The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  But what had remained in his memory from their encounter, even after all these years, was the way her gaze had locked onto his. It had been direct and almost startled, as if she hadn’t expected to see anyone that day. Or perhaps, it was more that she hadn’t expected to be seen.

  Of course, that would only be true if he believed the rest of her tale, about her being a family secret. Experience warned him against believing anything from a Sinclair.

  “More and more, I’m beginning to think that you’ve run away from your true home and thought to hide out here.”

  “My true home is right here.” She pursed those lips.

  The action made him crave a puff of the cheroot in his pocket. “Why have you not lit a fire?”

  She exhaled slowly and pressed her fingers to her temples. “I would have a fire if not for you. Your presence kept me out of doors too long to fetch logs for the woodbox.”

  “The logs would have been too wet.” The wood she’d have chosen—likely from the top of the stack—would have been exposed to a day’s worth of drizzle. “You would have gained a room filled with smoke but no warmth.”

  With the way she squinted her eyes at him, he guessed she didn’t appreciate the obvious logic of his statement. Moreover, he decided she wouldn’t appreciate it if he told her that when she pursed her lips, it appeared as though she were kissing the air in his direction.

  “Had I a choice,” she spat, “I’d have preferred a room filled with smoke to unwanted company.”

  This was his house, yet she was speaking of unwanted company? “Very well, Miss Sinclair”—as the name left his tongue, it caused an automatic shudder of revulsion—“we’ll live in your fantasy for a moment and pretend that you’ve inherited this noble estate. Therefore, you must allow me to make recompense by building you a proper fire.”

  She tossed her shawl onto the edge of a moldering rust-colored sofa. Aside from a round side table, it was the only furniture yet uncovered from dusty sheets. “I do not need your assistance.”

  He knew she would say that. Somewhere along the way, he’d trod upon her ego as one would a cat’s tail. Now, she had her claws at the ready. And those eyes looked less haunting and more like pools of ice. Good. He’d wanted to pay her back for her earlier comment about his pining for Ursa.

  “Not my assistance? Well, then accompany me to Fallow Hall,” he said, all politeness. Yet all the same, he was prepared to hoist her over his shoulder and carry her out of Greyson Park and bar the door from her returning. “Mrs. Swan will serve you breakfast, though I cannot promise it will be edible. I can promise, however, that the house is warm and not falling into ruin. Then, when you are suitably fed and warmed, I’ll escort you home. To your real home, that is.”

  “Out!” Cheeks in high color—an extraordinary shade of pink—she advanced on him and snatched him by the sleeve. When he didn’t budge, she stepped behind him and shoved. “Out, you boorish man! I’ve had quite enough from you, and I’ll not let you ruin any more of my day.”

  “Ah, yes. When it was promising to be so warm and snug,” he said, looking at her flustered face from over his shoulder. Then, he made the mistake of looking too closely.

  Damn. Those eyes weren’t ice after all. They were holding tears at bay.

  Sobered, he allowed her to move him to the door. He left without argument, Boris loping at his heels. The kitchen door closed soundly behind him. Likely, she would have slammed it, had it not been for the tilted frame preventing her. As it was, it banged against the casing and then scraped into place.

  Rafe stood there for a moment and drew in a breath. The fog was thinning, turning into floating islands of vapor. Scant rays of sunlight peered through, here and there, glistening on ice-covered branches and turning frozen heaps of last year’s leaves into glasswork art. Directly ahead at the opposite end of the path, the woodpile waited against the carriage house.

  Logs, seven hands high, listed to one side. There was no more than a week’s worth of fuel. Perched precariously, many had rolled to the ground and were now completely saturated with dampness. There were a few, however, tucked into the middle that appeared dry enough.

  Having already made up his mind, Rafe removed his greatcoat and got to work.

  A quarter hour had passed before he stepped into the parlor of Greyson Park once more.

  Hedley was not in the room, though he saw the tinderbox waiting near the hearth. Carrying his greatcoat bundle of wood to the box in the corner, he proceeded to fill it, overfill it, and then stack the driest pieces on the iron grate.

