by JayneFresina
His son made the introductions. "This is Mr. Damon Deverell, a lawyer. Mr. Deverell, my father, the Viscount Mortmain."
"Lawyer! Lawyer?" The old fellow’s face turned red as a beet. "Kill all the lawyers, like Shakespeare said."
"Well, sir," Damon bowed. "I hope that won't be necessary. Although if it is, I believe Miss Epiphany Piper will gladly do the deed for you."
* * * *
They all looked at her.
"Praemonitus praemunitus," he muttered, watching her lips.
She laughed. "Mr. Deverell and his Latin. I understand he was very fond of his Latin tutor at university. I daresay that is why he was such a good student." Her eyes flared as she tossed him a fiery look, a challenge.
Ah, Bertie Boxall must have told her about their adventurous Latin tutor at Cambridge, who also happened to be the only female tutor at his university— perhaps the only one in Cambridge, a fact which spoke to her daring, audacious spirit.
"Yes. I was immensely fond of her," he replied. "She taught me a great deal for which I will always be thankful." As were the ladies of his intimate acquaintance, he mused.
After they had all stood awkwardly for a moment, the old man finally growled, "Well, let's eat then, before I drop dead on't feet."
Edwyn Mortmain remembered his manners just in time to add, "Do join us for dinner, sir."
As they walked into the dining room, Damon caught her arm and whispered, "You left this morning without me. You promised you would stay."
"I thought you'd forget."
"Oh." He shook his head grimly. "I forget nothing, madam."
* * * *
Damon had spent his day combing Whitby for any sign of Elizabeth, but nobody had seen her. Even worse, nobody had even heard of the lady or of her having relatives in the area. Once he'd put out word that he was looking for her, all he could do, for now, was wait. When he found her they would have much to talk about and get straightened, but with the weather against him he could do nothing more for now.
In the meantime, he could, perhaps, help Miss Piper. Make himself useful to her.Darkest Fathoms was also a convenient place to stay. Near to her, which is where he wanted to be.
Had a job to do, didn't he?
He'd written and posted three letters that day. The first two were for his father and Ransom. All part of the new Damon— making apologies. He was concerned about Ransom. Those injuries had looked very bad and he should have paid more attention before he left London, instead of being absorbed with himself. The more he thought about it, the more worried he became. His third letter, therefore was written to Raven, who would surely know what was going on in her brother's life and, if she did not, she should be apprised of it.
At dinner, Nonesuch continued to look at him as if he'd stepped heavily on her foot. Which he didn't think he had. No, he checked under the table to be sure of it.
"I thought you had some other business to tend in Yorkshire," she said quietly. "I did not expect you to come here to Darkest Fathoms."
"I'm sure I can manage two things at once."
"Then you're the first man I've ever met who can. Apart from my father, of course."
He laughed. "I have been told I am both a shark and a merciless charmer. Surely one extra small matter cannot overcome a man with my talents."
"I wouldn't count upon it."
No doubt Bertie Boxall had told her everything in retaliation for Damon sending him away from the Courtenay's ball that evening in May. The idiot would spare nothing in his eagerness to grind Damon into the dirt.
Well, good, then she'd know everything. He had nowhere to go in her opinion but up.
This morning, when he woke with a stinging head, he knew what he must do. He was not in love with Elizabeth and she was not in love with him. That affair was already a regret, and he could not let Miss Piper get away and cause him another. So the path was broken and parts of it lost forever, but that didn't mean he couldn't make a new path. His own this time, not trying to fill anybody else's boots. Not aiming for somebody else's goal. Making himself happy.
As his father had said just before Damon left London, We are all responsible for our own happiness.
He could not expect Epiphany to fall in love with him— she was too shrewd, too clever to fall for that supposed "charm" of his, and he didn't know how to conjure it in any case. He suspected she was right and women only told him he was charming when they wanted something from him, like Lady Roper. Or to be mischievous, like Raven.
No, he was simply Damon Deverell, a bastard's bastard who happened to do well in his studies and had a capacity for "fixing" people's problems.
He'd complicated his own life. He wouldn't try to complicate hers too. But he could be Miss Piper's friend. Anything he could do for her, he would do.
She'd probably bewitched him. Couldn't trust these foreign girls. Couldn't trust anybody. Well, if he was to be bewitched, he couldn't think of any more enjoyable way.
* * * *
"How are your sisters, Miss Piper?" Damon asked, turning his head to look at her.
"Merrythought is in bed. With a cold."
"I will have the kitchens make up some of my special pottage for her. With your permission, of course, Lord Mortmain."
The old man sniffed. "Do what you like. The apothecary is a devilish expense and does nowt."
Pip said to Damon, "She will be extremely surprised to find you here."
"Perhaps I should pay the invalid a visit after dinner and cheer her spirits."
"Cheer her spirits? I didn't think that was part of your duties."
"They were recently expanded." He gave her such a look that Pip burnt her tongue on the soup. "What of Miss Serenity?" he said.
"Girl's gone orf," old Mortmain grumbled. "Left my son with not a word, not a by your leave. Shot off like a mowdiwarp down 'ole"
"Good lord." He glanced at Pip, who hastily looked at her bowl. "A mowdiwarp."
