by Diane Gaston
But Devlin had infuriated him with those comments about his wife. Success with women came as easy to Devlin as riding, shooting, gaming. His youngest brother did everything without effort, as well as without thought, while he, the bearer of the title, had laboured for every accomplishment.
How well he remembered Devlin’s birth. He had been home on school holiday, old enough at ten years to take charge of Percy, Helen, Julia, and Lavinia during his mother’s confinement. He smiled inwardly at his less-than-learned explanation to his sisters and brother of exactly what would transpire during the birth. From the moment he’d held the newborn baby in his arms, Ned had been full of pride in this littlest brother. He made a solemn oath, that day, to always protect and defend him.
Devlin had made keeping that vow a challenge. A more reckless individual had never been born. It had been no surprise to Ned that Devlin joined the cavalry. Had Ned not been heir, he might have served his country as well, fighting at his brother’s side, but all he could do was bring a near-dying Devlin back home.
‘Ned? Is something troubling you?’ Serena’s sweet voice broke through his reverie.
‘What?’
‘I thought you might be troubled.’ She averted her eyes.
‘No, I am not.’ She would think him weak, for certain, if she knew his thoughts.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she murmured.
He wished more to beg pardon of her, for his abominable behaviour, but did not know quite how. It seemed to him the silence between them was a condemnation.
‘You disapprove of my dealings with my brother,’ he blurted out.
Her eyebrows flew up in surprise. ‘I would not question your judgement.’
‘You think me too harsh.’
‘I would not presume…’
He dismissed her words with a shake of his head. With trembling fingers, she picked daintily at her food.
After eight years of marriage, his wife remained a stunningly beautiful woman, her restraint the epitome of what became a lady. He could not complain. She was biddable, even when he pressed his carnal urges upon her, something he did as rarely as he could tolerate. The marital act was too painful for her sensibilities, but she craved children and he wished to give them to her.
Another failure on his part.
Ned drained the wine from his glass for the third time. ‘Do you go out tonight, Serena?’
She jumped at the sound of his voice and barely glanced at him. ‘No.’
It was his turn to be surprised. She had lately developed the habit of accompanying friends to the evening entertainments, the ones from which he begged off with increasing frequency.
She pressed her fingertips against her temple. ‘I shall retire early. I…I have the headache.’
He had made her ill. He poured another glass of wine, wanting to express his concern, to offer to get her headache powders, to escort her up to her room and help her into bed.
He did none of those things.
‘If you will excuse me…’ She rose and, without waiting for a reply and probably not expecting one, left him alone in the room.
A footman entered and moved quickly to clear the table. Ned gestured for him to take away the plate from which he had barely eaten. When the man set the brandy in front of him, Ned began to see how much of that bottle he could finish.
Chapter Eight
Devlin picked a secluded chair at White’s far from the bow window. He intended to sip his brandy in peace, away from the curious passers-by in the street. He wished to steel himself before circulating among the gentlemen of the ton in another attempt to procure employment. But what reason was there to expect this afternoon to differ from the last two weeks? He had made inquiries with the few of his senior officers still alive and exploited every imaginable family connection.
He might as well have bivouacked in a field. In fact, he would have preferred it, sharing cold, damp nights and bawdy soldier’s tales with men who knew life could end with a musket ball the next day.
‘May I join you?’
Devlin glanced up. The elegant figure of the Marquess stood before him. He shrugged his assent.
His brother signalled for a drink and settled in the comfortable chair across from him. ‘How do you go on, Devlin?’
How did Ned think he went on? He and Bart had counted every coin that morning. They had a few days’ escape from the River Tick, no more.
‘Tolerably well,’ he said.
Ned regarded him with a bland expression. What lay beyond that inscrutable countenance was a mystery. Devlin could wait out the silence, even if his brother never spoke.
Ned did not betray a thought, let alone a feeling. ‘I understand you have inquired about employment around town.’
