by Sharon Page
Suddenly he wondered: Would he know her?
He would. He had seen her face for only minutes, but the wide eyes, lush mouth, and delicate oval face were burned on his brain. At every posting inn on the way here, he’d given her description. Two miles outside London he finally found a man who had seen her. A groom had witnessed her fighting off the advances of a drunken gentleman. Devon’s heart had gone ice cold, until the groom told him she had driven her knee between her would-be attacker’s legs. The man had dropped to the ground, and Anne had escaped.
Devon found one of the shipping offices, gave Anne’s description, and asked if such a woman had bought a ticket. The young clerk shook his head.
He tried several more, with no success. He stood on one of the docks, watching sailors carry barrels up the gangplank to the hold. Perhaps she had bought her passage privately. After all, what captain would refuse her?
Where would Anne want to go—where would she flee to spend the rest of her life? He had no idea. That was the problem. He knew very little about Cerise, the courtesan who had been his mistress, and he knew nothing about Anne Beddington. How much of Cerise had been an act? He believed her strength, her determination, the stories she told about her past—about walking in the rain with her grandfather and reading him books—those were part of the real Anne.
Still, he knew nothing that gave him a clue to what kind of escape she would seek. The warm breezes of the West Indies? Exotic India? Opportunity in America?
Grimly, he began to search the taverns. In a low-ceilinged place called the Anchor, he found a captain of a ship scheduled to leave on the tide the next day. The captain was blond and grizzled, with the hard eyes of a man who drank to quell devils. “A female passenger?” he mused. “I might have taken payment from a fetching lass in exchange for passage to Bombay. But my memory’s foggy. I need a drink to clear it.”
Hell, Devon could imagine why this man would have sold a passage to Anne. One look and the captain would have been salivating.
A bosomy barmaid gave a sarcastic laugh. “Aye, that’ll help you, Rogers.”
Devon bought the man a tankard of ale, but he gripped the man’s wrist before he could take a drink. “Answer my question and you can have your drink in peace. The woman I’m looking for is slender, with red hair and green eyes. She is about two-and-twenty years of age.”
The captain frowned at his captured arm. “My lass meets the description. Except her hair was dark—black ringlets. She wore a hooded cloak, but I caught a glimpse of her hair. I’m looking forward to getting a peek at the rest of her—”
Devon’s blow connected with the man’s jaw. The captain jerked back for one brief instant, then slumped sideways and slithered from the taproom bench to the sticky floor. Devon set down the tankard he’d rescued.
Anne had red hair. But then, the color of a woman’s hair could be changed. Easily done with a wig or dye. This had to be Anne. Good thing he had found out when the ship was sailing before he’d questioned the man about her, because it would be a while before Rogers came to.
First he had to go home. Then he would hunt again for Anne. He would either track her down tonight or catch her here tomorrow before she got on the ship.
“Mother, come here! Devon is riding up the drive. He’s home!”
The feminine shout sent Devon hurtling back to the days when he would arrive home and his four sisters’ arguments could be heard before his carriage stopped.
His heart lurched, and he reined in his horse on the strip of gravel that swept in front of March House. As he dismounted, footmen cheered around him. He hadn’t been here since he left for war—the greeting was in celebration of his reputation as a war hero, a title he didn’t want and didn’t deserve.
“Devon! Devon! Thank heaven you’re home! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming!”
In an explosion of shouting and squealing, two of his sisters rushed down the steps toward him. It was Lizzie and Win, both unmarried and still at home. Tears spilled to their cheeks, tears that wrapped around his heart and tried to crush it. Lizzie, dark curls bouncing, rocketed into him as Caro had just days before. Lizzie had been even more of a hoyden than Caro was. She never would have worn such an elegant—and low-cut—gown.
Win danced around him, her blue eyes shining. The last time he’d seen Win, her hair was in braids—not pinned up in this gleaming golden design of curls.
“You look … exactly like you always did, Devon!” Lizzie cried.
