Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  Devon laughed softly but without amusement. “Of course, Aldreth means mutual love. He loves his wife, and she loves him in return. Any other state of affairs, I assure you, is truly miserable.”

  “My condolences, Bracebridge,” said Ben.

  “I don’t accept them.”

  “That’s enough,” Ruan softly said. Hell. Hell and bloody hell. His own freedom was fast becoming mere illusion. It ought to matter more. “To the devil with you,” he told the window. “To the very devil with you both.”

  The carriage he’d put at Anne’s disposal appeared on Queen Anne Street. His heart sped up, a purely involuntary reaction. “She’s here.” He watched the carriage draw up in the driveway. Henry jumped from the back and ran around to wait with an open umbrella. A footman flipped down the step and opened the door. Anne descended and Henry surged forward to make sure the umbrella protected her from the wet.

  It seemed forever until she arrived in the salon. She looked quite neat in her royal blue pelisse. “I’ve ordered tea,” she said, walking in.

  “Well?” Devon said when Ruan helped Anne to a seat.

  She pushed back the trim of her hat. “You must stop them.”

  “We will,” Ruan said.

  “Good.” She searched her reticule for her glasses. “Here they are.” Ruan experienced an uncomfortable spark of arousal when she looked at him, outraged, spectacles perched firmly on her nose. A handkerchief, well used, fell unnoticed from her sleeve. He lifted his eyes from the tear-stained bit of silk. The spectacles slipped down her nose long enough to show eyes faintly red, as if she’d been up too late the night before, only he knew she hadn’t been. She replaced the frames with a determined motion. “It is as you suspected, Cynssyr. She did not tell you all that happened.”

  “The woman did not,” he said brusquely, “tell me a damn thing.”

  She looked at Devon and Ben. “Two men assaulted her.” Speaking crisply, she drew herself up, back ramrod straight. “Not the same men who accosted her in the street. Those men were ruffians, they spoke in street cant and were in need of a thorough bathe.”

  They fell silent when the Merchant brought in tea and sandwiches. Anne ate a slice of bread while the others set to. “One is certainly a gentleman,” she continued. “His accent was educated and from London. The second spoke well but with a country accent, very slight, but there. Liverpool. Or some such place in Lancashire, she thought. The second man, the one with the country accent, was slender with dark eyes and dark hair. His mouth is thin, his cheeks and chin narrow.” She hesitated, a thoughtful quirk to her mouth. “He is a violent man and cruel. He does not like women, Cynssyr.” She made a face. “I’m sorry. That is my interpretation. Mrs. Featherstone did not say that.”

  “You did well.”

  “Extremely well,” Devon echoed.

  “Thank you.” Anne practically glowed with pleasure. Deep inside him, Ruan felt an answering pleasure. They did well together. Remarkably well.

  “When she revived, the other was—” She reached for her handkerchief but of course did not find it. Devon handed her his. “Thank you. The other was taking liberties.” A flush, anger and embarrassment both, colored her cheeks. “With her person. He wore a sort of mask that hid his features. He told her, the man did, that she ought to enjoy what he was doing as his associate—that’s the exact word he used,” she said, crushing the handkerchief. “His associate—had been so cruel by comparison.”

  “Blackguard,” Devon said.

  “Very much so, Devon.” As always, her aplomb roused his admiration. “She believes she was held outside of London. She was not assaulted until very late the night she was taken, very nearly morning. She could hear livestock. Cows and pigs. A rooster. Her room contained only a bed. A house not a cottage was her impression.”

  “Did she say how far they traveled from where she was abducted?” asked Ben.

  “She didn’t know.”

  Ruan pushed away his tea and jumped to his feet. “What did the two ruffians look like?” Intent on these new facts and getting them to fall into a sensible pattern that would lead him to whomever was responsible, he fell by habit into the steely voice he’d employed with his soldiers during the war. He paced before her, hands clasped behind his back. Anne met his iron gaze with a steel of her own. She was utterly reliable. Steady as any man. More dependable than many men he’d known.

  “She did not have any more detail than I have given you.”

