“I’m afraid you do, my lord. A letter arrived this morning, not by post but by messenger.”
“A letter?”
“Yes, my lord. From London.” Ginter reached into his immaculate waistcoat and retrieved a small packet of vellum. He handed it to Devon.
Devon broke the seal and scanned through the missive to see Merton Beaumont’s ostentatious signature at the bottom. “What the devil...” he muttered, then started at the beginning:
My lord, before you wed my daughter, I had an acquaintance make discreet inquiries into your past. In that regard, I have recently come upon information concerning the untimely death of a certain Rose O’Sullivan. I think you might well be interested in knowing what I have learned. Please meet me in London at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely, Merton Beaumont
Devon stared at the letter as waves of emotion assaulted him. He was furious that Beaumont had seen fit to investigate him, but beneath the anger was a kind of horrified dread. He had always suspected that his father had paid someone to kill Rose. If Beaumont had discovered proof of his sire’s heinous plot, did he really want to know the truth?
What was the point? Nothing would bring Rose back, and his father was dead and beyond the reach of earthly retribution. On the other hand, the idea that the sly, manipulative Beaumont had access to such intimate information about his family was almost unendurable. Perhaps he should meet Beaumont and make his feelings about the matter clear.
“Bad news, my lord?”
Devon met Ginter’s worried gaze. “I don’t know. Certainly, it’s unsettling. I think I’m going to be forced to make a trip to London. Pack me a few things, if you can get them from my bedchamber without waking Caroline. I’ll go out to the stables and see to that end of it.”
“Do I take this to mean that you intend to leave without telling your wife good-bye?”
“Yes.”
“Is that prudent, sir?”
“Confound it, Ginter! I won’t have you standing over me, approving and disapproving my every action! I’ll do what I think is best, and you keep your opinions to yourself!”
“Very good, sir. But what shall I tell her ladyship when she asks?”
“Tell her I’ve gone to London on business.” “I’m sure she’ll have questions.”
Devon wracked his brain, trying to think of a plausible explanation for his abrupt departure. He didn’t want to involve Caroline in any of this unpleasantness. “Tell her that I’m sorry to leave so precipitously, but that I will be back as soon as possible.”
“It that all?” Ginter prompted.
Devon gave the manservant another sharp look. “Give her my regards, of course. And tell her... tell her that she should continue to pursue our plans for the estate.” It was not much, but perhaps it would reassure her that what had passed between them was not forgotten.
He hastily swallowed a few bites of the breakfast a servant brought him, then donned his heavy caped driving coat and headed for the stables.
~ ~ ~
Caroline arose late. As soon as she climbed from the bed and observed that she was alone in her husband’s apartments, she experienced a sinking feeling. She had hoped that Devon would be there when she woke. His absence seemed to reduce the importance of the night before. She had always heard that men didn’t invest the physical act of love with much significance. Did it mean nothing more to Devon than an expression of lust?
The thought discouraged her. For her, the intense intimacy they had shared had done more than simply gratify the urges of her body. In those profound, shattering moments when their bodies were as close as physically possible, she had fallen in love with her husband—deeply, irrevocably in love.
She sighed again as she pulled the bell rope to summon Jeanette. Devon might never be able to care for her the way she did for him. With his harsh upbringing and the loss of his Irish paramour, passion in bed might be all he was ever able to offer her. Would it be enough?
“You fool,” she said aloud. “What do you expect? It was an arranged marriage. A woman of society isn’t supposed to fall in love with her husband.”
Her lips twisted with ironic amusement. How true to her heritage she was. No matter how hard she tried, she could not become one of those glib, jaded matrons who encouraged their husbands in liaisons with other women and took lovers on the side themselves. In her mind, marriage was a sacred bond connecting a man and woman for life, and it entailed an emotional and physical commitment as well as a practical and financial one.
