Devil's Match

by Anita Mills

  “I told Mama that she was called away to her sick godmother’s bedside,” Juliana admitted.

  “Somehow, that does not surprise me in the least. You certainly appear to be an inventive chit.” His dark eyes traveled over her, and then he shook his head. “One could almost pity Lenore Canfield.” He held out his arm for her to take. “But come—I’ve not all night to stand here, Miss Canfield.”

  “Wait!” She drew back indecisively. “You are not being merely patronizing, are you? You will see Patrick and you will help me find Miss Ashley, won’t you?”

  “I mean to attempt it.”

  “Will you call on me to tell me what you find? I mean, I cannot ask questions of a letter, can I?”

  “I should not think I would be welcomed,” he answered with a strange, unfathomable expression.

  “Oh, I daresay Mama will have palpitations,” Juliana admitted candidly, “but I should like it excessively, sir.”

  7

  “You blackguard! You bloody blackguard! You miserable cur!”

  “I say, Pat—you ain’t mad at me, are you?”

  “Mad?. ’Tis you who are mad! I am furious! Bertie, how dare you do such a thing?”

  “Patrick, I—”

  “Of all the contemptible … the reprehensible things I have ever heard, Bertie, this is surely the worst! To abduct a female—any female—is bad enough, but you have chosen one whose very living depends on respectability!”

  Awakened by the quarrel in the taproom below, Caroline clasped her hands to her aching temples and tried to sit up. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. Indeed, her last recollection had been of a packed supper shared in stony silence in Albert Bascombe’s carriage. And that awful, hideous wine. She looked down slowly to her wrinkled gown and realized anew that she’d been abducted.

  “But, Patrick, I did it for you!” Bascombe tried to explain.

  “If you mean to tell me she came willingly, I’ll not believe it! Heir to an earldom or no, I refuse to believe she’d prefer you to me, Bertie! But I’ll tell you one thing—I’ll see to it that you marry her!”

  “Patrick, no! You ain’t listening to me! I did it for you!”

  “For me? How the devil do you explain that? Bertie, I am not getting you out of this one!”

  Caroline lurched to her feet while the room spun around her. The ache in her head intensified to a steady throb as she groped her way to the door. The bitter wine seemed to rise from her stomach.

  “Listen, Patrick,” Bertie pleaded, “I don’t want to marry her—I ain’t in the petticoat line, for one thing, but if I was, she’d be the last female I’d take. Patrick, she tried to have me taken up by the constable at Dover,” he babbled, “and it was a near thing, I can tell you. I had to tell ’em she was queer in the attic and that I was Haverstoke’s heir before they’d believe me. How, how do you think that’s going to look to m’father if he gets wind of it? And she ain’t comfortable when she gets angry, Pat—she’s deuced strong-minded! I had to give her m’mother’s sleeping draft in the wine, else I’d never got her across!” he finished indignantly.

  “You drugged Miss Ashley? Bertie, I ought to call you out over this!”

  “I told you—I did it for you!”

  “Whether either of you cares a jot or not, I’d as lief not have my name or circumstance bandied about in a common taproom.”

  Both men gasped at the picture she presented at the top of the stairs. Her hair was in disarray, her dress was crumpled from sleep and travel, and she was obviously not well. She started to take a step down, swayed, clutched the stair post, and closed her eyes. Patrick took the stairs two at a time to reach her before she fell. Circling her waist with his arm, he lifted her effortlessly and turned to the open door of her chamber.

  “Please … set me down. I am …” She covered her mouth suddenly and swallowed hard to combat the rising nausea before finishing, “I am about to disgrace myself.”

  “Lud! Here …” He strode quickly to the washbasin before setting her down. “Bertie!” he bawled over his shoulder. “Fetch a wet cloth—now!”

  Caroline found herself in the ignominious position of being held while she retched over the bowl. Perspiration damped the tendrils of hair that escaped her coiled braids. Her hands gripped the edge of the washstand. Patrick steadied her with one arm while he dipped his handkerchief in the water pitcher and mopped her brow. When the sickness finally passed, she leaned shakily against the wooden stand to catch her breath.

