Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  “But, darling, why should she deprive the Benoits? She is the most popular young lady of the coming season. Men flock to her like bees to clover. She is well-spoken and makes a lovely impression, not only on the young men, but on their mothers and fathers as well. She is exquisite on the dance floor, executes the newest steps with a grace I have not seen, even in Vienna.”

  Devlin’s expression darkened, a rare occurrence when he addressed his mother. “She is my responsibility and under my protection, Madam. I do not intend to explain myself to you, to her, or to anyone else on earth, except perhaps the Queen. Jessica is not to attend Benoits and that is final.” He held up a hand signaling he would entertain no further discussion. With that, he turned on his heel and left the two women standing speechless.

  “Well,” the dowager said finally, straightening to her full height and looking both indignant and confounded.

  Jessica’s eyes fairly sparked. “I am under the man’s protection. I am not his bondservant, nor am I an upstairs maid to be ordered about with no civil explanation.” Her piercing eyes, pewter gray and glittering with righteous indignation, met the dowager’s.

  “You and I have accepted the Benoits’ kind invitation and I fully intend to honor that commitment. You do not have to accompany me. If you prefer not to, I shall invite … ” She considered a moment, then continued. “I shall require Mrs. Conifer to attend with me. A duenna is perfectly acceptable as a chaperone, isn’t that correct?”

  The dowager studied her charge. “No, darling, our accepting the invitation is as much my commitment as yours. We are absolutely in the right in the matter. We cannot go about playing willy-nilly with our obligations.”

  Jessica frowned her confusion at the basket of long-stemmed roses. Even the sight and aroma of those did not ease her annoyance. She did not know what in the world had come over Devlin, but ever since he regained his eyesight, his moods had been capricious and increasingly difficult to fathom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Devlin did not join them for their evening meal, nor did he appear in their box at the theater; although, to their mutual astonishment, Lattimore slipped in shortly before the curtain rose.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, sliding into a chair behind them.

  They both greeted him amiably, neither able to imagine what could have induced Lattimore to attend “Romeo and Juliet.” He might be expected to endure one of Shakespeare’s darker dramas, but habitually complained about plays about what he termed “the buffoonery” of romantic love.

  Each time Jessica glanced back, Lattie was scanning the other boxes, as if he were searching for something — or someone. Yet when she looked toward him, he favored her with one of his devastating smiles.

  Escorting them through the crowds after the play, Lattimore chatted companionably. His banter dwindled shortly before he asked, quite nonchalantly, “Will you be attending Benoits Saturday?”

  Jessica looked to the duchess for their response, refocusing Lattie’s attention by indicating his mother should be the one to answer.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Anne said. “Will you be there?”

  He dimpled. “If you and Jessica will be, I wouldn’t deny myself the excitement.”

  “Whatever do you mean by that?” Jessica asked, annoyed by his answer.

  He looked all innocence. “Nothing, my sweet. Nothing at all.”

  “Lattie,” his mother said quietly, “what is all the to-do about Benoits? You seldom show any interest in such galas.”

  “That’s not so, Madam.”

  “Exactly how many balls have you attended this preseason?” his mother pressed, her curiosity piqued.

  He nodded, yielding the point. “None, but I have been remiss, and this one promises more entertaining than the usual.”

  Lady Anne Miracle drew breath as if to pursue her questioning, as two young men crowded close, clearing their throats, almost as one, and addressed the threesome.

  “Good evening,” one began, bowing to the dowager.

  “We would consider it an honor if you two lovely ladies would accompany us to Decatur’s for supper,” the second one said, offering his arm.

  As Lady Anne turned a gracious smile on the pair, sons of one of her dearest friends, she accepted their invitation and the arm. Jessica caught a glimpse of Lattie’s coattails as he melded into the throng of theatergoers.

  • • •

  A scurrilous wind brought the duke’s carriage to the curb to collect him from his club just as the rain began that night. The driver, wrapped tightly in his cloak, bent low against the onslaught. Hurrying to dodge the elements, Devlin leaped into the vehicle and slammed the door, presuming the welcoming torches had been snuffed by the nasty weather.

  He felt unsettled, vexed by an ominous disquiet. He didn’t like having to disappoint his mother and Jessica about their plans for Saturday night, but he was responsible for their safety and was conscious of that. That was probably the cause of his unease.

  If the chit had not challenged him, he might even have provided a reason for his order, but damn it, she needed to trust him to have her best interests at heart and not question his every decision.

  Perhaps the ladies would be about when he arrived home. Why in hell was Latch driving so erratically? And where had Figg got off to on such a night?

  Devlin pulled the leather rain curtain back to peer out.

  This was not the way home. They were racing pell-mell toward the docks. Not a place for either his ducal carriage nor its occupant on this sinister night.

  “Latch,” he shouted, “where in blazes are you going?” The man did not answer. Perhaps the wind had deflected his inquiry. Devlin sat forward on the seat and thrust his head out the window. In doing so, his hand brushed the side of the carriage. Where was the raised ducal crest? He ran his fingers over the side where the crest should be. It was not there.

