Chapter Seven
Upon his return to London, Devlin avoided his usual associates and, after extracting a solemn promise from Freddie not to divulge his whereabouts to anyone, travelled straight to Scotland to visit his cousin Margaret. Margaret was a beautiful girl who, according to popular opinion, had made a very humble match. Eight years earlier, she had made her social début with enormous success and thoroughly enjoyed the glittering whirl of balls, routs, parties, suppers and masques before choosing the man of her dreams. To the astonishment of all her friends, family and London’s fashionable set, Margaret fixed her affections on a very down-to-earth man, who utterly adored her. With no title, fashionable connections or great wealth, Stewart Kincaid had only his excellent character, modest financial circumstances, a family home and a small but thriving estate in a remote part of Scotland to recommend him. Despite portents of gloom and dark mutterings from Society’s harbingers of matrimonial doom, Margaret was ecstatically happy. In a few years of marriage she produced two healthy sons aged four and six, with another babe on the way. The family lived quietly and with utterly no desire for the fast London life.
Devlin enjoyed Margaret’s refreshing candour and sharp wit. It was to the safety of the Kincaid family home that he escaped. Theirs was a large, sprawling manor house, filled with comfortable, if old-fashioned, furniture, children’s toys, several large, shaggy dogs and a fierce tabby named Tiger. It was a secure haven for Devlin and Margaret gave her cousin a warm welcome. She knew all about Lady Vane, since who did not, but asked no questions. Her husband, a reserved man, respected Devlin’s need for privacy and simply opened his home to his cousin-in-law. Devlin rode every day, helped Stewart with the farm, and drank quite heavily each evening when the family had retired to bed. He read to the two boys and played rough and tumble games with them, just as an uncle should. Margaret smiled to see them leaping all over Devlin’s exquisitely cut garments as he pretended to be a fearsome dragon.
“You should settle down and have your own children, Devlin,” she remarked one afternoon, as Devlin lay on the hearthrug with Toby and Gregory clutching at his waistcoat and begging him to throw them in the air again. “You’re so good with the boys. They adore you. You would make an excellent father.”
Devlin sat up and brushed away the remnants of biscuit crumbs.
“It’s one thing to choose a woman, Meg,” he said, calling her by an affectionate family diminutive. “It’s another to make a marriage work.”
“Is it so very necessary to have a son?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said abruptly. “Not only to continue the Deverell line, which would otherwise revert to my cousin Oswald whom my mother despises, but for my own pride. I must marry, I know, but I do not wish it. I don’t hold women of my set in very high esteem. Unless I found a woman such as yourself.” He took her hand in his and turned it over. Margaret’s hands were now slightly work-roughened from caring for her family and husband. “What? No more soft white fingers?” he teased.
He gazed closer at her face and exclaimed with mock horror, “Freckles? Meg, how shocking!”
Margaret snatched her hand away, giggling. She picked up her knitting. “Stop funning, Dev. My life is different now. I don’t care about freckles and white hands any longer. There’s no time for rosewater for my complexion and lemon juice to rid me of freckles. Yes, I have servants to help but I love to bake bread and sew for my family. I would not exchange this busy life of being wife and mother for all the shops in Bond Street. I hardly even know what is in fashion these days.” Margaret indicated her now outdated dress with a wry smile.
She gazed at her two tousle-headed sons, lying asleep in front of the fire. “Just look at them. My two angels. They are my life. My husband is my life. Nothing else matters to me. Who else could give me so much love and fulfilment?” She spoke simply, her words brimming with feeling.
Devlin stared at her. Margaret’s candid words struck his heart. When she spoke, there was so much meaning, so much emotion in her words. Her love for her husband and children was palpable. Is this the kind of love he wanted? He had never experienced the deep, satisfying emotions she described. Were the sensations he felt upon seeing Fenella profound love or animal lust? Devlin was hopelessly confused.
When Margaret spoke of love, it seemed to be something so easy to find and experience. But was it? Margaret’s dark beauty reminded of him of Fenella. He had a momentary flash of Fenella sitting there, gazing at their sons. Then the image of her face as he had last seen it filled his mind. He remembered her expression of shock…her eyes filled with pain…then hatred and contempt for him taking its place. He pushed away the image and smiled at his cousin.