  “The carriage. Was it a hack or did she think it a private vehicle? Was she able to see anything inside?”

  “No. She was blindfolded.”

  “The one with the mask. Did she notice distinctive jewelry or physical characteristics?” He concentrated on the flood of information and on uncovering every last detail to be had. “Anything besides voice that made her think him a gentleman? His clothes? A monogram embroidered anywhere? Engraved buttons? Perhaps an unusual watch fob? A scent or hair oil?”

  “Slow down, Cyn,” Ben softly warned. “She’s not one of your soldiers.”

  “A ring, Cynssyr. She saw a ring. Carved with some sort of animal. A signet ring. Worn on the small finger of his left hand.”

  “What kind? A bird? Beast? Real or mythical?”

  “She didn’t remember any more than it was an animal.”

  “T’was someone she knows,” he said. “That’s plain.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why else would he go to such lengths to hide his face from her when the other man did not?”

  “So I concluded as well.” She twisted the handkerchief, holding one end in either hand. “I cannot believe this of Thrale. He is kind and gentle.” She looked at all three men. “I like him. He loves Emily.”

  “Do not let emotion cloud your judgment.” Despite Ben’s admonition, he spoke to her exactly as he would have to a promising officer. “Emotion prevents reason. You must suppress emotion at any cost.” The moment he spoke, he wanted the thought back, but the words had flown. Emotion unleashed was precisely what he most wanted from his wife. He thought of the victims and what they had suffered. He thought of husbands and fathers frantic with worry, impotent with rage. What if Anne were next? A hole opened inside him that nothing could fill except Anne. He did not like even a taste of what those men had felt. God, it would be living Hell. “There must be something more!”

  Ben put a hand on Ruan’s shoulder. “Cyn. Please.” To Anne, he said, “Who do you think it is? If you had to pick someone, whom would you chose?”

  She answered without hesitation. “Lord Wilberfoss.”

  “He’s a boy.”

  “Not a boy,” she replied. “A spoiled, immature man.”

  “That’s as may be.” Devon adulterated his tea with a healthy dose of cream and three lumps of sugar. “But he doesn’t need the money.”

  Anne sipped the weak tea she’d brewed herself. “Money isn’t his reason. Whoever it is, Lord Wilberfoss, or Thrale or someone else, he enjoys it.”

  “But why Wilberfoss?” Ben again. More gentle than Ruan, but just as relentless. “Because of what he did?”

  “Not entirely.” Leaning back, she fiddled with one of her gloves, eyes shuttered and unreadable.

  Ruan restrained himself from pacing anew. He drew a deep breath and asked, “Why else, then?”

  “I don’t know why, Cynssyr.” A distant church bell chimed the hour. “But I feel it. Perhaps I am prejudiced.” She lifted her hands then let them fall to her lap. “What have you heard about Thrale?”

  “Very little.” Devon took a long draught of his tea. “Rumors. Nothing I can substantiate. But I’ve heard even less of Wilberfoss.”

  “Wilberfoss?” Ben shook his head. “I just don’t see it. He’s harmless.”

  Ruan studied Anne’s face. Composed and calm as ever. He trusted her judgment and instincts. “Devon, how soon can you get someone to Liverpool? Have him nose around the larger estates thereabouts.”

  “Quickly enough.”

&
nbsp; “Do it.” He stopped before the tea cart and poured himself some tea. Unlike Devon, he drank his black and just short of bitter. When he turned back, Devon had moved to the sofa next to Anne. His arm circled her shoulder, and he murmured soothing words in a low voice. As he watched, Anne leaned toward him until her forehead touched his shoulder. The truth was, Ruan thought, silently watching his best friend comfort his wife, Anne had found something in him he thought didn’t exist. Damnation, but she had him hopelessly trapped.

  Devon glanced up to meet Ruan’s eyes. Even Ben watched in silence, saying nothing. Well, then. He saw but one way out. He must turn the tables, as it were, and make her fall in love with him first. The solution to his predicament was as simple, and as difficult, as that.

