by Jess Russell
“A lie! It is a fiendish lie!” Macready shook Austin off. “Another deception. Another plot to cozen you, Your Grace.”
The man spun to take in all the onlookers. “You cannot actually believe him? Have you forgotten his evil butcheries? Or Major Cummings? He’s a murderer! He and his kind are nothing but filthy murderers!”
“Remove that man. Now,” his father ordered.
Ivo and a footman crossed to Macready.
“Hives, you will not get away with this betrayal. I will see to it!” Macready ran out of the room.
The rest of the company stood about like chess pieces locked in a stalemate. At last the duke spoke. “Austin, come to me.”
His brother looked contrite as he came to stand before their father.
“You have kept the estates together. You have stood by my side through all my infirmities. Margaret is finally increasing. But it is not enough. You are not my heir.” He sighed heavily. “I wish you were. Dear God, sometimes, I wish you were. But, your mother, she was already—” The duke shook his head sadly. Then he flung off Tally’s hands and stood straighter.
“I want Ballencrieff searched from dungeon to towers. I doubt we will find the portrait, but we must try. Austin, I will speak with you privately and,” he signaled to the two footmen nearest the door, “find that Macready fellow.” The men bowed and then left the room.
“This family has aired its dirty secrets far too often. It is enough. It is time to begin anew.” The duke’s eyes, so like his own, found his.
Dev saw despair, disappointment, but he also saw a glimmer of something so foreign to this family. Hope.
Chapter Twenty-One
London
The Scottish crags and moors turned into verdant hills, which then ran to flatlands dotted with more and more villages. After nearly ten hours of travel, they must be nearing London.
Anne turned from the window to study the sleeping Lord Devlin. Her husband.
Surely she must be the one dreaming. Soon she would awaken to find herself back in her tiny room, her life restored to normal. To the life that should be her fate.
But the Flying Scotsman’s opulent, private compartment and the extreme ache in her bottom, no matter how plush the velvet cushion beneath, told her all this was impossibly real.
And the man next to her, his hand so casually lying not three inches from her hip, was no dream. But he was no longer her James. In reality he never had been.
He must have been given something to sleep, or simply be too exhausted from the last few days. Try as she might, she had not a prayer of sleeping.
Could she touch him? Would doing so make this stranger real? She dared not. After all theirs was not a mutually-agreed upon union. She had thrust herself upon him out of desperation. Saved him, and he was likely grateful, but he did not want her. Would never have chosen her. That was the difference. Just a means to an end. She mustn’t forget that.
Poor besotted wretch, she would choose him in a heartbeat. She had. Stepping up in front of everyone and declaring herself with child. How utterly brazen of her.
How could she possibly wear the mantle of Marchioness? To navigate this strange, new world? If the old duke’s behavior were any indication of how society would treat her, she was in for a rough ride.
Shifting her aching bum, careful not to brush his hand, she smoothed her gray skirts over her crinoline. Her wedding dress.
Mrs. Nester had offered a gown for the nuptials, but when Anne tried it on, she looked like a child playing at dress-up. The hem would have had to have been hacked off nearly a foot before hemming it another five or so inches. And that would only solve the length issue.
Lady Tippit had dragged out her old court dress from the dusty trunks that stood packed against the walls in a tiny room. She’d insisted Anne wear it. The jewel encrusted gown must have weighed as much as Anne herself. But again, she could not condone it being butchered for the cause.
So, in the end, she had worn the gray, the best of the two gowns she possessed. The one Mrs. Harlow had given her when she had healed young Earnest Harlow of the croup.
Phoebe Nester had trimmed it out with some silver-gray velvet ribbon and a bit of ivory lace. Like making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Another bit of lace had been unearthed for a veil, and Mrs. Coates had sacrificed some of her precious orange blossoms for a nosegay.
She had not looked in the mirror—not really. Only giving it a cursory glance to please the ladies, but in truth, she had been too afraid what the reflection would show. Certainly not marchioness material and never would be.