  This was not his coach, though it was similar. And this driver, pushing his team much too fast over this badly cobbled street, just as obviously was neither Figg nor the lackadaisical Latch.

  Devlin did not delay. When the carriage slowed for an uneven turn, he jumped, shoving the door closed as he flew, the noise of his departure apparently lost in the howls and rumblings of the storm. He stumbled into a shadowy doorway where he paused to brush off his clothing. He watched the carriage careen, continuing its wayward flight.

  The circumstance loomed too peculiar to be chance. Could someone have arranged for him to be spirited away? Who? Who would benefit from his absence, be it temporary or permanent?

  John Lout came to mind, but even if this effort were not beyond Lout’s mental capabilities, which he considered it to be, it likely was beyond his purse.

  Were the thieves who had accosted him on the highway all those weeks ago making another attempt? Perhaps there had been another attempt on him. He dabbed at the place where a shot had grazed his neck. The theory seemed a reach. What could possibly be at stake? He thought of Jessica’s imagined fears and wondered if she had guessed better than he knew.

  These efforts had required prior planning and payments, if he were, in truth, a target.

  The coach clamored to an abrupt stop in the lamplight of a warehouse in the second block down. Two men darted out as the driver leaped from his perch and ran to fling open the coach door.

  Although Devlin could not make out their words, the men all shouted at one another before an overly tall, familiar person emerged from the warehouse. His muffled command silenced the men who followed as he led them back inside the darkened building.

  Devlin pulled his hat down and rolled the collar of his greatcoat up around his face, then hunched his shoulders against the driving wind and rain. So Peter Fry was somehow involved in this little drama. Devlin could think of no reason Fry might wish him ill. Perhaps the man was a hireling. If the evil attempts were not done at Fry’s initiative, the intriguing question was: whose?

  The duke flagged down a commercial carriage when he ha
d had his fill of walking and contemplating. On stepping into the house, he asked Patterson to summon Bear, if the man were in his quarters above the stables.

  “Are my mother and Jessica at home?” he asked the majordomo.

  Patterson smiled. “No, Your Grace. It is common knowledge among the servants in the various households that the Miracle ladies are the most popular in the ton. I expect they will not return until shortly before dawn. And Bear is … away for the evening, Your Grace.”

  “When he arrives, have him come to my study.”

  Bear did not appear until the wee hours of the morning, whereupon, Devlin closed them in the study for a private conversation.

  • • •

  The clock sounded half past three before Devlin dismissed a yawning Bear to seek his bed. The duke doused the lamps and sat alone with a brandy, staring into the fire. He did not reveal his presence below stairs when his mother and Jessica arrived sometime after the clock in the hallway chimed four.

  At sunrise, having decided on a plan of action, the duke freshened himself and his clothing, and left the house long before businesses opened in town.

  • • •

  Lattimore arrived at the house before noon and gave his mother a genuine smile when she invited him to stay for luncheon. Her invitation fit his plans.

  “Jessica,” he said when the younger woman appeared, “I understand you are a horticulturist.” He took her arm as the three of them wandered into the salon, and turned her toward the garden door. “Mother tells me you have particular success with yellow roses. I would like to see them, if you would be so kind.”

  She glanced at Lady Anne who nodded, both ladies inferring the dowager was not included in the invitation. Jessica mimicked the nod and smiled at Lattimore. She thought him pleasant, even handsome, for a man who appeared to lack the character apparent in his brother. “Certainly.”

  Lattimore expressed no interest in the roses or any of Jessica’s other horticultural successes. He seemed instead to be terribly tense. “Darling?”

  Jessica’s startled gaze sought his face when she registered the endearment.

  He regarded her soberly. “Will you marry me?”

  “Certainly not.” She stood, her response as abrupt as his question.

  “I am serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Why would you refuse without giving the question thought?”

  “Because you obviously have not given the question enough thought yourself.”

  “I want to marry you.”

  “Whyever for?”

  He intertwined his fingers, the gesture of a recalcitrant child. “Rumors say the dowager and Devlin are determined to make a match for you.” As Jessica considered how to respond, Lattimore signaled silence. “Allow me to continue, if you please.”

  Jessica bit her lips. Patience was her most pronounced shortcoming and she warred with it in an effort to think before speaking.

  “It would simplify matters,” he said.

  “It would complicate things for me.”

  He continued as if he had not heard. “I have property, although my holdings are not as vast as those belonging to the duke. I am not destitute, and Devlin is generous.” He looked pained at making that admission. “He would never suffer me … us … to live in poverty.”

  He hurried on, not allowing her opportunity to argue. “I have funds put by to purchase a commission in the army. I am twenty-five years old; mature enough to take a wife. The dowager adores you. I am certain she would insist you live with her while I am away on military campaigns. Your life would go along much as it is now. Assuredly you would continue to enjoy the comforts of the ducal estates.”

  She held up a hand indicating she desired a word. “Why would you want to marry me?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I love you?” He raised his eyes to her face, as if curious to see how those words might be received.

  “No.”

  He flashed an admiring glance. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “What makes you think you do?”

