The Devil Earl

by Deborah Simmons

  He forced himself to deny it. This prim blonde meant nothing to him. His brief and ill-fated attraction to her did not give her any dominion over him, least of all the power to hurt him. Why, the very notion was laughable! No one could touch him, for the simple reason that he had been dead inside for longer than he could remember.

  And yet, for the first time in years, he sensed something lapping at his inviolate self—something decidedly unpleasant. Sebastian had the eerie notion that it was despair, waiting to suck him down into blacker depths than he had ever known.

  Ignoring it, Sebastian found his tongue, if not his usual grim aplomb. “You wrote this?” he asked her, with barely controlled venom, as he held the offending volume between them. “You tried to destroy me with it?” He conjured up a bitter laugh. “Others have failed at that task, Miss Prudence Lancaster. And let me warn you that I have a way of coming back to haunt those who would do me ill.”

  Her response was to stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise, as if astonished by his manner, but the veil of innocence that clung to her only incited Sebastian further. He felt like grabbing hold of Miss Prudence Lancaster and shaking her until her teeth rattled—or until her glasses fell away and she was forced to abandon her spinsterish airs.

  Violence throbbed in the air, in the muscle in his cheek and in the rapid rise and fall of her shapely breasts. By God, if they were not in a public place, he would show the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor just what her favorite villain was capable of doing to her. The idea, Sebastian realized, with stunning surprise, was more than a little stimulating.

  And far from cringing away from his rage, the unusual Miss Prudence seemed enthralled by it. She was looking up at him with the oddest expression on her starkly beautiful face, and if he had not known better, Sebastian could have sworn he saw an answering flicker of excitement behind those ridiculous spectacles.

  “Well, well, and what have we here?”

  At the sound of Lord Neville’s voice, Sebastian automatically straightened and composed his features. Lord Lawrence Neville—Nevvy to his circle—was a parasite, a man with no discernible income of his own, who lived off the largesse of others. And why did anyone support him? Somehow, Neville had managed to set himself up as an arbiter of fashion, along the lines of Beau Brummel, only with a cruel streak a mile wide.

  The jaded members of the ton enjoyed hearing Nevvy sharpen his tongue on their peers, as long as they were not his victims, and so each slavishly tried to please him. Thus he gained more power and grew more vicious.

  Although Nevvy despised Sebastian for not playing his nasty little game, he rarely dared to make snide comments to the earl’s face, for he was not entirely foolish. Sebastian had made it clear that he would tolerate only so much, and Nevvy had a healthy regard for his own skin.

  But, apparently, the public location and Sebastian’s escalating troubles had emboldened the fellow, for he stepped closer, smiling evilly, despite Sebastian’s dismissive glance. “Are you hawking your own book now, Ravenscar? Who is your poor victim?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Nevvy turned to Prudence. “Have a desire to meet Count Bastian in person, do you, miss?” he asked. “Better beware—he’s a very dangerous man.” Laughing at his own joke, Nevvy obviously expected Prudence to join him, but she only stared at him openly.

  Apparently she was a bit bemused by the fellow, for Sebastian watched her gaze travel past Nevvy’s quizzing glass to the absurdly high points of his shirt with more than polite interest. She appeared, Sebastian decided, to be making a character study of Sir Neville, for use in her next book. Suddenly, Sebastian felt in control of himself again, his extraordinary outburst replaced by an equally unusual interest—and no little amusement.

  “I fear I do not follow you, sir,” she said.

  Watching her brave Nevvy’s temper, Sebastian could not help but admire the chit. Most women would cringe if Nevvy turned his attention on them—or else fawn shamelessly over the toad. Prudence, refusing to be rattled by the man’s assessing look, remained her own, unique self, polite but poised in the face of his less-than-flattering scrutiny.

  “My dear child,” Nevvy said, with one of his most unpleasant smirks. “Have you not heard? The book is about the earl here.”

  Prudence looked so dumbfounded by Nevvy’s claim that Ravenscar felt light-headed. Or was it lighthearted? Could it be possible that the girl had not purposely vilified him? Perhaps Prudence, with her ink-stained hands and sometimes faraway gaze, had been so wrapped up in her writing that she was unaware of the similarities between her villain and the object of Cornwall’s latest scandal.