Win wiped at her eyes. “We were afraid. So afraid you’d never come home,” she whispered.
He had to admit his own eyes burned. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” Lizzie moved back and Win hugged him. Her arms slid around his neck. She smelled of violets. She had been sickly when young and had always been delicate. “Win, you shouldn’t be running full tilt at me,” he admonished, his heart aching. “And, Lizzie—you’ve grown so much.”
Lizzie let out a high-pitched squeal. “You can see! You can, can’t you?”
“It’s true, Lizard,” he said teasingly. “My sight came back to me.”
Win embraced him tightly. “Thank heaven,” she breathed. “Of course, that means Mama will be ensuring you are hastily wed, Devon. She will refuse to wait any longer for you to give her grandchildren.”
“Regaining my eyesight was a miracle,” he said lightly. “But I can’t produce a baby for her instantaneously, I’m afraid.”
Lizzie’s eyes, bright as lilacs, flashed wickedly. “She believes she can find a wife for you instantaneously. The ton is here for the end of parliament, before leaving for hunting. You are to be dragged to all the balls, musicales, and fashionable parades through Hyde Park. The matchmaking is about to begin.”
The young maid bobbed a swift, respectful curtsy. “Her Grace is in the nursery, Your Grace. Lord and Lady Cavendish have come and brought wee Lord Peregrine.”
Devon gave the servant a nod. Then he took the stairs two at time. After three years, it was time to see his mother and face the consequences for not coming home. If she despised him, he deserved it. Anne had been correct, of course. He should have come home.
His mother’s perfume, along with the strong scents of a nursery in use, reached him at the top of the attic stairs. When he was young, he had been in awe of his mother. To him, she shone like the sun; she’d been as dazzling, as warming, as blinding. With her lovely voice, her tempered and controlled emotions, her famous wit, she had always been every inch a duchess. She and his father had been a love match.
He stood in the doorway. His mother held a bundle of white blankets in her arms. She sat on a window seat, her sky-blue silk skirts spreading around her like a pool. Sunlight touched her blond hair, revealing a large amount of gray. He drank in all the color surrounding her. Pain, regret, hit him like a blow to the chest. She looked so content, so quiet, he was tempted to turn and leave her alone.
“Devon, I know you are there,” she said, softly but firmly. “You cannot sneak away.”
He stepped into the room, cheeks hot, certain he looked sheepish.
Deep lines crossed his mother’s forehead and framed her mouth. Three years had gone by, but he’d apparently aged her by ten. In her arms, his cherub of a nephew, Peregrine, slept.
Anne had told him his mother’s last letter was stained with tears. Given that he had gone to war despite his family’s disapproval, he hadn’t been sure whether he’d be welcomed back. Blindness had given him an excuse not to find out. He moved to his mother’s side, dropped to one knee, and gently stroked his nephew’s little arms through the blanket. His mother’s blue eyes glowed with delight as she smiled down at her grandson.
“Is it true, Devon? Obviously it is. You’ve regained your sight.”
He focused acutely on her voice—on its melodious rhythm, on the slight hesitation, the sadness. He heard things beyond the words that he never would have before. Anne had been right. His mother was trying to hide a great deal of fear and pain, and he now knew it. �
��I’m sorry—”
“For what?”
“A boatload of things,” he admitted. “Sorry for not coming home. For making you worry. For putting myself in harm’s way in battle. I’m sorry for putting you and Father through fear and pain. I’m sorry I pursued Rosalind and caused a scandal when Father told me to let her go.”
“Are you sorry you went to war?”
At that, he had to shake his head. Which seemed insane. Why wouldn’t he have preferred to stay in England, to never know what it was like to watch thousands of men die in mere hours, never lose his sight, never make choices that led to men’s deaths and left women widowed and children fatherless? “It was my duty, as much as it was the duty of any man who was there, to fight for my country. I’ve got so much grief and so many regrets about war, I can’t even begin to untangle them. But I had to go.”
