*
The Earl of Langley was in a foul mood. He had assumed his refusal to act as the young duke’s guardian would end the matter once and for all. Obviously it had not, as the note he carried in his waistcoat pocket attested.
The duchess had apparently come to London for the express purpose of pursuing the annoying subject. She had even had the gall to request him to present himself at her town house at nine o’clock this morning—a request worded so cleverly it left him no recourse, as a gentleman, but to acquiesce.
Which was the only reason he was out and about at this ungodly hour when the streets were teeming with tradesmen’s carts and the carriages of citizens conducting the commerce of the busy metropolis. He yawned, exhausted from a long evening in the gaming room at White’s, followed by an even longer night in the arms of the latest ladybird to catch his fancy.
“Good of you to back me up in this annoying session with the duchess,” he murmured to the Marquess of Stamden, who sat beside him in his curricle. “I am afraid I might be tempted to wring the woman’s neck if I found myself alone with her.” Tightening his grip on the ribbons, he sent his matched grays sprinting across an intersection, narrowly missing a milk wagon and a hackney cab.
The marquess made a frantic grasp for the edge of the seat. “Hell and damnation, isn’t it enough that I am breaking my rule against socializing to lend you my support? Must I give my life as well? Vent your spleen on the duchess if you please, not on a loyal comrade.”
“Sorry,” Devon murmured, slowing the grays to a comfortable trot. “I’ve had a devilish week and this miserable bit of business just tops it off.”
Stamden raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Your latest little pretty from the opera chorus isn’t working out, I take it.”
Devon grinned ruefully. “She has turned out to be a bit more demanding than I had counted on. It is probably a good thing the romp is coming to an end.”
“You’re giving the chit her congé?”
Devon nodded. “She is beginning to get on my nerves. No sooner have we finished with the…ahem…business at hand, than she rises up out of bed and treats me to a rendition of the solo part she is rehearsing for the next opera.”
“Why is that a problem?” Stamden’s pale eyes glinted with humor. “You must be a music lover; you invariably choose your mistresses from the opera chorus.”
“Only because they are so nicely displayed and so readily available that I do not have to expend the time and effort of looking elsewhere.” Devon scowled. “But as a matter of fact, it is my love of music which presents the problem in this particular instance. My current songbird may have the face of an angel and the body of Aphrodite, but her voice is definitely that of a crow. I predict a short, inglorious career as a solo performer for Miss Philomena Browne—probably no longer than it takes for the opera director to tire of her undisputed talent between the bed sheets.”
His scowl darkened. “I swear, I have grown so weary of women in general this past fortnight, I am on the verge of joining the ranks of the celibate.”
Stamden shaded his eyes with his fingers and looked toward the heavens. “And I am watching for the pigs which will surely be flying by at any moment.”
Devon chuckled, his humor considerably improved. There was no one like his cynical friend to put things into proper perspective.
With the ease of an accomplished whip, he guided the grays around a corner and pulled them to a stop before the Sheffield town house. Favoring his game leg, he climbed from the curricle and handed the reins to the groom who rode behind him.
“Well, here we are,” he said, turning to the marquess. “I promise you I shall conclude this unpleasant business as quickly as possible; I have a number of important calls I must make this afternoon.
Stamden stepped down beside him and together they mounted the shallow stone steps to the town house. Moments later they were ushered into a spacious salon on the first floor by an ancient, somber-clad butler.
Devon stared with frank interest at the charming room. The walls were papered in a delicate Chinese floral print with touches of gold leaf that reflected the morning sunshine streaming through a bay of recessed windows. A Persian carpet in muted shades of green and blue and gold covered the floor, and the few judiciously placed chairs and sofas were of either Hepplewhite or Sheraton design, but the ambience seemed strangely sparse compared with most of the fashionable salons of the day, including that of Devon’s own mother. Still, he felt a strong affinity to the feeling of peace and order the room projected.
“What a lovely room,” Stamden murmured, apparently gaining the same impression.
Devon found himself wondering if this gracious salon could possibly reflect the taste of the present duchess. The thought was a disquieting one; he remembered her as a tasteless hoyden.
He caught a faint whiff of some spicy scent redolent of exotic, foreign climes and a second later heard the rustle of skirts signaling the approach of the woman in question. One glance and the hope he’d been harboring that the years might have somehow dimmed her incredible beauty died an instant death. If anything, she was even more exquisite than his recollection. Even her severe widow’s black, which would have rendered most women sallow and unattractive, only enhanced her creamy complexion and glossy sable hair.
“Good morning, my lord. Thank you for coming” she said in that warm, slightly husky voice that had haunted his dreams for the past four years. She studied him with a cool appraisal which made him all too aware of how he must appear to her—a man battle-weary and old beyond his years, leaning upon a stout walking stick to support his game leg.
“Your grace.” He moistened his lips, which for some reason felt stretched too tightly across his teeth. “May I present my friend, Peter Forsythe, Marquess of Stamden.”
“My lord.” The duchess favored Stamden with her breathtaking smile and Devon saw the usually stoic marquess blink as if faced with an image too brilliant for the human brain to absorb.