Just before the ceremony, Mr. Beauchamp had conspiratorially pulled her aside and pressed a crystal into her hand, whispering it was very ancient and powerful, and she must treat it with the deference it deserved. The stone fit perfectly in her palm, and she had clutched it during the brief ceremony, praying that its solid, smooth planes would give her strength.
The stone now lay within the pocket of the newly trimmed gray gown, next to her hip, next to her husband’s open palm. She dipped her hand inside the pocket and squeezed. The crystal pressed against the heavy ring that encircled her finger, biting into her flesh.
What’s done is done. She must move on through the charade and hope—for what—well, she did not know. She would cross that bridge when she must.
The train’s whistle hooted low and long. Lord Devlin stirred. A spew of steam and fog surrounded the narrow window. She fumbled with the latch.
The stench hit her head-on like a solid mass with weight and substance. She put her hands to the window as if she might push the thing away.
“London Town!”
****
Dev’s dream of feathered wings brushing his cheeks and the gentle sway of tree branches high above the earth corroded as fetid air hit his nostrils.
He snorted, but the intrusions persisted along with shouts and now screeching brakes.
He knew this smell. He knew these sounds.
Home. He was home.
The two great Doric Arches of Kings Cross Station soared above, enduring and timeless. The arches, smells, and sounds might be the same, but the fact that Anne Winton sat next to him made everything new. Brand new.
He rolled his neck. His mouth as dry as toast, his head muzzy from sleep and whatever Hives had given him for the journey. He should not have taken it, but once again, he had not been given an option. Hives wanted him gone, that much was clear.
“Anne,” he said as if saying her name might make her real. She turned from the open window, her face now wreathed in shadows. “Welcome to London.”
The Malvern town coach stood, like some great black winged raven, defying all traffic rules by swooping in to whisk them away from the riffraff and squalor that inevitably surrounded a terminus.
His father’s footmen, Dev counted six, made a phalanx around Anne and him. Never had his father’s old-fashioned carriage looked so inviting.
“Please, m’ Lord, ’ave ya got a copper?” One cheeky bugger breeched the small army.
“Away, you.” The footman nearest poked the boy’s chest with the end of his whip.
Anne frowned. Dev took her arm more firmly and shook his head when she began to protest.
“Best to do it from the carriage.”
He fixed his gaze on the open door and held his breath. What a pair they made. The Mad Marquess and his Benighted Bride.
Once inside, the footman latched the door closed.
“Drive on!” He rapped on the roof. The command came like second nature, and the carriage, mercifully, moved forward. He filled his hands with coins, not knowing if he tossed sovereigns or pence, only that the hoard fell back to scrabble in the dirt. Lemon oil and lavender mixed with the dank must of an unused carriage filled his lungs as he took his first deep breath since arriving.
His bride faced the shuttered window. She would want it open to see out, while he only wished for a dark cocoon. Wanting to do something for her, he reached over to roll
up the shade. No, he did it to gain her attention. Perhaps even win a tiny smile?
Nothing.
If only he could touch her hand, but she had wedged herself into the far corner. One hand held a handkerchief over her nose, and the other lay deep within the pocket of her cloak.
“Anne, are you well?”
She only nodded, now nearly pressing her nose to the window.
A clam. His wife was a damned mollusk where not the thinnest pallet knife could hope to slip between her shells. Certainly not his ineptly chivalrous overtures.
Stupid, jealous fool. Leave her be. Are you so starved for attention that you must deny her the first glimpses of the city?
He pressed back into the velvet squabs. The buildings, the parks, the opulence of Mayfair he could draw from memory, just as he could the squalor of Seven Dials or the docks at Wapping. But he could not roll back time to make it all new. As he watched Anne, her neat bottom perched at the very edge of the bench, he was struck by the difference between them, she so eager to see everything, while he wanted to blot it all out, to ride on and on and never have to stop.
