The Prince of Ravenscar

by Catherine Coulter

  “I would never want him to burn up! As to his even being a vampire, you know very well it is all fiction, based on legend; there is no truth to it at all. Devlin simply enjoys amusing himself at other people’s expense. All that would happen to him is a sunburn.”

  “Then why did you wish him out in the sun?”

  “It is not that—I simply prefer him to you.”

  “A blow,” he said, and flattened his palm over his heart. “I lied. I am hurt, cut to the very quick. You do realize, of course, that even though your mother and mine were bosom bows, there is no need for you to feel pressured to marry me, nor I you. You may prefer whomever you wish to prefer. Consider me in the way of being a kindly uncle. If you have questions or concerns about gentlemen you meet, why, you may confide in me. I will pat your shoulder and give you guidance. What is this? You look ready to explode, Miss Wilkie. Your eyes are nearly crossed.”

  She poked him in the chest with a nanny’s finger. “A kindly uncle! Of course I don’t have to marry you; no one ever said I did. It is patently absurd.”

  He heard Roxanne Radcliffe laugh. He looked back at Sophie’s red face. “I see,” he said slowly, “there is a plot brewing. I’ll wager Corrie Sherbrooke is a part of it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lord.”

  “I see it all now. All of you want to get Devlin out on the water. You claim you don’t wish to fry him. Then what is your plan?”

  “You have quite ruined everything,” Sophie said, and flounced away. He liked the cut of her gown, the way she moved. Her figure was quite nice, indeed, and even though she wore enough petticoats to sew a tent, he could still see the graceful motion of her hips. He was reminded he hadn’t visited Marlene in three days.

  What were the ladies planning to do to Devlin? He should have warned his nephew about them, in addition to Richard Langworth. He saw Roxanne Radcliffe walk his way, only to be stopped by Mr. Ludley Owen, a singularly kind old gentleman who had a great collection of silver and gold Japanese chopsticks.

  A shadow cast itself beside Julian.

  “What a paltry little poseur you’ve got for a half-nephew. Imagine such a foppish creature as the future Duke of Brabante.”

  Speak of the devil. Julian turned slowly. “Richard. I assume you’re here because you knew I was attending?”

  “No, I fancy to sample some of Lady Marksbury’s salmon patties. My father tells me they’re the best in London.”

  “I was not aware of that. Keep your distance from Devlin Monroe.”

  “Keep my distance from the vampire? You are afraid he would try to take me down and suck my blood?”

  “If he did, he’d probably be poisoned. Keep your distance. This is between you and me. Devlin has no part in it. Do you understand me?”

  Richard Langworth’s laughter sounded in Julian’s ears as he walked toward Lady Marksbury’s buffet table, where a platter of salmon patties was piled high.

  Two hours later, Julian was naked in Marlene’s frothy white bed, kissing her silly as he covered her. His last thought before he fell into a stupor was What had those witches planned to do to Devlin?

  13

  Radcliffe Town House

  Roxanne drummed her fingertip against middle C over and over again until Sophie called out, “Roxanne, if you don’t let that poor note rest, it will run like a flea from the keyboard. Come, what is wrong?”

  Roxanne raised her finger. “Sorry. I was thinking about a gentleman I met at Lady Marksbury’s party. His name is Richard Langworth. I asked Lady Bottsby who he was—she knows everyone—and she told me he was the son of Baron Purley of Hardcross Manor in Cornwall. Near Saint Austell, she said. She tapped my arm with her fan and counseled me to take care around him, for he was something of a mystery, and who knew what he was really like?

  “Then I saw him speaking to Julian. I moved closer and listened. There wasn’t much said, but I felt anger toward Julian coming off him in waves. He means him ill. And Julian knows it. He all but threatened Devlin, mocking him about being a poseur and the like, and Julian warned him away.”

  That snagged Sophie’s attention away from the narrow band of yellow satin she was stitching into the curve of her new cottage bonnet. “I believe we are all poseurs, depending on the company we’re in. I wish I could think of something vampiresque to make me more interesting. So you don’t know anything more about this man, Roxanne?”

