by Rue Allyn
Seeing his expression darken, Jessica checked her aggression. She made a conscious effort neither to quail or retreat as she saw the change. Perhaps she had carried her attack too far.
John’s hands balled into ham-like fists and he spoke through clenched teeth, edging closer to Jessica as he whispered.
“I’m going to kill the bastards.” He glanced around. “The big one first, that one they call Bear. Once he’s gone, the rest’ll fall easy — the fancy old dame and that strutting peacock of a duke, too.”
Jessica did not want John to see her fear at the threat.
“Killing an old gentle woman and a blind man would take little skill, John Lout. Those would be the acts of a coward, not behavior of a man I could marry.”
She lowered her eyes and adjusted her posture to make her appeal seem more feminine. Easing closer, she placed her fingers gently on one of the forearms he had crossed in front of him. They stood a moment before a smile twitched his lips. She had been waiting for a sign she had retaken control of things, including her temper. Only then did she allow her eyes to engage his.
“I could not endure if you killed either of them, John. If you committed such a heinous act, it would be better if you murdered me as well. The disappointment of knowing you had slain such gentle, harmless creatures would shatter the tender regard I have for you.”
“If I swear not to kill ’em, will ye vow here and now to be my wife?”
She started to speak, but he eyed her suspiciously. “I have pledged it a hundred times, Jess, but you never did. Not once. What I’m saying is, if I let their dainty highnesses go, will ye give yer word we’ll wed before Michaelmas?”
Jessica stared at his quivering jowls. His face was ruddy and puffy from heavy drinking the night before, the distortion emphasizing his bulbous nose and low forehead. Promise to wed him? And do it before September was ended? So soon as that?
An image of Devlin superimposed itself over John’s face — the duke’s well-defined jaw, his straight nose and high forehead over Lout’s pudginess.
She visualized Devlin’s full lips outlined by the manicured mustache and the narrow beard that emphasized the sensuality of the man’s mouth. She could almost hear the coaxing tones he used addressing his mother or her. She got goose flesh recalling the warmth of his hands. She rejoiced in the memories of his impeccable manners and gentle ways, even when he dissolved into those — now infrequent — fits of temper.
When John was under stress, he became abusive, using any means available, weapons or fists, to annihilate obstacles, particularly a weaker foe.
Devlin utilized his wits to quell a challenge more often than he used his considerable physical skills. It was another of his most admirable qualities.
Could she lie in her marriage bed with John, free of the mental images of Devlin Miracle?
As she contemplated John’s suggestion, he drew a knife from his belt and thumbed its well-honed edge. It was the same weapon he used to skin and butcher game. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers. She saw his intentions. With a word, she could prevent the spilling of noble blood.
John was sly. He and his ruffians would give no warning. Devlin’s beloved friend Bear would be their first victim. A wise choice, she supposed. Felling Bear first would make it easier to finish the rest of the duke’s party. Devlin would be dead before the ruffians could harm his mother.
Michaelmas was weeks away. Devlin might recover his sight before that. If not, surely he would grow tired of their arrangement before then, pay her the five hundred pounds and send her away.
Unlike the nobility, Jessica had no qualms about going back on an extorted promise.
When she was free of her obligation to Devlin, she would take her share of the money, leave the agreed sums for Brandon and John, arrange for her mother, warn Bear of Lout’s threat, and run. She would never dishonor a pledge made voluntarily, but an oath given under threat was different.
She would turn her coops and livestock over to Penny, her friend, and the other Anderson children. They would care for and reap the benefits of her birds.
If Devlin had not recovered and sent her away before then, she would explain her dilemma and, with his permission, leave him to his mother and his servants and his life of ease.
Brandon and their mother and even the scullery at Maxwell Manor would have to manage without her. She could vanish with a clear conscience, change her name and become a governess. She could adopt the surname Nightingale. That had a familiar ring.
