by JayneFresina
Now it was his job to follow her.
And Pip, who generally had opinions about everything, had no idea how she felt about that.
Chapter Eight
"Do sit still, Pip! I can't get your nose at all if you keep fidgeting! Now your face looks like a sundial with too many shadows! The Dangerous Mr. Deverell was right when he said your beauty could not be captured."
"For pity's sake he said nothing of the sort. How many times must I hear this misrepresentation of what that damn lawyer had to say? It's not as if he said much at all, but for some reason you've all chosen that one sentence and utterly twisted it around."
"Don't say damn!" Serenity muttered, barely moving her own lips.
"Sometimes it's the only word that will suffice." She winced. "Oh, now I have an itch." One shoulder to the window frame, she rubbed herself up and down, while both sisters exclaimed in frustration at her inability to be still. "You cannot expect me not to itch," she complained. "It is inhumane. I have no command over my itching. Believe me, I wish I did."
"You probably caught fleas from that wretched mutt you were playing with in the street yesterday. I told you to leave it alone."
Pip was sorely tempted to reply that befriending a stray mutt with fleas was probably safer than encouraging the likes of painfully dull Edwyn Mortmain, but she bit her tongue. Part of her hoped that if she said nothing at all about that man, Serenity might eventually grow bored with him— as she once would of a toy in which Pip showed no interest.
Her father would be pleased, she mused, to see how his troubling middle daughter finally learned how to hide her thoughts from the enemy. Well, most of the time.
"Pip has no more ability to sit still and be elegant, even for five minutes, than she does to hold her tongue for that long," exclaimed Serenity, who posed beside her on the window seat, fingers plucking at the frothy petals of a peony. "I declare a child of three is less of a fidget." This too, of course, was meant to goad her into an argument. On rainy days, when they were shut indoors with no visitors, the need to poke at each other was worse than ever.
But instead of rise to the bait, Pip carefully agreed with this assessment. "It is true I cannot sit with no occupation for this long. I cannot help but think there are so many other things I ought to be doing."
The rattle of rain against the window and the soft tick of the mantle clock only made it worse for her, a spiteful reminder of time passing and all the things she wanted to achieve with her life. After all, one never knew how much time one had. Their own mother had died young and although the Pipers were a healthy lot— even robustly so— they were prone to suffering tragic accidents. Perhaps due to that same restless, adventurous nature that would not let her sit still.
Family history warned her that there was no telling when one might be run over in the street by rampaging bulls, sucked into quicksand, drowned in a flood, struck by lightning, carried off by a tornado and never found again except for a shoe, be set light to by an errant spark, or blown up in the privy by an explosive combination of heat and gases.
Life was unpredictable and calamitous.
Yet here she was, obliged to be still and have her unsightly features set down for the future amusement of great nieces and nephews. All the excitement, it seemed, was happening to other people elsewhere.
But just as she lamented the tedium of her life in eternally damp exile, the drawing room door flew open and their aunt dashed in, flustered and flapping her silk clad arms as if they were wings.
"Lord Boxall has sent you a present, Epiphany, ma cher! Could it be his apology for missing the ball last Tuesday? There is hope for you then, after all!"
Pip took the package warily, opened it and read the note inside.
Despite the wisdom of your warning, madam, I fell.
At once she remembered her caution to Deverell: May you not fall down any mine shafts as you stumble through life with those uncaring big feet.
The replacement shawl was very beautiful, with embroidered peacock feathers against a stunning azure background. Miracle of miracles; the arrogant bastard did have a conscience after all. And some taste in shawls. For only the second time in her life— both because of him— she was rendered temporarily speechless.
"You must send a reply, Epiphany. The messenger boy is below, waiting to take your thanks to Lord Boxall. Now, let me see." Tapping a finger to her lips, Aunt Du Bois paced before the fire. "We must proceed with care. You should tell him that—"
"I know what to do," Pip exclaimed, feeling flushed herself, remembering again the soft brush of his breath against her cheek. He might as well have licked her face. "Contrary to popular belief I do have some experience in these matters. I am not completely feral. Excuse me!"
She left her aunt and sisters standing in some bewilderment, while she hurried down to the kitchen and found the messenger boy seated by the fire. At once he leapt to his feet and gave a quick little bow. "Is there a reply, madam?" he chirped.
"Yes, there is. Tell the man who sent you here that it is nobody's fault but his own if he falls and I am not the woman who will pick him up again. I am far too busy. I forgive him for the deceit last Tuesday— he is fortunate I have a dark sense of humor— but he needn't think I am in any way charmed. I'll leave that to the other ladies, of which, I am sure, there are plenty." She paused, smoothed a hand over her bodice, caught her breath, and added hastily, "And thank him for the gift. It is quite lovely, as you British say. My sister is exceedingly grateful. Can you remember all that or should I write it down?"
The boy grinned. "I'll remember. I'm good at memberin'."
She gave him a coin, and he tipped his cap and turned for the servant's entrance. Pip whistled. He stopped and looked back.
"And tell him...I still don't care for lawyers, whether he's on my side or not, and the next time I have cause to shoot at him it will be with more than my fingers." She took a freshly baked bun from the table and tossed it to the boy. "That's for coming out in the rain."
