Devil's Daughter

by Lisa Kleypas

  “I’m afraid we can’t discuss art, either. I find symbolism exhausting.”

  “Then I assume you don’t like poetry.”

  “No . . . unless it rhymes.”

  “I happen to write poetry,” Ravenel said gravely.

  Heaven help me, Phoebe thought, the momentary fun vanishing. Years ago, when she’d first entered society, it had seemed as if every young man she met at a ball or dinner was an amateur poet. They had insisted on quoting their own poems, filled with bombast about starlight and dewdrops and lost love, in the hopes of impressing her with how sensitive they were. Apparently, the fad had not ended yet.

  “Do you?” she asked without enthusiasm, praying silently that he wouldn’t offer to recite any of it.

  “Yes. Shall I recite a line or two?”

  Repressing a sigh, Phoebe shaped her mouth into a polite curve. “By all means.”

  “It’s from an unfinished work.” Looking solemn, Mr. Ravenel began, “There once was a young man named Bruce . . . whose trousers were always too loose.”

  Phoebe willed herself not to encourage him by laughing. She heard a quiet cough of amusement behind her and deduced that one of the footmen had overheard.

  “Mr. Ravenel,” she asked, “have you forgotten this is a formal dinner?”

  His eyes glinted with mischief. “Help me with the next line.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I dare you.”

  Phoebe ignored him, meticulously spreading her napkin over her lap.

  “I double dare you,” he persisted.

  “Really, you are the most . . . oh, very well.” Phoebe took a sip of water while mulling over words. After setting down the glass, she said, “One day he bent over, while picking a clover.”

  Ravenel absently fingered the stem of an empty crystal goblet. After a moment, he said triumphantly, “. . . and a bee stung him on the caboose.”

  Phoebe almost choked on a laugh. “Could we at least pretend to be dignified?” she begged.

  “But it’s going to be such a long dinner.”

  She looked up to find him smiling at her, easy and warm, and it sent a curious shiver through her, the kind that sometimes happened after she woke from a long sleep and stretched until her muscles trembled.

  “Tell me about your children,” he said.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Anything. How did you decide on their names?”

  “Justin was named after my husband’s favorite uncle—a dear old bachelor who always brought him books when he was ill. My younger son, Stephen, was named after a character in an adventure novel Lord Clare and I read when we were children.”

  “What was the title?”

  “I can’t tell you; you’ll think it’s silly. It is silly. But we both loved it. We read it dozens of times. I had to send Henry my copy, after—”

  After you stole his.

  In Henry’s view, the worst of West Ravenel’s offenses had been stealing his copy of Stephen Armstrong: Treasure Hunter from a box of possessions beneath his bed at school. Although there had never been proof of the thief’s identity, Henry had remembered that Ravenel had previously mocked him when he’d seen him reading it. “I know he’s the one,” Henry had written. “He’s probably done something awful with it. Dropped it down the privy. I’d be surprised if the nincompoop can even read.”

  “Someday when we’re big,” Phoebe had written in response, full of righteous vengeance, “we’ll go thrash him together and take it back from him.”

  But now she was sitting next to him at dinner.

  “—after he lost his copy,” she finished awkwardly. She watched as a footman poured wine into one of her glasses.

  “How did he—” Mr. Ravenel began, and stopped with a frown. He moved in the chair, seeming uneasy, and began again. “When I was a boy, there was a book—” Another pause, and he tried to angle his body more toward hers.

  “Mr. Ravenel,” Phoebe asked, puzzled, “are you quite all right?”

  “Yes. It’s only—there’s a problem.” He scowled down at his trousers.

  “A problem involving your lap?” she asked dryly.

  He replied in an exasperated whisper, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Really.” Phoebe wasn’t certain whether to be amused or alarmed. “What is it?”

  “The woman on my other side keeps putting her hand on my leg.”

  Stealthily Phoebe leaned forward to peek around him at the culprit. “Isn’t that Lady Colwick?” she whispered. “The one whose mother, Lady Berwick, taught etiquette to Pandora and Cassandra?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “It appears she neglected to teach it to her daughter.”

