The Devil Earl

by Deborah Simmons

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Deborah Simmons

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  “Stop looking as though you expect me to drag you off and ravish you,”

  the earl said softly.

  The words were spoken in an amused tone, and yet his gray gaze had not softened, and the way he said “ravish” made Prudence blink behind her spectacles.

  “Oh, my!” she whispered, half to herself, as she snapped open her fan. “I beg your pardon if I have been gaping at you oddly, my lord.” She fanned herself rapidly. “I am not sure what has come over me lately. It is rather warm in here, is it not?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Ravenscar agreed, his appealing mouth curving sensuously. “Uncomfortably warm, I would say.”

  There was a wry note in his voice that made Prudence glance up at his eyes again. It was a mistake, for they swept over her anew like storm clouds racing and churning with the heady promise of lightning.

  “Oh, my,” Prudence muttered again as a moment of silence as charged as his look stretched between them…

  Dear Reader,

  The Devil Earl from Deborah Simmons is a delightful new Regency with a calm, sensible heroine who is determined to heal the wounded soul of the dark and brooding Earl of Ravenscar, the inspiration for the heroes in her popular Gothic novels. And be sure to keep an eye out for Deborah’s new medieval novel, Maiden Bride, coming in September.

  Also out this month, the third book in award-winning author Theresa Michaels’s Kincaid Trilogy, Once a Lawman, features the oldest Kincaid brother, a small-town sheriff who must choose between family and duty as he works to finally bring to justice the criminals who’ve been plaguing his family’s ranch.

  Miranda Jarrett’s hero, Captain Nick Sparhawk, is tormented by a meddlesome angel bent on matchmaking in Sparhawk’s Angel, which Romantic Times calls “delightful, unforgettably funny and supremely touching.” And an indentured servant is torn between her affection for her good-hearted master and her growing love for the rugged frontiersman who is guiding them to a new life in the territories in Ana Seymour’s new Western, Frontier Bride.

  We hope you will enjoy all four titles, and come back for more. Please keep a lookout for Hartequin Historicals, available wherever books are sold.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Hartequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  The Devil Earl

  Deborah Simmons

  Books by Deborah Simmons

  Hartequin Historicals

  Fortune Hunter #132

  Silent Heart #185

  The Squire’s Daughter #208

  The Devil’s Lady #241

  The Vicar’s Daughter #258

  Taming the Wolf #284

  The Devil Earl #317

  DEBORAH SIMMONS

  began her writing career as a newspaper reporter. She turned to fiction after the birth of her first child when a long-time love of historical romance prompted her to pen her own work, published in 1989. She lives with her husband, two children and two cats in rural Ohio, where she divides her time between her family, reading and writing. She enjoys hearing from readers at the address below. For a reply, an SASE is appreciated.

  Deborah Simmons

  P.O. Box 274

  Ontario, OH 44862-0274

  This book is dedicated to Lynn Dominick,

  Deb Jeffers, Marie Mattingly and all the staff of the

  Galion Public Library for their continual assistance,

  support and encouragement.

  Chapter One

  Autumn—1818

  Cornwall, England

  The wind howled. The shutters rattled.

  Millicent swooned.

  The specter rose up, a chilling vision, to loom over her

  prostrate form…

  “Drat!” Prudence muttered. Pushing her slipping spectacles back into place, she frowned at the sheet of foolscap before her. Her heroine was swooning far too frequently, and the specter very much resembled the apparition in her last book, The Mysterious Alphorise. Her second effort was simply not going well at all.

  What she needed was…inspiration. With a sigh of frustration, Prudence gazed out the window at what had always provided her with the necessary stimulus: Wolfinger Abbey.

  Of course, Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels were what had given her the courage to take up writing herself, but it was the abbey that stirred her creative spirit. It stood high up on the edge of the sea cliff, enshrouded in mist, its dark gray stone stark against the bleak sky, its towers home to the earls of Ravenscar for hundreds of years.

  What secrets did it hold? Prudence had always pondered them, and even as a child she had woven tales of death and destruction, passion and murder, for the area’s most famous structure. Rumors spoke of a vast network of tunnels that lay beneath it, used by wreckers and smugglers not so long ago, but, to her great disappointment, Prudence had never found a single shaft.

  When she was a young girl, she and the village children had dared each other to pass the gloomy gates or creep into the cemetery where the monks who had once walked its halls were buried. But the others had always fled, shrieking in terror, when they got close, leaving Prudence to be turned away by the aged caretaker.

  Ever since, Prudence had been frustrated in her efforts to gain entry, because the abbey stood empty, for the most part, the earldom having passed to a distant relation who was more interested in the dissipations of London than in a lonely seaside residence. Life went on, bypassing Wolfinger, but it remained, a Gothic sentinel, ancient and aweinspiring. Like a standing stone, it kept its barrow of mysteries closely guarded—and waited for new blood.

