by Rue Allyn
“What has happened? Any of you! Someone speak up.”
The stable boy swallowed a lump in his throat, ducked low and scurried into the room. He skidded on his knees to a stop near the fallen Jessica.
“You dropped ’er like a rock, Yer Grace,” the boy said, admiration evident in his tone. “She’s down.”
“And out,” a female voice volunteered.
Hearing soft groans, Devlin stopped flailing and shouted to the room at large. “Where is she?”
“Down here, Yer Grace. At yer feet. Watch now, if ye don’t intend trampling ’er to finish ’er off.”
Jessica groaned. Devlin tossed his foil, which skidded over the floor as he dropped to his hands and knees. His concern for appearances forgotten, he crawled, closing on those pitiful sounds. In a moment, his groping hands caught one of hers. He clasped the captive wrist and felt for a pulse. It seemed slow and even compared to the pounding of his own. Her groans and her breathing sounded muffled.
The mask. He pulled closer to her and fumbled with the ties securing the mask against her face. After some blundering and fending off the assistance of other hands, he freed the safeguard and tossed it aside.
He ran his fingers over her thick, coiling hair, searching frantically for the sticky ooze of blood.
“Patterson, tell me, have I killed her? Is she bleeding? Speak up, man. I command you to tell me: how serious are her injuries?”
The majordomo hurried back into the ballroom, a wet towel dripping in his hands. “You thumped her nob with rather more energy than was altogether necessary, I should say, Your Grace.”
“What?”
“Your playful tap knocked her unconscious, but there is no open abrasion.”
Devlin pulled on her captive arm and lifted her body to wrap his arms around her, enveloping protective breastplates — his and hers — as well. He lifted, braced her against his leg and began fumbling with the ties at her back.
“Quickly, someone, help me get this thing off her so she can breathe.”
With Patterson’s help, Devlin grappled with the laces, but each man seemed only to cancel the progress of the other. Yielding, Patterson unfastened the duke’s protective shield.
Jessica mumbled. Unable to understand her words, Devlin stopped struggling with the laces to listen.
“What? What is it, Nightingale?” Straining to hear, he bent close. Again unexpectedly, vision returned to allow another startling glimpse of things directly in front him. She was there, vivid, directly in his line of sight.
He saw her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, the milky white flesh, dark curls coiling around her flushed face.
“Lord God,” he whispered reverently as sight continued, allowing him to study his protégé, to assess each delicate feature. In her unconscious state, she was beautiful beyond anything he had imagined. A perfectly formed young woman. Her features flawless.
“Don’t be alarmed, Your Grace,” Patterson whispered, patting the man’s shoulder. “I don’t believe she is badly hurt, only fainted away a little.”
Without opening her eyes, Jessica raised an unsteady hand to the knot on the top of her head, touched it and whimpered.
Devlin’s mercurial vision faded, then heightened, allowing him to view her porcelain-like arm, the long, delicate hand and fingers that swept up to hide her face. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the slender column of her throat. Surely she was, in truth, too young, too innocent to be aware of the stirrings she aroused in him in those brief, tender moments.
As he nudged her hand away from her exquisite face, sight again abandoned him. He groaned. He wanted to feast his eyes upon that face, but fate gave him no choice as the familiar darkness enshrouded him. He would have to be patient again, and remain in her vicinity until the next opportunity. He resumed groping for the chest protector which Patterson had partially removed.
Devlin shifted to lay her over his arm and turn her, giving him access to the last tie, freeing her. As he lifted the shield, her breasts, confined in a chemise and a man’s shirt buttoned to her throat, exploded into his hands.
Her moan and his groan came simultaneously. He recognized immediately the supple heft of a womanly breast, covered, but easily identified by a man with some experience with women. Such an abundant breast felt out of place on someone with her delicate anatomy.
He let his hand span the middle of her, a thumb on one set of ribs, fingers at the other. Cautiously, he slid the hand toward her throat, verifying.