  “This is a ridiculous conversation.”

  “At last, a reasonable statement. Your first.”

  Lattie ignored the gibe. “Devlin shows no interest in taking a wife. If he does not produce a legitimate heir, our children — yours and mine — would inherit the title, the estates, and all that goes with it. There is always the possibility of some tragedy befalling Devlin, taking him prematurely, in which case, the title would come to me. Perhaps you find being a duchess compelling.”

  She stared at him. Had Lattimore hired the men who waylaid Devlin on the road? Could a man reared by Lady Anne Miracle sanction such a deed? No. Yet, Lattimore sounded as if he could be jealous of his brother and of the title. She tried to conceal her suspicion.

  “So you plan to force Devlin to support me and any children I might produce while you perform your military duty until either you or our hypothetical offspring inherit his title and property? A convoluted scheme. Surely there are more direct ways to rob your brother of his birthright.” She had not intended to use the word robbed. It just slipped out.

  Lattie’s eyes narrowed. “If you were a man, I would demand satisfaction.”

  “If I were a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  His jaws clenched. “See you no virtue in me at all, Jessica Blair?”

  She did not answer, afraid of what she might reveal either by her words or her usually transparent facial expression. Certainly he had virtues, though she had scarcely looked closely enough to determine what those might be.

  Finally, Lattimore filled the awkward silence with what seemed private musings spoken aloud. “Truth be told, the title was not Devlin’s birthright. It belonged to our brother, Rothchild, the eldest.”

  Was that how a younger son justified hiring men to attack, even murder an older one?

  Lattie looked to the sky, crossing his arms. “What if I told you marrying me would save Devlin’s reputation? Maybe even his life?”

  She inhaled. “What do you mean? What have you done?”

  His fury at her nefarious question made his hands fist and caused sweat to break out at his upper lip. “You have heard the rumors?” he asked quietly.

  “Not rumors, more bits of information pieced together.”

  “There are those who believe I would be more malleable than he; that if they were to provide me the title, I would be grateful enough to squander all that goes with it.”

  “How would our marrying change that?”

  “Those desperate souls, who would rather I bore the title, have heard you hold sway over Devlin, thus, if I controlled you as your husband … ”

  “Who are these desperate souls?”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge that information to you, even if I knew, which I do not. I have only rumors relayed through friends trying to prevent further tragedy in this family.”

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “I would have to hold evidence behind such rumors in my own two hands before I would believe them.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I am not interested in participating in any schemes to dupe the duke.” She swelled to her full height and turned toward the door to the salon. “Unless you produce such evidence or name names, I want no part of any plotting.”

  “Yes, well, I can see my proposal and my best arguments for the proposition have taken you by surprise. I was afraid of that. I even told … ”

  She turned an unbelieving look on him and he flashed a charming, boyish grin. “Let’s say mutual friends verify that you are refreshingly outspoken, which is a reason for my suit. I don’t believe I have ever met a truly honest woman — the dowager, perhaps, being the exception.”

  “Then, it may be time you reevaluated your choice of friends.” She paused to think. “I would appreciate it if you would demonstrate your regard for my honesty with like honesty.”

  “How?”

  “
First, recant. You do not love me.”

  His grin became sheepish. “No. Nor do you love me, which is the way people at our level of society form such liaisons. Among members of the ton, a marriage takes more the form of a political alliance, like a treaty between nations. Sovereigns with like interests band together for mutual benefit, which is precisely what I am proposing you and I do. I see that you admire Devlin. You’ve made that clear. It seems right that he should be a beneficiary of our joining.”

  Jessica shook her head. “Thank you, Lord Miracle, for the truth, although I do not see what benefit I might bring to such a union.”

  “I would at least like to report that you have agreed to think on the idea.”

  “Report to whom?”

  “It is better you not know.”

  She wondered about his character, his ambitions, his opinion of his remaining brother and, mostly, about his friends. Had he chosen them or they him? And to what end?

  Lattimore appeared to take her silence as an affirmative response and looked pleased, until she spoke.

  “No. My answer is and will remain no. I will not make an alliance with you, most certainly not with any of the questionable sorts you represent.”

  His expression soured. “Do not entertain illusions about Devlin, Jessica. Do not mistake his kindness or his generosity. You are attractive. He may dally with you, but a duke does not marry an untitled, undowered girl, no matter how fetching her face or form.”

  She felt the sting of his words, but the implication was a new thought to her. “No, I don’t suppose he does. Nor would this untitled, undowered woman consider marrying him, a possibility you failed to factor into your hypothesis.”

  Again, she turned to leave. Lattie quietly intoned one word. “Wait.” She hesitated. “What about the danger to Devlin? As I said, a sacrifice on your part might protect him from attacks on him and, quite literally, save his life?”

  “I think you are gulling me, or your friends are, through you, preying on what you hope are my tender feelings for your brother.”

  Tired of the exchanges, she brushed by Lattimore, hurried through the salon, down the corridor, and up the stairs. She asked that a luncheon tray be brought to her room rather than enduring any more of Lattie’s company.