  “Is she all right, Pat?” Bertie asked as he finally arrived with the wet cloth.

  “Of course she is not all right!” Patrick snapped back. “She’s deuced sick! What the devil did you give her, anyway?”

  “I told you—m’mother’s sleeping draft that Knighton prescribed—it ain’t poison or anything. Couldn’t remember though if it was one part to three parts, or three parts to one.”

  “What did you give her?”

  “Half and half.”

  “Please, I am all right now,” Caroline managed shakily. “If you would but unhand me, I should like to sit down.”

  “No.” Patrick shook his head. “You ought to be abed. If you will but lean a little, I’ll help you to lie down.”

  “My lord, ’tis unseemly.”

  “Miss Ashley, this is no time for instruction in deportment. Either lean or I’ll carry you.” Without waiting for a decision, he lifted her again and deposited her on the bed. “Any fool can see your head must ache like the very devil, my dear, and there’s no help for it but sleep and mayhap a little watered wine.”

  “Ugh! I shall never drink the vile stuff again,” she told him with feeling. “I should prefer a little tea later, I think.”

  “Please yourself.” He shrugged. “I find the wine helps, but I recommend sleep most of all.” He leaned down to pull the coverlet up over her dress. As he tucked it under her chin, his hazel eyes were serious. “And do not worry, Miss Ashley—I mean to see that there is no scandal.”

  Caroline did not go to sleep for some time after he’d closed the door. Albert Bascombe’s assertion that he’d abducted her for Patrick echoed in her aching head as she tried to make sense of it. Slowly there evolved in her mind the conviction that somehow Patrick Danvers was the root of all her troubles. And despite his kindness to her, she could not forget his awful reputation as a cold-blooded duelist and a dangerous man. When she finally did drift toward sleep, when she reached that hazy nether world, her rational thoughts were obscured by images of the handsome viscount.

  As for Patrick himself, his anger had dissipated enough to turn to the more real problem of what to do with Caroline Ashley. Returning to the taproom with Bertie, he ordered a bottle of the landlord’s best burgundy and repaired to a corner to discuss the matter.

  “Never so glad to see anyone in my life,” Bertie insisted despite their recent quarrel. “Can’t understand a word these Frenchies say, Pat. Don’t know what they think about Miss Ashley, ’cause I couldn’t even make ’em understand what happened to her.”

  Patrick poured himself a glass and drained it before announcing flatly, “You are obliged to marry her.”

  “Me?” Bertie choked on his wine and indulged in a severe coughing fit. “I say, Patrick, I ain’t! No! Daresay she’s a real lady, but dash it, she ain’t comfortable! Once she realized I wasn’t funning, she cut up a devil of a dust! Screamed for help at every inn and posting house between London and Dover—I swear she did. Didn’t mean to make her sick, but I didn’t have a choice. No, I ain’t marrying her—not when I abducted her for you.” Bertie took a more cautious sip and fixed Patrick with a baleful eye. “Dash it, but you must have got my letter!”

  “I could not make sense of it.”

  “Thing is, you got to have a wife, ain’t you? And you was interested in Miss Ashley, wasn’t you? Well, I got her for you,” Bertie reasoned triumphantly. “Plain as a pikestaff, ain’t it? I abduct her, trea
t her abominably, and you rescue her—see? Her rep’s in shreds, so she takes you instead of me. Bound to—won’t want a slowtop like me if she can have a handsome fellow like you.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Bertie choked. “Patrick, you’ve no notion of what I’ve been through! No? If that ain’t ungrateful!”

  “For one thing, Albert Bascombe, I am not so desperate that I must needs abduct an innocent female.” Patrick bit off each word. “For another, even if Miss Ashley could be brought to your reasoning, I have no use for a reluctant bride. What am I supposed to do with her? Even I stop short of ravishing females. I need a wife willing to give me an heir.”

  “She’ll come round in a trice. I mean, you’ve got looks! You can turn her up sweet if you try.”

  “Thank you, old fellow—your confidence in my ability to correct the situation overwhelms me,” Patrick muttered sarcastically. “But suppose that given the choice between us, she should choose you.”