“No regrets, Meg?” he asked, rescuing her ball of wool from the ravaging claws of the cat.
“In what way?” she quipped, turning a sock with wifely expertise. Her knitting needles clicked peacefully.
“You could have married a dozen titled men—I remember Lord Haverly, Viscount Quilling, Sir Peter Wellburn and many more being utterly besotted with you. Do you regret marrying just an ordinary man?”
Margaret gave a shout of laughter. She stroked her slightly swelling stomach with pride. “Stewart is not just an ordinary man; he’s extraordinary. When I think of those affected fops who courted me, I would have driven them from me soon enough with my sharp tongue had I married any one of them. There’s no shame, Dev, in marrying an ‘ordinary’ person, as you term it.”
Margaret cast a sly glance at her cousin from under her downcast lashes, consumed with affectionate curiosity as to her handsome cousin’s affairs, but Devlin remained as closed as ever regarding his private thoughts.
* * * *
Sir Marcus had not fared well at Lady Penelope’s hands. When Devlin did not return to London with Freddie, she had demanded that he call upon all his sordid associates to track down her errant lover. To his chagrin, Sir Marcus failed to discover Devlin’s whereabouts. Finally, he confessed to the enraged beauty the information he had actually intended to keep and use for his own ends against his foe—Devlin’s astonishing visit to the Cygnet Club.
“I do not believe you,” she stormed. “Devlin would never ever set foot in that cesspit, that den of vile iniquity.”
Sir Marcus was once again reclining on the velvet sofa, clasping a glass of ratafia and wishing with all his heart that women would stock something stronger than what he termed “fruit cordial” in their liquor cabinets. The storm of abuse raged about his sensitive ears. Lady Penelope, when slighted or incensed, became very unladylike indeed. Sir Marcus flinched as the gutter curses flew. He wondered where she had learned such words.
“Pen!” he expostulated, in an effort to stem the tirade. He hastily adjusted his salutation when he saw her expression of rage. “I mean, Lady Penelope. I know he was there, because I was there myself…ah…attending to some business, of course.”
Lady Penelope glared at him. “It’s obvious that the only kind of business conducted at the Cygnet Club and such places is of the carnal kind. Even I know the dedicated gamesters go further afield for more serious play.”
Her jonquil silk gown rustled as she swished past him. “And did he see you?” she demanded, swirling back and forth like a vengeful Valkyrie.
“Er…no,” Sir Marcus lied, cowering on the sofa. He took a large, restorative gulp from his glass. “But I saw him. I also saw him give Miss Hattie, the leading light of the little band of Cygnets, more than an admiring glance or two.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps he was tempted?”
Sir Marcus chuckled with pleasure at the remembrance. He had already sampled the enthusiastic Miss Hattie’s considerable sexual talents and physical delights.
“Miss Hattie?” Lady Penelope halted her pacing.
“Miss Henrietta,” Sir Marcus hastily added. “She’s a delightful little dancer. Has a potentially brilliant career in front of her.”
“I didn’t know dancing was required in their line of work!” Lady Penelope sna
pped.
Sir Marcus watched Lady Penelope’s face with increasing attention as she gnawed her bottom lip. He had never seen the Incomparable this much disconcerted. It was evident the lady felt extremely threatened. That Devlin should frequent a disgusting, low brothel—the only word for it—while purporting to be her lover came as the highest insult to a woman as vain and ambitious as his hostess. He knew very well that Devlin was not interested in the women of the Cygnet Club nor any other pleasure palace, if it came to that.
No, someone else, a very enticing someone else had captured the Duke’s attention. And he would wager his finest horse that the Duke had not sampled any bedroom bliss with this special someone. He racked his brains, running through the list of possible beauties eager for Devlin’s attention. Well, make that most of London society. Who could she be? It must be an unknown. Not out in social circles yet. Devlin must have met her close to home. Home? Deverell House? He would have to set his spies nearer the Dowager.
However, he did not impart these mental perambulations to his agitated hostess. Let her think Devlin was after a dancer. He could use all this information for his own purposes.
“Find her,” Penelope fumed, as Sir Marcus rose to take his leave. “Find out who she is, the vixen, and find Devlin. Now!”
Sir Marcus suppressed a triumphant smile as he loped down the stairs and into the street. Life was becoming interesting.