Drooping further in his seat, Edwyn remarked dolefully, "The young ladies lost their aunt this summer, Mr. Deverell, as you may know. I daresay Miss Serenity desired some time alone with her grief."
"Pah," his father shouted. "She's had her time to grieve. In my day wenches didn't go orf on their own, feeling sorry for themselves. You should have had her at the altar by now and kept girl too busy to go wandering. But no, you had to be soft and wait till the wench dried her eyes."
"There is an established period of mourning, sir," Edwyn replied.
"Bugger it! Look at you sitting there like a ruddy great earwig. No wonder she ran orf. "
There followed an uncomfortable silence during which even Pip began to feel sympathy for Edwyn.
"What brings you to Yorkshire, lawyer?" the old man bellowed from the end of the table.
"I came this way on business for another client. Quite by chance yesterday I ran into Miss Piper. She and her sisters left London so suddenly this summer and I had no idea where they went. By fortunate circumstance yesterday we met again."
"You didn't come to take the dowry money back again then, eh?" the old man demanded, while his son cringed.
"No."
"Good. I told Edwyn he'd have to take one o' t'others if the elder doesn't come back. We can't return that purse."
"But if you had to take Miss Epiphany here, I'd advise you to ask for more."
Lord Mortmain took him seriously. "Should I? Worth more is she?" He eyed Pip with keen interest.
"You certainly ought to have more for putting up with her. Compensation."
Pip suddenly felt laughter squeezing out of her stomach and up into her throat. It was a relief to have Deverell at her side again, even though she had been determined not to need him. It occurred to her that she'd been foolish— eager to take Jonathan Lulworth's advice but balking when it came to Damon Deverell's. And why?
"She'll cost more to feed," he added. "Cake, especially. Muffins."
The more she tried to hold her laughter back, the worse it built, until soup almos
t came out of her nose. In the nick of time she turned the sound into a ladylike sneeze, half buried in her napkin.
"I do hope you haven't caught cold too, Miss Epiphany," he said.
"I have lost my appetite a little," she managed, her voice muffled by the napkin.
"But you usually have such a healthy appetite. You must indeed be ill."
Edwyn Mortmain watched them from between the tall candles and said somberly, "That young lady went out in a snow storm yesterday against our advice. Perhaps now you are here, Mr. Deverell, you might moderate her rebellious side, for we are quite undone with it and she does not listen to us."
"Girl's a fidget," Old Lord Mortmain exclaimed gruffly, blowing on his soup, "and right stubborn with it."
"She is indeed a man's undoing," Damon replied, smirking. "I must see what I can do about that." He looked at her. "I'll take her to bed."
A strong draft blew through the room and made the candlelight dance wildly, even with the doors and windows shut tight against the cold weather. The old man dropped his spoon with a clang, and Edwyn choked on his wine.
"I mean to say, I'll see to it that she is put to bed at once," Damon corrected, eyes looking surprised, grin faltering. "She must rest and be warm."
Another draft, this one tickling her ankles beneath the table, suggested to Pip that her little sister was right; there really was a troublesome, roguish Boggart in the house. And apparently he'd chosen her as his victim.
Chapter Twenty
"Since I left London without making plans, I needed somewhere to stay," he told her, "and you need my help. This seemed the best idea."
"I didn't ask you for your help, Deverell," she hissed as he carried her along the landing to her room. "Nor am I sick." But when she got up from the table her ankle had given way again quite suddenly. Her usually stout ankles let her down.
"You're burning up, woman. Being out in that snow yesterday!"
"I know you're amusing yourself greatly with this masquerade, but it's completely unnecessary to carry me again." But she didn't say that until they had reached her door, just in case he put her down again.
He nudged open her bedroom door and carried her inside.
"I only told you all about Serenity running off because you forced it out of me," she added. "You used your wicked wiles to interrogate me, and it all came spilling out last night."
"Yes," he wheezed. "It is always such a trial to get you to talk. You never chatter incessantly."
"I don't. Chattering incessantly is something I never do. It suggests no decorum or self-moderation." She paused, noting the little bead of sweat trickling down his brow. "Aren't I heavy?"
"Not as much as you were when wiggling and covered in snow yesterday."
"I can stand on my own feet, you know. It is only a little throbbing pain in my ankle. I've had worse. Does it look swollen to you?"
"Am I allowed to look at your ankles?"
"I give you permission, Deverell." She stuck out her foot and waved it in the air.
"No. It doesn't look swollen. It looks...shapely. And troublesome."
"How can an ankle be troublesome?"
"I wouldn't have thought it possible either, until I saw yours."
She laughed. "Oh, put me down then."
But he was intent on showing off. Having arrived at the side of her bed far ahead of the scurrying maid, he now realized he didn't have a spare hand to turn down the sheets and coverlet, so he stood there holding her, trying to look as if he wasn't straining in the least.
"Why have you come here?" she whispered, trying not to rest her head on his wide shoulder.
"I'm at your service, of course. How many times must I tell you that before you believe it?"