“Well?” Jeanette’s brown eyes shone with barely repressed curiosity as she entered. “This is the first night you’ve spent in the master’s bedchambers. Did you find it to your liking, ma’am?”
Caroline tried to give a demure and proper reply, but she could not repress a smile. “Yes, it was very much to my liking.”
Jeanette giggled. “I knew it would be, ma’am.”
Caroline gave a contented sigh, then said in more formal tones, “I want to wear something practical and comfortable today. I have a great deal to do. Devon—that is, his lordship—has suggested we refurbish some of the guest bedrooms along with the public areas of the house. We may even decide to invite houseguests from London for the holidays.”
“Lovely!” Jeanette said. “That gives us a real goal to work toward. Perhaps it is a good thing the earl’s gone to London. We’ll have no distractions for a few days.”
Caroline froze with the blue muslin daygown halfway around her shoulders. “He’s what?”
Jeanette flushed, as if realizing she’d said something she shouldn’t have. “Indeed. He left soon after rising. Ginter was supposed to tell you, but I imagine he didn’t feel right rousing you from your bed to deliver the news. Probably thought to wait until you came down for breakfast.”
Pain cut into Caroline. Her husband had left without even saying good-bye. It made her realize just how wide the chasm between them remained. She trained her voice to calmness. “Did he say why he had to depart so suddenly?”
“I’m not certain, ma’am. Perhaps he gave Ginter some explanation. All I knows is that he left first thing this morning.”
“Where’s Ginter?” Caroline asked.
“I’ll fetch him, ma’am.”
“Not here.” Looking around the bedchamber, Caroline felt the memories of the night before fill her mind. “Tell Ginter that I’ll meet him in the drawing room.”
Jeanette came and patted Caroline’s arm. “I’m sure his lordship’s departure doesn’t mean anything. If you’re pleased and happy this morning, I’m certain he is also. This trip to London must have been unavoidable.”
Caroline nodded glumly.
Devon’s manservant’s face was a study in melancholy as he presented himself to Caroline, bowing low before her chair. “You wished to speak to me, madam?”
“Yes, I wanted to know if... did my husband give you a message for me before he left?”
“Of course, madam. He extended his apologies for leaving so abruptly, but it seems he had urgent business in London...”
“Urgent business? But what?”
“He received a letter this morning. I have no idea of the contents, but it obviously contained news he felt he must deal with immediately”
“Did his lordship give any indication of when he would be back?”
“He said he meant to return as soon as possible. And he urged you to continue with your plans for the house.
Caroline frowned. What did that mean?
“Madam?”
“That is all, Ginter. Thank you.”
Ginter bowed and left.
Caroline rose and went to the window. Her husband remained a mystery. The intimacy they had shared last night was only the beginning, a very small beginning.
~ ~ ~
Devon paused before the heavy brass knocker on the door of the Beaumont town house. He’d arrived in London late the night before. After stopping at his usual rented rooms for a few hours’ sleep, he chan
ged clothes, had a shave and proceeded directly there. Beaumont’s missive still haunted him. Had the merchant really discovered the truth about Rose’s death? If he had, could he bear to face it?
Devon took a deep breath and lifted the knocker.
The door was opened by the granite-faced butler. “Good day, sir.”
“Lord Northrup to see Mr. Beaumont.”
The butler bowed and then said, “I’m sorry, Lord Northrup, but Mr. Beaumont is not at home.”
“Can you tell me where he might be?”
“Likely at the warehouse, your lordship. Would you like the address?”
Devon nodded, then returned to the hack and directed the driver where to take him.
At the warehouse, the manager, Mr. Hopper, told him that Beaumont wasn’t there, and he wasn’t really certain when to expect him. Stifling a sigh of frustration, Devon pulled out a calling card and had Hopper fetch a quill pen and ink. He scribbled the name and address of his club on the back, blotted it carefully, and handed it to Hopper. “Ask Beaumont to meet me there as soon as he can.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Devon returned to the hired vehicle and directed the driver to take him to Brooks. On the way, he fussed with his hastily tied cravat and felt the frustration build inside him. Had he made this long journey for nothing? What must Caroline think of him, leaving so abruptly?