Devlin cocked his head, ever so slightly.
The waiter placed a glass before Ned. ‘Without success, I recollect.’
Devlin favoured him with an ironic grin. ‘I am pleased you are so well informed. Unfortunately, there seems to be a surplus of men such as myself. Soldiers needing work.’
‘A pity.’ Ned raised his glass to his lips.
‘It does not help that the men from whom I seek employment instead contrive to introduce me to their daughters.’
‘Indeed?’
Damn his brother’s implacability. ‘It was not you who spread the tale of our father’s peculiar arrangement for me?’
Ned’s eyes flickered with surprise, not guilt.
Devlin laughed. ‘Not you, I collect. A sister, perhaps?’
Ned’s control returned. ‘Helen is a likely suspect.’
‘Likely,’ Devlin agreed. ‘She has a crony in town, I believe.’
‘And meddling proclivities.’
For a moment the ease between them returned and Devlin could almost forget that his revered brother had unwittingly placed a young woman and her innocent daughter in jeopardy. Ned would disapprove if he knew of Madeleine, but would he be less tight-fisted? Pride prevented Devlin from revisiting his monetary request on his brother. He was less sure why he did not confide about Madeleine.
‘How is Serena?’ he asked instead, seeking neutral ground.
The Marquess’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well.’
Serena was not neutral ground, then. Had Ned’s anger something to do with Serena? Devlin studied him. The Marquess’s bland expression had a hard edge.
‘Good God, Ned. Is there some trouble between you and Serena?’ The sudden thought burst into words.
Ned’s face turned to chiselled granite. ‘Mind your loose tongue. Your voice will carry.’
‘I am sorry,’ Devlin mumbled. Deuce, he had managed to blunder into more disfavour. If others had heard his ill-conceived words, the rumour-mill would carry the tale throughout the ton. He glanced around the room, but no one seemed to have given them the least heed. He hoped.
Ned had not looked around, but maintained his damnable composure. What a soldier he would have made, thought Devlin. He would bet Ned could face down a battalion single-handed without flinching. But would he be able to muster enough emotion to strike? A soldier eventually had to tap into rage. Until their fisticuffs of a fortnight ago, Devlin would not have believed Ned capable of rage.
Devlin felt light-headed. He ought not to have imagined battle. Images, sounds, and smells enveloped him. The thud of horses’ hooves, the cry of battle, the smoke and smell of musket fire. Men screamed. Horses squealed. Metal clanged against metal before thrusting into flesh. Blood sprayed and the stench of death grew stronger.
Devlin pressed his fingers to his temple.
‘Are you unwell?’ Ned’s voice held genuine concern.
Beads of perspiration dampened his forehead, as if the day had not been cool. The incessant thunder of French cannon echoed through his brain and his vision blurred into smoke-filled chaos. He could see the men, the shapes of their noses, the yellowed colour of their teeth, the stunned expressions as his own sabre sliced their throats.
‘Dev, you are white as death.
Let me summon a doctor.’
At his brother’s voice, the images dissolved as suddenly as they had come, leaving his emotions in tattered pieces. Devlin suppressed an urge to laugh. As in childhood, his brother had rescued him, this time from his own personal demons.
‘No doctor.’ Devlin’s voice was not quite steady. ‘I was woolgathering for a moment.’ He stood. All notions of grovelling for employment fled. ‘Would you excuse me, Ned? I must leave.’
The brow of the Marquess wrinkled slightly. ‘Are you sure you are not ill?’
Devlin’s mouth lifted at the corner. ‘Poor, perhaps, but not ill. You needn’t worry.’
‘I have my barouche. I will take you home.’
‘Not necessary, brother. The walk will do me good.’ His heart still pounded and his hands trembled. All Devlin wished to do was flee. He touched Ned on the shoulder and hurried away.
A light rainfall greeted him on the street and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the cool droplets pattering on his upturned face.
‘Good day, Steele. Been at White’s, I see.’