“So my Lord St. Gwyre,” she said, turning back to Devon with a faint hint of amusement in her expressive, almond-shaped eyes, “you felt the need of reinforcements when you met with me. Surely a man who has dealt so heroically with the best Bonaparte had to offer cannot find a mere woman so formidable.”
Devon experienced a moment of surprise that she should be aware of his war record—which quickly turned to anger at the thought of the woman’s audacious tongue. Five minutes in her annoying presence and already he could feel his control slipping.
She gave a soft trill of laughter that sent shivers of awareness vibrating through him. “As you can see, I too have taken the same precaution,” she said, drawing forward the pale, brown-haired woman who stood slightly behind her. “I understand you are already acquainted with my companion and friend, Miss Elizabeth Kincaid.”
“But of course, Elizabeth and I have known each other since childhood,” Devon exclaimed, shocked to see the eldest daughter of his village vicar a member of the notorious duchess’s household. Could the family have fallen on such hard times they must risk Elizabeth’s reputation to see her employed? He resolved to call on the vicar and demand an explanation as soon as he returned to Cornwall.
He clasped Elizabeth’s small hand in his. “Much of my misspent youth was devoted to pulling this lady’s pigtails,” he said gently.
“You were ever the worst of teases, my lord.” Elizabeth blushed prettily and withdrawing her hand from his, extended it to the marquess. To her credit, she, like the duchess, faced Stamden with a steady, unblinking gaze, and Devon saw a travesty of a smile spread across his friend’s ravaged face.
“I will not keep you long,” the duchess said, getting right to the point once they were all seated. “I have asked you here to beg you to change your mind and accept the guardianship of my stepson.” The stoic look to her lovely face revealed what it cost her to humble herself to plead her cause. She obviously had no more desire to deal with him than he had to deal with her. T
hen why this helpless widow act she was putting on? She had even gone so far as to dress the part. Not a single jewel adorned her surprisingly unfashionable widow’s weeds and her hair was scraped back into the severest of chignons. This was doing it up a bit brown even for a consummate actress like the duchess. It was a wonder she hadn’t resorted to sackcloth and ashes.
He abandoned his perusal of her, only to find her studying him even more intently, almost as if she were trying to read his innermost thoughts. “I promise you Charles will be no trouble to you, my lord. I shall need no help in raising him,” she said with such touching sincerity, Devon almost found himself believing she was earnest in her supplication.”
“My decision is final,” he said coldly.
For a second, something that looked remarkably like terror clouded the duchess’s eyes. “But unless you agree to be named his guardian, the office will likely be awarded to his cousin, Viscount Quentin, and I fear for Charles’s safety in his hands,” she said in a choked voice.
Devon raised a skeptical eyebrow at her dramatic statement. “The man is a peer of the realm and the boy’s nearest relative. He would appear to be the logical choice. In fact, I have to wonder why he was not named in the old duke’s will.”
“My husband had good reason,” she said in a voice devoid of all expression. “Are you acquainted with the viscount?”
“No.”
“I am,” Stamden said.
Surprised by the grave expression on his friend’s face, Devon waited for him to explain his cryptic remark.
Stamden shrugged. “It is well known that Quentin is a habitué of the worst gambling hells in London. Rumor is the ivory turners have picked him clean in the past few months and he is desperate to get his hands on some blunt. That alone should disqualify him as the ideal candidate for the guardianship of a young boy who has inherited immense wealth. But the courts being what they are, one cannot count on their perfect discretion.”
His eyes sought Devon’s in the unspoken warning they’d developed during the years they’d fought side by side on the Peninsula. Every nerve in Devon’s body instantly sprang to life. He couldn’t imagine what Stamden had in mind, but experience had taught him to heed the message his friend was transmitting without question. More than once such silent warnings had saved one or both of their lives when they’d found themselves trapped in a perilous situation.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the speculative look on the duchess’s face as she too studied the marquess. The woman was much too quick of wit for comfort.
“What are you suggesting, Peter?” he asked wearily. He had a strong premonition he was not going to like his friend’s answer, but he had trusted his life to the man too often to look askance at his judgment now.
Chapter Two
“Far be it from me to interfere in your affairs,” Stamden said, his voice so patently bland, Devon knew instantly that what he was trying to convey—or conceal—was of a deadly serious nature. “But it occurs to me you might want to meet the boy before you summarily dismiss the idea of accepting him as your ward.”
The duchess instantly picked up the cue Stamden had dropped. “What a thoughtful suggestion,” she declared, casting him a look of undisguised gratitude.
“I suppose there is a certain logic in that,” Devon agreed reluctantly, wondering where Peter was leading him and why.
“Of course there is.” The duchess studied Devon’s face with anxious eyes. “But if I could beg your indulgence, my lord, Charles is extremely shy; he would not be at his best if he knew he was under scrutiny. Could we arrange a meeting place where you might observe him without his knowing?”
“The earl and I passed a Punch and Judy show near the entrance to Green Park on our way here,” Stamden remarked conversationally. “The boy might enjoy that, and he need never know he is being watch if the earl simply mingles with the crowd as a spectator.”