  She turned to Sebastian, her eyes round behind the glass, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose color. “My lord, is this a jest?”

  Sebastian gave her a cool smile. “Of course, Miss Lancaster, but you are not acquainted with Nevvy’s peculiar brand of humor. May I present Lord Lawrence Neville? Miss Lancaster.”

  Nevvy nodded curtly, his lip curling contemptuously at the slight to his wit. “One wonders where you have been, Miss Lancaster, for all of London is talking about Bastian of Bloodmoor and his likeness to Ravenscar.”

  There was no mistaking that Prudence was startled. Unless she was a very fine actress…She sent him a quick, alarmed glance that heartened him entirely too much before she regained her composure.

  “I have been, Sir Neville, in Cornwall,” she replied. “You see, I fear there has been some mistake. This book is a work of fiction. It is not about anyone.”

  Nevvy lifted his quizzing glass and peered through it, in order to give her the full force of his disdain. “Come, come, Miss Lancaster.” He clucked. “And how would someone buried along the coast know a thing about the latest literary offering?”

  “I can readily answer that,” Prudence said, drawing a deep breath, “for, you see, I wrote it.”

  Sebastian took one look at Nevvy’s expression and was surprised to feel genuine laughter building in his chest. Although the sensation was decidedly unfamiliar, it was uniquely satisfying, for watching the darling of society reduced to gaping like a chawbacon struck him as infinitely amusing.

  “And I can assure you, it is not about Lord Ravenscar,” Prudence continued firmly. She lifted a hand, as if to reach for Sebastian, and he knew a brief but heady anticipation. She must have caught herself, however, for her gloved fingers fell before touching his sleeve, much to Sebastian’s disappointment.

  Nevvy’s eyes narrowed, and Sebastian could almost see the man’s small mind working like a primitive gear. Undoubtedly, Nevvy would have liked to cut Prudence completely in payment for her audacious attitude, but, as the author of such a popular book, she was far too valuable a commodity to dismiss. It would be quite a coup for Nevvy to present her to society, and apparently Nevvy was coming to that conclusion, for he soon smiled at Prudence in an ingratiating fashion.

  “What a pleasant surprise! I am thnlled to meet you, Miss Lancaster. I am honored, truly honored. You simply must let me introduce you to a select few of your admirers,” Nevvy gushed.

  Listening to Nevvy’s invitation, Sebastian felt an unaccustomed surge of protectiveness. He knew an urge to grab Prudence by the arm and carry her off to his town house, or even to Wolfinger, as his namesake might have done. He shook it off. Why the devil did he care what became of a woman who, intentionally or not, had made a mockery of him?

  “Prudence, are you all right?”

  What now? Sebastian thought. He looked over Prudence’s blond head and Nevvy’s darker one, to see a pompous-looking man with thinning hair stepping toward them purposefully. Even more annoying than the man’s approach was the way Prudence turned to greet him with a bright smile. Who the devil was he? He looked like one of those dreadfully stiff, starched bores one saw seated at the edge of the shabbiest cardrooms, playing piquet for pennies.

  “Yes, of course, Hugh. Lord Ravenscar, Lord Neville, I would like you to meet my cousin, Mr. Hugh Lancaster, and this is my sister Phoebe.”
<
br />   Sebastian, who had not even noticed the arrival of the silly chit his brother had so admired, nodded coolly. She met his gaze with a mutinous expression that made it plain she still thought him a murderer. Habit made him glare at her until she glanced away fearfully, clutching at her reticule as if she thought he might snatch it from her in a burst of petty thievery.

  “Mr. Lancaster, are you the one who coaxed your cousin to London? You cannot know how delighted I am to meet such a famous authoress!” Nevvy continued, fawning shamelessly over his prize.

  Sebastian, whose initial interest was rapidly deteriorating into boredom, was pleasantly surprised by Hugh’s blank look. Apparently he was not the only one who noticed it, for Prudence colored again under Hugh’s curious gaze. The bright spots, Sebastian decided, were really quite becoming.

  “I am not in the habit of revealing myself,” she explained hurriedly. “But I felt that circumstances warranted it today,” she added, shooting Sebastian another quick glance of apology that gave him a surreptitious thrill.