  Boris ambled over and dropped the slender sticks he held between his teeth. They were slightly soggy, but his intentions were honorable. Both of them had ungentlemanly behavior to atone for, warranted or not.

  Rafe heard her footsteps on the stairs in the hall before he heard her gasp.

  “I thought I told you to leave.”

  Not bothering to turn around, he searched the tinderbox for flint but found only a small sliver. Instantly, he recalled the cut on her finger. A rush of guilt and something else churned in his gut.

  “Aye, you did.” He stood and moved toward the woodbox where he’d left his greatcoat. Fishing into one of the pockets, he withdrew a slender bundle wrapped in oilskin. “But what kind of man would I be to leave you to freeze to death?”

  “You’re more demon than man,” she said, carrying her own bundle. Leaves and twigs poked out from the side of that torn shawl of hers. She’d removed the wet shawl from her shoulders. The threadbare pink muslin pulled taut over her breasts. Even through the gauzy fichu, he could see the creamy swells spilling over the top. Clearly, the dress hadn’t been made for a woman with her form.

  He was a man who appreciated a lush figure on a woman. Or at least, on any woman who wasn’t a Sinclair.

  “The devil comes in many disguises. I am only one of them.” She was another. He would do well to remember that. “Though demon that I am, I cannot create a fire without flint. Is this how you cut your hand?” He held up the sliver.

  She shifted her hold on the shawl, hiding her worn, stained gloves. “I would have made do.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” He knelt by the fire and withdrew his own flint and steel. “As I recall, the Sinclair women are resourceful in getting what they want.”

  “Which should be ample warning to you,” she said. “Greyson Park is mine.”

  Hedley bent beside him and piled her dried goods beneath the grate. The fact that she’d found perfectly dried kindling inside the house proved his point about her resourcefulness.

  Inside the house . . . Wait. Rafe’s blood chilled. “Did you find those leaves and twigs in the attic?”

  Years ago, he’d taken precautionary measures to seal the attic entrance. His treasure, his family legacy, remained hidden there. At the time, he’d never imagined anyone living here—other than him—and having the opportunity to explore each room, discovering what he’d carefully concealed. Of course, it would take a great deal of effort to enter the room. Although knowing how little he could trust a Sinclair, the precautions he’d taken did little to ease his mind.

  “I don’t make a habit of venturing into attics,” Hedley answered, her voice frayed around the edges like the hem of her dress. Her eyes had that haunted look again, just before she turned away from him. “A bedroom window at the far corner of the house was broken. I merely haven’t had time to sweep out the debris yet.”

  Rafe relaxed. The attic was still safe. And from the look he’d witnessed, it would remain so. Part of him was curious about her reasons. Yet a much greater part of him was even more determined to finally make Greyson Park his. He was running out of time. The Sinclairs had allowed it to fall into ruin. If he didn’t work fast, there would be nothing left of his legacy and no way to restore his family name.

  “Make no mistake,” he said, “I fully intend to remove you from here. I will draw up the proper papers on my trip to London.”

  Toting the spark to the l
eaf pile, Rafe blew a thin stream of air to encourage it to light. Flames crackled over the leaves, outlining their veins and pointed tips in a thin line of glowing orange before combusting. Then, leaving his flint on the lid of her tinderbox, he stood. Automatically, he held out his hand to assist her but wasn’t surprised by her refusal.

  Those plump lips curled, exposing a row of white teeth and two sharp canines on either side. “You will not succeed.”

  That smile held his gaze captive for a moment. She was far too self-assured for his liking. “It will be my pleasure to prove you wrong.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gritting his teeth, Rafe strode out of the solicitor’s office in Cheapside. Black clouds filled with soot and rain rumbled overhead. A fierce storm brewed. Both outside and within him.

  “I refuse to believe it!” He’d thought coming to London would bring him better news.

  Beside him, his longtime friend, Ethan Weatherstone, secured his brown top hat against a gust of wind. “I’m afraid it’s true. Miss Hedley Sinclair inherited Greyson Park.”