  “No!” Bertie recoiled in horror. “She would not! She don’t like me above half—she don’t! If you could have heard her read my character in the carriage!”

  “Females say a lot of things when they are angry, Bertie, and although she would not take you under normal circumstances, it’s quite possible that she’d rather have a respectable fool than a rumored murderer.”

  “Egad!”

  “And there is much to be said for an amiable husband, after all.”

  “No! I ain’t amiable!” Visibly shaken, Bertie poured himself another glass. “I say—you’re funning with me, ain’t you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But your wager … Charlie …”

  Patrick stared into the dregs in his glass for a moment and then raised his eyes to meet Bertie’s. “If I am leg-shackled as a result of this, ’twill be a matter of honor rather than some stupid wager.”

  “Oh, lud!” Bertie groaned. “I’ve made a mull of it, haven’t I? I just thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” Patrick interrupted in a gentler tone, “but it cannot work. Think on it—I’ve a devil of a reputation to live down, one that I doubtless deserve—how’s it to look if I add abducting respectable females to my countless other sins? And Caroline Ashley’s made it abundantly clear that I am not the stuff of her girlish dreams.” Abruptly he rose and kicked back the chair. “The devil’s in it, Bertie—she’ll have to take one of us, won’t she?” He stretched his tall frame and flexed tired muscles. “I’ve had little sleep since Newmarket—I think I’ll take to my bed once I am certain she’s all right.”

  Bertie watched miserably as Patrick moved with unaccustomed slowness toward the taproom door. Nothing ever seemed to go the way he wanted it to go. For all his pains, he’d merely endured the worst trip of his life, had ruined an innocent female’s life, and had angered his only friend. Morosely he poured himself another glass and stared into the ruby liquid. Life was most unfair.

  Patrick trudged wearily upstairs and slipped unnoticed into Caroline Ashley’s chamber to stare down on her sleeping form. She lay in deep shadows cast by the all-too-faint glow of a single flickering candle. He moved to the nearby table, picked up the candle, and carried it closer to the bed to study her. Asleep, she appeared far less than her three-and-twenty years and far more vulnerable. She was curled up on her side, her head cradled against her palm, in much the same fashion as a child. Strands of dark hair escaped the confines of once neat braids and fell in disarray across her forehead and cheek, softening the effect of the severe hairstyle. Long lashes fringed darkly against pale, smooth skin that glowed peach in the candlelight. She was tall and slender, he knew, but in sleep she seemed small and fragile.

  The anger and pique he’d felt at the refusal of his suit was gone now, replaced by curiously mixed feelings. He’d never really wanted a wife, and yet the girl was possessed with qualities he admired. Her life was as empty of hope as his own, but she’d made of it what she could, while he’d chosen to withdraw to salve his wounds. She had no illusions as to what the future held for her, but she had enough pride and spirit to refuse to sell her body into a bloodless marriage, while he’d been prepared to marry for a stupid wager. How very ironic that they should be thrust together again by a perverse fate to face a society that would exact a price she could not afford to pay or demand a marriage. A bloodless marriage.

  With a sigh, he turned away and dropped wearily into a chair. He could count on his fingers the hours he’d slept in the past three days, and yet he was too tired to sleep. Setting the candlestick on a bedside table, he reached into his pocket and drew out a dilapidated translation of Homer to read of bloodier, more heroic times when men and gods conversed.

  When Caroline awoke some hours later, the candle was gutted, but the room was light. Outside, ostlers in the innyard called to one another as they went about their duties, while inside, only the sound of even breathing broke the stillness. She sat up with a start and winced at the pain in her head. Then, with a jolt to her consciousness, she realized she was not alone. Patrick Danvers sat a few feet away from her, his chair leaned back against the wall, his open book on his lap. He was fast asleep.

  She slid off the bed and smoothed down the skirt of her wrinkled dress before waking him. “What are you doing in my chamber, my lord?” she demanded as she reached to touch his shoulder. The memory of her sickness flashed through her mind and she recalled his prompt assistance. She shook him gently.

  “My lord.”

