by Rue Allyn
Arm in arm, Lattimore and his mother led the company into the room bright with morning light filtering through leaded windows.
When Patterson returned, however, he looked grim. He stepped close to Devlin and whispered. The duke sobered. He whispered a question or two, and responded. Patterson retreated crisply to the hallway.
“What is it, brother?” Lattimore asked, having released their mother to allow her to welcome with kisses on their jaws the two young men in his company, ones she apparently knew well.
Devlin turned, giving no indication that his vision was impaired. “Are there more in your party than the three of you?”
“At this hour?” Lattimore laughed. “It’s early, brother. Only impudent family or brazen friends come calling this time of day. Why?”
“A boy reported three men followed you here. They seem interested in our garden walls, as if looking for a breach. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”
Lattimore’s two friends sobered as quickly as Devlin had, but his younger brother chuckled. “Devlin, we are not at Gull’s Way. Thieves and villains do not frequent this neighborhood. You are under siege only by these three present, a civilized mob that includes your own, sometimes ill-mannered brother.” His smile faded. “What measures would you take if we were about to be set upon?”
“Bear has been notified.” Devlin’s expression lightened.
Laugh lines appeared again at Lattimore’s mouth and eyes, mirroring his brother’s. “Then we are indeed fortified. I have not seen Bear in years. Does he still have his teeth?”
Devlin’s grin broadened. “Yes, in spite of his advancing age. Years toughen the man’s hide, sharpen his eyes and wits, and improve his skills.”
Obviously the brothers shared regard for the giant they both affectionately called “Bear.” He was another of the enigmas in Devlin’s life that Jessica did not understand. For people like Bear and Lattimore, she supposed she would trust Devlin’s instincts.
“Nightingale,” Devlin said, summoning her with a hand, “come here and greet my brother. He often does not think before he speaks, or consider how his words might be perceived. Don’t stand back, child. Step up here and curtsy.”
Jessica glared suspiciously as Lattimore cut his eyes, arched his brows, and gave her a look a hungry man might give a meat pie.
She dropped a curtsy, tried to smile, and inclined her head, exhibiting all the hospitality she could muster. She gave similar acknowledgments to the other gentlemen when they were introduced, Peter Fry and Marcus Hardwick. There was something familiar about Fry, an overly tall, clumsy man who offered a silly grin. He reminded her of a friendly, overgrown dog. Jessica couldn’t think where she had seen him before, but his buffoon’s behavior did not fit that memory. Certainly he had not worn this ridiculously decorated military uniform. He and Hardwick both, for that matter, appeared to be in costume.
After introductions, Jessica excused herself, saying she needed to return to her duties. In truth, she had no tasks, except packing, of course, but she wanted to allow the family and friends to converse in private. Also, she did not care for Lattimore or his friends whose eyes made sly lascivious sweeps as if visualizing her form beneath her clothing.
When she made her excuse, neither the dowager nor Devlin urged her to stay.
• • •
“How much longer will the wench be with you?” Lattimore spoke with more than his usual indifference.
Devlin did not pretend to disregard the insult implied in the question. He was already put off by Lattie’s undisguised interest. Other conversations in the room stilled as everyone attended the duke’s answer.
“A while. Why do you ask?”
“How long do you expect to need her … ah … services?”
Devlin moved to the tea tray and biscuits Patterson had brought. He poured himself a cup, as if he could see. “Is our reunion limited to an interrogation about my guest, or are we to have personal exchanges? How are you getting on these days?” Devlin took a sip of his tea.
Lattimore laughed congenially, but pressed on. “I understand you know little about her.”
“Enough to trust her with my life.” Devlin dropped his voice. “I was required to do exactly that, you know. She proved reliable when I was my most vulnerable.” After a length of silence, Devlin’s smile dimmed. “Lattimore, Jessica is dear to me … and to our mother. I intend her to live permanently beneath my protection, although I have not yet mentioned that to her. I would like to provide everything she needs or wants, from now on. She has earned all it is in my power to bestow.”