His grin even broader, the messenger boy caught it and ran off, yelling, "Thanks, missus."
There, she thought with a satisfied nod, fingers drumming against her waist, that ought to be the end of it.
Abruptly remembering her sister's warning about those tapping fingers, she stilled them at once.
Later that day, she handed the shawl to her little sister. "Here, Merry, you must have this. It is much too fine for me, and since I ruined yours so dreadfully..."
"Oh, but Lord Boxall meant it for you, sister!"
"Then if it is mine, I may do with it as I please, may I not? I insist you have it. Leave it in my hands any longer and who knows what fate shall befall it! Surely such a lovely garment deserves better." Somehow she didn't feel safe keeping it. If she wore it around her shoulders it would make her think of the Dangerous Mr. Damon Deverell even more than she did now. Merry was, of course, precluded from such inconvenient ponderings and fears, having no idea that the shawl didn't come from Lord Boxall at all.
Aunt Du Bois, meanwhile, had already taken matters into her own hands, not trusting her niece to send an appropriate reply, and had granted a dinner invitation to Boxall and his godmother. "We should seize this opportunity at once. His lordship must be interested in Epiphany after all."
"He hasn't met her yet," Serenity quipped.
The Boxalls came to dinner the following evening, and the sallow-faced young man was happy to take credit for the gift of a shawl. Only a brief glimmer of surprise showed through the inebriated, confused fog when Pip mentioned it. He seemed just as startled when he first set eyes on her— as if he'd expected something quite different. Definitely something worse. Possibly with scales, cloven hooves and a horn growing from her forehead.
"How clever of you to know the colors of that shawl would suit me so well, when we had never even met," she exclaimed, beaming so hard it hurt her face.
"Oh...I...have a talent for these things...picking out the perfect gift...whatnot."
/> "Such a shame you missed Lord Courtenay's ball."
He scowled. "Yes, it was rather. Ran into a friend outside who...told me how crowded it was. Put me off going in." Then he laughed abruptly, spilling wine from his glass. "I'll get vengeance on Deverell for that."
"Deverell?" she asked softly, as if it barely mattered and she was merely being polite.
"Oh, just an old university acquaintance. Not really my sort of people. You don't know him." Then he looked wary, sheepish. "Do you?"
"I don't believe so." She smiled. "Should I?"
He signaled sloppily for more wine. "I would advise you to steer clear of him. Fellow's an out and out cad, like the rest of 'em."
"The rest?"
"Deverells, of course. Villains, murderers, thieves, seducers. You must have heard the name."
"I believe my aunt mentioned something."
"Humph." He sniffed, watching as the butler refilled his glass. "I hope she gave you warning. Although, at least, you ought to be safe from Damon," he muttered. "He always preferred married women, and I doubt that's changed. Less chance of being trapped, he used to say." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, loosely flapping it through the air. "There was a saying at Cambridge, that Damon Deverell changes women whenever he needs a new shirt or hat, because they would always buy those things for him. Dressing him up as if he were a pet. Can't imagine what they see in the fellow and I doubt they could say either." He leaned closer to whisper in Pip's ear. "I once heard a woman— whom I later concluded to be severely addled— call him wickedly remorseless and utterly despicable, only days before I walked into his lodgings and found her in his bed."
She thought of the stunning blonde lady at the ball and how Deverell's attention had been seized the moment he saw her. How his expression hardened. A spark of recognition had passed between them, passionate and angry. Thus, for those few moments he had forgotten Pip entirely.
No surprise really.
He was rude and obnoxious, but she was still amused by him. Other women probably felt the same and some, no doubt, succumbed.
In truth she couldn't make Deverell out, no matter how much time she reluctantly spent thinking about him. She suspected that very few people would know him well, even if they thought they did. At the ball, he had cleverly let her believe what she wanted, and then observed with cool bemusement while she got herself tied up in knots over it. Perhaps he did the same to other people. That was what her father meant by keeping one’s cards close to one’s chest, of course. Damon Deverell had it down to a fine art.
The day after dinner with Lord Boxall another gift arrived for Pip.
This time it was a toy bow with a set of rubber tipped arrows,
For Miss Piper; to practice her aim, for the next time we meet.
"Well, that's an odd present to send to a lady with whom one has dined," her aunt exclaimed. "Still he is British. Perhaps it's some quaint custom. Ah yes, of course, cupid's arrow!"
Pip could only laugh. Clearly the bow and arrows were in response to her comment to the messenger about Deverell being shot at properly the next time she had cause. He dared suggest she needed better aim. Ha! Cocky bastard. Literally.
He was thick-skinned and hard-headed. Just like her. Just like Master Grumbles who had followed her about despite the great inconvenience.
Well, at least they had made a tentative peace of sorts. He had replaced the torn shawl for her sister, showing himself to be not entirely without remorse. And she had forgiven him for making a fool of her.