Devlin opened his eyes and met the affable grin of Lord Farley. He merely nodded and made to continue on his way.
Farley put a hand on his arm. ‘Pray, what is your hurry? Come with me to my establishment. I shall buy you a drink.’
‘I think not.’ Again Devlin tried to leave.
‘Come. You may give me news of Madeleine,’ he persisted.
Devlin shrugged off the man’s hand. ‘I think not.’
Anger flashed through Farley’s eyes for a moment before the amiable expression reappeared. ‘How does she go on? I hope she still pleases you, but perhaps you have tired of her.’
Devlin’s emotions were ragged enough to plant his fist squarely in the centre of Farley’s face. He pushed past.
The man fell in step with him. ‘I say, Steele, I hear you are seeking employment. Consider working for me. I could use a skilled gamester, and, I promise you, I would compensate you generously. I am again flush in the pockets, you see.’
Devlin stopped, his fingers still curled into fists. He’d heard the tale of Farley’s change in fortune. ‘Tell me, would my employment include fleecing green boys—like young Boscomb? He put a pistol to his head after a visit to your tables, did he not?’
Farley’s eyes narrowed but his grin remained. ‘An unfortunate incident.’
Devlin attempted to walk on, but Farley kept pace. ‘Perhaps, if you are in need of funds, you would return Madeleine to me. In return for the money you won from me, of course.’
Devlin’s fists tightened. If he’d had his sword in his hand, he would relish the sound of its steel plunging into Farley’s gut. Devlin gritted his teeth. ‘Do not speak of her.’
‘Oh?’ Farley remarked casually. ‘She has become troublesome to you, perhaps? She has a habit of doing so. I assure you, I know precisely how to deal with her.’
Devlin spun toward Farley and, with the strength of both arms, shoved him away. Better that than attacking and killing him. Farley fell, splashing into a puddle on the pavement.
Farley struggled to rise. ‘You have ruined my coat.’
Devlin leaned over him. ‘I’ll ruin more than your coat if you dare speak to me again, Farley.’
He turned his back and crossed the street, not heeding the stares of others walking by.
Madeleine stood in the hall, pushing the broom here and there, wondering how one contrived to get all the dust into one spot so that one could use the dustpan. She decided to experiment on a little pile of dust, but couldn’t work out how to hold the broom and the dustpan at the same time. Linette sat in the corner galloping her wooden horse back and forth, while her doll sat abandoned on a parlour chair.
Bart had accompanied Sophie to the dress shop. How could any of them have guessed that little Sophie would be the only one to find paying work? Bart searched each day for labour, coming home talking of scores of veterans like himself lining up for one job. And Devlin. More lines of worry etched his face each day.
When Madeleine and Sophie took some of her new dresses to the dressmaker in the hope that they might return them, Sophie came home with a large package of piecework, Madeleine with the dresses she had sought to sell.
She struggled with the sweeping. She was determined to do her part. While Sophie sewed and Bart and Devlin searched for work, she would care for the house.
Madeleine tried a different way to hold the broom, sticking it under her arm and levering it against her hip. She pretended to be a simple country housewife. She cleaned the house and tended the child while her husband—Devlin, of course—tilled the earth. Their lives were a quiet routine of hard work, peaceful evenings in front of the fireplace, and nights filled with loving. Madeleine leaned on the broom and sighed. How wonderful it would be.
She should not waste time in fancy. This silly habit of hers did not do her credit. She needed to solve her problems such as they really were. She needed work. Employment as a housemaid would not be the means, she supposed, although housework had never seemed difficult for the housemaids she once knew. They sped through chores with no apparent effort.
She jabbed at her pitiful pile of dust with the broom, scattering it everywhere except into the dustpan. ‘Deuce.’
As she uttered this unladylike but Devlin-like epithet, the door opened and Devlin walked in, his head bent and his shoulders stooped. When he saw her, he smiled, but his eyes remained sad. ‘What the devil are you doing?’
