by Cara Elliott
Devlin signaled the footman for another pot of coffee—and promptly scalded his tongue on the first swallow. Sputtering a low oath, he slapped the cup down and shot an impatient glance at the breakfast room entrance.
“More toast, milord?”
Devlin waved off the question. He had already consumed enough food to feed a regiment of hungry Hussars while waiting for Anna to appear. For someone who normally rose at an ungodly early hour, she was proving perversely slow this morning.
At the sound of steps, he looked around again, but it was only McClellan.
Devlin didn’t relish the company. The room had been his alone for the last half hour, allowing him to swear at will.
The baron went straight to the chafing dishes and helped himself to several slices of gammon and a ladleful of thick Scottish porridge. Taking a seat across the table, he proceeded to attack his breakfast without a word of greeting.
Noting the other man’s haggard looks, Devlin couldn’t refrain from venting his frustration with a little well-placed needling.
“Enjoyed a few drams too many of whisky with the moor banshees last night, McClellan?”
The baron didn’t look up from his oats.
“I’m assuming your company naught but wild Gaelic spirits, for the ladies here don’t seem to care for your manners. Or lack of them.”
McClellan slowly set down his spoon. “Careful, laddie. Or in another moment you may be digging your teeth out of your gullet.”
“I wouldn’t wager on that.” Though he normally considered fisticuffs an egregiously silly waste of energy, he was itching to hit something. The harder, the better.
McClellan’s aquiline nose would do very nicely.
Speaking of which, that particular portion of the baron’s anatomy had turned an angry shade of red. He, too, looked spoiling for a fight.
“You have a very high opinion of your wit, Davenport. Perhaps that illusion ought to be thumped down a notch or two.”
“By you?” drawled Devlin. “That should be amusing.”
McClellan’s sun-bronzed face turned a shade darker. “I would pound you to a pulp here, but I might break some of my cousin’s precious porcelain.” His chair scraped back across the oaken floor. “Shall we take a stroll in the gardens?”
Devlin cracked his knuckles—a deliberately infuriating sound. “Oh, very well. If you insist. But only if you promise not to puke on my boots when I break your beak.”
The comment provoked a sharp growl from the baron. Shooting up from his seat, he looked on the verge of lunging across the table—
“Oh, please don’t rise on my account, Lord McClellan.”
Intent on the confrontation, Devlin hadn’t heard Anna enter the room.
“It’s not necessary to stand on ceremony this early in the day,” she went on brightly. “My, my, what a lovely day. Do you gentlemen plan to venture into the hills for more birds?”
The baron unclenched his fists. “Actually, I was thinking of organizing a hunt for vermin—foxes, stoats, and other pests who plague the estate.”
Devlin met her gaze as she sat down next to him. Beneath the surface smile, her eyes looked troubled.
“In fact, Davenport and I were just about to take a stroll in the gardens to attend to the details,” went on McClellan. “If you would excuse us—”
“It would be most impolite to abandon Miss Sloane,” interrupted Devlin. “You go on. I shall join you anon.”
The other man’s jaw tightened, but after a tiny hesitation, he simply nodded with ill grace and stalked away.
Chapter Eighteen
You,” uttered Devlin, “have a great deal of explaining to do.”
“Please don’t waste your breath ringing a peal over my head,” replied Anna. “I do indeed have much to tell you.” She glanced at the footman stationed at the far end of the serving sideboard. “But we ought to find a more private spot.”
“You should eat something first.” His tone softened considerably. “You’re looking pale.”
“Never mind that.” The sight of McClellan in a temper had her stomach too jumpy to contemplate food. “I’m not hungry.”
Ignoring the assertion, he rose and chose a generous selection from the breakfast offerings. “A pot of fresh coffee for the lady,” he called as he set the plate down in front of her. “And please make sure it’s dark and hot.”
The heavenly aromas of fresh-baked pastries and shirred eggs reminded Anna that she hadn’t eaten since supper, and even then, she had been too on edge to do more than pick at her meal.
“I shudder to think what you consume when you’re feeling peckish,” he murmured.
“Wretch,” she said around a forkful of creamed mushrooms. The warmth was delicious and helped to melt the tension gripping her insides. “It seems that I was hungrier than I thought.”
“That’s better. The color is returning to your face.”
Anna took a grateful gulp of the steaming coffee. “Thank you. This is divine. But we need—”
Devlin signaled her to silence. “When you are finished,” he commanded.
Bemused in spite of her worries, Anna chewed thoughtfully on a piece of sultana-studded muffin. He was watching her with a rather peculiar expression—half exasperation and half something she couldn’t quite define. “Tender” was the first word that came to mind, which was of course ridiculous. The Devil Davenport didn’t have a tender bone or sinew in his body.
Cut him and he would bleed sarcasm.
Wouldn’t he? She slanted another look at him through her lashes, suddenly feeling a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. Dare she think he might have softer sentiments hidden beneath his caustic quips? That would, of course, be asking for trouble…
No, it would be asking for heartbreak.
Anna looked down at the crumbs on her plate. Not that she had any intention of serving up her heart on a platter.