“What’s it to be, lass?” John said, interrupting her thoughts. “Do I kill this mob and take you wi’ me now, or do we postpone the spilling a’ noble blood this day, wish ’em well, and let ’em live on to their happy dotage? It’s yers to say.”
She straightened to her full height and raised her chin. “Yes. All right. Michaelmas it is. September twenty-ninth will be our wedding day.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “If ye try to squirm outta’ it, no matter how sound yer reason, his honor the duke and his mum die. I’m just making sure we both understand the terms o’ this here agreement.”
When she didn’t respond, he raised his voice.
“I’m trying to assure meself things between us are clear, Jess. Are they, then? Clear?”
She looked down at her silk shoes designed to fit her feet, far more delicate and comfortable than the cast-off boots John provided. “Yes.”
Lout sheathed his blade, puckered his lips and bent from the waist, tilting his lumbering hulk closer. Jessica stepped quickly aside and rounded the corner of the tavern, putting herself again in full view of the duke’s people readying the team, loading the coach, and preparing their departure.
John trailed her. As she passed the tavern door, Bear stepped out, placing his considerable bulk between Jessica and John. The two men stood eye to eye, taking one another’s measure. Although they were of comparable heft, Bear, taller and more mature, exhibited hard, tested muscle while John, not quite so tall, looked heavier and notably softer.
Bear glowered at Jessica, then at her companion before setting inquisitive, perhaps sympathetic eyes again on the girl. “His Grace asks if yer ready to continue the journey.” His gaze followed as hers shifted to John and back. Bear’s stare narrowed and fixed on the other man as if visually daring him to speak.
Lout remained silent, but offered a smarmy victorious grin and did not flinch as he returned the stare.
With another glance at John, Jessica flicked her tongue over her bottom lip. “Yes, thank you, Bear. You may tell His Grace I am well ready to be away from this place.”
When neither Bear nor Lout moved, nor yielded their visual lock, Jessica attempted to initiate dialogue between them. “Bear, this is John Lout, a friend of my brother’s, from Welter. John, this is the Duke of Fornay’s most trusted friend … ”
“Friend, is it?” Lout glowered insolently at the older man. “Slave, more like. Nobility don’t have friends. Don’t need ’em. They hire what bodies they want around ’em. Don’t have to put up with giving something a’ themselves to get something in return like the rest of us.”
Bear’s eyes narrowed and John thrust his chin forward, mutely daring the older man to dispute his words.
Unexpectedly, Bear opened his great cavern of a mouth and roared; a sound so loud it rattled the inn’s great oaken door.
Jessica started and John staggered, obviously taken aback. Bear studied Lout another long moment as blue twinkled in the deep-set cavities of his weathered old eyes.
“Come along, Miss. We’d best be going.” Glancing back, he grinned again at Lout and, taking Jessica’s elbow, turned her toward the carriage. “You can show His Grace yerself ye’r truly ready.”
She heard John curse as he wheeled to join his men.
Chapter Eleven
“Your sight will return, or it won’t,” Dr. Emmanuel Connor said rather philosophically while Devlin rebuttoned his shirt. “There’s nothing I can do to make it happen. No therapy. No medi
cine. No surgery. Your heart is strong. You’re a hearty specimen. Rest. Stay fit and well fed and avoid aggravations for a time and we’ll see if Mother Nature will help. Indulge in pleasant pastimes. Spend your days with people whose company you enjoy.” He paused, and then lowered his voice. “I don’t know that I would enjoy myself too much with the ladies for a time, if you get my meaning, what with the strain involved in that particular pursuit.”
“I understand. Thank you for your reassurance.”
“As to those glimpses of light and shadow you’re experiencing, I find that very encouraging. Even if you weren’t to regain your full ability to see, those wee peeks indicate the parts work. No doubt, some of your vision will be restored. If you will take proper rest, your attitude and stamina will do more for you than any physician can.”
Dr. Conner turned to put away his stethoscope, and then looked back at Devlin. “Entertain healthy thoughts. Laugh. Laugh out loud as often as you can. A cheerful heart makes a healthier man.”
