"Indeed I cannot."
Her sister looked smug and picked up her tea cup, arching her little finger.
Mary added wryly, "I can only hope that ‘Violette’ will be more inclined to get up early and help around the shop. I would willingly call you Cleopatra, sister, if it would make your disposition sunnier."
Chapter Seven
...And so I must rely upon you, brother, to keep our mother away from Greyledge until after the babe is born in the spring. I fear my otherwise patient husband might be driven to desperate measures should she decide to visit us again, unexpected and uninvited, for another lengthy spell. Do the best you can. I depend on you.
Your loving sister, Raven.
Ransom groaned and set the letter down. Since his sister's marriage, he had been left to manage their mother mostly single-handedly. Nobody else wanted the task, of course.
Now, apparently, Lady Charlotte had been making a nuisance of herself by traveling to Oxfordshire to see her daughter far more often than she was wanted, and Raven asked her brother to intervene. Usually his sister could be very direct herself, and never lacked courage when it came to handling their mother, but he suspected she amused herself by leaving this duty to him. In the past she had mentioned, more than once, that it would do both Ransom and Lady Charlotte some good to manage with each other.
As if he had nothing else to do.
Miggs stuck his head around the office door, looking apologetic."Your brother is below and asks to see you, sir."
He frowned. "Which brat is it this time? Not Rush again, I hope."
Only a few days ago he'd been obliged to meet with one of his younger brothers, Rush, about two habits the boy had acquired at university— gambling and brawling. Ransom had thought it best to address the issue with his brother, before their father heard about it and all hell broke loose. The quicker any matter, including a broken nose, could be resolved before True Deverell found out, the better it was for everybody.
Ransom tried his damndest to stay out of these family troubles, but somehow they kept dragging him in.
The visitor this evening was not Rush, however.
"'Tis the brother what works with them crooks, Stamp on 'em and Spit."
"Ah. Damon. I suppose I'd better see him. And I've told you before, Miggs, the name of the lawyer's office in which he works is Stempenham and Pitt."
"That were my polite version, sir. There is another word what rhymes with Pitt."
"Yes, thank you, Miggs. I had no idea of your poet's ear for a rhyme. Go and fetch my brother, if you please, and try to spare him your opinion of the legal profession."
"Very good, Mr. Deverell, sir."
Miggs lumbered off again, and Ransom lit a cigar. He stretched both arms over his head, releasing the stiffness of having sat at his desk too long.
For much of his life he'd had little fondness for his father's bastards, avoiding them as much as he could, despite True Deverell's insistence on raising all his children together. But in the last few years— against all intentions— he had formed a bond of sorts with Damon. Or rather Damon had formed it with him. Uninvited and unwelcomed at first, it had, over time, become almost comfortable.
Perhaps it had something to do with the other young man's strange habit of seeking his company so frequently and with no ulterior motive apparent. Ransom couldn't shake him off. It was almost as if the fool boy admired him somewhat. He couldn't think why.
In any case, he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on the boy, even though his mother would throw a fit if she found out that he had befriended one of her former husband's bastards. And that would be another raging female out for his blood.
Really, what did one more matter, in the larger scheme of things?
Women; nature's practical joke on man, as his father would say.
He thought suddenly of Miss Ashford again. What was she doing tonight? Did she think of the strange man who had taken refuge between her bookshelves?
Long limbs restless, he leapt out of his chair, strode to the window and looked down on the rain washed street below. The streetlamps were just being lit, their warm glow coating the cobbled road with a glittering sheen as horses and carriages passed back and forth in a constant flow. London was putting on its evening clothes now, changing with the light. In daytime it was a bustling street, but at night a new mood took hold. There was less urgency, less industry. People moved through the light and shadow like specters reluctant to show their faces.
Mary Ashford's little bookshop across town would be closed now, the window shuttered, just as his club was waking up and his night beginning. He could picture her sitting in that little parlor. Did she invite other men to sit there with her, even though she refused him entry?
He hoped not.
But why would he care, damn her?
She would not be welcomed in his parlor either, he thought firmly. Nor would she be allowed here at Deverell's. No women were officially allowed to enter the club — not that it stopped a few of them trying.
Deverell's gentlemen's club was contained within the four floors of three adjoining, white-painted houses. Here, members could enjoy any number of discrete entertainments, hold informal meetings, or simply find a quiet corner to read a newspaper and have their shoes polished. Many gentlemen came to escape wives, mistresses, and daughters for an hour or two. In this glorious oasis they could be just as they were, without putting on a front to please women or worry about offending their delicate sensibilities.
But the primary business of the establishment was, of course, gambling. It might seem as if the wagers and games happened incidentally in these elegant, richly decorated rooms, where gentlemen came to eat, drink, and be pampered, but that was entirely the idea.
