which would hopefully exhaust him enough to let him sleep at night.

After reaching the hay barn, he gently set the basket on the ground, lifted the lid, and tipped out the little black cat, who hissed and gave him a baleful stare.

“Sorry, Galoshes,” he said. “It’s back to work for both of us. Go catch some mice.”

The cat slunk away.

West went to the blacksmith’s shop, where Stub and some of the men were busy repairing a broken axle. They had raised a heavy cart with a set of differential pulley blocks to reach the broken parts beneath. Although they didn’t need his help, nor was there a good reason for him to stay and watch, he lingered as long as possible. Every few minutes he consulted his pocket watch, which finally prompted Stub to ask good-naturedly, “Are we not moving lively enough for you, Mr. Ravenel?”

West smiled slightly and shook his head, replacing the watch. “I want to make certain the guests have left before I go back.”

Neddy glanced at him with cheerful interest. “What o’ the red-haired widder and that little brush o’ a lad?” he dared to ask. “Didn’t you wish to see ’em off, sir?”

“Lady Clare is a rare, fine woman,” West replied ruefully. “Too fine for me, unfortunately. With her, it would be the cart before the horse, and I’m not a man to walk behind the cart.”

There was rumble of agreement among the men. But Neddy ventured, “Myself, I don’t care if I’m at the tail of the cart, as long as my wife keeps us on the straight road.” They all chuckled.

“Naither would I mind, if the wife was sweet to look upon,” Stub declared. “And the Widow Clare’s a breeder: you’d get healthy kittlin’ off such a good cat.”

Although West knew the comment hadn’t been meant disrespectfully, he gave Stub a warning glance to indicate the subject was closed. After the axle had been removed from the cart, West walked back to Eversby Priory manor. The morning had risen cool and blue. A good day for traveling.

He followed the graveled path around the side of the house to take a glance at the front drive. There were no carriages, no throng of busy servants; the Challons were definitely gone. Letting out a measured breath, he went in through the front entrance.

Despite his considerable list of tasks and chores, he found himself at a loss for what to do. He felt like a tree with a center of gravity offset from its base, liable to topple in an unpredictable direction. The household bustled quietly as servants cleaned the vacated rooms and stripped linens from the beds, while others cleared the breakfast room sideboard and removed plates and flatware. West glanced down at the empty mending basket in his hand. He wasn’t sure what to do with it now.

He went to the room where Phoebe had stayed and set the mending-basket near the threshold. The bed had been hastily made; the side where Phoebe had slept wasn’t quite smooth. He couldn’t resist drawing close enough to trail his fingers along the counterpane, remembering the slight, firm weight of her body, the feel of her breath on his cheek—

A plaintive drawn-out meow interrupted his thoughts.

“What the devil . . . ?” West muttered, walking around the bed. He was stunned to find the black cat there, dusty and irritable-looking. “How can you be here?” he demanded. “I just left you at the barn!”

Galoshes let out another disconsolate sound and wandered around the empty room. She must have raced to the house as soon as he’d set her free and had somehow found a way to slip inside. She jumped onto the bed and coiled at the corner of it.

After a moment, West sat on the side of the mattress. He reached for a pillow and hunted for any lingering trace of Phoebe. Discovering a faint soap-and-roses sweetness, he drew it in deeply. When his eyes opened, he found the cat staring at him, the golden eyes solemn and accusing.

“You don’t belong in her life any more than I do,” West said flatly. “You don’t even belong in a house.”

Galoshes showed no reaction, other than flicking the tip of her scraggly tail like someone impatiently drumming her fingers.

West wondered if she would keep coming back in search of Phoebe. It was impossible not to feel sorry for the skinny little creature. He let out an exasperated sigh. “If I did manage to help you reach her,” he said, “I doubt she’d keep you. God knows what will become of you. Furthermore, do you really want to live in Essex? Does anyone?”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

West considered the cat for a long moment. “We might catch them at Alton Station,” he mused. “But you’d have to go back into that mending basket, which you wouldn’t like. And we’d have to go on horseback, which you especially wouldn’t like.” An involuntary grin crossed his face as he thought of how annoyed Phoebe would be. “She would kill me. I’m damned if I’ll risk my life for a barn cat.”

But the smile wouldn’t go away.

Making the decision, West tossed aside the pillow went to fetch the mending basket. “Choose your fate, cat. If you fight me over the basket, the adventure ends here. If you’re willing to climb in . . . we’ll see what can be done.”

“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man . . .” Evie chanted as she played with Stephen in the Challons’ private railway carriage. They occupied one side of a deep upholstered settee, with Sebastian lounging in the other corner. The baby clapped his tiny hands along with his grandmother, his rapt gaze fastened on her face. “Make me a cake as fast as you can . . .”

Phoebe and Seraphina sat on a settee directly opposite them, while Ivo and Justin stood at a window to watch the activity on the Alton station platforms. Since the scheduled stop was short, the Challons remained in their carriage, which was paneled in gleaming bird’s-eye maple and trimmed with blue velvet plush and gold-plated fittings. To keep the interior temperature pleasant, ice cooling trays had been set into the floor and covered with ornamental gridwork.