by Laura Parker
He bent a jaded gaze on her. “If their manners are an example of your influence, then you are no fit guardian to them.”
Though she resented the implication she ignored it, for his remark put them on the path of the matter she wished to discuss. “It is my every intention to disentangle myself from that position.”
“No doubt both sides will benefit.”
“In all fairness to myself, I am no kin to them. Someone of their rank and breeding should have their care.” She paused. “Someone like yourself.”
He stared at her for one long second. “I should rather be dragged backwards by a camel through fifty miles of jungle.”
She pinched off her smile. “They can be a handful.”
“From what little I have observed of their caterwauling they should better have been drowned at birth!”
Japonica gasped. “That is harsh.”
“But true.” His laughter was derisive. “There isn’t enough merit between them to make one passable female. Thank providence they are not my responsibility.”
That was not what she wanted to hear. Another tactic was in order. “It was their father’s wish that one of the elder sisters be wed as soon as possible. In that, surely, you can be of assistance. For instance, were there not bachelors among the officers who visited here today?”
Devlyn stared at her as if she had sprouted horns. He was quite certain that matchmaking for Abbott’s daughters was a ruse. Clever women were notorious for beginning in one place only to drive their argument ultimately in an entirely different direction. “Allow me to be blunt. I will not lift a finger to foist that menagerie on the least masculine acquaintance of mine.”
Pricked by his snobbery she answered, “I shall be equally blunt. ’Tis your inheritance that beggars them. One might see it as the honorable thing to marry one of the daughters yourself.”
He gazed at the toes of his boots as he drawled, “Madam, I would sooner wed you.”
“Marry me?”
He had to admire her astonished expression. How well she played the ingenue. Marry her, indeed! “ ’Tis strictly a manner of speech,” he said coolly. “I should think you too much put upon in this business of daughters to wish yourself burdened by a new suitor.”
Japonica felt her skin tingle to the roots of her hair. “Indeed, if you are proposing to play suitor to my widow’s weeds.”
He hid a smile at her indignant tone. Here, at last was the temper hinted at by her mostly hidden cloud of red hair. It stirred him and that made him want to stir her.
“You are a viscountess yet you dress as if you were a governess fallen on hard times. What is this ridiculous object?”
He reached out too quickly for her to stop him and whipped off her mob cap. The gesture pulled loose her bun and sent flaming curls tumbling about her shoulders. She saw his eyes widen and this time there was no mistaking the carnal hunger of his gaze.
Outraged, her voice shook a little as she said, “You are the rudest man I’ve ever dealt with.”
He dropped her cap at her feet and crossed his arms. “Believe me. I am an altogether ordinary sort of man.”
“Yet I suspect you hope I will contradict you in that,” she answered with stinging contempt. What arrogance the man possessed!
To her further consternation, he smiled. “You have leave to depart my objectionable presence.”
Japonica looked away, realizing he had just maneuvered her into a corner. The last time he had done so it was the beginning of a bargain between them. This time she could not think of a single method by which she might engage him in a deal.
She bent to reach for her cap but he moved more quickly, scooping it up from the floor and then offering it to her with a flourish. She reached for it with two fingers, to make a point of not wanting to make even accidental contact with him.
Aware of the reason behind her action, Devlyn snatched it back at the last moment “Come now. Will you give up your game so easily?”
Japonica met his amused expression with gritted teeth. Was his talk of lost memory only lies to lead her into some indiscretion? Or was this simply the true essence of the man reasserting itself? You have yet to astonish me, the Hind Div once taunted. Be clever. Think quickly!
Japonica folded her arms across her chest and spoke with a voice in utter contradiction to her pounding heart. “If I could make the Shrewsbury Posy unobjectionable to you, in say a month’s time, would you introduce the eldest girls to London society?”
He smiled but it was not at all pleasant. “Madam, if you could alter them in even the slightest degree from their ill-favored present, I might reconsider.” He moved forward, coming so close to her that she was forced to look up at him. “But hear me well. I do not expect this miracle. Therefore, until it is achieved, neither you nor your brood are welcome in my presence again.”
Japonica’s chin lifted a notch higher, affront in the very line of her posture. “Give me one month. Until then I bid you fair weather speed to whatever perdition you are bound!”
Devlyn’s smile faded a bit when she had stalked out. It was not often a woman, even a saucy ill-bred one, got the last word.
“She did not address me as her superior,” he murmured in afterthought. Much as he did not like being a lord he was still aware of the lack of respect in her manner. Did she see herself as his equal? He supposed she was, as the dowager, his superior. Perhaps that was why she had expected he would remember her.
He did not remember her.
Even after her explanation of the events a few nights earlier, he did not have the slightest clue as to what else he should remember about her. But its importance was there in her pansy-brown gaze. She knew something that he did not. Something she feared he would use against her. She had trembled whenever he neared her. He wondered if she realized it, that slight tremor of her lower lip when their gazes met. Something quite remarkable occurred for him, too. He felt as randy as a boy of seventeen.
The thing he had feared dead had but to meet Japonica Abbott’s gaze.