It was more than thirty years since True Deverell first purchased one of these buildings and set up a gambling club on the premises. Nobody knew where he'd come from or how he came by his money, and he let them all wonder. He merely sprouted up one day among the blue-bloods of London, like a strong weed that could not be eradicated, and he nurtured that sense of mystery about his past by never explaining himself and never apologizing for his actions— however scandalous. True Deverell had a certain finesse, a devil-may-care confidence in his own skin that few men could copy and all envied. In very little time his club became successful, but no matter how it expanded in size behind those white-painted walls, it retained its exclusivity and an aura of discreet wealth. The club's creator had always known that gentlemen would be far more willing to part with their money in an atmosphere of luxury and comfort, than in some seedy hall in a back alley.
"But how did you know that, father?" Ransom had asked him once.
"Instinct and observation. Where would you feel you'd got most moneys-worth? In a damp alley for sixpence, or in a bed with silk sheets and a bottle of champagne beside it?"
"The bed, of course."
"Precisely. And I hadn't even told you the cost."
True Deverell still oversaw the operation of his club from a distance, but as each year passed he handed off a little more of the reins to Ransom.
"As he should," Lady Charlotte would exclaim. "You are his eldest legitimate son, and you are entitled."
But his father didn't believe in the word "entitled". True Deverell thought a man should earn his fortune and his place in life— just as he had. And he didn't care about legitimacy. He treated all his children alike, whichever side of the bed they were born.
As a result, when it came to earning their father's approval it had often been a bit of a bloody free-for-all in the Deverell litter.
"You're looking a little worse for wear, brother. Should get more sleep."
Ransom laughed, turning to greet his half-brother. "Plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead. What brings you to visit?" He shook his half-brother's hand and gestured for him to sit, but Damon paced the room, glancing out of the window, unable to relax.
"I need money."
Ah. The boy did not beat aroun
d the bushes today. Ransom, not much for chit-chat himself, was grateful for it.
"Money?" He tapped his cigar against the crystal ashtray on his desk. "Does the law profession pay so badly?"
The younger man shrugged, his back to the room. "The law profession," he repeated flatly. "I hunch over my rickety little desk surrounded by rolls of parchment and the odor of dry rot. There is little chance for me to move up at present. The old fellows are going nowhere, and I get all the dull cases. Particularly all the paperwork. Before too long my spine will turn into an unsightly hump and I shall be invited nowhere because my coat always stinks of cheap tallow candles."
Ransom hid a smile. His half brother had a taste for the finer things in life and he was driven to achieve them, but nothing ever moved fast enough for the boy. "Be patient. You have not been there long. You are still young."
"I'm twenty-four!" Damon shook his head. "And I'm stuck, brother, like a horse in a box that is too small. They treat me as if I'm just another clerk. So I wondered if you might have a vacancy here. At the club." He turned to look at Ransom. "I want to earn the money, of course. And I don't want our father to know."
Returning to the chair behind his desk, Ransom leaned back and watched his brother warily. It was never a good idea to try keeping secrets from their father, and Damon ought to know that. "I cannot let you work here without father knowing," he said. "If you need financial assistance, I can give you something to tide you over, but you'd better learn to manage your budget better if you're consistently running short."
Damon was silent, frowning.
Ransom continued carefully, "Is the income of a young lawyer not enough to cover your bills in Town?" As far as he knew, his brother was not much of a gambler. When he came to the club it was usually to dine, or spend a quiet evening in the library. His university years had been full of righteous noise and havoc rendered with a merry group of drunken friends, but these days he kept to himself, his nose to the grindstone. At least, that was how it appeared.
Damon scratched his cheek and finally fell into the seat opposite, exhaling heavily. "The money is not for me. There's a certain lady friend of mine who finds herself... in an interesting condition."
Ransom groaned. "Damon!"
"Don't lecture me, brother. If I wanted a lecture, I'd go to father."
He supposed that was true and Ransom was in no position to lecture about women either, was he? But for all his enjoyment of the fairer sex he was always careful not to leave any little bastards behind. "There are things you can do to prevent the risk," he muttered.
"But not for certain. In any case," Damon shook his head, "it's too late for that now. Three months too late."
"What is the plan then? Marriage? Or do you mean to set her up in a house somewhere?
Damon cleared his throat. "I don't know yet...the circumstances are... awkward."
"Awkward?"
There was a short pause. "She's already married."
"Oh, Christ!"
A haughty expression sharpened his younger brother's features. "So you see my dilemma."
"Father would kill you if he knew."
"Hypocritical of him though, don't you think? Rather late for him to judge."
"It won't stop him ripping into you like a lion into raw meat. He's not greatly concerned with the example he set. He will tell you that he had more excuse, because he knew no better. He will say that we had every advantage he did not, and that he hoped you'd learn from his mistakes."
Damon gave a curt laugh. "Precisely why he can't know."
With a sigh, Ransom set his cigar on the ashtray and reached for the brandy decanter. He refilled his own glass and poured one for his brother. "If she's married, how do you know this child is yours?"
"Of course, it's mine." Damon grabbed his glass and drank the contents in one swig. "She and her husband have not shared a bed in years." He coughed, his eyes watering.