Lattimore glanced at his friends who appeared to be intent on the exchange. “Devlin, I do not believe we have ever before had brigands sizing up the walls.”
Devlin returned his cup to the tea tray. He locked his hands behind his back and assumed a thoughtful frown. “Correct. We have not experienced such a thing, at least not before you and your party arrived. I doubt anyone beyond these walls is overly interested in one insignificant girl. Have you enemies, brother?”
“My poor, deluded duke, if you think your guest an insignificant girl, you have lost your sight, and your sense of touch as well.”
“Be careful, Lattie. Jessica is an innocent and will be treated so by this household and all who enter here.”
Lattimore shot a quick glance at their mother who had settled on a settee near the hearth away from the group. Fry and Hardwick hovered over a decanter, eavesdropping without even pretending to pour the libation.
“How can you know she’s so innocent if you’ve neither seen nor touched her?”
Devlin eased into a chair, leaned back, and propped an ankle on the opposite knee, demonstrating a lack of concern. “I knew more of that child without seeing her, than I have known of ladies I have entertained in my … residences.” Both brothers, one seeing and the other not, cast harried glances their mother’s direction. “I know that she is tall and has rather … ah, well … attractive proportions.”
Lattimore gave a snort. The duke continued, but shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his chair. “She is an honorable, intelligent child, Lattie, even for one so young. She has a marvelous sense of humor and amazing skills with people. She communicates with stable boys and scullery maids as easily as she does with Patterson or the dowager or me.”
“As I asked, how long do you expect to keep her here?”
“For as long as she will stay. How does our arrangement bear on you?”
Lattimore shouted an artificial laugh. “The most outstanding beauties in the court have blossomed beneath your attentions, brother. They grieve at your absence. It has been rumored that even in her raw form, this one may prove the most dazzling of the lot. I suppose it takes more than a blind man to see the potential for trouble in this situation.”
“You are saying you find her comely, then?”
“Surely you already knew that.”
“How could I, sir? As I mentioned, my appraisal is based on regard and camaraderie. Without sight, I adore the cheerful, mischievous imp that she is. Nightingale’s unfailing optimism lifts me to the light even while I endure this abysmal darkness.”
After a moment of silence, Lattimore cleared his throat. “First, Devlin, let me clarify: your Nightingale is not a child. She is a woman, brilliantly made. Her face is a pleasure to look upon and her form willowy and graceful. She walks as if music accompanies her steps.”
Devlin remembered grappling as they struggled through the thicket back to the horse, the intimacy of her rocking between his thighs on the ride to Gull’s Way, and, of course, he savored the memories of the picnic, and of their recent tussle on the library floor.
During the time she had been his guide, his hand on her shoulder, he had been aware of her regal carriage, the swan’s long, graceful neck, her straight, strong shoulders and back providing a live crutch on which he had come to depend. “A woman brilliantly made” sounded right.
Chapter Fourteen
Jessica trudged up the stair
s. She hated leaving Devlin with those men, none of whom were his friends.
She paused, suddenly remembering where she had seen Peter Fry, at least a silhouette of him. He was the man she saw walking with Martha, the maid who died at Gull’s Way.
Jessica realized that she might have seen him even before that; in Welter, with John Lout and his ruffians. A strange coincidence that the man had been in Welter, then at Gull’s Way with Martha, and reappear here as a friend of the duke’s brother. Could he be the nobleman whose baby Martha carried? Might he have murdered Martha to keep his identity a secret? Jessica stopped in the upstairs hallway. Was this Fry a man who could dispatch a lover and his own unborn child with a murderous blow?
Jessica felt new concern for Devlin. Closed in her own room, she paced. She was the duke’s truest friend, and he liked her. She admired the duke as she had never admired any man. She wished him able to see again. To see her, perhaps to enjoy looking at her as she enjoyed looking at him. When his sight was permanently restored, however, she must leave. Wasn’t she even now supposed to be packing the borrowed trunk?