Brushing aside such conflicted musing, she popped the last morsel into her mouth. “There, I’m done. Now let us find somewhere quiet.”
“The gardens,” he suggested.
And risk encountering the murderous McClellan? “No, no, the library. At this hour it will be deserted.”
“I would argue if I thought it would do any good.” Devlin sighed. “Walls are more likely to have ears than the open air. But I agree that we should be safe enough.”
Anna led the way to a recessed alcove hidden away in the back of the Geology section of the Natural Sciences Room. “I discovered this while searching for a secluded spot to write,” she explained. “We won’t be disturbed.”
Rather than sit in one of comfortable reading chairs, Devlin perched a hip on the edge of the work table and leaned forward. The pose accentuated his long legs—he had very long legs—and broad shoulders. The muscles seemed to twitch beneath the sleek black wool of his coat, bringing to mind the uncomfortable image of a stalking panther ready to pounce.
“You,” he repeated, “have a great deal of explaining to do.”
Tender? Her wits must still be addled by the dizzying height of the narrow ledge.
“Why in the name of Hades did it take you so long to light the signal?” he went on testily. “I gave you more than the allotted time. You should have been well away before Lady de Blois returned to her chamber.”
“The signal isn’t important. Nor, for that matter, is Lady de Blois, though I did discover some very interesting evidence tucked away in the false bottom of her jewel case.”
Devlin frowned. “What are you saying?”
“That I’ve discovered the real villain behind the plot to harm Prince Gunther,” she whispered.
“Who?”
A triumphant smile. “Lord McClellan!”
To her disappointment, his expression didn’t alter on being told the momentous news.
“Explain,” he said softly.
Anna quickly recounted what she had witnessed from her window.
Still no reaction, oth
er than a curt “Hmmph.”
She shifted her chair, feeling a little wounded at his failure to appear impressed by her sleuthing prowess. Given the scrapes and bruises on her aching body, a bit of praise would have been nice. “You seem uninterested in my discovery,” she murmured. “I thought it was rather important.”
“It’s not uninteresting, just unexpected,” he replied. “I find it hard to believe that McClellan would be involved in an assassination plot.”
“But he’s hot-tempered and passionate in his dislike of England,” she pointed out. “And makes no secret of his wish for Scotland to be independent of our government’s rule.”
“True. But as you say, he’s not a man who hides his feelings,” countered Devlin. “Playing at high stakes games, I’ve come to be a good judge of character, and despite his thunder and lightning, the baron strikes me as a fellow who has his own set of moral principles. If he wished to harm Prince Gunther, he would be more likely to march up to him and challenge him to a duel with those fearsome-looking ancient claymores that hang in the Weapon Room.”
An astute assessment. However, a key question remained unanswered. “So how do you explain the rifles?” she asked.
Devlin shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Which is?”
He deflected the query with one of his own. “You haven’t told me about what you discovered in Lady de Blois’s jewel case.
“Letters,” answered Anna. “Signed only with a ‘V,’ but there seems precious little doubt that they are from Verdemont.”
“Well, go on,” he prodded when she didn’t volunteer any more.
“In truth, I’m not sure that there is much point. The contents made it clear they are having a torrid affair—and I can’t help but think that if they are willing to deceive the comtesse’s sister in such an ugly way, they might very well be capable of even worse acts of betrayal.” Anna expelled a sigh. “However, aside from a line that made no sense at all, there wasn’t anything other than personal matters expressed.”
“I don’t suppose you remember that odd line.” He didn’t sound sanguine.
“I’m not a feather-brained henwit,” she responded tartly. “Of course I remember it.” Lifting her chin, she rattled the phrase.
“Hmmph.”
Anna was getting very tired of hearing that muted snort. “Hmmph what?”
“Hmmph I am thinking.” He darted a glance around the alcove. “Is there paper and pencil anywhere nearby?”
She reached beneath the lip of the tabletop and opened a slim storage drawer. “Voilà. And before you ask, my French is excellent, so I’m quite certain my translation is accurate.”
“I’m not questioning your skill,” he replied absently, quickly writing down what she had told him. “It helps to see the words in black and white.
Craning her neck, Anna studied the paper for several long moments.
Have no fears—at the sign of the Witch, the double-faced eagle’s feathers will turn to dust.
“They still don’t make any sense. Unless, of course, they are a code.”
His lips twitched. “How did you come to have such a frightfully devious mind?”
“Through a great deal of practice.”
The grin became more pronounced. “No wonder your poor mother is hellbent to marry you off.”
“Most ladies would take offense at that, Daven—”
“Devlin,” he corrected. “But not you, Anna. You know me well enough to understand it wasn’t a criticism.”
“Hmmph,” she replied.
He laughed, and though it was barely more than a rumble of air, the sound sent a tiny thrill spiraling down to her very core.
A laugh shouldn’t make me want to press my hand to his chest and feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
Thump, thump. In the silence of the alcove, Anna could suddenly hear the quickening beat of her heart.
The sound grew louder, and she realized it was Devlin drumming his pencil on the tabletop.