“I think I’ll start with the Honourable Frederick Perivale,” he said to himself.
Sir Marcus, surprisingly, was excellent company when he chose to be. It was not difficult to lure Freddie into his circle with Devlin away. The initially suspicious Freddie soon relaxed under the soothing effects of Sir Marcus’ considerable magnetism and amity. Sir Marcus planned his onslaught well. A supposedly chance meeting while riding in Hyde Park brought Sir Marcus into contact with his target. He invited Freddie to cast his eye over a pair of high steppers; he then asked Freddie’s opinion on the purchase of a bay…the snare of seduction began to close on the unsuspecting Freddie who, flattered and delighted that his opinions indeed held merit, surrendered without a struggle.
Finally, Sir Marcus had Freddie where he wanted him—at the Mount Olympus, tipsily enjoying the attentions of a scantily robed, voluptuous redhead called Millie. Sir Marcus had primed the fiery Olympian to ply Freddie with drinks and flattering attention but no more. At his signal, she would retire, leaving Sir Marcus to pump Freddie for information.
The moment had come. Millie caught the look and jerk of his head from Sir Marcus. Under the pretext of smoothing down Freddie’s coat lapels, she skilfully extracted his fob watch. The blazing glare from Sir Marcus had its intended effect. Millie restored the timepiece to the intoxicated Freddie and flounced off with a sulky pout.
Freddie looked around in bleary dismay. “Oh no, she’s going! Where’s she going?”
“Millie will return,” Sir Marcus reassured him. “With more drinks.”
“That’s good!” Freddie gave his host a sleepy grin. “Lovely gel, ain’t she?”
“Yes, lovely,” Sir Marcus agreed. “Just like Devlin’s lady, I suppose?”
The remark was casual but pointed.
“Huh?” Freddie’s head had been sinking perilously near the tabletop, but he jerked it upward as the sly words penetrated his woolly-headedness. “Whasher say? Naah, Dev’s not one for the Demmy …” He struggled with the word and gave up. Waving his hand in the direction of a cluster of pretty Olympians, he sputtered, “Those kinda gels. Naah, Dev’s got his ga-ga-goddess.”
“Only Lady Vane?” Sir Marcus persisted, taking a smooth and inexorable line of questioning. “Come, come, Freddie, I saw you and Dev just the other evening at the Cygnet and you cannot hoax me!” He gave Freddie the leering look of a man of experience and nudged him with a meaningful wink. “You and I, Freddie, we know all about these things.”
Sir Marcus could see that Freddie was flattered to be considered a man of sophistication.
“Yes, but Dev’s not one for those gels, I say,” Freddie maintained with stout, but slurred resolution, defending Devlin’s sexual proclivities.
“Perhaps there is someone else?” Sir Marcus insinuated. “Devlin seemed to be preoccupied. I’d say he had a female on his mind.” His shrewd surmise had the desired effect on his guest.
Freddie said, in a burst of confidence, “I was worried about him as well so I went down to Deverell House recently and met her!”
“Her?” Sir Marcus hazarded, a wave of triumph welling up inside him. He saw his prize glittering within his grasp if only the addle-pated fool would get to the point. “Who?” he asked, pretending to adjust his coat cuffs.
“Most beautiful woman I ever saw,” Freddie gushed, his head again drooping tableward. “More than a ga-ga-goddesh. Kin see why Dev’s confused ’tween the Incomprubble and another. I would be too.”
Sir Marcus patiently continued with his subtle interrogation. “She sounds fascinating.”
“Yes!” Freddie’s face was animated with happy remembrance. “Fascinating. Speaks Spanish, kin ride ’n shoot good as any man. Wonderful. Speaks French too, voice like ’n angel. Reads poetry. Think Dev’s besotted.”
His head sank to its resting place on the table and his voice echoed hollowly out from under him. “Wish’t was me!”
Sir Marcus suppressed the desire to punch Freddie hard. This was like extracting a tooth. He shoved Freddie back into a sitting position and patted the gallant’s flushed cheeks to wake him up.
“Tell me more. This lady sounds like a paragon.”
“Yes, she is!” Freddie nodded earnestly. “But I can’t tell you more.”