Devlin again thanked the doctor as he finished dressing and joined the ladies in the physician’s outer office.
“What did he say?” the dowager asked as Devlin took her arm with one hand and placed the other on Jessica’s shoulder.
Seeing the concern in his face, Jessica was interested in his answer.
They strolled through the door and followed the narrow stairwell to ground level, and then outside to the duke’s crested coach waiting at the curb. They were settled inside the vehicle, the ladies side by side, before he repeated the physician’s prognosis and advice. He did not mention the glimpses of light, or the doctor’s optimism about what those events might foretell.
Jessica sensed something hopeful, but the duke’s spoken account didn’t reveal it. Devlin’s mood was noticeably lighter, however, as he gave the driver an address for their next stop.
“I know of a gifted milliner who might be able to transform our sparrow here into a cockatoo with a proper crest. But first to the modiste. Our little bird’s feathers must outshine the rest.”
Lady Anne Miracle smiled at Jessica. “Yes, we should do that. The three of us together. I am sure Mrs. Capstone will not object to a blind man accompanying us. You are sure you have no sight at all, Devlin?”
He gave her a roguish grin. “Now would be a good time for a miraculous cure, madam, but it has not occurred as yet. I will let you know the moment it does.”
Jessica tried on dresses already pieced and needed only fitting to be hers. The girl slipped in and out of soft, silky garments and stiff ones as well, as Mrs. Capstone and her helper, an older lady, tall and angular, toiled, obviously uncomfortable in Devlin’s presence. When they commented incidentally on the girl’s figure, the assistant, a Miss Todds, became more fidgety and required repeated reassurances from Lady Anne that the duke was totally sightless.
Sitting stoic and sightless, his other senses fully alert, the duke felt put off by the unfairness of it. His pique was fueled by a series of foreign emotions. His most prominent and prevailing response was scarcely recognizable to himself. He had little experience with jealousy.
Brooding, he felt a consuming, irrational annoyance with everyone who enjoyed the benefit of seeing eyes. In addition, he did not appreciate being ignored as Jessica and his mother chatted amiably with these insipid women, fawning and cooing over every fabric and color, not including asking after his comfort or seeking his opinion. He was expected to sit patiently ignored until it was time for money to change hands. They would look to him for the necessary payment, of course. It would serve them all right if he refused.
He heard the approaching rustle of skirts and recognized the mingled fragrances peculiar only to one person. Jessica. He smiled without intending to. A bit of sheer fabric floated over his hand and up to skim his face.
“Am I being besieged by butterflies?”
“Devlin, in truth this cloth is like a butterfly’s wings. It is the sheerest, loveliest fabric I have ever seen, yet Mrs. Capstone insists it be used only for undergarments.”
“Perhaps a nightgown then. Would it be comfortable for sleeping?”
He heard Jessica’s clothing swish as she whirled. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Capstone, could I have a nightgown made of this?”
The older woman cleared her throat and he realized her answer was directed at him. At last, someone was soliciting his opinion.
“It is very expensive, Miss. It would not be practical as it would require several yards to sew a proper nightgown. In addition, the fabric is too sheer to provide any warmth to the wearer. As you can tell, it is transparent, too bold to be worn by an unmarried lady. What would be the use in a single lady owning such an expensive, impractical garment?”
Devlin didn’t realize he was smiling, until his mother put his own thoughts into words. “I think, Mrs. Capstone, we might benefit from a man’s input here.”
Quite surprisingly, the lone man in the room had the mute attention of all the ladies present. He tried to darken his look to emulate the wisdom of Solomon, but Jessica’s giggling indicated the abrupt alteration of his expression of eager anticipation had come too late.
“He is, after all, the one paying for all of this,” the dowager reminded them.
“Yes,” the modiste said, “of course. If you commission it, Your Grace, knowing the cost, I will craft this wisp of cloth into a marvelous, flowing gown.”