Devon felt for all the world like a ball being tossed back and forth between the duchess and Stamden. The two of them had apparently established a tacit understanding between them which left him little choice but to agree with whatever scheme they devised. A glimpse of the bemused expression on Elizabeth Kincaid’s face told him that even that most guileless of ladies was aware of the mysterious undercurrents pervading the quiet salon.
“It just so happens the duke is particularly fond of Punch and Judy shows,” the duchess declared, rising to pace restlessly around the room.
Devon grimaced. “Somehow I felt certain he would be.”
She had the grace to blush. Avoiding Devon’s gaze, she looked to Stamden as if for reassurance. “We could be at the park at two o’clock unless another time would be more convenient.”
“Capital! What could be better, Devon, since you mentioned earlier you had nothing in mind for this afternoon?”
Devon glowered at his friend, wondering if the usually levelheaded marquess had become the latest unfortunate male to fall beneath the spell of the beautiful duchess.
“Devil take it, what sort of havey-cavey game are you playing?” he muttered as they took their leave of the two women a few minutes later.
“Wait until we are safely out of earshot,” Peter replied tersely.
Devon climbed into the driver’s seat of the curricle and waited until Peter had settled beside him before taking up the ribbons.
“You were right about one thing,” Stamden remarked as they got under way. “The duchess is probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—and the most eccentric. I wonder what the high sticklers of the ton would say if they saw her dressed in widow’s weeds that would look more appropriate on the village blacksmith’s relict than on the widow of one of the wealthiest men in England?”
“They would undoubtedly say she is a hoyden who will go to any length to get her own way—which she is,” Devon said sourly, casting his friend an impatient scowl. “But that is neither here nor there. I take it from the interesting little drama you and the duchess just enacted, there is something more objectionable about Viscount Quentin than the fact the he is sailing the river Tick.”
Stamden nodded, his grim expression enhanced by the jagged, purplish-red scar marring his left cheek. “The gambling hells are not the only East End establishments the viscount frequents. He is well known in the more colorful bawdy houses as both a sadist and a deviant addicted to every perversion known to man. In point of fact, all but the most disreputable abbeys have closed their doors to him. The very idea of such a depraved monster gaining financial control over a young boy and his beautiful stepmother makes my blood run cold.”
Devon’s fingers involuntarily tightened on the reins. Stamden’s revelation was bizarre, but not beyond the realm of possibility. The viscount would not be the first member of polite society to, as the saying went, “lead a double life.” He snarled a curse from between taut lips. “If what you say is true, I begin to understand why the duchess is so desperate to persuade me to accept the role of guardian, despite our mutual animosity.”
“Precisely.” Stamden’s matter-of-fact voice belied the murderous look in his eyes. “And I would wager a monkey the lady has already learned firsthand the kind of individual she must deal with if you refuse. An elderly husband in poor health would be little protection for a young wife.”
He studied Devon with an intensity that would have made a lesser man quake in his boots. “Tell me, my friend, can you truly say you despise any woman enough to deliver her, as well as a helpless child, into the hands of such a man?”
It was a few minutes past two o’clock when Devon brought his curricle to a stop outside the entrance to Green Park and handed the reins to his groom. “I am afraid we shall have to walk to where we agreed to meet the duchess,” he said. “The park is too crowded to maneuver a carriage easily.”
In truth, despite the fact that it was still February and a chill lingered in the air, the first sunny day had brought the winter-weary citizens of London flocking outdoors en masse. Every
street Devon and the marquess had traversed had been crowded with carriages and pedestrians, and a line of vehicles a block long waited to enter Hyde Park. When they arrived at Green Park they found large numbers of spectators assembled at every hastily erected amusement stand.
Ten minutes later, after a considerably longer walk than he had anticipated, Devon stopped beside the makeshift stage of the middling little Punch and Judy show Stamden had suggested. It had been two years since he’d returned from Spain, but his leg still bothered him whenever he did much walking. At the moment it throbbed like a toothache, and he was reluctant to try pushing his way through the crowd of noisy, catcalling spectators watching a scruffy-looking Punch bludgeon his ragged Judy and toss her from the window of their crude paper house.
“I am sick and tired of dealing with this blasted leg of mine,” he grumbled, leaning heavily on his sturdy walking staff to take the weight off his tortured limb. Then, cursing himself for an insensitive lout, he remembered what Peter must deal with the rest of his life. Luckily, his friend was too engrossed in locating the duchess’s party to register his unfortunate slip of tongue.
“There they are.” Stamden pointed to where the duchess and Elizabeth Kincaid stood in the center of the crowd, a small boy between them. Devon glanced toward the spot indicated and found his gaze locked with that of the duchess. His heart lurched in his chest when he spied the same look of naked fear on her face that he’d seen earlier.
“Something is amiss,” he said, watching the two women and the boy quickly work their way through the assembled spectators toward where Stamden and he waited.
Elizabeth was the first to reach them. “Thank God you have come,” she declared fervently. “When you were late we were afraid…but now that you are here everything will be all right.”
The Gypsy Duchess Page 2