  “No, but I have a fancy to find out. I think I should like to stake him out, find out what mischief he’s brewing.”

  “Lady Bottsby said his country house was near Saint Austell?”

  Roxanne nodded.

  “That is where Ravenscar is located as well. If they grew up near each other, then they’ve known each other forever. What could have happened?”

  “We will ask her grace.” She heard Roxanne heave a big sigh, strike middle C again. She said, “I wish we’d been able to stake out Devlin.”

  “If you’d asked him directly to row you,” Roxanne said, looking up, “he couldn’t have refused.”

  Had she asked him directly and he’d sidestepped her? Sophie couldn’t remember. He was smoother than a river rock.

  Roxanne said, “You know, in the long course of things, I can see Devlin doing only what he wishes to do.”

  Sophie concentrated on snipping off a pale pink thread. “You should have asked him, Roxanne.”

  “Me? It’s you he caresses with his voice when he speaks to you, Sophie.”

  “Caresses? Me? Goodness, I’ve never noticed that. He merely touched my cheek, probably practiced flirting on his part. I think he likes me because I’m not as white as he is and thus make the perfect foil. Whereas you, Roxanne, you are in the nature of competition, with your yard upon yard of white skin.”

  Roxanne said, eyebrow arched, “You want to stake me out now?”

  They laughed together, but it wasn’t long before Roxanne was again tapping notes on the pianoforte.

  Mint said from the doorway, “It is her grace the Duchess of Brabante—the dowager duchess—in other words, the one you would wish to see.”

  Roxanne rose from the pianoforte. “Thank you, Mint. Your grace, how lovely to see you. Won’t you have a cup of tea with us?”

  Corinne tapped her foot, stared hard at Sophie surrounded by her sewing. “I want to know why you aren’t making at least a small push toward my son, Sophie. He was with his mistress; one of my acquaintances saw him emerge from her lodging—it was the middle of the afternoon! He must have gone directly from the Marksburys’ garden party to her. If you were encouraging him at all, Sophie, he wouldn’t be straying in such a dreadful manly way. How he found her so very quickly, I do not know. He has been in London only a sennight. He obviously met her when he was here before meeting with Harlan Whittaker, his man of business.”

  Roxanne’s eyebrow shot up. “But, ma’am, however could one of your acquaintances know it was his mistress’s lodging?”

  Corinne turned a lovely shade of pink, tossed her head. “Well, it’s quite simple, really.” She sat herself down on the sofa, spreading her voluminous India muslin skirts around her.

  “Simple?” Sophie asked.

  “If you must know, I hired a young boy to keep an eye on Julian.”

  Roxanne stared at her. “You mean you have your son followed? This boy reports his movements back to you?”

  “You make it sound like I am a nosy mama, which isn’t the case at all. Julian is, and always has been, more stubborn than his proud papa. I must see to his welfare, since he is so very careless of it.”

  Sophie snipped another thread, not looking up. “What is his mistress’s name?”

  “She calls herself Marlene Ronsard. It is doubtless a fabrication, that lovely name, and I strongly doubt she has ever seen even a stick of driftwood on the shores of France. I asked my boy—his name is Jory—if she spoke with a French accent, but he didn’t know, said it didn’t sound at all furin to him.”

  Cori
nne huffed at the two sets of astonished eyes staring at her. “I should not speak of such things in front of you, that is true enough, but you would know, so now you do. No, you shouldn’t, since you are well-brought-up young ladies and you should remain as ignorant as dirt or purposely stupid on the subject of men and their lust, but you forced me to tell you, did you not? I shall have some tea now, Roxanne. Don’t forget, two sugars and no milk. Dreadful stuff. I ask you, who can drink a proper tea with milk in it?”

  A mistress, Roxanne was thinking a few minutes later, as she stirred sugar in the dowager duchess’s tea. Did Julian by chance have more than one mistress—mayhap three, like Devlin?

  When she handed the saucer to Corinne, she said, “Your grace, by any chance has Jory followed Devlin Monroe?”

  Corinne took a sip of tea, nodded in approval. “Why ever should I want to have Devlin followed? He is her son, not mine. If Lorelei is interested, she can see to employing her own—”

  “Spy?”