His mother stood, cradling the baby’s head to her shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “I am so glad to have you back s-safe.” Two tears leapt from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
He’d never seen his mother cry. Duchesses were always strong, his mother used to say. If a duchess let herself cry, a whole family could unravel.
Devon wrapped his arms around her, careful not to disturb his slumbering nephew. For the first time in Devon’s life, his mother pressed her forehead to his chest and cried. His hands stroked her back awkwardly, but he soothed her and promised he was going to be safe now.
Except that was a lie—because, to save Anne, he was going to have to hunt down a killer and risk another scandal.
His mother lifted her head. A smile lifted her lips. “Now I am sorry. You have come home, and you should be greeted with smiles, not weeping. You’ve been through so much.”
“So have you. I left and then you lost Father.” He wasn’t certain if he should speak of it now but it had been more than a year. “If it’s not too difficult for you to talk about,” he said softly, “I’d like to know how he died.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t really know, Devon. William was found in his study, by one of the footmen. At first, the poor servant thought your father was sleeping in his chair. Finally he summoned the courage to shake William, but your father did not awaken. It appears his heart gave out. I like to think he simply closed his eyes for a nap and did not wake up.”
She wore a sad smile, but she appeared to be strong. Stronger now than when she’d cried over him.
“How did you cope with it?” he asked. “You loved him so much. When Rosalind died, I thought I would go out of my mind. I couldn’t see how I would ever stop grieving.” He looked around the nursery. Five small beds were arranged in neat lines along the walls. He remembered playing with his father up here. His father had seemed so huge but had sat down in a child’s chair and helped him build castles from blocks. Impossible to think the man who had shaped so much of his life—with kindness, lectures, and battles involving shouting and stomping on his part—could now be gone.
“It hurts. I suspect it always will, Devon. That’s why it is so important to seek out love, to celebrate happiness, to find joy.” She smiled down at the baby.
“Blissful thing,” he said quietly. “Tearful only when he isn’t fed right away.” The lad’s mouth worked, as though the little one had heard him and was now dreaming of his milk.
“The birth of Caroline’s baby has been such a wonderfully happy event,” his mother said. “It has brightened all our lives and done much to push aside sorrow and worry.”
Sorrow and worry he had caused.
“I want our family to know more happiness.” She sounded decisive. “There are many blessed events to come. Charlotte will have her baby before Christmas—perhaps she might even have twins again. I am determined to see Win and Elizabeth married next season. And as for you—”
He held up his hands, but she went on. “You deserve the happiness of marriage, Devon, and the joy of having a family. This will be my campaign—to find you a bride, to watch you fall in love. I want to see you happy.”
He hadn’t been happy for a long time, until Anne had come into his life. Would he have been as happy to see Caroline, to see his brand-new nephew, if Anne had not worked so hard to help him cope, if she hadn’t lightened his heart? He owed her so much. And the only way he could repay her was to make her safe.
His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. “… very eligible ladies,” she was saying. “After we celebrated peace in June, once it was known that you would be coming home, there were several young ladies who decided not to accept offers of marriage.”
“Even though I was blind?” he asked wryly.
She hesitated. “That was not known at first. And now, of course, it is not an issue.”
He shook his head. “I’ve changed, Mother. I don’t know if I can marry a delicate young lady. I have nightmares and fight and shout in my sleep. I’m not as bad as I was, but I would terrify a gently bred girl. Besides, I thought you wanted us all to marry for love, not duty.”
“Of course I do. I firmly believe in love! I believe you shall find it without any difficulty. And I know exactly the place to begin. The Duchess of Richmond is holding a ball—”
A ball. Three years ago he had looked across a crowded ballroom and seen Rosalind, and after that it was as if the rest of the room had vanished into darkness. All sound had turned into a roar, and he’d stalked across the dance floor toward her, not even noticing who had collided with him and who had stepped hastily out of his way. “I’m not going to fall in love across a ballroom floor again,” he murmured.