What did she want him to say, she thought crossly— that he was in love with her and came here just to put his hands on her again? She was getting as bad as Merrythought and letting her imagination wander into the realms of romantic novels.
By the time the maid, struggling along after them with a bowl of something made to his strict specifications, arrived in the room, his arms had begun to shake and that bead of sweat had trickled slowly all the way down to his cheek. Finally the coverlet was pulled down and he lowered her to the mattress with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Such a lot of fuss," she muttered.
"Nonsense." He bent over to remove her shoes while the maid looked on in mild horror. "You will eat this mixture at once, while it’s hot," he commanded briskly.
"Do you have much experience of nursing the sick?"
"Not particularly. But I do know how to look after myself." He pulled up her coverlet. "Like you, I've been doing it for some time." While the maid set the tray across her lap he turned away to stoke up the fire.
"Will that be all, miss?" the maid asked, looking sideways at Damon in the same way as Pip eyed that bowl of lumpy green liquid. "I'll be back later to dress you for bed, shall I?"
"Come back in half an hour," Deverell snapped.
"Yes, thank you," Pip said to the maid, ignoring him. "Please check on my sister and tell her I'll see her in the morning."
Deverell swung around, still holding the poker, "And make some of that same mixture for Miss Merrythought. See that she consumes it."
"If you please," Pip added, since he clearly wouldn't, and had already resumed rattling the poker into the fireplace, causing sparks that shot out onto the hearth.
The maid curtseyed and hurried out, but left the door open in a very pointed way, with a scowl at Damon.
"I thought perhaps you were going to suggest that you undress me," Pip remarked coolly. "You're so domineering."
"Somebody has to take charge. I cannot stand a job half done."
She reached around to fluff her pillows. "You haven't found your lady friend then."
"No. Not yet."
"So you thought you'd entertain yourself with me."
He glanced over his shoulder. "Why not? Eat your stew."
She picked up her spoon and poked at it. "Smells foul."
"Nevertheless it will help fight off that cold before it takes proper hold. Remember what your aunt called me, a necessary evil?"
"What's in it?"
"Herbs, spices, vegetables. A little red wine. All good things in moderation. Hold your nose and eat." Finally satisfied with the roaring fire, he set the poker on its hook and returned to the bedside, where he tidied some books and wiped dust off the glass lamp chimney. His gaze alighted on her aunt's Chinese silk robe, where it hung over her bed post.
"I suppose you recognize that," she murmured, feeling sad suddenly that she would never see her aunt wafting through a room in that robe again. "She gave it to me, a day or two before she died. I haven't had the courage to wear it." She sighed. "I think Serenity believed it should have come to her. She's been very sour about it, even though Aunt Du Bois gave her all the jewelry."
"Oh, I think of all three of you, you're the most like your aunt." He gave a grim smile. "I couldn't imagine anyone else having the gumption to wear that colorful garment with the same aplomb as she did."
But since thinking of her aunt made her likely to cry, Pip changed the subject. "It's not proper for you to be in here," she said, snuffling into the handkerchief he'd lent her. "Did you not see the poor maid's face? Who knows what the Mortmains are thinking."
"As your hired man, I'm allowed certain privileges. Someone has to look after you."
"You're very lucky my aunt isn't here. She'd chase you out with a knitting needle."
"She could try."
"She chased you away before, didn't she?"
"That was before."
"And it's different now?"
"I am. I am different now."
She didn't know what he meant, but suddenly Pip felt rather tired and weak, so when he sat on the bed, took her spoon and began to feed her the wretched stew, she actually let him do it. For once she didn't mind his take-charge manner.
How far they had come, she mused.
> His thoughts apparently mirrored her own. "Now I know you really are sick," he quipped.
* * * *
Damon found a pack of cards on her bedside table and, since they could not agree on a fun game for two people, he entertained her instead with card tricks that his father had taught him. It was a while since he'd performed any, and he'd forgotten how pleasing it was to completely befuddle a young lady with his slight of hand. Elizabeth would never have been so impressed, but then he would never have sought to entertain her in this fashion.
The card tricks made him think of his father and their quarrel. He was sorry. He was sorry about a lot of things tonight. This was no time for self-pity, however. Damon had a new path to build.
"It is a strange coincidence, isn't it?" he said. "About our fathers. All those years ago. And then you and I, running into each other."
"I suppose two clumsy, stubborn, independent people might collide once in a while. When you think about it," she paused to sneeze, "it has just as much chance of happening as not. That's life for you. All the planning in the world means nothing when fate steps in."
Shuffling the cards, he said nothing.
"What's a Nonesuch?" she asked suddenly. "You called me one yesterday."
His heart bounced up into his throat.
"When you were suffering the effects of too much of the good inn-keeper’s best wine," she added, eyes shining deviously from the shadowy depths of her pillows.
"I don't recall."
She stared, lips pressed together, brows curved in two fallen question marks. "You told me you remember everything."
"I cannot think what you thought you heard," he assured her firmly. "Nonsensical? I might well have called you that."
"No. I'm quite sure it was Nonesuch."