  CHAPTER 20

  Anne left Cavendish Square quite late. For some reason, she’d expected Cynssyr would appear at Devon’s afternoon rout. But he hadn’t, and then she and Devon had got to talking until long after the last guest took his leave, and the time simply flew away. Just as it had four years ago in Bartley Green. Full dark had fallen by the time she recalled herself and made her excuses. Devon refused to hear her apologies for taking so much of his time. He walked her to her carriage and stood in the pouring rain until the carriage left the drive.

  The rain made a lake of the street and soaked everything; her shoes, her cloak and her hat. Poor Henry. He took the rain as a personal affront to her dignity and his. Once in the coach under the flickering light of the interior lamps, she wondered what to do about Emily. The loss of Lord Wilberfoss’s suit hadn’t affected her at all which relieved her no end. But she didn’t seem to care for any of her other suitors. Not even Thrale to whom she was in fact well matched. Unless she missed her guess, and she didn’t think so, Thrale was half in love with her, and without encouragement, either.

  Indeed, Anne spent the last hours of Devon’s party watching her youngest sister act as if London’s most eligible and charming men annoyed her by their very existence.

  A snarl of vehicles heading for the Opera or Vauxhall or one of the dozens of entertainments to be found in Town brought the carriage to a stop. The coachman roared at someone to move on. There came an answering shout and they rocked and at last advanced, but no more than the length of the coach. Anne peeked out the window. Raindrops flashed like tiny diamonds past the lamps to dash themselves onto the street. The carriage lurched again and instead of the black mass of another coach, she saw the street and two men at the curb.

  While they inched forward, one of the men peered from under an umbrella that served as poor protection against the downpour. His companion remained lost in the edge of shadow. The first darted forward, directly toward her. Her heart leapt and with a cry that stuck in her throat, she let the curtain fall back.

  “Duchess!”

  She knew the voice. Leaning forward again, she flicked back the curtain.

  “Mr. Durling?” The massive shape that was Henry jumped from his position at the back and took up a rather threatening posture opposite the two men. “It’s all right, Henry. It’s Mr. Durling.”

  “At your service.” Durling glanced over his shoulder. “May I introduce my friend?” A heavy cape shielded the man from the wet and from scrutiny.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Duchess, I present Mr. John Martin.”

  “We’ve met,” she said.

  At last, Martin came forward to stand under Durling’s umbrella. He bowed and then Durling stepped into the street to avoid being skewered by some passing umbrella. Martin once again stood in the rain. Durling peered in the carriage. “What’s this?” He affected astonishment. “You are alone?”

  “My governess has the night off, sir.”

  Martin laughed.

  “Might we trouble you for a lift, duchess?” Durling asked. “I’ve not a coin in my pocket, and we don’t fancy walking, Martin and I.” He put a hand in his trousers’ pocket and turned it inside out to demonstrate his lack of funds.

  She opened the door. She did not care for Mr. Martin, but Durling amused her, and really the rain might drown them. For the sake of Durling, she supposed she could tolerate Martin. “Come along, then. Where to?”

  “Dorset Street.” Raising his voice for the benefit of the coachman, he said, “The home of Mr. Frederick Merryweather. I believe you know the way.” He fell onto the seat across from her, shaking water off his umbrella with a motion low to the ground. Martin soon after joined them. “He’s having a party, and we are sure to get a decent meal and failing that, a decent drink.” He placed his hat on his lap. Martin did the same.

  “Besides,” Martin quipped, wiping rain from his forehead. “His servants are always extremely pretty, and I find that ever the mark of a man with excellent taste.”

  “Mr. Martin, you’ve made friends quickly for a man who only just arrived in Town.” She knew nothing of him, really, except that he had influential friends, a talented tailor, and that Cynssyr did not like him, which meant more to her than his having all the friends in the world.

  “Oh, Mr. John Martin,” Durling drawled, “is the sort of amusing young man who gets himself invited to the best parties despite his lack of wealth, inherited or otherwise.”

  Martin grinned. “I am never five minutes without a friend, madam.”

  “How many minutes ago did you meet Mr. Durling?” she asked.

  “Twenty at least.”