‘Sweeping.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘Or trying to do so.’
‘Deddy!’ Linette popped up from her corner and propelled herself into Devlin’s arms.
‘How’s my little lady?’
Linette wrapped her little arms around Devlin’s neck. ‘Deddy play?’ She batted long lashes and smiled sweetly.
‘Not now, Lady Lin.’ He put Linette down and the child ran back to her toy horse. Devlin rubbed his forehead. He turned toward Madeleine and again smiled.
She stepped over to him to take his hat. ‘You are wet.’
‘It is nothing. A little rain.’
‘Let me help you remove your coat.’ She reached for the lapels. He held her arms and stared at her a moment before clutching her to him.
She could hardly breathe, he held her so tight.
‘Do not worry so, Devlin. We shall come about.’ She wound her own arms around his neck.
Linette ran to them, arms raised. ‘Me! Me!’
Devlin scooped her up and enveloped them both in a hug, the kind of coming-home greeting she had imagined a moment ago, but infused with pain instead of pleasure.
‘Come into the kitchen, Devlin. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She liked the sound of that, the housewife giving comfort to the labourer.
‘I want biskis!’ Linette cried.
Devlin, holding them both more loosely now, gave her a perplexed look. ‘Biskis?’
‘She means biscuit. I believe we still have a good number that Sophie made.’
He smiled. ‘Tea and biskis it is, then.’ Still carrying Linette, he followed her into the kitchen.
Bart and Sophie entered from the rear door as Madeleine poured Devlin’s tea. Devlin merely raised his eyebrows to Bart, who shook his head.
‘These are hard times.’ The sergeant frowned.
Madeleine bade Bart and Sophie sit for tea and ‘biskis’, and, amid Sophie’s protests, she served them all. Linette had climbed upon Devlin’s lap. While the others traded news of their efforts of the day, she surveyed the scene. Their situation was dire, but the moment filled her with peace.
Her family, she thought. She put a hand to her brow. She must not think of family.
‘Perhaps I have something of value to sell,’ Devlin mused. ‘I must have a stick pin or something with a jewel in it. Or perhaps my sword would fetch a good price.’
‘You must keep the sword.’ Bart nodded his head firmly. ‘To honour the others.’
‘You are right.’ D
evlin’s voice was barely audible.
‘I could try another shop to sell the dresses,’ Madeleine offered.
He winced. ‘Yes, you could.’
Sophie rose and dropped a few coins into Devlin’s hands. ‘My earnings, sir.’
Madeleine watched the look of pain flash over his face, replaced by a gentle smile for Sophie.
‘Thank you, indeed, little one. This is a welcome contribution.’
Sophie flushed with pride.
He stood, having drained the contents of his cup and set Linette upon a chair. ‘If you all will pardon me.’
Madeleine watched him walk out of the room, his tall figure ramrod straight. A moment later the front door closed.
Later that evening when she was putting Linette to bed, she heard Devlin’s footsteps on the stairs. He entered his bedchamber. Half-listening for sounds from his room, she sang softly to her sleepy daughter. Within a few minutes, the child’s eyelids fluttered closed. She kissed Linette’s soft, pink brow, tucked the covers around her, and tiptoed over to the chest. Quietly opening the top drawer, she removed a small package wrapped in cloth.
Madeleine tapped lightly at the connecting door between her room and Devlin’s. Without waiting for an answer, she entered.
He sat on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He glanced up.
‘May I speak with you, Devlin?’
He nodded.
She walked over to the bed, handed him her parcel.
‘What is this?’ He took it in his hand.
‘Something for you to sell.’
He unwrapped the cloth and lifted a delicate gold chain with a teardrop pearl. In the cloth were matching pearl earrings.
‘These are lovely. Where did you get them? From Farley?’
‘No,’ she said, indignant that he should think so. ‘They were mine before I met Farley. You may sell them.’