She threw herself across the bed to ponder an old thought. Was this longing she felt, the excitement when he appeared, or when she heard his voice unexpectedly, the heated breaths, the accelerated heartbeat … could the cause of these disruptions be love? The idea was outrageous, of course, but she suspected its truth the moment it first occurred, at Gull’s Way that first day when he lay fighting the fever.
She doubted she was the first scullery maid to fall in love with a nobleman. Her rich imagination ran beyond that, for in her dreams, he returned her love. Devlin’s affection for her more probably resembled what he might feel for a kitten in the barn.
Jessica had considered what it might be like to love a man, yet she was too practical for such frivolous speculation. She might have stayed out of love with the duke, if she had not first fallen for his friend and companion, Sweetness … er … Vindicator. Perhaps she should seek his counsel.
Jessica got up, left her room, marched through the upstairs corridor directly to the kitchen stairs and down, hurrying, on her way to a rendezvous.
Out the back door, she strolled to the paddock, suddenly eager to see her four-legged confidant. When the stallion saw her, he galloped into the lot and charged the fence, then came to a shuddering stop and stood, his eyes rounded, his ears straight up.
“Oh, Sweetness.” Jessica launched herself onto the fence.
• • •
From the solarium, Devlin heard Jessica’s footsteps in the upstairs corridor to her room. He also heard her emerge a short while later. His curiosity piqued when her pace quickened as she neared the back stairs.
As his companions filled his mother with gossip, Devlin stepped to the doorway to listen as Jessica trotted down the kitchen stairs and out.
Where was she going?
Without calling attention to his departure, Devlin stepped into the corridor, and then followed. Through the kitchen he heard the outside door slam. He followed, visualizing the way — three steps down, then the path.
He heard her running. A sniffle, punctuated by an occasional sob drew him further than he intended to go. If she looked behind, might she see him?
He heard a horse’s hooves, then Jessica croon in low, loving tones. He suspected at first she might be meeting a stable boy, until he heard the familiar nickering and snorts.
Her assignation — his rival for her heart — was with Vindicator … or … Sweetness.
Devlin’s flailing hand made contact with a tree, a place to observe without seeing or being seen.
A duke might best a stable boy for a woman’s affection, but could he compete with a horse for a young girl’s love? Devlin bit his lips.
A nobleman should not vie for a scullery maid. If he did, he should have the confidence, the experience, and the God-given gifts to woo and win her.
He recalled a conversation once about how girls adored their fathers first. Some had trouble transferring love for a father to a younger man. The brother of a specific young beauty said his parents facilitated his sister’s transfer of affection by giving her a horse. Her love for the horse served as a bridge enabling her eventually to develop regard for a young man.
Was Nightingale such a woman? She obviously loved Vindicator, but could a man use that to make her a loving, dutiful wife?
Why should he care how she bestowed affection? What did that have to do with him?
He exhaled and his shoulders rounded. Perhaps he esteemed her more than he should. Of course, his interest was probably stimulated by his mother’s regard for Jessica.
As he stood behind the tree, less than an hour after his last glimpses of light, his sight returned, enhanced by the brightness of the noonday. He peered around the broad oak that was his refuge, to see Jessica use a dainty lace kerchief to mop her nose. The fragile swatch was not intended for such practical application. Devlin subdued a laugh.
Smashing the handkerchief to her nose with one hand, Jessica patted Vindicator’s muzzle with the other, her murmurings muffled.
“Oh, Sweetness, whatever shall I do? I was resigned to my fate.” She sniffed and tilted her head, murmuring words Devlin could not hear. Then: “I was glad to have work, even in Maxwell’s scullery.” She tugged her sleeve down to dab her eyes. Devlin smiled again.