  From what Phoebe understood, Dolly, Lady Colwick, had recently married a wealthy older man but was reportedly having affairs behind his back with her former suitors. In fact, it had been Dolly’s scandalous carryings-on that had resulted in an accidental meeting between Pandora and Gabriel in the first place.

  Mr. Ravenel flinched irritably and reached beneath the table to push away the unseen, exploring hand.

  Phoebe understood his dilemma. If a gentleman called attention to such outrageous behavior, he would be blamed for embarrassing the lady. Moreover, the lady could easily deny it, and people would be far more inclined to believe her.

  All along the table, footmen filled glasses with water, wine, and iced champagne. Deciding to take advantage of the stir of activity, Phoebe said to Mr. Ravenel, “Lean forward, please.”

  His brows lifted slightly, but he obeyed.

  Reaching across the broad expanse of his back, Phoebe prodded Lady Colwick’s bare upper arm with her forefinger. The young woman gave her a mildly startled glance. She was very pretty, her dark hair pinned up in an ornate mass of shiny ringlets interwoven with ribbons and pearls. The brows over her heavy-lashed eyes had been carefully plucked into a pair of perfect thin crescents, like a china doll’s. A thick rope of pearls, weighted with diamond drops the size of Bristol cherries, glittered around her neck.

  “My dear,” Phoebe said pleasantly, “I can’t help but notice that you keep trying to borrow Mr. Ravenel’s napkin. Do take this one.” She extended her own napkin to the young woman, who began to reach for it reflexively.

  In the next instant, however, Lady Colwick snatched her hand back. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  Phoebe wasn’t deceived. A guilty blush had infused the young woman’s cheeks, and the set of her rosebud lips had turned distinctly sullen. “Must I explain?” she asked very softly. “This gentleman does not enjoy being poked and pried like an oyster at Billingsgate Market while he tries to have his dinner. Kindly keep your hands to yourself.”

  Lady Colwick’s eyes narrowed balefully. “We could have shared him,” she pointed out, and turned back to her plate with a disdainful sniff.

  A muffled snort of laughter came from the row of footmen behind them.

  Mr. Ravenel leaned back in his chair. Without turning, he gestured over his shoulder and murmured, “Jerome.”

  One of the footmen approached and leaned down to him. “Sir?”

  “Any more snickering,” Mr. Ravenel warned softly, “and tomorrow you’ll be demoted to hall boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the footman had withdrawn, Mr. Ravenel returned his attention to Phoebe. The little whisks of laugh-lines at the outer corners of his eyes had deepened. “Thank you for not sharing me.”

  Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “She was interfering with a perfectly unstimulating conversation. Someone had to stop her.”

  His mouth curved in a slow grin.

  Phoebe had never been so wholly aware of anyone as she was in that moment. Every nerve had come alive in response to his nearness. She was riveted by those eyes, the unrelieved blue of indigo ink. She was fascinated by the heavy beard grain visible beneath his clean-shaven skin, and the snug fit of the crisp white collar over his muscled neck. Alth
ough one couldn’t excuse Lady Colwick’s behavior, it was certainly understandable. What must his leg have felt like? Probably very hard. Rock solid. The thought caused her to fidget on the chair.

  What’s the matter with me?

  Tearing her gaze from him, she focused on the tiny engraved menu card between their place settings. “Beef consommé or purée of spring vegetables,” she read aloud. “I suppose I’ll have the consommé.”

  “You’d choose weak broth over spring vegetables?”

  “I never have much appetite.”

  “No, just listen: the cook sends for a basket of ripe vegetables from the kitchen gardens—leeks, carrots, young potatoes, vegetable marrow, tomatoes—and simmers them with fresh herbs. When it’s all soft, she purées the mixture until it’s like silk, and finishes it with heavy cream. It’s brought to the table in an earthenware dish and ladled over croutons fried in butter. You can taste the entire garden in every spoonful.”

  Phoebe couldn’t help but enjoy his enthusiasm. “How do you know so much about the preparation?”