  “Uhhhhhh?” The chair came down heavily as he slowly opened his eyes and blinked in the light. Passing his hand across them and then down over the rough stubble of his beard, he suppressed a yawn.

  Fascinated by this close glimpse of the male animal, Caroline stepped back and waited. Used to observing the very correctly attired, excessively polite men of the ton, she was acutely aware that this one was different. Those hazel eyes of his met hers as a slow, rueful grin of recognition spread over his face.

  “Your pardon, Miss Ashley—I must have fallen asleep.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she observed foolishly. “People—”

  “Will talk?” he finished for her. “As we are in Calais, I doubt we will be remarked or that the on-dit will spread to London.”

  She colored at his tone of voice. “No, I suppose it will not. I daresay that there the news will be that I’ve gotten my clutches into Mr. Bascombe and have persuaded him to elope with me. He left Lady Canfield a note, after all.”

  “Miss Ashley, if it bore any resemblance to the one he left me, I daresay my Aunt Lenore will not have the least notion of what has happened. I assure you that my arrival here was the merest luck, and I have far more experience reading Bertie’s letters than anyone else.” He rose to face her. “Rest assured, Miss Ashley, that I’ll not let the scandalmongers devour you.”

  “Of course you will not—I’ve not the least doubt that you and Mr. Bascombe plotted my ruin, Lord Westover. For some obtuse reason, you have chosen to bring me down to your level, haven’t you?”

  The bitterness in her voice took him aback. “I had nothing to do with the entire affair, Miss Ashley,” he retorted. “As far as I was concerned, your rather pointed refusal of my suit marked the end of any discourse between us.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “ ’Tis all of a piece. Out of pique, you have ruined me. In the space of two days, you and Mr. Bascombe have taken my reputation, and in doing so, you have taken my livelihood—I shall never be able to seek respectable employment again. I knew from the start that the abduction was all a hum—Albert Bascombe has no more interest in me than I have in him, which is none at all.”

  “He did it in the mistaken notion that he was helping me.”

  “And neither of you cares that you have taken my living!” She paced the floor away from him. “If I were a man—”

  “But you are not,” he reminded her reasonably. “And I do care—else I’d not be here. Once I’d deciphered h
is intent, Miss Ashley, I left the comfort of my house and the promise of my bed to take off in the middle of the night. Counting a trip to Newmarket, I’ve spent the better part of three days in a carriage, Miss Ashley. I’ve not had a bath or a bed in that time, so I fail to see how you can blame me. Nonetheless, I am prepared to take responsibility for Bertie’s misguided actions.” He moved behind her and gripped her shoulders. “You say I am to blame for your ruin. That being the case, ma’am, I am afraid you will have to marry me, after all.” He felt her body stiffen beneath his hands. “I apologize for the inconvenience, since you have made it plain that I am not the sort of husband you would have, but I shall contrive to behave honorably to you.”

  “Marry you!” Caro choked. “Marry you! I should rather be thought the veriest trollop than be condemned to life with you, my lord! I have not the least doubt ’twas you who contrived this entire absurd situation!”

  “You are mistaken!” Patrick snapped back. “But nonetheless, marriage is the only answer. As a matter of honor, I will not allow you to be ruined. Whether I knew his intention or not, ’twas for me he did it, I repeat that I am prepared to accept the responsibility. You will, of course, marry me,” he finished flatly.

  “I will not!”

  “You will!”

  “I think you are insane!”

  “You are not a fool, I think,” he managed more calmly. “If you find you cannot stomach me as a husband, I’ll not make any demands on you.” He forcibly turned her to face him. “If I can find a Protestant divine in this place, we can be married at once and return to London before Aunt Lenore even suspects what has happened.” A small, wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You will not find me ungenerous, my dear.”

  “Really?” she asked with deceptive sweetness. “And what of your required heir?”

  “Given the circumstances, Miss Ashley, I am prepared to forgo the necessary intimacy.” His fingers dug into her shoulders and he leaned closer. Her eyes widened for a moment and then closed defensively. “I am not even fool enough to attempt kissing you again,” he muttered as he suddenly released her and thrust her away from him.