  “What an unflattering word, Roxanne, a word that surely gives the wrong impression. Do not jest about such a thing. It is a mother’s duty to be fully informed about her son’s activities to ensure he is kept safe. He is safe, is he not? So that means I am doing what is needful and doing a good job of it.”

  Roxanne said, “Ma’am, tell us about Richard Langworth. He is tall, dark, rather fine-looking, I suppose, but not as dark or as fine-looking as your son. He could be, but he has this sneer about his mouth that is very unattractive. At least he did when he was speaking to Julian.”

  Corinne stiffened. “Richard Langworth is the reason I am having him followed, truth be told. Jory knows bullyboys, he tells me, real toughs who he can call quickly to protect my son.”

  “Why does Richard Langworth wish him ill, ma’am? Sophie told me his family home and Ravenscar are very close.”

  “Yes, a mere three miles separates our homes.”

  “Then that means this Richard and Julian grew up together?”

  Corinne nodded, then she raised her hand. “This is a subject I will not discuss with you. If you wish to ask Julian—” Her voice stopped, and she knew, looking at the two young ladies, that both of them would ask him the first opportunity that presented itself. “Let me say only that Julian’s wife was shot and Richard believes Julian killed her. He wants revenge.”

  “But why—”

  “Sophie, if you and Roxanne want to know more, you must ask Julian. I will say no more.”

  14

  Covent Garden Theatre

  Sophie looked through her opera glasses at Charles Kean striding to the middle of the stage like a short, puffed-up conqueror. He stopped, looked out over the audience, raised his hands, and declaimed. He continued to declaim, wildly gesticulating all the while. She stopped listening after the third bombast. She could feel a headache coming on. She lowered her opera glasses to her lap and looked around the theater. She was not in the majority. Most patrons’ eyes were glued to the stage, all their attention focused on Kean. Wait, there was a matron in the next box rolling her eyes as Kean clapped his hand over his heart and stumbled around a bit.

  Sophie looked at Roxanne when she squeezed her hand. Roxanne winked at her, then smiled as she nodded toward Corinne. She was leaning forward in her gilt chair, her eyes fastened on Kean. She looked enthralled.

  Julian sat on Roxanne’s left, garbed in stark black, his linen nearly as white as Devlin’s face, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic. Roxanne leaned close, whispered, “My father told me Kean could posture better than Elrod, his prized rooster. I will write to tell him I think he may be right. Also, I do believe Kean trumpets louder than Mr. Rickett’s cow Lisette when she wants to be milked.”

  “I would like to shoot him,” Julian said. “But most appear to be enjoying his performance, which raises serious questions about the taste of our countrymen.”

  Corinne sent them both a look, and they subsided.

  When the intermission finally arrived on the heels of a five-minute Kean invective, all but one in the Monroe box wanted to cheer.

  Sophie jumped to her feet, snagged her gown, and nearly got jerked over the edge of the box. Roxanne caught her and pulled her back down.

  Julian was looking at her, an eyebrow raised. “It wasn’t that bad, was it? To bring on such despair?”

  Roxanne said, “Tell me, dearest, that you only sought escape, not an end to it all.”

  “It was close,” Sophie said.

  Julian bit off a laugh, since his mother was looking at him. “Miss Wilkie, you would have landed in a mess of drunken young louts if Miss Radcliffe hadn’t caught you. Would you like to accompany me downstairs to fetch some champagne?”

  His mother said, “I heard her give you permission to call her Sophie. This was three days ago. You may do so, Julian. Roxanne, you may do as you please, since you are not the focus of—well, never mind that. I should love some champagne. One gets so parched watching a great performer.” The look she gave them dared them to disagree. No one was stupid.

  It was Roxanne who said, “I will go with you, sir. Sophie has the beginnings of a headache.”

  “I assure you there is no need to protect her from me, Miss—Roxanne. I have told your innocent young pullet to consider me a kindly uncle, a comfortable older gentleman in whom she can confide her woes.”