  “I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen,” he admitted. “I like to know about the staff’s responsibilities and working conditions. And as far as I’m concerned, the most important work at Eversby Priory is keeping everyone on the estate healthy and well-fed. No one can work well on an empty belly.”

  “Does the cook mind having her territory invaded?”

  “Not as long as I keep out of the way and don’t stick my fingers into bowls.”

  She smiled. “You like food, don’t you?”

  “No, I love food. Of all earthly pleasures, it’s my second favorite.”

  “What’s your first favorite?”

  “That’s not a subject fit for dinner.” After a pause, he offered innocently, “But I could tell you later.”

  The rascal. This was flirtation at its stealthiest, a seemingly bland comment weighted with innuendo. Phoebe chose to ignore it, gluing her gaze to the menu card until the jumble of letters sorted themselves into words. “I see there’s a choice for the fish course: turbot with lobster sauce, or sole à la Normandie.” She paused. “I’m not familiar with the latter.”

  Mr. Ravenel answered readily, “White sole filets marinated in cider, sautéed in butter, and covered with crème fraîche. It’s light, with a tang of apples.”

  It had been a long time since Phoebe had thought of a meal as anything other than a perfunctory ritual. She had not only lost her appetite after Henry died, she’d also lost her sense of taste. Only a few things still had flavor. Strong tea, lemon, cinnamon.

  “My husband never—” The urge to let down her guard with him was almost overpowering, even though it felt like a betrayal of Henry.

  Mr. Ravenel regarded her patiently, his head slightly tilted.

  “He couldn’t tolerate milk or cream, or red meat,” Phoebe continued haltingly. “We ate only the plainest dishes, everything boiled and unseasoned. Even then, he suffered terribly. He was so sweet and good-natured, he didn’t want me to forgo things I enjoyed just because he couldn’t have them. But how could I eat a pudding or drink a glass of wine in front of him? After living that way for years . . . with food as the adversary . . . I’m afraid I’ll never be able to eat for pleasure again.”

  Immediately Phoebe realized how out of place such a confession was at a formal dinner. She lowered her gaze to the gleaming row of flatware in front of her, so embarrassed that she was briefly tempted to stab herself with a salad fork. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve been out of society for so long, I’ve forgotten how to make polite small talk.”

  “Polite small talk is wasted on me. I spend most of my time around farm animals.” Mr. Ravenel waited for her brief smile to fade before continuing. “Your husband must have been a man of great inner strength. If I’d been in his place, I wouldn’t have been sweet or good-natured. In fact, I’m not that way even when things are going well.”

  The praise of Henry caused some of her buried animosity to melt. It was far easier to hate a person when he was a distant figure, a concept, than when he was a living, breathing reality.

  Thinking over his last comment, Phoebe asked, “Do you have a temper, Mr. Ravenel?”

  “Good God, haven’t you heard? Ravenels are powder kegs with quick-match fuses. It’s why there are so few males left in the family line: constant drinking and brawling don’t usually lend themselves to happy old age.”

  “Is that what you do? Constantly drink and brawl?”

  “I used to,” he admitted.

  “Why did you stop?”

  “Too much of anything is tiresome,” he said, and grinned at her. “Even pleasure-seeking.”

  Chapter 7

  As it turned out, the purée of spring vegetables exceeded Mr. Ravenel’s description. The soft reddish-orange emulsion really did taste like a garden. It was a bold, creamy harmony of astringent tomato, sweet carrots, potatoes, and greens, bound together in a lively snap of springtime. As Phoebe bit into a half-crisp, half-sodden crouton, she closed her eyes to savor it. God, it had been so long since she’d really tasted anything.

  “I told you,” Mr. Ravenel said in satisfaction.

  “Do you think your cook would share the recipe?”

  “She would if I asked her to.”

  “Will you?”

  “What will you do for me in return?” he parried.

  That surprised a laugh out of her. “How ungallant. What about chivalry? What about largesse?”

  “I’m a farmer, not a knight. Around here, it’s quid pro quo.”