When the carriage reached the club, Devon disembarked and paid the driver, then urged the man to find another fare. He had no idea how long he would be. It might be several hours before Beaumont went to the warehouse and received his message.
Devon nodded to the porter, then walked into the dining area of the club. A dozen faces, familiar and unfamiliar, greeted him. After ordering a badly needed meal, he sat down and prepared to wait.
Morning passed into afternoon. Devon moved from the dining area to the gaming portion of the club. For a time, he pretended interest in a game of faro conducted among a group of young lords, but declined to join them. He was in no mood for gambling. His body sang with tension, despite the several glasses of port he had consumed.
Someone called his name, and he turned around to see Quentin Harberry, the baronet of Shefield, and Christian Faraday, the earl of Bedlington.
“Join me, won’t you?” Devon said. The three men had been friends since Eton, where they had formed an alliance to protect each other from the harassment of the older boys. They still met up frequently in the clubs and occasionally rented a hunting box during fox season.
As the two men seated themselves at the table, Quentin asked, “Married life palling already?”
“ ‘Course it is.” Christian spoke before Devon could respond. “No fun getting leg-shackled. Bound to be dashedly dull out there in the country with only one woman for companionship.” He feigned an expression of horror.
Although he had half an urge to tell his friends that marriage really wasn’t so awful, Devon said nothing. Christian was a notorious rake, the sort of man mothers warned their daughters against. With his boyish smile and dazzling blue eyes, he had seduced scores of women. Quentin’s impeccably groomed blond brutus and disdainful, fastidious manner marked him to be the other sort of London nobleman—the jaded dandy.
Demonstrating his bored outlook, Quentin leaned back in his chair and perused Devon through a quizzing glass. “Wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t had to sell yourself to that crude little cit,” he drawled. “Glad to hear you got away from her. No point rotting away in the country.”
Devon repressed a grimace. Neither of his companions would understand his growing feelings for Caroline. “Actually,” he said, “I’m in London on business.”
“Business?” Christian made another face. “Thought with all the money you acquired when you wed, you could afford to indulge yourself. There’s a new hell on Jerym Street if you’re interested in getting up a game.”
“This ‘business’ has nothing to do with money,” said Devon. “Beaumont claims to have some information about Rose’s murder.”
Both Christian and Quentin looked startled. “Why would he drag up that unpleasantness now that he’s made you his son-in-law?” Christian asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Devon answered. “At any rate, I mean to advise him to stay out of my affairs.”
“Bloody tradesman?” Quentin sneered. “Someone ought to put him in his place.”
Devon’s own ire rose. For all he knew, his father-in-law’s mention of Rose’s murder was a ruse. The crafty devil might have some ulterior motive for luring him to London. Maybe he wanted to see how things were progressing in regards to the grandson business. Damn! If only he could completely forget about Beaumont’s offer and simply recall the splendor of making love to Caroline.
Quentin rose abruptly. “I just remembered something I had to do,” he said. “I’ll meet you at Valentina’s later, though. If you’re game.”
Christian also got to his feet. “Sorry to abandon you, old fellow, but Quentin’s right. There’s too much to do to linger around here.” He winked. “So many women, so many bottles of wine, so many games...” He slapped Devon on the back. “Good luck with Beaumont, Dev. If you decide to call him out, either one of us would be happy to serve as your second.”
Devon glumly watched his friends leave. While he had no desire to join them in the gaming hells and “houses of Venus,” he had no liking for this business with Beaumont, either. What he’d really wanted to do was return to Darton Park and explore whether Caroline’s skin really felt as soft as he recalled, if she smelled of lavender, or if it was the scent of violets that perfumed her hair.