  “Martin and I are old friends. We met years back.” Sighing, Durling lovingly stroked the leather seats. “Ah, to have the money to indulge one’s good taste.”

  “Nothing but the best for Cynssyr,” Martin said.

  “Well.” Durling crossed his legs and clasped his hands behind his head. His mouth turned up at one side. “I shall enjoy the ride, but it’s the view that has me enthralled.”

  “Mr. Durling.” She had to move her feet because Martin had stretched out his legs and did not move even when the toes of his boots touched her slippers.

  “Julian. Do please call me Julian.” Suddenly, he leant forward. “A renowned beauty whose name I’ll not repeat has been summarily dismissed from the company of her long-time lover, and I have it on good authority she will be at Dorset Street tonight. All the gentlemen are agog with the news. Who shall next be cradled in her alabaster arms? Tell me, duchess, shall I aspire to such heights?”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Martin said, laughing. By now, Anne’s feet fit smack against her side of the seat. In the semi-dark, she could just make out his smile and shadowed eyes.

  “I’m told women like a man who’s a bit of a challenge,” Durling replied. “Tell me, duchess, what think you?”

  “I’m the very last person to give you advice.”

  “Shall I ply her with roses and sweetmeats? Amuse her with my wit? Pen her poems? Well, not poems. Poems fail me most miserably, I fear.”

  Anne laughed. “Try them all. One of them is bound to work.”

  He sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I fear some fellow with more blunt than I will succeed to her affections. I haven’t the funds for extravagant gifts.”

  “It’s not extravagance that matters.”

  “What them? My inestimable person? It’s all I have to offer.”

  “You’re a woman,” Martin said to her. “Tell the poor man how to woo his beauty, for I tell you, I am tired of his complaints.” His grin reappeared. Anne was sure he meant to charm her, but she felt quite the opposite effect. “By the by, I shall take notes as you do, for the advice is bound to come in handy.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no head for romance.”

  “What would win your heart?” Martin gave her an arch glance.

  Durling leaned forward, waving a hand to silence his friend. “What if I told you my heart flutters when you are near? Would that persuade you to me?”

  “If ever a man said such a thing to me, I should tell him it seems a most serious matter and that he ought to consult a physician for a remedy.”

  “I cannot s
leep for thinking of you?”

  “Warm milk is a cure.”

  “A cooing dove is cacophony compared to your dulcet tones?”

  The carriage stopped. “Dorset Street,” called the coachman.

  Durling put a hand to his chest. “What am I to do, duchess? My case seems hopeless.”

  “It is,” Martin said.

  “Surely not, sir.” She touched Durling’s arm. “But I should not mention cacophonous doves were I you.” Durling and Martin sat unmoving while they waited for the groom to pull down the step. Martin, apparently thinking she did not notice in the dim interior light, stared hard at her. She did not like his assessing look. She could feel the calculation coming up short. As Martin put on his hat, his coat sleeve bared perhaps an inch of skin above his glove, revealing a poorly healing gash. “I have a balm that might help that,” Anne said.

  “It’s nothing. A scratch.” He tugged on his sleeve, covering the wound.

  “Let me send you some.”

  Martin laughed. “Don’t I know what Cynssyr would say if you did!”

  “Cynssyr never condemns a kindness, if that’s what you mean.”

  “As you say.” He nodded his assent. “Send what you wish. Durling will see it gets to me.”

  “I wish,” Durling said without any of his facile drawl, “that I had met you before Cynssyr married you.” The glimpse of the man he might have been intrigued her. “You might have saved me from myself.” That made Martin guffaw. Durling elbowed him and the sound abruptly stopped.

  “How could I save you when I cannot even save myself, Mr. Durling?” Anne said lightly.

  The carriage door opened, and the two men stepped down. The rain fell as hard as ever. Martin pulled up his collar again. Durling bowed. “My compliments, duchess, and my thanks.”

  “Good night, Mr. Durling. Mr. Martin.”

  Durling stared into the coach, never minding the rain. Martin, however, sunk his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wet. “It’s true, you know,” Durling said. “He’s given up the most desirable woman in all of England. Well, almost all of England.”