  The way he spoke to her had none of the deference and sympathy people usually accorded to widows. It felt like . . . flirtation. But she couldn’t be sure. It had been so long since anyone had flirted with her. Of course, he was the last man she would ever welcome that kind of attention from, except . . . it flustered her in an oddly pleasant way.

  An endless round of toasts began, to the happiness and prosperity of the bride and groom, the well-being of the families about to be joined, the queen, the host and hostess, the clergyman, the ladies, and so forth. Glasses were repeatedly replenished with fine old wines, the empty soup bowls were withdrawn, and tiny plates of chilled ripe melon slices were set out.

  Each course was more delectable than the last. Phoebe would have thought nothing could have surpassed the efforts of the French cook at Heron’s Point, but this was some of the most delicious fare she’d ever had. Her bread plate was frequently replenished with piping-hot milk rolls and doughy slivers of stottie cake, served with thick curls of salted butter. The footmen brought out perfectly broiled game hens, the skin crisp and delicately heat-blistered . . . fried veal cutlets puddled in cognac sauce . . . slices of vegetable terrine studded with tiny boiled quail eggs. Brilliantly colorful salads were topped with dried flakes of smoked ham or paper-thin slices of pungent black truffle. Roasted joints of beef and lamb were presented and carved beside the table, the tender meat sliced thinly and served with drippings thickened into gravy.

  As Phoebe sampled one offering after another, in the company of her husband’s lifelong enemy, she enjoyed herself immensely. West Ravenel was worldly and wickedly funny, making audacious comments that managed to stay just within the margins of respectability. His relaxed interest seemed to wrap gently around her. The conversation was easy, pleasurable, like an unfurling bolt of velvet. She couldn’t remember the last time she had talked like this, her tongue going on like a mill-clapper. Nor could she remember consuming this much food in one sitting in years.

  “What courses are left?” she asked as palate-clearing sorbet was brought out in miniature crystal cups.

  “Just cheese, and then dessert.”

  “I can’t even manage this sorbet.”

  Mr. Ravenel shook his head slowly, regarding her with somber disappointment. “What a featherweight. You’re going to let this dinner defeat you?”

  She sputtered with a helpless laugh. “It’s not a sporting event.”
r />   “Some meals are a fight to the finish. You’re so close to victory—for God’s sake, don’t give up.”

  “I’ll try,” she said doubtfully. “I do hate to waste food.”

  “Nothing will be wasted. The leftover scraps will go either to the compost heap or the pigs’ trough.”

  “How many pigs do you keep?”

  “Two dozen. A few of the tenant families also keep pigs. I’ve been trying to convince our smallholders—especially those with less productive land—to farm more livestock instead of corn. But they’re reluctant. They consider raising stock—especially pigs—a step down from growing crops.”

  “I don’t see why—” Phoebe began, but she was interrupted by Pandora’s cheerful voice.

  “Cousin West, are you talking about pigs? Have you told Lady Clare about Hamlet?”

  Obligingly Mr. Ravenel launched into an anecdote of the time he’d visited a tenant farmer and rescued a runt piglet from being culled. Soon the attention of the entire table turned to him.

  He was a gifted storyteller, drolly casting the piglet as a waif from a Dickens novel. After having rescued the newborn creature, he related, it had occurred to him that someone had to take care of it. Accordingly, he had brought it back to Eversby Priory and given it to Pandora and Cassandra. Over the objections of the rest of the family and the servants, the twins had adopted the piglet as a household pet.

  As the creature grew older and considerably larger, Mr. Ravenel had been blamed for the multitude of problems it had caused.

  “To make matters worse,” Pandora added, “we weren’t aware until it was too late that the pig should have been ‘altered’ while still in infancy. Sadly, he became too smelloquent to live inside.”

  “Lady Trenear threatened to kill me every time she saw the pig trotting through the house with the dogs,” Mr. Ravenel said. “I didn’t dare turn my back to her for months.”

  “I did try to push him down the stairs once or twice,” Kathleen admitted with a perfectly straight face, “but he was too large for me to gain sufficient leverage.”

  “You also made colorful threats involving the fireplace poker,” Mr. Ravenel reminded her.