“Here, gov’ner, let me help you with that.” The stable boy’s voice warbled with excitement.
“Away!” Devlin shouted. “Go for help. Have them summon the physician, and the dowager duchess. Move, imbecile, or I’ll have you quartered for the spit.”
The boy jumped and ran, leaving Patterson, who had shooed the rest of the observers back into the hallway, to deal with the duke. At Devlin’s ear, Patterson spoke quietly. “She is breathing normally, Your Grace.”
Devlin wondered if the old servant had witnessed his fondling and hoped if he had, he believed the breach inadvertent.
“Yes, I can tell she is.” He was unable to keep from again brushing a wandering hand over those full, perfect breasts to confirm his discovery.
• • •
Rousing, Jessica blinked. All she could see was a fair haze. Reaching, she laced her fingers into the tangled mass of Devlin’s hair. He cursed and she yelped before she realized his head was that close, blocking her view of anything else.
“Jessica?”
She groaned and, at the same time, redirected her wandering fingers to probe gently at the knot on her crown. “Ouch.”
“Is she bleeding?” he asked the room at large, as he threaded his fingers into her hair tangling with combs and pins.
“Stop that, barbarian. You are hurting me.”
He froze.
Jessica wriggled free of his arms and rolled onto her hands and knees. She railed against his offered assistance and protested as he stood and lifted her, with surprising ease, to set her on her feet.
She sputtered apologies, which sounded as if she were embarrassed. He hoped her discomfort was caused by the event and not her realization that he had touched her inappropriately.
“Darling pet,” he crooned, smoothing her hair from her face and caressing her shoulders. In spite of his renewed honorable intentions, he could not forget the feel of those firm round breasts that so perfectly fit his hand. He wanted to touch her again, but knew witnesses in the room, the hallway and, yes, throughout the household, already had grist for gossip regarding the incidental encounters between his hands and her form. Part of what he felt might be guilt, rather than lust, he supposed. He had injured her. That was a bitter dose for any man protecting a delicate flower like Jessica.
Odessa’s voice commanded the room as the housekeeper swooped upon them like an avenging angel.
“Away. Get away from her. All of you.” In her distress, the woman gave no quarter to anyone, titled or otherwise.
Devlin shuffled back, out of the way of the overwrought housekeeper.
• • •
When Jessica appeared in Devlin’s study late in the afternoon, she found him gazing out the window. Although her skirts swished, she cleared her throat to announce her presence.
“Nightingale, how are you feeling?” he said, turning his chair to face her.
“I am fine, Your Grace. I apologize for my behavior and manners earlier — and for Odessa’s as well. Can you see right now?”
“No, but I’ve had sight several times today. Thank you for asking.” He heard her clothing rasp and assumed she had raised a hand to her poor injured head. “You showed admirable restraint in not pummeling me when you roused after my unconscionable behavior.” He struggled to control his mingled relief, guilt, and good humor at having her up and seeking him out. “As to your apology, it is I who should beg forgiveness for thumping you. It was not a malicious blow. I misjudged your height.”
> “Are you saying I was partially at fault for being taller than I ought to be?”
He smiled dutifully at the self-effacing humor in her voice.
“My height is a fact you have mentioned on more than one occasion, Your Grace. You might have allowed for it.”
His good humor increased as he pushed back from the desk, but remained seated. “Would you care to sit in my lap, my offended pet, and allow me to console you?”
“Console me?” She lowered her voice, “or fondle me, Your Grace?”
He held a roguish smile in check. When she did not pursue the subject, he couldn’t tell if her reticence was modesty or uncertainty. As dizzy and disoriented as she had been, perhaps she had not realized how his touching her had come about.
Her nervous laugh prompted a new grin. Obviously she was sufficiently recovered not to need pampering. He expected offering his lap to prick her pride and set her on the attack. Still, he would have enjoyed holding her, if she needed or wanted his attention.