  “You wrote this?” Sebastian heard the words cast up in an entirely different tone from that of his own venomous accusation, but they were still an accusation. Hugh Lancaster appeared shocked and a little disgusted, and his attitude engendered activity in Sebastian’s long-dormant emotions.

  Although Hugh’s lack of taste assured Sebastian of his own superiority, he did not like to see Prudence hurt. By God, he had admired the book even when he had thought himself painted black upon its pages! The store around them was full of poorly written tripe that could not hold a candle to Prudence’s prose, and the doltish Hugh ought to give her the praise she deserved.

  Unfortunately, he did not. “A gothic novel!” Hugh exclaimed in distressed accents. “I can hardly countenance it, Prudence. You seem so quiet and well mannered.”

  While Sebastian fought a growing urge to forcibly remove the contempt from Hugh’s face, Prudence seemed unmoved. “I fail to see what manners have to do with writing ability,” she replied calmly.

  And suddenly, Sebastian felt laughter building in his chest again. Prudence Lancaster, who exhibited more intelligence and poise than anyone in the motley group that surrounded her, needed no champion. She could handle the dreary Hugh very well herself, as was exhibited by her razor-sharp riposte.

  And this time, Sebastian let loose, laughing aloud in genuine amusement. The sound startled Nevvy into dropping the quizzing glass and made Phoebe shrink back against her cousin as if she feared imminent attack.

  Nevvy gaped at him. “Indeed,” he muttered. “I am sure I agree with you, Miss Lancaster.” For once, the gossipmonger appeared to be at a loss, as he looked at each member of the party in turn, his stunned gaze finally fixing on Sebastian and Prudence, standing side by side. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “I really must be going, but not before I secure your attendance at a little soiree I am planning to introduce our favorite author,” Nevvy said, his usually nasty smirk replaced by a saintly expression. “Let us say Friday hence, Miss Lancaster? At Lady Buckingham’s town house. That is where I find myself at present, and I assure you that we could want no better surroundings for a literary discussion.”

  Sebastian noted Hugh’s positively black countenance, but Prudence apparently did not, for she smiled and nodded her agreement. For an instant, Sebastian felt oddly lightheaded, like an acrobat who has lost his balance. Then he, too, smiled. “Why, Nevvy, how very kind of you to ask us.”

  * * *

  “I cannot countenance it, Prudence,” Hugh said for the fourth time. Or was it the fifth? Prudence had lost count since they had left the bookstore.

  Now, arriving back at Hugh’s apartments, she could see that during the ride home he had only been warming up for a truly lengthy scold. He pushed out his chest and drew in a breath, and Prudence realized that he had a sort of pudgy, soft look about him—in comparison to Ravenscar’s hard leanness, of course. She found her attention riveted upon his stomach, which seemed rather distended, but then again, not many men were possessed of such a frame as the earl’s, she admitted to herself.

  Before Hugh could begin his speech, Prudence cut in abruptly. A week of sharing rooms with her cousin had taught her that she must catch him before he got started, or she would be forced to interrupt him, a tactic that he, naturally, did not approve of.

  “Cousin, it is a bit chilly. May we have a fire?” she asked, knowing full well that Hugh would not look kindly upon her request. Besides being extremely loquacious, her cousin was even more of a pinch-penny than herself. She, at least, would rather spare the wood than suffer the cold, and if he did not intend to keep them warm, then she would refuse to listen to his lecture.

  With a stiff nod of concession, Hugh called for the manservant, and soon a nice blaze was going in the hearth. Prudence took a seat right next to it, waiting patiently for Hugh, who, in turn, waited for the fellow to exit before beginning again.

  When he opened his mouth, Prudence could not help but notice his chin. There was nothing wrong with it, really, but it was a bit round and sank into his neckcloth, whereas Ravenscar’s strong jaw would always be sharply delineated from his clothing. These little details were important for a writer to observe, she told herself.

  “I really cannot countenance it, Prudence!” Six, or was that seven? she wondered idly while she studied his hands. They were too white and smooth and rather…thick. “How did you ever fall in with such bad company? Lord Neville is bad enough, the beau nasty.” Prudence looked up in surprise, for she tended to agree with that assessment. “But Ravenscar! He is practically a pariah.”

  Hugh placed a thumb inside his lapel in a perfect speaker’s pose. “Naturally, I have never been part of his circle, nor have I any desire to associate with such toplofty, morally corrupt persons,” he said with a dismissive glare. “But now even his own friends are cutting him!”