He lost her next words, muttered into the sleeve, then picked them up again. “ … different now. In Welter, I do as I am told … well, most of the time I do. Here Lady Anne and Devlin encourage me to think my own thoughts and exercise my own judgment; to proceed boldly.”
The horse whickered as she continued stroking him. “I love who I am here. Oh, Sweetness, the me I was before is gone.” She sniffled again into the flimsy piece of lace. “I must leave, but I cannot abandon Devlin. How could they protect him — his fragile mother and his staff, ignorant of the wiles of people who pretend friendship — maybe his own brother.”
Devlin strained to remain silent as her weeping turned into wrenching sobs. “Sweetness,” her voice quivered, “you are the only one who can share my feelings.” Her voice squeaked. “You have my heart, but he owns my soul. Oh, Sweetness, what am I to do?”
Who was this he to whom she referred? A stable hand? A servant? Devlin ventured another look.
The stallion stretched his neck and lifted his nose high as Jessica sobbed. She threw her arms around the horse’s offered neck and smashed her nose against his silken warmth.
Devlin stepped from behind the tree trunk, wanting to comfort this tender shoot. He might have run forward and scooped her into his arms, but for his capricious eyesight, which chose that moment to desert him once again.
Cursing quietly, he groped back to his place behind the tree and agonized listening to her choking sobs.
The man to whom she had given her heart must be an imbecile. While Devlin did not want her to leave his home or his protection, he wanted to make things right for her, even if it meant losing her.
If John Lout were the man, she would have him. Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay would see to it.
After her comments, it seemed unlikely that Lout inspired this longing.
Lattie? He grimaced. His younger brother was attractive enough, in a sturdy way, but Devlin doubted his brother had captured Jessica in those brief moments of their meeting. Who then?
Peter Fry or Marcus Hardwick? She would hardly be impressed by those ridiculous uniforms designed by the wearers and adorned with those farcical ribbons and medals affixed as decorations. Hardwick might be all right, but Devlin never particularly liked Fry. There was something sinister about the big, lumbering fellow.
There was a breathless quality to her voice when they were introduced. The younger men probably looked dashing, and she was an impressionable country maid. Devlin felt a duty to protect her where they were concerned. Someday she would thank him for not allowing her to throw herself away on either of those fellows. No, neither of them was worthy. Not
of Jessica.
Later, when she was feeling less emotional, Devlin would invite her to discuss her situation. He would console her; encourage her to consider more reliable chaps. An older man might be best for her, one willing to school her patiently in her wifely duties.
Reared in the country, she naturally understood basic reproduction, but the girl appeared naive about the raptures of making love. He would be honored to tutor her on the fine points of physical expression between a man and a woman.
He leaned against the tree. Now where had that come from?
He bore no guilt when the girl wandered into his dreams at night arousing carnal desires, but this waking consideration was unconscionable. In his dreams, when he removed her clothing, one item at a time, he was not accountable. Those dreams likely resulted from his being so closely involved in the purchase of that clothing.
Facing her mornings after such dreams, however, his fingers sometimes twitched with latent urges.
Still pressed against the tree, Devlin realized he had a new problem. He seemed to be as emotionally overwrought as she, without the tears. Unseemly thoughts would vanish when his eyesight returned for good and he could observe her everyday features and expressions.
He smiled, thinking how happy he would be to watch her lips when she spoke, particularly when she was vexed. He would like seeing her laugh, or study her rapt attention to her knitting, or watch intimate conversations like the one she was having with Vindicator.
His desire to see an attractive woman’s face was not the primary reason he wanted his sight restored. He hadn’t thought of seeing the flawless face of Mercedes Benoit, a woman some thought a beauty.
This was the first time he had thought of Mercedes since the note from her a fortnight back. For a time, Mercedes was important in his life. Pressed by his mother to take a wife, he had thought of making Mercedes the mother of the future heir to his title and estates.
Now that thought seemed ludicrous. He had not mentioned it to the dowager. He understood that considering one’s mistress as a wife often displeased one’s mother.