Less than a year in exile, but it felt like a lifetime. And this woman, plastered to the wall of the carriage like some limpet, was now his wife.
He closed his eyes.
The woman who had sacrificed her own freedom to set him free.
Scottish law was very convenient for a hugger-mugger wedding. Hell, they could have stood in the blacksmith shop over an anvil and become man and wife. That easy. No anvil for the marquess, but certainly no St. Georges church either. A few mumbled words and some signed papers and the deed was done.
The wedding breakfast, hastily scrounged from the village, had been more than his poor stomach could handle. The smells had tantalized him, yet when he tried to eat a simple beef pie, he’d nearly cast up his accounts and had to excuse himself. Who would have thought he could ever long for Ballencrieff’s over-boiled mutton.
She had not looked at him once during the hurried ceremony, and they had not kissed. Her ring was not even of his choosing, just some old family relic his father had brought for Miss Thornton. After he had slipped it over her trembling finger, she had kept her hand in a fist against her belly. He wanted to think she did so to keep the thing from falling off instead of out of extreme agitation.
Tally had taken care of smoothing Thornton’s ruffled feathers. A wad of blunt in his pocket, and his daughter to receive highly-sought-after vouchers for Almack’s and, with any luck, a reasonable husband.
The old duke had blown hard, insisting Anne be checked by Hives before the marriage took place. Not bloody likely. He had told his father to shove his examinations. He could either trust his son or not.
The ruse had been a gamble, but one he was willing to take. He could not countenance Anne being subjected to that degradation on top of everything else. Playing on the uncertainty of Austin’s parentage, his sire relented.
Still, the falsehood of the child lay like a wriggling snake between them. There was no babe. Anne DeVere Winton, now Marchioness of Devlin, was as chaste as his maiden aunt, Hortense.
If only he could find the words to tell her how sorry he was.
Except he wasn’t sorry. Selfish bastard. Oh, he was sorry for her, but for himself…no. Guilty, but not sorry.
No painting had been found. Not the portrait or the nude. One look in Macready’s eyes and Dev knew they would not be discovered. Someone had taken or destroyed them. Someone who wanted to keep him at Ballencrieff. Wanted to see him fail.
Hives? No, it didn’t make sense. Wasn’t he to be rewarded by the duke for seeing Devlin recovered? Macready was involved for sure. But on his own? The man had vanished.
And then there was Austin.
The vials of drugs. Secrets being leaked. The newspapers getting involved. Could his brother hate him so much?
He pushed the terrible thoughts away. But what other explanation could there be? Austin had been given charge of the painting.
There had been no time to question him, what with the haste of the wedding and then departing for London. Did he owe Austin an apology? Certainly his brother’s blackened and swollen eye suggested as much.
But, again, there had been no time. Austin had gone ahead with their father and Tally. And Dev was just as happy to let the truth lie, for now. Just another hidden snake, this one to writhe between him and the brother he loved.
The carriage turned on to Seamore Place where Malvern House had stood for over a hundred years.
The house’s yellow granite had darkened over time to the color of rich butter cream. With its smoothly uniform walls and whimsical pediments, every doorway and window festooned with fanciful garlands and swags, the manse looked as if it had been manufactured by some renowned pastry chef. Even the hedges surrounding the house added to the illusion of an elaborate confection. A myriad of textured greens made for a parquetry-like table where the house proudly stood.
Passersby often made a special side trip down to the end of the street to gawk at perfection. The old dragon, Mr. Hiro, must still be in charge of the gardens.
A footman opened the carriage door and held out his hand to Anne.
Dev leapt ahead of her and waved the man away—by God, he would help his own bloody wife out of the carriage.
He tried a smile. But her frozen hand was a perfect complement to the frigid mask of her face.
“Welcome home, Lord Devlin.” Greely bowed then sniffed. “Lady Devlin.”
Ah, the old butler still at the helm. Implacable as ever. Anne would have her hands full with Greely.
Taking her elbow, he led her into the great hall.