Two hours later, he was on his fifth glass of port when a footman brought him a missive. Devon quickly broke open the wafer and scanned the parchment. Another message from Beaumont. The man was unable join him at the club, but offered to meet at the Crown and Crumpet, an inn down by the London dock.
Devon frowned at the scrawled address. The part of London that Beaumont suggested was a thoroughly disreputable area, thick with cheap brothels, opium dens and squalid flash houses. Why Beaumont wanted to meet him there was a puzzle.
After collecting his hat and driving coat, Devon left the club. Thick fog obscured St. James Square and made the gaslights glow a malevolent yellow. Devon shivered and drew his collar up around his neck. The porter helped him find a hansom cab, but when Devon mentioned his destination, the driver shook his head. “Sorry, your lordship, but I don’t care to risk me rig and me neck in that part o’ town. Last time I was down to the docks, I was set upon by a group a scallywags. Got me head knocked in for me trouble.”
“I’ll pay you double,” Devon offered. “In advance.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked Devon up and down. “I suppose the thugs would think twice about attacking a strappin’ fellow like you. But if I take ye, ye’ve gotta promise to pitch in if there’s trouble.”
“I will,” Devon assured him. The traveling arrangements settled, Devon climbed into the cab. As they progressed toward the east end of London, the rows of gaslights grew sparse, then disappeared altogether. The only illumination came from the windows and doorways of the buildings. Around them, the sounds of the city echoed loudly, eerily enhanced by the fog. The clop of hooves on cobblestones, the jangle of harnesses, the rough voices of rowdies as they passed by an inn, the noises of singing, cries, oaths, fighting.
Devon’s tension increased. He felt terribly ill at ease, as if someone or something were stalking him.
He told himself that such feelings were foolish. It was unimaginable that his father-in-law meant him harm. Until there was a certainty of an heir, Beaumont couldn’t afford to dispose of the bearer of his purchased title.
The driver reined in the horses. “Damned fog’s too thick to see,” he called down from the box.
“You’re right. It’ll be swifter to walk. Have you any notion of where the Crown and Crumpet is from here?”
“ ‘Round your way to the right somewheres.”
>
Devon climbed out of the rig and set off. His footsteps echoed eerily on the damp cobblestones. The sense of danger would not leave him.
He neared a tavern, alive with raucous laughter and shouting. Outside the door, he caught a glimpse of a feminine face distorted with paint. “A nice, long tumble for a quid,” she coaxed in a throaty voice. “What do you say, milord?”
“No, thank you.” He moved toward the doorway. “What’s the name of this place?”
The woman reached out and placed a pale hand on his coat. “Don’t be shy, luv. I’ll show you things no lady can.”
“I’m certain you would. Now, what is the name of this establishment?”
The woman gave him a peevish look and took her hand away. “Called the White Lion, it is.”
“Is the Crown and Crumpet nearby?”
“Why should. I tell you?” the trollop asked sulkily.
Devon reached in his pocket and pulled out a shilling. “It’s worth something to me to find my destination and get out of this damned mist.”
The woman took the coin, and after biting it, answered Devon. “Just down the way to your right. No fancy coves there either. Sure you ain’t lost, milord?”
Devon brushed past the woman and hurried along the way she had directed. The long wait at Brooks was catching up with him. He badly needed a hot drink and a fire. He hoped this inn was not too disreputable.
Low, dark buildings loomed on either side of him then he saw the glow of lights from a doorway. The stake above the entrance had an image `of crown, its color completely obscured by soot. Assuming that this must be the place, Devon went inside and approached the man by the tap. “I’m supposed to meet someone here, a Mr. Merton Beaumont.”
“Don’t know the name,” the man said, frowning. He gave Devon the once-over and his attitude improved. “You’re welcome to wait for him, though, sir. There’s a private room upstairs. I could have some warm punch sent up if you would like to dry yourself before the fire.”
“Very good,” Devon answered.
Devil's Own Bargain (London Lords) Page 8