  A few locals claimed it was haunted by the ghosts of the sailors who had died on the rocks below, by fair means or foul; others said it was cursed by the bad blood of the Ravenscars who had dwelt there. To the fainthearted, it was macabre; to the more prosaic, an eyesore.

  To Prudence, it was perfect.

  She loved Wolfinger Abbey with a fierce devotion that no one else, certainly none whom she knew, could possibly comprehend. To her, the eerie edifice was the epitome of romance, adventure, excitement—all the things that were lacking in her own placid existence.

  “Pru!” The shout startled her out of her contemplation, and, realizing she was nibbling on the end of her pen, Prudence promptly spit it out and turned to greet her sister.

  Phoebe rushed into the morning room, pink-cheeked and charmingly breathless. Putting a dainty hand to her bosom, she stopped and stared at Prudence, her bright blue eyes wide and slightly glazed. Well accustomed to Phoebe’s theatrical tendencies, Prudence saw no cause for alarm, but simply waited for her sister to explain this sudden excitement. The answer was not long in coming.

  “Oh, Pru! Pru! I
have seen him, at last! Oh, be still my heart!” she whispered so dramatically that Prudence spared a moment’s concern that her sister might actually swoon.

  “Him, who?” Prudence asked calmly.

  The question sent Phoebe into new transports. Giving her sister an airy smile, she sank into one of the worn chairs near the hearth and sighed. “Oh, Pru! Simply the most wonderful being in the world…”

  Smiling herself, Prudence knew it would be pointless to seek pertinent details at this juncture, so she simply waited and listened while Phoebe extolled the virtues of some unknown gentleman.

  “He is handsome, so very handsome,” Phoebe said, dreamily lost in reflection. “And so elegant, and such fine manners! Of course, I knew him to be of noble birth at once! His education is obviously well beyond anyone’s in the confines of our small surroundings, and he must be very comfortable in his income.” She shot a guilty look at Prudence. “Not that such a consideration would weigh heavily with me, if it were not for all his other splendid qualities!”

  “Of course,” Prudence agreed, her lips twitching with restrained laughter. “And who exactly is this paragon, or did you not gain his name?”

  “Penhurst. The Honorable James Penhurst, but recently come from London.” She sighed again.

  “Penhurst,” Prudence muttered. “Penhurst?” She looked over at her sister with a start of surprise. “Do not tell me that he is one of the Penhursts, heirs to Wolfinger Abbey?” she asked, her own excitement rising to match her sister’s.

  Phoebe frowned prettily. “Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “He is staying there, but I will not have that signify, as he is not at all fond of the place and is more at home in London.”

  “Phoebe! He is at the abbey? You do not mean it!” Prudence leaned forward in her seat, her spectacles slipping down her small nose with the force of her enthusiasm. “This is wonderful. Why, only just now I was thinking again of how I might someday see inside it. If your gentleman is staying there, then surely we can, at last, view the interior!”

  Phoebe shuddered. “Ugh! I have no interest in that monstrosity,” she said. “A nice town house in London—not too big, mind you, but well situated—now that would be the thing! Oh, how I wish I could see the city, just once…”

  Her fancies were lost upon Prudence, who was intent upon her own objective. “James Penhurst,” she muttered. “An honorable, did you say? Then he must be a younger son.” She paused, half-afraid to voice her hopes aloud, then plunged on. “Phoebe, is he…Ravenscar’s brother?”

  “Yes, though I cannot believe it myself. He is nothing at all like the earl, I am certain of it!”

  Prudence could hardly contain the unusual agitation that gripped her. If the brother was here, perhaps…Pushing her glasses back into place, Prudence sought her sister’s attention once more.

  “Phoebe! Phoebe, is Ravenscar with him, at Wolfinger?” Positively tumultuous, Prudence tried to restrain herself, but she had wondered about the earl for years, making the mysterious nobleman the subject of her particular interest. To meet him after all this time would surely be the height of her existence!

  Phoebe shook her head, shattering Prudence’s hopes in a careless instant. “No, and I am sure I am quite glad of it, for Mr. Penhurst did not seem at all fond of him.”

  The unfamiliar thrill that had seized Prudence began to ebb away, and the wild pounding of her heart eased, returning her to her usual sensible self. With a briskness that belied her overset emotions, she sat up straighter and buried her disappointment.

  “Well, then, we must gain an invitation from the Penhurst who is there. Where did you see him?”

  “In the village, of all places! I had just been to the market to pick up a bit of mutton for supper, and there he was!” Phoebe’s eyes drifted shut, and Prudence hurried to finish her questions before her sister threatened to swoon again.

  “How long is he staying? Dare we invite him to call?”

  “Oh, Prudence, but that is what is most delightful of all!” Phoebe said. Rousing herself from her dreamy state, she leaned forward to take her sister’s hands. “He said… He said he would like to call upon me here at his earliest opportunity!”