The two potted palms, imported from Italy, still stood as sentinels just inside the entryway. He’d climbed the one on the left when he was five or so.
A half dozen of his father’s flawlessly turned out servants had scrambled below, plotting how to extricate one boy who scarcely came up to their perfectly tied garters.
The adventure had been worth the whipping. As had the ride on the chandelier pull, which is how they’d finally got him down. Silly blighters. If they’d just ignored him, he would have come down on his own in time for his tea. He’d always loved Cook’s apricot jam.
He’d carved his name up at the very top. Was it still there?
“Devlin?”
Austin. Impeccably turned out, as usual, however a frown marred his beautiful face. Dev shoved his fingers through his newly-shorn hair. He must look a scrub next to his golden brother.
Austin made a bow to Anne. “Lady Devlin. I am sure you are tired from your journey. This is Mrs. Norton, our housekeeper.” He gestured to a woman Dev did not recognize. “If you would like, she will take you to your rooms.”
“Yes, I thank you.” Anne stood tall, steady as a bark on a choppy sea, though she must be ready to drop with exhaustion.
“I have prepared a cold supper in your room, my lady, and a bath,” Norton said.
“A bath?”
“Yes, your ladyship, unless you would prefer to wash in a basin?”
“No, no, a bath—yes. Thank you, Mrs. Norton.”
Poor Owl, she’d likely only had a proper bath once in a blue moon. Yes, by God, a hot bath did sound like heaven. No more icy cold plunges. He followed like some drooling puppy.
“Dev, are you well? Do you need something?” His brother reached into his coat.
He bit the side of his cheek as Anne disappeared at the bend in the stairway. Reaching out, he touched the smooth bark of the old palm tree. What a fearless boy he had been to scamper up thirty feet into the air. He stood straighter, imitating his wife. “No.” He looked Austin straight in the eyes. “No. I am done with that, little brother.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Steaming water surrounded him. He leaned back against a pillow of toweling. A bath. Dear, Sodding Satan, how he had missed this pleasure.
Was Anne in hers? Her hair floating around her breasts, catching on pebbled nipples
, her hands drifting to touch between her legs…
“Ahh!”
Ivo stood next to him grinning, empty bucket in hand.
“That is enough hot water, man. I must get out before I shrivel into a prune.”
There had been some consternation about Ivo parting from baby Grace. But the fact that Pocket and Blackie were to travel to London with him in a private train car adjacent to the bride and groom, had placated the keeper, at least for the time being.
It only seemed fitting that the lad continue to care for Dev as his valet. And he was proving a quick study, though he had come up empty when Dev had sent him off in search of brandy.
“Thank you, Ivo, you have done well.” His cheek now sleek as Corinthian leather. “You may go see Blackie in the kitchen now.”
The giant made a rather solemn and dignified bow. By God, what a sight. Soon he would be demanding fine clothes and hair pomade. But in answer to Dev’s grin, Ivo’s face split wide, his huge head bobbing with glee.
Alone now.
A stranger stared back from the mirror. No longer the dashing marquess of old. And certainly not the happy and expectant bridegroom.
He opened his banyan robe. The welts were fading and the blisters healing, but he would never return to the man he was.
Thank God. For all his polish and savior faire, that man had been more gruesome than the gaunt, sunken-eyed man in the mirror. Good riddance.
But who was he now? What did he have to give?
He felt very like that terrible empty canvas whose stark whiteness still haunted him. Nothing there. Yet he knew it had been filled—filled with Anne’s light and grace. Filled with new ideas and possibilities. If only he could look upon it again, surely he would see reflected back the brilliance he remembered?
The anxious-looking man in the mirror faded, as Anne’s image filled his mind’s eye. And who was she now, his sweet Owl, who had only wanted to heal—to be of use? He had taken that dream from her. Oh, she had voluntarily stepped in and rescued him, but he had really left her no choice, as desperate and pitiful as he had been. As he was. Had he consigned her to an empty life as well?