  “And the contract I signed with Lady Claudia Sinclair—as it was overseen by a steward in her own employ—is essentially worthless.”

  Weatherstone shook his head in sympathy. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  That witch had stolen two thousand pounds from him! Not only that, but she’d demanded eight thousand more by year’s end before he could occupy the house. The worst part—he’d been willing to do it!

  Disgusted and angry, Rafe climbed into the carriage and tapped against the roof for the driver. “Hawthorne Manor,” he instructed but quickly changed his mind. “Better make that Danbury Lane instead.”

  In his current temper, it wouldn’t be wise to visit his brother-in-law and sister. Especially not when Emma was due to give birth to her first child at any moment.

  “I could offer a rather excellent scotch to . . . lessen the blow,” Weatherstone said. It was generous of him not to mock Rafe for being such an idiot.

  He accepted with a nod.

  All along, Lady Sinclair had known how badly Rafe wanted Greyson Park, and she’d used his blind desire to her own advantage. “I should have known better.”

  “You could always bring the matter before the courts.”

  When nearly half the members of Parliament had been part of his father’s ostracism? Rafe doubted any Danvers would get a fair trial. While he had lofty connections through his friend and brother-in-law, Viscount Rathburn, and even his friend and fellow housemate, Viscount Everhart, he refused to place his burden on their shoulders. “There must be something else I can do. Something I missed.”

  “I thought the clauses were odd,” Weatherstone said, stroking his chin. “The first one, stating that Hedley Sinclair holds no authority to sell the property. Even more puzzling was the following one, stating that if Miss Sinclair were to marry, then Greyson Park would revert to the Sinclair estate. Why wouldn’t her inheritance remain with her and become her husband’s property?”

  Rafe glared out the window as they passed the streets of town. “I’m certain the Sinclairs mean to protect their investment.”

  “Yet by all accounts, the property itself is worthless. You even said so yourself,” Weatherstone added. “They would not share your reason for wanting it.”

  True. It wasn’t their family legacy moldering into ruin. It was Rafe’s. And they’d been holding it ransom for years. Thankfully, he’d had foresight enough to reinforce the structure of the attic during his betrothal, when he’d been able to come and go as he pleased. Adding braces, he’d thought, would have allowed him time to garner the support from the Royal Antiquarian Society. Unfortunately, he’d run into a few snags on that front as well. He was running out of time. “I still cannot get over the fact that a Sinclair, whom I’d never heard of before, holds the rights—without any true right—to my house.”

  The flesh around Weatherstone’s eyes creased as if he were sorting out a puzzle. “You told me she admitted that her existence was a family secret. Therefore, if you take into account the peculiar clauses, the fact that she has no servants, in addition to the state of her attire, one could assume madness.”

  “Madness?” Rafe shook his head at the possibility. “The woman I met had no trouble keeping her wits about her.”

  And yet . . . there had been that peculiar haunted look when he’d mentioned the attic.

  “Not that I agree with the practice,” Weatherstone said, “but some hide their less sound-minded family members from society. Some even lock them away in an attic.”

  The bitter wind seemed to permeate the walls of the carriage. Rafe shifted beneath his greatcoat, shrugging off the disturbing thoughts that came to mind of a young woman wearing rags and kept behind locked doors.

  “I don’t make a habit of venturing into attics . . . ”

  Weatherstone shook his head. “I cannot say if that is what has occurred, but even you admitted to never having met her or even to hearing about her during the entirety of your—and forgive me for mentioning this—betrothal to the elder Miss Sinclair.”

  The reminder of Ursa’s actions had already returned, full force, in the past week. Thankfully, the humiliation he’d once felt had worn away in the same manner that seashells and rocks gradually turn into sand.

  Rafe wondered if Ursa—Mrs. Nathan Cole these past six years—was just as vain and overreaching as she’d always been. Once upon a time, he’d been blind to those particular Sinclair traits as well. Something he’d never expected, however, was that she would leave him at the altar in disgrace, instead of confessing her desire to marry another. He’d actually thought fate had brought them together. Fate and a mutual tie to Greyson Park.