“Oh, all right. Do it,” he said, forcing reluctance into his tone. Secretly, he rejoiced at being able to give his young charge something impractical she valued so highly. “Make her one in each color.”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” Jessica objected, genuine concern in her voice.
He waved a hand in her direction. “How many will you have then, my pet?”
“One is sufficient. You are most generous to provide that.”
“If you think to send me to the work house with your extravagance, Nightingale, you will have to spend far more than you have done so far.”
He puzzled that she did not answer and by the fact she remained painfully quiet to the end of the fitting.
As they left the establishment with their bags of finished clothing and instructions to return for final fittings two mornings hence, Jessica remained uncharacteristically silent. Devlin placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke softly. “What is wrong, darling?”
“It was never my intention to send you to the work house, Your Grace.”
“You shan’t, my little cuckoo. I want you to have your heart’s desire, whether it be clothing, coops for your hens, or gems to rival the crown jewels. I want to spoil you. I suspect I am the first.”
She shot an alarmed look at Devlin, and then at the dowager, who again appeared to be, not only pleased, but laughing behind her hand, as she did often when Jessica and Devlin had their exchanges.
To the duke’s astonishment, at that precise moment, as he prepared to follow Jessica into the carriage, he experienced another momentary glimpse of light.
He nearly stumbled, so enthralled was he in studying Jessica’s shapely backside. Idly, he considered again the cost of the transparent nightgown. The expense suddenly became of even less significance than it had been before. Devlin smiled as his fickle vision dimmed again.
• • •
Mornings in town, refreshed from nights of sound sleep and the pleasant company of his companions, Devlin’s incidents of sight came more often and his fleeting glimpses more detailed. Yet those opportunities never occurred when he could get a full, unobstructed view of Jessica. One of the few things he did not enjoy about being in town was a young stable boy to whom Jessica took a liking.
With her apparent approval, the boy, with the unlikely name of Latch Key, brought his performances inside where he was heard day and night entertaining cooks and staff in the kitchen with his jokes, juggling, musical ditties, and antics.
Devlin had never liked humor that ridiculed. Although he occasionally overheard Key performing or got reports of his wit, he was not annoye
d enough to act until one afternoon when he heard Jessica’s laughter bubbling forth from the kitchen with others.
Puzzled by a flush of anger he could not define, Devlin could not decide what action would be least misunderstood. Normally, a stable boy’s behavior, even if he enjoyed rousing popularity with the staff, was not enough to merit the duke’s attention. Jessica’s approval presented another element.
Devlin did not deal personally with the estates’ staffs. He left the matter of discipline to Patterson’s impeccable judgment. In this case, Patterson, who often took his lead from Jessica, also seemed to be prey to the boy’s antics.
One morning, as the duke strode into the large solarium downstairs, Latch caught Jessica’s eye, then noiselessly fell into step behind the nobleman, exaggerating his stride, gliding and swaying with the master’s distinctive glide and sway.
Jessica giggled at the boy’s mastery of the duke’s characteristic walk. Devlin stopped abruptly, almost making Latch to run into him, and turned to confront Jessica.
She bowed her head and covered her mouth, but could not muffle the sound of her laughter entirely.
“What are you sniggering about, Nightingale?” Devlin asked, smiling. “What makes you so jubilant this morning?”
“Nothing, Your Grace” she sputtered as Latch threw her a terrified look, before he ran on tiptoe to hide behind the draperies. He slithered through an open window and disappeared.
Devlin peered down as if able to see his own clothing, and smoothed his trousers with both hands. “Have I something amiss? How have I provoked such hilarity?”
She bit her lips to stop the giggling. “You are perfectly turned out, as usual, Your Grace.”
“Why are you addressing me by my title? Are we not alone?”
She froze.
His jaws tightened. “I expect a prompt, civil answer when I ask a question, Jessica. What about me has caused your uncontrollable laughter?”
“It’s your walk, Your Grace.”
“My walk?”