"That's what she tells you. I didn't think you were that gullible. You may not even be her only lover."
"When it comes to women you always expect the worst. But I believe it's my child. She would not lie or try to trick me. You don't know her as I do."
Ransom felt his insides shrivel slightly, for Damon sounded much like him when, ten years ago, he tried to defend the blackmailing Miss Pridemore to his father. Just after he shot True in the shoulder and watched him fall to the ground. "She told me you seduced her. I believe her. You just couldn't keep it in your breeches, could you, father? You had to despoil the woman I love!" But, of course, he soon discovered the fickle limits of Miss Flora Pridemore's "love" and learned of her many lies.
How long would it be before Damon had his awakening?
"Never believe a woman," he muttered, staring at the amber liquid in his glass as he lifted it to the light of the oil lamp on his desk. "Enjoy them, make the most of them, but never trust them to tell you the truth. It is best to assume that every time they open their mouths a lie will come out."
"Yes, yes," Damon was not listening, of course. "But can you give me a post here? Elizabeth will need money to separate from her husband. He will seek a divorce on the grounds of her adultery. So, as you can see, I need a steady second income, not a loan."
"Divorce?" This was getting worse by the second.
"Of course. I will take responsibility for my child, and Elizabeth cannot remain under her husband's roof."
"Damon, if you're named co-respondent in a divorce, there will be no hiding it from the papers or our father. But you must have realized that. You, after all, are the lawyer in the family." He must also know how furious their father would be if the son upon whom he pinned his greatest hopes for the future, should have let himself be distracted by a woman, a mistake True always warned his sons against.
"I know, in time, it must all come out and father will be made aware," Damon groaned, fingers drumming against his glass. "But before that happens I'll be on my feet. Elizabeth and I will be living together. If I present father with a fait accompli, what can he say? I'll prove to him I can manage this and weather the scandal. When I was sixteen he told me that if I thought I was old enough to make decisions about my life I had better be prepared to face the consequences too. So here I am. I'm not a boy. I own up to my mistakes and don't run from them."
Ransom had been about to pour another brandy, but instead he replaced the crystal stopper in the decanter and picked up his cigar. Again he thought of Miss Mary Ashford's quiet voice.
I wouldn't run away. Usually, problems are better dealt with at once, rather than put off. It saves everybody a vast deal of trouble.
He got up, walked to the window and looked out.
"I'm sorry," Damon muttered behind him. "I didn't mean to bring that up."
"Bring what up?"
"The accident and... Sally White's death."
Ransom stared at his reflection in the window. He had not been thinking of Sally White. For the first time in years she hadn't been hovering there in the shadows. Instead his mind had been caught up on another woman, another face. It shocked him to be reminded of Sally again so suddenly.
Reflected in the glass he counted the deep lines furrowed across his brow, the weariness in his expression betraying so many nights without good, solid sleep. His shirt sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, shone white in the window, one moving like a wing as he lifted the cigar back to his mouth. "You mean that Sally's death was one of my mistakes and you suggest that I ran away from it?"
"No, I didn't mean that. I spoke about facing consequences and not running away before I realized how it might sound. You know what people say about all that and about you. But I don't think the same as them. Of course, I don't."
He knew his brother referred to the fact that he'd left Sally on the moor after the accident and that when she was first reported missing he had not told anybody he was with her. His failure to be honest immediately had, of course, increased the suspicion against him later when her body was found. The truth was, Ransom simp
ly hadn't been able to find her after he regained consciousness and so he assumed she'd wandered off or met someone else— an absurd, all-too convenient assumption perhaps, although at the time he was not thinking with clarity at all. He had been just as bloody stupid, arrogant and unthinking as every other twenty-four-year old. As Damon was now.
But Ransom didn't want to talk about Sally White, so he said, "If I give you employment here in the evenings, what will happen to your position at Stempenham and Pitt?"
"I'll manage both, if I can. It shouldn't be difficult. If not, I'll quit the law."
And their father would come to London at once, looking for blood. He would blame Ransom, undoubtedly, for "encouraging" or "supporting" Damon's abrupt change of direction. Apparently the boy thought money would come quicker, easier and more abundantly working at Deverell's. With Ransom as his employer he no doubt expected a comfortable sinecure.
"But you refuse to discuss this decision with our father?"
"Not until he must know. Once I have everything well sorted... with Elizabeth."
Ransom strode back to his desk. "Well, if you won't seek his advice, you must let me meet this woman."
Damon exhaled a curt laugh. "To ask her intentions?"
"Yes. Why not? For your own good. For all we know she could be seeking to unload her child on you simply because you're a Deverell."
"Of course, you never trust anybody outside the family, do you?"
"With good reason." Some within the family were equally untrustworthy, but that he left unsaid.
"Very well. If you want to meet Elizabeth, I'll arrange it. I'll send her to you."
"Good. Send her to the house in a day or two, not here. Then we'll decide what we should do."
"We?"
"You're asking for my help, are you not? I can't tell you what to do— wouldn't try. But I can give you advice."
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