  “The house was once part of her dowry,” Rafe said absently, recalling the vicious sneer of Claudia Sinclair that day. “Did you think we would ever permit Sinclair blood to align with yours when it is obvious to the entire ton that insanity swims in your veins?”

  “And yet, the younger one is essentially forbidden to marry without the consequence of losing her inheritance,” Weatherstone mused. “That certainly makes your task easier.”

  Curious, Rafe pushed the old memories aside and focused on his friend. “How so?”

  “Marry her off.” Weatherstone straightened his cuffs and met his gaze. “Once she is married and the estate reverts to Lady Sinclair, you can continue with your contract. Of course, you would take your own solicitor with you, along with the remainder of the payment, settling the matter once and for all.”

  Marry her off. It seemed simple enough. After all, how hard could it be to find someone interested in marrying Hedley Sinclair? While she was no great beauty, her unique features had drawn his attention and held it. Her lips held a certain appeal, for example. And those eyes of hers seemed capable of ensnaring anyone who gazed too long. Well, perhaps not anyone. He’d managed to escape, hadn’t he?

  Surely someone interested in finding a bride could do worse than the resourceful Hedley Sinclair. All in all, it was a good plan. “I have until year’s end to make it happen, at which point I will have the remainder of the money.”

  “Ah, the wager between Everhart, Montwood, and you.” Weatherstone frowned. “You are counting monies you do not possess. That is never wise.”

  The morning after Rafe had made the drunken wager with his two housemates at Fallow Hall, he’d cringed at his own stupidity. He’d wagered against Montwood? The man had a tendency to win whenever he chose. On the bright side, however, Montwood was currently on a two-year losing streak. As for Everhart . . .

  “I have already won.” Drunken wager or not, Rafe was confident. Simply put, the last bachelor standing would win up to ten thousand pounds—five thousand pounds apiece—from the ones who were either married or betrothed in a year’s time. “Everhart is now married—and in record time, the poor besotted fool.” Rafe rubbed his hands together. He could feel the money already.

  “Yes,” Weatherstone said. “If neither yo
u nor Montwood marry by year’s end, then you will have to share the winnings.”

  Rafe laughed. “For my part, there is no if about it. I doubt that I will ever marry—by year’s end or at any other time.”

  “Yet when the time has concluded, from what you said of your agreement with Lady Sinclair, five thousand pounds—though exorbitant—is only a portion of the sum required,” Weatherstone added. In truth, he brought up a valid point. “Of course, if you succeeded in marrying off Montwood as well . . . then your wealth would double. You could make Greyson Park as grand as you choose.”

  Rafe nodded. That had occurred to him, too. Yet with the recent discovery of Hedley Sinclair in his house, his thoughts had been somewhat preoccupied. Now, all he needed was a way to rid himself of two problems. And Weatherstone had just offered the perfect solution.

  If Montwood and Hedley married, then Rafe would have everything he ever wanted.

  “You have quite the cunning mind, my friend,” he said to Weatherstone, who answered with the lift of a brow. “Somewhat devious too. Did I detect a note of satisfaction in your voice at the idea of getting the better of Montwood?”

  Weatherstone cleared his throat, his mouth in a firm, disapproving line. “He danced with Penelope during her debut season. She found him quite . . . charming.”

  Rafe held his laugh in check this time. Montwood’s predisposition to charm every woman he met had gained him many enemies among the gentlemen of their circle. Rafe wasn’t the jealous sort. Then again, a man would have to entertain the notion of claiming a woman for his own in order for that to happen. And that would never happen. Not again.

  Hedley hated greed.

  She’d witnessed her mother’s and her sister’s greed all her life. They would take whatever they could, even lying in order to gain their treasures—from insignificant trinkets and baubles, to money and prestige.

  That was the reason Hedley wanted to forget about Rafe Danvers and his threat to take Greyson Park away from her. She’d seen an all-too-familiar glint of determination in his gaze when he’d spoken of claiming it.