He had been fascinated by the way she kept reaching up to touch her throat or the tiny gold loop with a pearl drop in her ear. The self-conscious gestures, at once girlish yet entirely womanly in their seductive power, had left him with a very solid reminder that he was a man and a man too long without the comfort of a woman’s touch.
He smiled. He could not say he liked Lady Abbott or was even genuinely attracted to her. Yet he could not say that he was indifferent. Not when his body bloomed with evidence to the contrary. So then, what to do?
“What, indeed?” he murmured as he moved to ring for the butler.
Seducing the widow beneath his roof may prove a more complicated matter than it might seem at first suggestion. What to do with her when the novelty wore off? No, better not to spoil one’s nest. There were women aplenty in London, more beautiful, more willing, more seductive than the little wren. The whim would pass. It would. As soon as he thoroughly exercised his own needs.
“My lord?”
Devlyn glanced at the butler. “Have the carriage brought round. Ah, Bersham. What do you know about our new viscountess? Was she much on the London marriage market before she snagged Lord Abbott?”
“Her ladyship is a stranger to England, my lord. Lord Abbott met and wed her while on his last sojourn in Persia.”
Devlyn started. “Did you say Persia?”
“Just so, my lord. Lady Abbott was reared in the East India colonies.”
“How did you come into this information?”
“Her ladyship volunteered it.” Bersham permitted himself a rare simple smile. “The household is quite in awe of her. The manner in which she aided your lordship the other evening was nothing short of remarkable. Then to hear her converse with you most capably in that foreign tongue …”
“What?” Devlyn could not keep surprise from his tone.
“Lady Abbott said that in your feverish state you spoke to her i
n Persian.” A tremble of apprehension shook old bones as Bersham beheld the arrested expression on his master’s face. “I presumed, my lord, that you remembered.”
“No.” Devlyn looked down at the mob cap he held, a remarkable new thought in his mind.
So, it was just as he supposed. They shared a history older than the past three days. A colonist’s daughter! They must have met in Persia. If only he could remember!
Pain pushed into his temples as it always did when he tried to remember. Reflexively, he crushed the simple lace-edged linen cap in his good hand. The action released the scent of a perfume as alluring as the ancient lands from which it came. The riddle of Lady Abbot was tantalizingly close. It teased his memory with the subtlety of the exotic fragrance rising from her cap. Wrapped in the feathers of that little brown wren was the spirit of an houri.
Something new stirred him, a thing that had lain idle this last year. The thrill of the hunt! He might no longer be a soldier capable of bringing low his chosen enemy. He might have no taste for diplomacy or politics. But he was no longer indifferent to possibility. Just now it confronted him in the form of the secrets of one small young woman, in whose gaze lay the key to a memory that he wanted very much to recall.
He smiled fully for the first time.
Chapter Twelve
London, December 12th
Mirza Abul Hassan Shirazi, Envoy of the Qajar Shah Fath Ali—Sultan of Iran, Oibleh of the Universe, His Majesty the Padeshah of Iran—was ill.
The general consensus of his English hosts was that it was a malaise brought on by homesickness and his body’s attempts to adjust to the intemperate cold of his hosts’ northern isle. No amount of cajoling and entertainment could long lift him from his bed where he languished with the complaints of a fever and tightness of the heart. This condition could not be allowed to continue without the risk of drawing the notice of his ruler. Such concern had brought Devlyn to the outskirts of London and into private conversation with Sir Gore Ouseley on this Saturday morning.
Seated before an elaborately carved ivory chess set presented to Ouseley by an Indian rajah, they had closeted themselves in the baronet’s gilt and green velvet library on the pretext of playing a game.
“We cannot afford a diplomatic incident.” Ouseley, on the orders of King George, was attached to the Mirza as his mehmandar, or official host. “As you know, the Mirza refuses all invitations that require him to leave his residence until he has been formally introduced to His Majesty. The long distance from the Royal residence to London has made it impossible as yet to arrange the timing of a public royal audience. This causes talk. A few of the more radical gazettes have already expressed the sentiment that delay is a ruse to keep the Mirza under house arrest. If that were not bad enough, illness has curtailed the Mirza’s enthusiasm for entertaining. If gossip should label him hopelessly ill it could spell disaster for the Anglo-Persian treaty. Bonaparte would like nothing better.”
Devlyn nodded absently as he reached for a chess piece. The French treaty of ’07 with the Persian Shah had not lasted six months. The Shah’s renewed interest in an alliance with the English had their greatest enemy gravely concerned.
“Rumor is that London is rife with French spies whose sole purpose is to create havoc among England’s allies.” Ouseley smiled. “One hopes this news appeases your sense of futility with your post.”
“To the contrary.” Devlyn’s tone was curt. “I believe both England and I would be better served by my return to India.”
Ouseley frowned as he watched the younger man set his piece down on the board. “You were once of invaluable aid to the Secret Committee. A pity such services cannot be publicly rewarded. But I believe you have done your share.”
“I should be more flattered if I could recall the service to which you refer.” Devlyn indicated that it was Ouseley’s turn.
“Just so.” Ouseley reached for his pawn. “Memory remains blank, does it?”