  Prudence wondered what Ravenscar’s friends were like. He seemed so alone that she could hardly imagine them, and she had deduced from his expression that Sir Neville was definitely not one. The earl was badly in need of someone…

  “I am glad that monster is being ostracized!” Phoebe piped up. She had settled herself in the corner, cross and pouting, and Prudence realized that the soiree at Lady Buckingham’s home would be just the thing to cheer her sister. So far, they had managed to see some of the sights, but little of society, and very few eligible gentlemen.

  Such a schedule was satisfying to Prudence, but Phoebe throve upon attention, and although Hugh seemed taken enough with her, she would certainly perk up if given her due by some handsome younger fellows. The new gowns they had commissioned earlier in the week would surely improve Phoebe’s spirits, too, Prudence mused. She had even taken a bit of pleasure herself in the brightly colored fabrics and fine materials.

  “He is a murderer!” Phoebe declared.

  The accusation jarred Prudence from her thoughts with alarming force. “Nonsense!” she replied.

  “Oh, when I think of poor, dear Mr. Penhurst!” Phoebe wailed. She showed all signs of going into another decline, and Hugh, unaccustomed to dealing with females, actually appeared at a loss for words. He stared at her in consternation, then sent Prudence a helpless look.

  Swallowing her annoyance at Phoebe’s words, Prudence rose and went to her sister’s side. “There, there, Phoebe,” she said. “Perhaps you had better go up and lie down.” Gently she helped her sister to her feet and guided her toward the hall.

  “I’ll settle her in, Prudence,” said Mrs. Broadgirdle, who had appeared at Phoebe’s cry.

  Prudence nodded, releasing her sister into the care of the chaperone, who, despite her initial reaction, had developed a hearty dislike for Cousin Hugh. Apparently Mrs. Broadgirdle quickly tired of listening to anyone else’s opinions, even though they might mirror her own.

  With a sigh, Prudence turned back to Hugh, dreading the resumption of his speech. Suddenly she wondered if Phoebe’s attack of the blue devils h
ad been but a ruse to excuse her from Hugh’s stultifying conversation. No, Prudence thought guiltily, as she took her seat, she was becoming entirely too suspicious. Then again, Prudence realized, Phoebe had always managed to avoid Mrs. Bates’s visits, too. She frowned.

  “Poor child,” Hugh said, gazing fondly after Phoebe before rounding on Prudence. “Just look what your tempestuous behavior has done to your sister!”

  Tempestuous behavior? Prudence, with her writer’s knack for words, wondered if she ought to offer Hugh some help in composing his thoughts. He was obviously not expressing himself clearly.

  “Prudence, I am stunned. Stunned,” he repeated, placing his hands behind his back and rocking upon his heels. “Your letters have always proclaimed you as a most sensible woman—thrifty, well mannered and of upstanding character. Yet you are loosed but a few moments in Hatchards and I find you cozying up not only to Lord Neville, but to the earl of Ravenscar—a murderer twice over!”

  At Prudence’s protesting sound, he turned to glower at her. “You do yourself no service to defend him, Prudence, for everyone knows that Ravenscar killed his own uncle to gain the title. Rumor has it that he has done away with his brother, too! And now, all that business with the book, what with people calling him Count—”

  Hugh paused to stare at her. “I must say, Prudence, I can scarcely believe you are the author of that piece of work.”

  Prudence returned his regard calmly. “Have you read it?”

  Hugh grimaced. “A gothic novel? Not likely! And you say this character is not supposed to be Ravenscar?”

  “Of course not,” Prudence replied, with such vehemence that her spectacles slid down her nose. She pushed them back into place with a quick jab of a finger. “I had no idea that such nonsense was being bandied about here in town. It is unconscionable! So, you see, Hugh, since I inadvertently added to His Lordship’s troubles, I must make amends.”

  Ignoring Hugh’s blank look, she continued. “I simply must attend the soiree, so that I can be seen with the earl. Only in that way, I am convinced, can I stop this absurd gossip that links him to Bastian of Bloodmoor.” Prudence smiled. She did not add that she wished to see Ravenscar in the worst way possible, a way that had nothing to do with her novel or his reputation…