“Why not?” Sir Marcus ground his teeth under his seductive tone. “I’m so disappointed. I thought we were friends.”
“Yes, we are,” Freddie warbled, “but can’t ’member her name. She’s the Dushess’s companion. Jus’ arrived there a few weeks ago. Dushess adores her. Jus’ like me.”
“Well, try to remember her name!” Sir Marcus snapped. By now, he was vastly weary of the exercise.
Freddie stared up at the smoke-wreathed ceiling and squinted owlishly. “Umm…Perkins? No. Persell? No. Prumbry? No. Presbury? No. Wait…Preston!” he crowed in fuzzy triumph. “Thashit! Fenella Preston.”
Freddie’s head finally sank onto the table and Sir Marcus let him lie. Excited thoughts crowded in and out of his mind. At last, the vital information was his. He pondered what to do with this gem of knowledge. From the description, it seemed this lady had a past. Her accomplishments were certainly not of the type usually attributed to a companion. Miss Fenella Preston—if Freddie had the name right—was something of a mystery. Sir Marcus loved mysteries. They made life so very much more interesting than it usually was.
Sir Marcus’ triumph at extracting this crucial information from the inebriated Freddie was marred by her ladyship’s extremely unladylike reaction to the news. Dresden shepherdesses and other various porcelain objects whizzed around his head, smashing against the wall or other pieces of furniture. When Sir Marcus lamely pointed out that at least her rival was not a woman of ill repute, the only response he received was a piercing shriek of rage and another series of missiles flying past his ears. Sir Marcus ducked the lethal barrage by taking cover behind the sofa, only peeping out when the sounds of shattering china ceased. Lady Penelope stood in the middle of the room, her breasts heaving with fury and her face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. Sir Marcus was quite shocked at her sudden transformation from sophisticated lady to vulgar harpy. He thanked his lucky stars that his relationship with her was not intimate. The woman was terrifying when crossed. A veritable banshee.
“What do you mean…companion?” Lady Penelope screeched, her voice shrilling horribly in her throat.
“Dash it all, Pen, I mean Penelope!” Sir Marcus crawled out from behind the sofa, and gingerly picked his way through the broken shards littering the carpet. “Don’t take out your anger on me. Just doing what I w
as asked.”
He sat down with care, keeping a wary eye on her proximity to anything movable and breakable. “That’s what Freddie said. Companion to the old Dowager, been there a few weeks, captivated everyone with her beauty, intelligence and breeding.”
“And Devlin?” Lady Penelope demanded.
Sir Marcus shook his head. “Nothing about Devlin. He’s not at Deverell House. Freddie told me about the young lady, but refused to budge on Devlin’s whereabouts. Some kind of lingering loyalty to his friend.”
As he said these words, Sir Marcus half envied Devlin Freddie’s friendship.
Freddie had refused to divulge where his friend had gone. “Solemn promise, old boy,” he slurred, shaking his head. “Word of honour ’n all that stuff, y’know.”
“Does it matter where Devlin is?” Sir Marcus flicked a few splinters of porcelain from his coat sleeve.
“Of course it matters, you fool!” Lady Penelope poured herself a glass of ratafia and swallowed several gulps. “He may be off somewhere, arranging a special license.”
“’Pon my word,” Sir Marcus protested. “That’s a bit rich. Devlin wouldn’t do anything so improper, I’m sure.”
“How do you know? You wouldn’t know about anything proper!” Lady Penelope demanded, rounding on him. “He is nowhere to be found. Is that not strange enough? So, if his head has been turned by this scheming minx, he is capable of doing anything.”
“Dash it, Penelope. Doesn’t seem likely Deverell would throw his cap over the windmill. Freddie described her as a most genteel young woman.”
“Those are the worst,” Lady Penelope snarled in his ear. “The very worst. But I know how to deal with her.”
She flung herself into a chair and tore at a dainty fingernail in frustration. Her turquoise eyes glittered and her mouth set in a hard, ugly line. Sir Marcus marvelled to himself how such a beautiful woman could suddenly appear so unattractive. He watched Lady Penelope as dangerous emotions of rage, hatred and vengeance flitted across the white mask of her face. Finally, she rose from her seat and glided to the fireplace, once more composed, elegant and beautiful.
The Dangerous Duke Page 9