“Too much and not enough.” Devlyn had discovered that when he did not drink heavily, the rage that often accompanied his headaches remained within his control. But that was not the sort of thing one man confided in another. “It gives me no joy to play a guard dog who is all bark and no bite. I would rather return to my old duties for the Secret Committee.”
Ouseley frowned. “My dear man, you cannot recall those duties.”
“Were they unusual even for a seasoned soldier?”
“One might say they were singular.” Ouseley picked up a pawn and fingered it thoughtfully. “Your duties were of a nature both delicate and unique. Secrecy was paramount Alas, your injuries have made you … memorable.”
Devlyn frowned and absently rubbed the right sleeve of his coat just above the place where his hook protruded. “No one will discuss with me the nature of duties I was tortured for and nearly died to keep from divulging. Do you not find that unjust?”
Without comment Ouseley slid his piece into place on the marble board with a smile. He was a diplomat after all, and knew how to sail past dangerous currents. “I have noted how often the Mirza turns to you for small conversation when the days are dull. You share his love of eastern music and poetry, as few of us do. Your Persian is so fluent that he has doubted you are English.”
Devlyn shrugged. “That, too, is a mystery. But I find that the words come when needed and the understanding is complete.”
Ouseley nodded, for Sinclair’s command of Arab and Indo languages was better than his own. “The Mirza is fretting himself to pieces. He has been in daily touch by couriers with the Motamad od-Doleh and the Amin od-Dolehwho direct him to hasten his return. He fears each day that he remains in England causes him to incur the wrath of Ali Shah.”
“Well he might,” Devlyn responded and quickly made a move on the board. “The Mirza lost an uncle to a fit of royal temper. He was boiled in oil, I believe.”
Ouseley’s face puckered in distaste. “There are fully half a dozen envoys of various rank who’ve been waiting months upon the King’s pleasure. Yet they are amenable to London’s pleasures. Hassan needs distraction.” He smiled and moved another piece, exchanging it for one of Devlyn’s pawns. “Female company, I should imagine, would be preferable.”
Devlyn glanced up in unpleasant surprise. “You do not expect me to play the role of procurer for him?”
“No,” Ouseley tugged at his chin, a sour expression on his face. “The Mirza would seem to be a rash fellow when it comes to oaths. He’s also sworn to chastity until he has completed the task set him by his sovereign. Damned inconvenient! A few evenings at the opera followed by late suppers with chorus girls would considerably improve his mood.”
Devlyn smiled but did not lift his eyes from the board. “It is for that reason his shah demanded the oath. A man in his prime, foresworn against female comfort, will be strongly motivated to accomplish his task.”
Ouseley chuckled. “Wouldn’t work for the British Army. We pay whores to travel with the army in order to keep our men motivated. Still, it is a point well taken. And yet, though the Mirza may not take full advantage, it does not follow that he is indifferent to the pleasure of female company. On more than one occasion he has remarked on his fondness for English ladies. I gather the diaphanous gowns so popular among our womenfolk strike him as a novelty worth frequent viewing. One longs to discover a stylish English lady of quality who would not be averse to sharing the occasional evening with our illustrious guest. She must of course, be married. Youthful enough to be pleasing to the eye, yet have enough wits about her to be entertaining in her conversation, without being put off by his foreign manner.”
“Your list of requirements is extensive.”
“Of necessity. I’m told one lady visiting the Pump Room in Bath fainted at the sight of the Mirza’s beard. Can’t have a roomful of ninnies in decline at every moment of the evening.” Ouseley leaned forward to better judge his opponent’s tactic, for he had just lost a pawn. “Gad, we
could use a lady who speaks a little Persian. The Mirza’s English improves but slowly. Female companionship might spur his interest in our language.”
Devlyn was not at all certain he wanted to attempt the idea that had proposed itself in his mind. “I may know someone.”
“Capital! Mr. Grant Chairman of the East India Company, and his deputy Mr. Astell have been invited to dine with the Mirza next week. We shall be glad to include you and your lady in the evening.”
“I did not….”
Ouseley lifted a silencing hand. “It’s not a request but an order, Colonel Sinclair.”
Devlyn let his annoyance filter through as a sigh before he said, “Very good, sir. But it cannot be accomplished today. I will need to travel out of London. And I am not persuaded she will agree. She is a widow and there are children to be seen to.”
“Delightful!” Ouseley sat back with a smile of satisfaction.
Two hours later, with the Shrewsbury carriage following at a sedate pace, Devlyn was smiling as he strode down Bond Street. Well not precisely smiling, but buoyed by a sense of purpose, something he had not had in many months. It mattered little that the purpose was frivolous. It gave him an excuse to pursue a matter he had not acknowledged even to himself, the desire to effect another encounter with Lady Abbott.
He had been outdone when he learned that she had decamped with her charges the very evening of their meeting. That was a week ago. He meant what he said about her stepdaughters, but he had not expected his eviction to send her bolting from London. He thought she would remain in town, if not under his roof.
“Bedeviling woman!”
She had returned to Croesus Hall. Had she remained in town he might have found a dozen reasons and places to encounter her again. How could he go to Surrey without seeming to be following her? He could not. Until now. Ouseley had given him a reason.