“Is the hunting party returned?” she asked, referring to the young gentlemen who had gone visiting, scheduling themselves at the homes of what Devlin described as vapid, wealthy, young women — potential heiresses.
“Lattimore and Hardwick are entertaining Mother in the music room. Mr. Fry is, I believe, in the library. Would you like to join them? Mother probably would enjoy some whist. She is a wicked player. They need a fourth.”
Fry was in the library alone. This might be her opportunity to confront him and perhaps judge his unguarded reactions.
“I might take a moment to see what Mr. Fry has found to read and ask if he cares to join the others at cards. If not, then I will be glad to.”
• • •
“I remembered you,” Jessica said, opening her conversation with Fry rather brusquely.
Lounging on a sofa, Fry did not stand, demonstrating his lack of regard. “I wondered if you did. From Welter, was it?”
She advanced into the room. She intentionally left the door to the hallway ajar as an escape path. “Gull’s Way, as well.”
“Oh?” He did not appear concerned. Did he mean to imply she had not seen him at Gull’s Way or did he think her notice of little importance? Was his lack of interest pretense, or did he not realize he had been seen with Martha? Or was she mistaken and he had not been Martha’s shadowy visitor? She needed to press, even if it risked arousing his annoyance.
“Tell me — ” she was pleased that her voice did not tremble with her distress, “ — were you one of the brigands who waylaid the duke on the highway?” She retreated a step as he straightened to stare at her. “Are you thinking to finish the evil deed here because the duke is blind and you consider him as vulnerable as a lone man set upon by a mob of thieves?” She glanced around to judge the distance to the open door. “If so, you are wrong again. The duke is not defenseless here. If you attempt another attack on him, I shall tell about you and your associates in Welter.”
Moving more agilely than she anticipated he could, Fry threw his book and stood. His long legs consumed the distance between them. Jessica’s quick response stopped him when he realized she could reach the door before he could reach her.
“What do you know of my associates?” he hissed.
Jessica saw fury in his distorted expression, but she met and defied his gaze. “You recruit ne’er-do-wells to waylay travelers and lighten their purses to line your own.”
His jaws clenched.
Surely an innocent man would react with indignation and sharp denials. She waited.
“Do you have proof of these accusations?” he asked, casually shifting his gaze to the book he had tossed.
“If I had, you would be lounging in gaol rather than enjoying the hospitality of a nobleman’s home.”
At his next look, every nerve in Jessica’s body sang an alarm. He studied her a long moment, gathering himself before he hurdled the divan, his ham-like fists swinging but catching only air. His landing shook the room. Close up, the man was enormous. Was he thinking to kill or maim her right here in the Miracles’ home, in their library, mere yards from the family?
Alerted by his fury, Jessica was ready and skittered back, staying well beyond his reach before she turned and bolted through the open library door.
Fry grappled for her as he fell. His size threw him off balance. She shot into the hallway several seconds before he could block her escape.
She fairly flew to the music room seeking the safety of company. As she ran, Jessica entertained ghastly thoughts. If Fry were a friend of Lattimore’s and of noble blood, his word would be considered more reliable than hers. She needed evidence to accuse him. Further, as flustered as she was, the others might think her hysterical, yet, it seemed certain that the big, bumbling man was responsible for recent attacks on lone travelers near Welter, including the attack on Devlin, and for the murder of Martha the chambermaid, and her unborn child.
Jessica slipped into the music room without drawing notice. Fry followed immediately behind her, casting ominous looks she took as threats.
Was Fry the instigator of the attacks or did he take orders from someone else? Someone who did not care to participate in the assaults? Did Fry rob and murder to prevent witnesses? Certainly, the man’s size would be easy for victims to describe and identify should they see him again.
Did his gang rob any wayfarer, or were they specifically sent to attack Devlin? Murder him? Thinking, she did not return the looks of any in the room, certainly not Fry’s dark leer.