  “That is nonsense, Julian,” his mother said. “You are not at all comfortable.”

  This guileless comment brought laughter. Corinne blinked, realized she’d uttered a witticism, and preened.

  Sophie said, “My headache isn’t that bad. I will accompany you to the champagne, sir.”

  “If I am not to be your comfortable uncle, then you must call me Julian.”

  Roxanne said, “Or you may call him ‘my lord.’ That is utterly impersonal, is it not?”

  “Oh, dear,” Corinne said. “You mean to say when people greet me as ‘your grace,’ I could be any grace at all, and it doesn’t really matter?”

  Roxanne grinned at her, patted her hand, and rose. “I believe I see our vampire ready to stretch out his legs, perhaps his fangs as well. Look, he is waving at you, Sophie. Why don’t you wait for Devlin, and I will accompany his lordship?”

  Julian cocked a dark brow at her but said nothing. They made their way down the staircase into the theater lobby, crammed with ladies and gentlemen, many of them appearing to have a great thirst, as all wanted champagne, and all wanted it now. Waiters expertly threaded their way through the throng, ducking elbows, slithering between ladies whose gowns were so voluminous they were momentarily lost to sight.

  “Shall I think of you as an uncle also, Julian?”

  He didn’t answer her immediately. She realized he’d slipped some money to a waiter, who promptly disappeared, only to reappear with a full bottle of champagne and a half-dozen glasses, cleverly held between his fingers. “Shall we follow the fellow, Roxanne?”

  “Well, are you an uncle to me as well?”

  “I will be your uncle if you will be my aunt, since we are both rather long in the tooth.”

  “What a dreadful thing to say,” Roxanne said, then laughed.

  “That’s better. You do not wish to insult me, since I am providing the champagne. Stop licking your lips.”

  “It is Sophie who licks her lips over champagne. She never tasted champagne until last week, and I swear she poured half a bottle down her throat. I fear I shall have to watch to make certain she doesn’t become a tippler.”

  “Likes the bubbles, does she?” He took her arm and deftly steered her away from a large woman covered in black lace who was on a direct collision course. “Take care, my child. These stairs are more fraught with danger than a battlefield. I was wondering how many petticoats were present this evening at the theater. Do you think if all the petticoats were piled on the stage, they would hit the rafters?”

  Roxanne lightly tapped her fist against his arm. “I daresay they might make a pile so high they would spill ou
t onto the street. Oh, dear, the waiter is escaping us.”

  Julian gave a soft whistle that stopped the waiter in his tracks. He turned, gave Julian a nod, and waited for them.

  “That was well done. Is that a prearranged signal?”

  “No, but it always works. Waiters have very acute hearing, you know. Lean close, here comes another wave of petticoats.”

  When they weren’t more than twenty feet from their box, Julian said, “All right, tell me why you didn’t want Sophie to accompany me.”

  She stared at her slippers.

  “I am not a ravager of young maidens, nor do I plan on trying to attack her, no matter what my mother wishes, so tell me, Roxanne.”

  “I am worried for her. The thing is, Julian, you know too much.”

  A black brow shot up. He laid his hand lightly on her arm. “Nothing more than any other kindly uncle.”

  “All right, here it is. I think she and Devlin would be perfect for each other. They only need time together to come to this conclusion.”

  Julian stared at her in amazement. “Stay out of it, Roxanne, that’s my best uncle’s advice.”

  When they reached the box, it was to see Devlin sitting between Sophie and Corinne.

  He saluted Julian, smiled at Roxanne. “Forgive me for being late, but my mother—well, never mind. My sire tells me the senior Kean—the great Edmund—was finally forced to act beside his son, an event that did not stir his blood, evidently, so my sire told me. The son, my sire remarks to all who will listen, is paltry by comparison, not nearly as dramatic as his father, his declamations too conservative, not enough feeling—in short, my father believes him a stick.”

  “If the stick showed any more feeling,” Roxanne said, “I should pick up my chair and hurl it at him.”

  Corinne said, “Listen to me, you philistines, you are all too ignorant and too young to appreciate him. He is a master, mayhap not as great as his father, but still . . .”