But they were, neither of them, at risk of a dangerous flirtation. Damon Deverell preferred married ladies and she was very far from the sort who would pine for him intolerably, buy him new shirts, be able to think of nothing else whether he was with her or not, and feel her heart plummet each time he looked admiringly at another woman. Pip had always pitied girls whose lives revolved around the ridiculous fairy-tale of romance. It was never going to happen to her, and she'd decided that years ago.
So she sent no message in response to the bow and arrows. Wouldn't want to encourage him. She did, however, amuse herself greatly by practicing in the small garden, using Merrythought's discarded sketches for targets.
And when Serenity complained primly one day that all the arrows went into her face, Pip insisted it was simply unavoidable.
"I can't help it if your forehead takes up the most space on the paper."
At which, Serenity replied, "To provide you with a weapon, Lord Boxall is either a fool, extremely cavalier with his own safety, or the bravest man alive."
Pip smiled at that, for Master Grumbles was clearly all three of those.
Chapter Nine
"Trust you to stumble over one of those Piper sisters," Ransom muttered. "I'd warn you to stay away, but I know exactly what good that will do."
"I'm not pursuing her," he assured his brother. "It's nothing like that."
"Hmm. What is it like then?"
"It's business, not pleasure. I'm supposed to advise the Miss Pipers on matters of the law and keep them out of harm's way while they're here."
"Aha! The fearsome name of Stempenham and Pitt on their side is meant to scare off any potential advantage takers too, no doubt."
"Something like that perhaps."
Ransom smirked. "I hear they're a fascinating lot. Curiosity has been known to undo a Deverell before. And we can't have you picking up bad habits from wayward colonials."
"That's sweet coming from a man whose bad habits are legendary."
"Of course, you do lead a life of strict piety these days, don't you?"
"Hardly piety, brother. I suffer my share of sins."
"But no female in your bed for three years? Can't be healthy."
"Since university I've been too busy."
"Don't work too hard." Ransom grinned slowly. "A man has to make room for a little fornication here and there." He paused, eyeing his brother curiously. "Father still reminding you of how William Pitt the Younger became Prime Minister at the age of only twenty-four, I suppose?" he teased.
"Hmm." And they both knew his father did not merely intend to give a history lesson.
Last Christmas, during Damon's short visit home to Cornwall, his father had said, "It's time you ran for a seat in the House of Commons."
But Damon didn't particularly care for politics. He saw the corruption, the jobbery and bribery, and he did not want to be a part of it. Sadly, his father had always kept these plans for him and when his father had plans they were never easily tossed aside or changed.
So he had simply nodded and agreed that he would give it "serious consideration" that coming year.
"Mind yourself and keep your hands clean," his father had advised. As if that was how most politicians succeeded. A laughable concept. "This is the time for men like you, son. This country has been ruled by the propertied nobs for too long. There is social mobility now. Revolution will come about in England not through war, but through laws and government. The working classes are finally getting a voice. Can you not feel the bite of change in the air? Of rebellion?"
"Yes, sir," he'd replied.
His father had looked taken aback. "Yes, sir? That's all you have to say? No argument today?"
All he could say to that was, "It's Christmas."
It was true that of all the Deverell boys, Damon was the one who dared quarrel, face to face and out loud, with their father. On the other hand, Ransom, the son most often in trouble, merely stopped talking to his father when he was angry and then the two men communicated by throwing things. Damon was the son who argued with words.
On that occasion, last Christmas, he had looked at the few silver threads running through the black hair at his father's temple, watched him holding his newest child with a smile the size of an ocean on his face, and decided to let him have the "Yes, sir".
He'd always known it was his job to make their father proud. All hopes rested on him. It was too late to go back now and say he didn't want that burden. He was
certainly too proud to say he couldn't manage it.
But a quiet discontent had brewed inside him for some time. He needed a little rebellion of his own, and shortly after that Christmas he'd met Lady Elizabeth Stanbury. Immediately he'd decided to end his fast. So much for keeping his hands clean.
Until recently, Elizabeth had led him on a spirited chase, but Damon, with single-minded purpose, had won his way into her bed. Of course, Deverells always got what they wanted— as the saying went. And although she still pretended he was too lowly for her, still liked to act as if he had seduced her and she could do nothing about it, when he saw her at the Courtenay's town house, he had recognized that look in her eye— the sharp spear of jealousy as she saw him in lively debate with the American. It had certainly made his mistress particularly lusty in bed the following evening.
So, unbeknownst to his elder brother, Damon had as much "fornication" in his life as he wanted— in fact it was getting more savage and demanding by the day— and he could have no interest in Miss Piper.
A troubled, argumentative, young woman, put out into the marriage mart by her relatives— whether she liked it or not— was the very last thing he needed in his life. Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, on the other hand, was safely married, in need of entertainment, and not in the least desirous of a romantic suitor. That was the beauty of older women: they didn't waste time, but knew what they wanted, appreciated what he gave them, and didn't get all mopey-eyed if he forgot their birthday or some other anniversary, such as the day they first met. They didn't want protestations of undying love. Married women wanted the same thing he wanted and nothing more. Besides, he had worked for so many weeks to make Lady Elizabeth succumb, he ought to be content now. Other men would certainly envy him, as he told himself every time she did something that made him grind his teeth.