His mother lifted a brow and he tried to explain. “Father described falling in love as the moment when a man is standing there, minding his own business, and suddenly she—the woman who is going to be the most important person in his life—smiles at him and changes his world forever. It’s not going to happen again.”
“Of course not. I might believe in love, but not at first sight.”
Devon felt himself rock back on his heels. “What about Father?”
“I didn’t fall in love with your father the first time I saw him. In fact, he did not impress me at all. But he was persistent, and I soon came to appreciate how he was different from any other gentleman I’d met. He fascinated me and, little by little, I fell in love.”
Little by little. “If it wasn’t a consuming passion, how did you recognize it for love?”
A small smile curved her lips, as though memories of her love with his father had instantly summoned happiness. “In many ways. Ones that creep up on you until one day you realize you smile each time you see your beloved, until you cannot imagine waking up without him, until you cannot imagine a life without him.”
“I don’t know if I would be ready to fall in love again. It hurt like the blazes the first time.” But even as he said it, Devon knew it was a stupid thing to say to his mother. She had lost the grand love of her life, yet she’d survived the pain, the grief. What was it about women that made them so strong?
“That does not mean it also will the second time.”
“Maybe. But I’m not going to a ball. I have a list of people to find now that I’m in London. Now that I can see.”
“People to find?” His mother echoed. “What do you mean?”
He told her. Of the missing wife and child of Captain Tanner, the man he had not been able to save. “I hired an investigator to find them. I haven’t had a report for two weeks. I need to know what is happening. Also, I need to search for my mistress.”
“Mistress?” With a cautious eye on her grandson, his mother swept across the room to a cradle. She laid down the baby and tucked a blanket around him.
Then she surprised him, fiddling with the lace-trimmed neckline of her gown like an awkward girl. Finally she took a deep breath, as though gathering courage. “Caroline told me about the rather unorthodox circumstances of my grandson’s birth. She told me your mistress helped her before and during the labor. She also admitted she asked your courtesan for advice o
n how to entice her husband.…” His mother blushed crimson.
Devon took a step back. Caro had told their mother about that? God, had she given details of what Anne said? No, he didn’t want to know. He did not want to have that discussion.
He had the suspicion his mother felt the same way. She walked to the window that looked out over the rear garden. “Caro spoke very warmly of your ladybird, Devon. She claimed the woman is her friend and that this was the woman who wrote a letter to me. Your mistress wrote to me because you would not do it! I have to admit I was scandalized.”
He planned to apologize, but different words came out of his mouth. “Don’t be. My mistress was once a lady—a viscount’s daughter. She is the most remarkable, courageous woman I have ever met. Now I need to leave and find her. She has been wrongfully accused of murder.”
Being able to read again—it was glorious. In the library, Devon drew out a large, leather-bound book: Debrett’s Peerage. He flipped the pages to find the entry on Anne Beddington’s family. Damn, it was good to be able to do this with his own eyes. But he had to admit: If Anne read the Peerage in her lovely voice, she could make even these dry facts sound erotic.
He ran his finger down until he saw it. The title of Viscount Norbrook had been created in the early 1700s, and he traced the list until he got to Anne’s father. Fourth Viscount Norbrook, b. 1768, d. 1808, m. Millicent Mariah de Mournay, 1789. Children—Anne Mariah, b. 1793.
At Anne’s name, his hand stilled but his heart leapt into action, beating hard. When had his heart slammed into his chest like this, other than when there was danger and risk? The only times he could remember involved Rosalind. The first time Lady Rosalind had shyly caught his eye and smiled at him. The first time he had touched her hand. Their first kiss. He had been sexually experienced since the age of fifteen, but Rosalind’s very smile had made his heart pound harder than any other woman ever had. Now just seeing Anne’s name had his heart thundering.
He stared again at the entry. De Mournay was the family name of the Marquis of Wrothshire. Had Anne’s mother been related to a marquis? Anne should never have ended up in the slums. The address given for the current viscount, Anne’s blackguard cousin, was Brook Street.