“Blast,” he muttered. “I’ve an idea about what one part of message might mean. But as for the other…it may take some time to figure out.” Thump, thump. “Assuming, of course, that it’s not simply some private lover’s code.”
Which was, Anna realized, the most likely explanation. She had been too flushed with her own cleverness to consider the obvious.
“So I haven’t really accomplished anything.” Anna tried to mimic his nonchalant shrug but she feared her voice gave away her dismay. That she had risked life and limb for a mere billet-doux sent her spirits plummeting. “Save to force you to fritter away time in discerning their secret endearments.”
A frown formed between his brows. “You’ve accomplished a great deal. Just knowing for sure that Verdemont and Lady de Blois are lovers is very important. Missions like this one rarely have such swashbuckling drama as you portray in your novels. The villains are usually foiled by painstakingly piecing together bits of evidence, rather than catching them red-handed.”
“You seem to know a lot about all this. Does the government hire you often?”
His expression turned shuttered. “Let us concentrate on this particular assignment.” Devlin nudged the paper toward her. “You’ve a creative mind. Any ideas on what this could mean?”
She started to answer, but the stealthy footfalls of someone moving through the rows of bookcases nearby made her pause.
Devlin was instantly alert to the intruder. His body tensed and he cocked an ear to listen.
More steps, followed by the sound of books being pulled from the shelves. The ruffle of turning pages.
A low oath.
Anna cast a questioning look at Devlin.
He nodded.
McClellan.
Her eyes widened Devlin drew the Manton pocket pistol from inside his coat.
“But—” she began in a soft whisper.
He pressed a finger to lips. A tiny gesture, yet Anna immediately fell silent. Any lingering hint of the indolent rake was gone—in an instant he had taken command of the moment.
Rising, Devlin slipped to the side of the alcove’s narrow entrance. His eyes steeled to a gunmetal gray glitter.
She found herself holding her breath.
A book snapped shut, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. The air suddenly stirred, setting off a dance of dust motes through the trickle of sunlight coming in through the lone window.
McClellan stalked into the alcove, muttering darkly under his breath. It took him a moment to look up from his book and see that he wasn’t alone.
“Miss Sloane.” He didn’t sound happy about the encounter.
Anna tried to speak, but her throat was dry as parchment. All that came out was a croak.
“Forgive me,” growled the baron. “I’ll find somewhere else to read.”
“Actually, I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
McClellan whipped around to find Devlin blocking the entrance.
“Now that you are here, why don’t we have a cozy little chat?”
The baron calmly eyed the weapon pointed at his chest. “About what? How high and mighty English lords are too lily-livered to settle their quarrels like men?”
“No, we can talk about that subject at another time. Right now, I’ve a more pressing topic to discuss.” Devlin gave a flick of the cocked pistol at the chair opposite hers. “Have a seat.”
After tossing the books on the table, McClellan did as he was ordered.
Anna watched him fold his arms across his chest. Her own hands would have been shaking had they not been clasped tightly in her lap, but the baron appeared as unflappable as a sliver of Scottish granite.
But then, a hardened assassin would need to possess a heart of stone.
Devlin approached, and bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. The baron responded with a contemptuous sneer.
Two lordly wolves, circling, circling, seeking a soft spot to attack.
“Ar
e you going to stand there all day waggling your weapon?” demanded McClellan, after the silence had stretched tighter than a bowstring. “Or shall we dispense with the theatrics and get to the point of this confrontation?”
“You wish to cut to the chase, as it were?” Devlin remained standing. “Very well. Why don’t we begin by having you tell us where you’ve hidden the rifles you received last night. Shall we find them secreted in your rooms? No, no, on second thought you’d not risk having the murder weapons spotted there. You’ll have found a spot where no one is likely to stumble upon them. The castle affords so many hidey-holes.”
McClellan tipped back in his chair. “Murder weapons?” He sounded genuinely bemused. “The only one present at this house party I’d contemplate shooting is you. However, if I were to desire your demise, I’d do it face to face, not with a faraway shot from a rifle.”
“But I saw you skulking through the gardens late last night with your two cohorts,” blurted out Anna. “The three of you had an argument, and in the end, you made them hand over the rifles.” She lifted her chin. “There can be no explanation, sir, save for an evil one.”
The baron snorted in disgust. “Spying can lead a lass into all sorts of trouble.”
“I wasn’t spying,” she retorted. “I was simply sitting in my bedchamber looking out the window.”
He lifted a red-gold brow. “At that hour?”
“I—I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s not Miss Sloane’s behavior that is under question,” snapped Devlin, deciding it was time to intervene. “It’s yours.”
“And just whom am I supposed to be intent on killing?” asked McClellan.
The baron ought to join the great John Kemble on the stage, for his acting skills were just as finely honed.
“You wish to play a childish game of hide and seek?” countered Devlin. “Frankly I’m in no mood for running in circles. Your target is Prince Gunther—and don’t bother denying it. I know all about the plot. The only missing piece of the puzzle was the assassin’s identity.”
To his surprise, McClellan started laughing. “You think that I am planning to kill the prince?” he wheezed between guffaws. “By the bones of St. Andrew, you ought to take up novel writing.”