  “Well!” Prudence answered, squeezing gently in return. “That will surely do.” She listened absently while Phoebe went on and on about young Penhurst, and she made the appropriate noises when expected, but already her mind was racing ahead to the practical details of her sister’s news. The cottage needed a thorough cleaning, Cook must make up something special, and—Oh, dear! She must put by some good wine, or whatever it was that gentlemen drank.

  Dropping her hands back into her lap, Prudence calculated just what was needed to receive their new visitor, and then…Then, she let herself think of how she was going to finagle an invitation from him to see Wolfinger and explore all its mysteries at last.

  Although Prudence and Phoebe waited eagerly, the Honorable James Penhurst did not arrive the next day, or the next, and the sisters were both becoming much discouraged. They had helped their servant girl, Mary, with the cleaning until their small home fairly sparkled, and Mrs. Collins, the cook, had made up special biscuits, but apparently their distinguished neighbor was unaware of the delights awaiting him at the cottage, for he did not come.

  By the third day, Phoebe was in a pique, and Prudence had gone back to her writing. Try as she might to concentrate on her characters, however, the living, breathing owners of Wolfinger came too often to mind, interrupting her work.

  This was not the first time Prudence had thought of Ravenscar, of course. The earl had long occupied her imaginings. In her heart, she wished him to be as darkly handsome, mysterious and compelling as his home. In her head, she knew that he was probably short and fat and red-faced, or so old and doddering as to be utterly lacking in interesting qualities altogether.

  However, having heard his brother described in such glowing terms by Phoebe, she had reshaped her opinion. Perhaps, just perhaps, the earl was not so aged or ugly…

  “He is here!” Phoebe’s strained whisper of excitement broke through her concentration, and Prudence lifted her head instantly. So intent was she upon Ravenscar that for a moment she thought it might be he, but, no, it was his brother who came today. Well, here was her chance, Prudence thought, with grim determination. No matter what the Penhursts looked like, she wanted to see their home, and she was resolved to gain an invitation.

  Sending Phoebe on to receive their guest in the parlor, Prudence hurried to the kitchen and asked Cook to prepare a nice tray. Then she stepped into the parlor for her first look at a Penhurst and stopped stock-still, staring helplessly.

  Of course, Phoebe had said he was handsome, and Prudence knew Phoebe’s tastes well enough, and yet she was still a little stunned by the Honorable James Penhurst’s appearance. He and Phoebe were seated close together, their young faces bright with animation, their bent heads nearly indistinguishable, for they were much alike. Although Phoebe’s curls were lighter, Penhurst sported blond hair, too, glowing golden around his face in the latest of hairstyles.

  His clean, smooth features were comparable to Phoebe’s, too, in their beauty and balance. Dusty brows rose over sparkling blue eyes, paler, perhaps, than Phoebe’s, but no less enchanting. His nose was straight, his lips were even, his jaw was well-defined. In short, he was quite an attractive young man.

  Prudence tried to swallow her disappointment.

  The Honorable James Penhurst did not look the slightest bit as if he would be at home at Wolfinger, Prudence decided, her opinion more firmly set when her gaze flitted to his clothing. He wore a puce coat over a garish yellow-and-red-striped waistcoat, complete with watch fob, and his starched collar rose so high, she was certain he would have difficulty turning his head.

  He was, Prudence realized with a shudder, a veritable tulip of fashion. Briefly, her more imaginative side wondered if the wicked Ravenscars of the past, including the Devil Earl, a fiendish character who had locked his wife in th
e tower room until she murdered him, were rolling over in their graves to know that the abbey was housing a…dandy.

  Realizing that she was gaping rudely, Prudence finally managed to speak, and the two young people raised their blue eyes to her, their voices intermingling sweetly in greeting. Young Penhurst’s manners were very nice, and Prudence could find no fault with the way he behaved. Still, she could not help but be dismayed to discover, once again, that the world was a far cry from her own surreptitious imaginings.

  Luckily, Mary soon entered with the tray, and Prudence occupied herself pouring tea for them all. Once that task was completed, she was left to her own brooding thoughts, as it soon became apparent that the Honorable James Penhurst was interested solely in Phoebe.

  Prudence did not feel slighted by this display of partiality, for she was well used to Phoebe drawing attention. Phoebe was, after all, the beauty of the family, and a dear pet, and Prudence took pride in her. Too, she could not help being pleased that her sister was gaining the admiration of someone more illustrious, if less tastefully dressed, than the local fellows.

  However, it was not long before the pleasure of watching an attractive couple chat about nothing more interesting than the weather began to pale and Prudence’s original resolve returned in full force. Perhaps Mr. Penhurst was a sad disappointment to her, but surely the abbey itself could not be less than she hoped. And since young Penhurst seemed amiable, she suspected it would be quite easy to gain an invitation to see for herself.