If Devlin had died that night by the side of the road, Lattimore would have inherited the title and the ducal holdings. Taking speculation another step further: had Fry allied himself with brigands like John Lout, or was he an agent, one who would benefit from Devlin’s demise? Could Lattimore Miracle be the mastermind behind the assault? Might Hardwick also be involved in the evil activities?
Jessica glanced at Devlin’s too-handsome brother. She did not want to think Lattimore wished the duke ill, yet once the thought occurred, it seated itself firmly.
It was only wild conjecture, yet Jessica felt an urgent need to confide in someone. But who? With nothing but unsubstantiated accusations, how could a scullery maid lodge charges against members of titled families?
On the other hand, what if she didn’t speak out and Fry were here, welcomed into the bosom of the family, to finish the deed? How could she protect Devlin by herself?
She couldn’t. She needed an ally. A strong one. Her closest friends and confidantes were Lady Anne and Devlin. If she could not speak of her suspicions to them, then who?
• • •
Both Jessica and Devlin were pensive through the evening meal. Fry’s glower continually directed at Jessica got no response.
As they finished eating, Hardwick was telling a long, involved account of an adventure in Scotland, when Devlin interrupted to excuse himself, saying he had business to consider.
Jessica watched him climb the stairs. Almost immediately, Henry scurried from the duke’s chamber, having obviously been dismissed.
Staring at the stairway after Devlin disappeared, the dowager quietly — speaking beneath Hardwick’s narrative — suggested she and Jessica retire to “sit by the fire” in Lady Anne’s chamber and “leave the men to their stories and their brandies.”
As she had conscientiously ignored Fry’s ruthless squints and thinly veiled verbal threats, which had become less and less subtle through the meal, Jessica was happy to leave. While she was not concerned about Fry for herself, she felt restless about Devlin’s safety.
Disregarding Fry, Jessica nodded at the dowager’s suggestion, stood, and left the room without excuses or wishing good evening to the others.
Although Jessica and the dowager each took needlework, neither seemed inclined to it.
“I don’t like Devlin’s sudden dark mood,” Lady Anne said. “I’m surprised. I expected Lattimore and the others to lift his spirits, not send him plunging back to the depths.” Sh
e held quiet for a moment or two. “Jessica, do you think the change in his mood signals a relapse?” She slanted a glance at the younger woman. “I thought we were beyond that. If it hadn’t been for you, my dear, he would not have managed as well as he has until now. You perform a vital service in this household, dearest.” When her companion did not respond, Lady Anne tried again. “Do you think we came to town too soon?”
Jessica laid her handwork aside. “May I be excused, Your Grace?”
“Certainly my dear. Do you have a headache?”
“No, Your Grace.” Without further explanation, Jessica rose and walked listlessly to her quarters directly across the hallway.
Lady Anne was curious about the behavior of both of her usually vibrant companions. Questions begged answers. She did not like to interfere in the relationships of others. This was neither her business nor her responsibility.
If not hers, then whose? Thinking her way to a conclusion, she set aside her knitting and, whipping her mind to resolute, walked to Devlin’s rooms.
He did not respond to her light knock until she identified herself. After another moment’s delay, he called for her to enter.
He stood in the center of the room, his hands fisted behind his back as if he had been pacing. The dowager duchess studied her son’s expression and wondered at the tension in his stance as she entered and closed the door quietly behind her.
“Jessica has gone to her rooms. I suppose we all need rest.” She advanced the innocuous salvo as a peace offering.
“I see.” He scowled at the rug as if entertaining troubling thoughts. “Lattie’s arrival changes things.”
The dowager’s concern deepened. “Oh, darling, they are just here for a couple of nights, to check on us and as a respite from living at their club.”
“And to inspect Jessica.”
“It is quite natural for Lattie to be curious about a person we have taken into our home and our hearts. Perhaps he was concerned she might be a different sort, cunning or someone with evil intentions.”
“Do you think he believes neither you nor I would recognize evil intent? We would need the baby to rescue us?” Devlin grimaced. “Don’t be ridiculous, madam.”