A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  Rufus barked. The hound scratched at the door as if the air was swiftly diminishing and he couldn’t catch his breath. In the end, Devlin had no choice but to barge the door with his shoulder until it burst open and almost came clean off its hinges.

  As soon as the dog was free of his prison, he bounded off towards the gravel path that snaked around the grounds.

  Devlin cursed the damn animal. He took a moment to ensure Juliet was not trapped inside the shed and then he broke into a run, chased Rufus as far as the manicured lawns.

  The dog stopped and waited.

  Was this just a game?

  Did he take pleasure in running his master and mistress around ragged?

  No sooner had Devlin reached the dog than he ran off again. This time, Devlin refused to follow, but the hound returned to bite and tug his coattails.

  “What is it?”

  Was Rufus trying to tell him something?

  Would he lead Devlin to Juliet?

  Devlin swallowed his annoyance. “Then take me to her. Show me where she is.”

  He curbed his temper when the dog bolted towards the icehouse, ignored the urge to shout when Rufus flew down the stone steps and sat patiently in front of the iron gate.

  The day was already bitter. If Rufus thought to take him into the underground chamber, he could think again. But when Devlin failed to open the gate, Rufus pawed the ground as if he intended to dig his way under.

  The gate was unlocked.

  The hinges groaned as Devlin yanked it open.

  Rufus pushed through the gap and darted into the dark corridor. Devlin followed. It had been fifteen years or more since he had been in the storage room, was just a boy when he and his brother used to hide and play tricks.

  God’s teeth, it was cold.

  A shiver ran the length of his spine.

  The whirring of the old wheel and Rufus’ loud bark drew him towards the large chamber. Daylight shone through the delivery hole in the ceiling, illuminating the strange scene within.

  With his teeth bared and a vibrating growl rattling in his throat, Rufus stood before a cloaked figure, ready to pounce.

  The person was too tall to be Juliet.

  “Get away from me.” The woman’s voice echoed through the stone room. She shuffled back towards the narrow channel sunken into the floor.

  Rufus prowled forward.

  “Who are you? What the hell are you doing down here?” Devlin entered the chamber, noted another figure curled into a ball on the floor near the ice pile and knew it was Juliet. He was at her side in seconds. “Juliet? Can you hear me?” He took hold of her shoulders and turned her onto her back.

  Good God, her lips were blue, her cheeks a pale shade of grey. Fear held him in a vice-like grip, dragging his breath from his lungs in ragged pants.

  “Speak to me,” he begged. “Juliet.”

  He needed to get her outside, into the house, somewhere warm.

  Devlin stripped off his coat and draped it over her frozen frame, then he scooped her up into his arms. Panic took him again when he failed to feel any heat from her body.

  “Did you do this?” he snapped, hugging his wife close to his chest. “Do you work for the baron? Did Biggs send you?”

  The woman tried to skirt around Rufus, but he jumped and bounded until she had no choice but to take another step back. The hood of her cloak fell down to reveal a familiar face.

  “Mrs Barbary?” Shock prevented him from forming another word.

  “Shame on you,” she cried, clearly distraught. “Shame on all of you.”

  Her final step sent her tumbling into the frigid water in the channel. Perhaps she thought to swim the length, that the water had to go somewhere and it was her only means of escape. But the sodden ends of her cloak got caught in the wooden structure, dragging her beneath the water, trapping her beneath the wheel.

  Cradling his wife in his arms, Devlin rushed to the edge. Juliet was still breathing, but if he left the chamber Mrs Barbary would surely drown. The woman had served his family faithfully for years. And yet she had lied to him when he had asked her about Juliet.

  He touched Juliet’s cheek. “Stay with me, love. I shall soon have you warm again.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she whispered, “Devlin. You came.”

  Torn between his heart and his conscience, he did the only thing he could. “Rufus will sit with you for a minute or two and then I shall take you home.”

  Placing Juliet down gently on the stone floor, he summoned Rufus. “Lie down.” Devlin pointed to a spot next to his wife’s body. Surprisingly, the dog did as he was told. He settled beside Juliet, so close she was bound to feel the heat radiating from his large body.

  Devlin wasted no time. He lay on the floor and reached down beneath the wheel. His fingers brushed the sodden fabric of Mrs Barbary’s cloak, and with two hands he grabbed and tugged as hard as he could.

  After numerous failed attempts, he finally found the strength to drag her out, to heave her up onto the floor of the chamber. Finding her unresponsive, he turned her head to one side and pumped her chest, waiting for her to cough, to spew the water in her lungs. With no sign of a pulse, he spent another minute trying to rouse her, but it was hopeless.

  Failure weighed heavy in his heart, but Juliet was his priority now.

  “Perhaps you’re not daft after all,” he said as he patted Rufus on the head.

  Hauling Juliet into his arms, Devlin raced to the house. Rufus ran, too, barking to alert the servants of their approach.

  Juliet’s eyes flickered open. “Hold me … hold me close, Devlin. I’m so cold.”

  The pain in his chest—fear of losing her, fear of how he might function without Juliet at his side—rose to his throat. “Stay with me.” Never leave me. “Don’t think of the cold. Think about what you want as your prize now you have won the wager.”

  A weak smile touched her lips, and his heart ached at the sight. “I did? But how? Rufus is like a disobedient child who doesn’t do a thing I say.”

  “Rufus may be a disobedient child, but he loves you.”

  She smiled again, closed her eyes and curled into his chest.

  Devlin pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “No one loves you as much as I do.”

  Juliet was dreaming, dreaming of lying on a picnic blanket on the lawn, the sun beating down, Devlin leaning over her, all dark and handsome. He kissed her deeply, with a passion that stole her breath. Happiness flowed from her toes to the tips of her fingers, warming her body, soothing her soul.

  The image faded and then she felt something wet against her cheek.

  Her eyes shot open.

  The large figure sprawled beside her in bed was not her husband.

  “Rufus.” She couldn’t help but giggle. “You’re not supposed to be here. Who let you in?”

  “I did.” Devlin’s voice drifted over her, soft and smooth and caressing. “We fought for the coveted position on the bed. Rufus won.”

  Devlin sat in the chair beside her. A lock of ebony hair hung over his brow. The dark shadows across his jaw and the creases in his shirt told her he’d been there for some time.

  “Rufus won?” She doubted that.

  “I let him win. He deserves a reward for leading me to the icehouse, for leading me to you.” A smile touched his lips, but she could hear the distress in his voice.

  “I’m thankful you came when you did. Lord, I’ve never felt so cold.”

  She could not remember much after leaving the chamber. A flurry of activity. The doctor forcing her to swallow a vile-tasting liquid. Devlin pacing the floor in her bedchamber. Devlin insisting that she drink the tisane. Devlin drawing the coverlet up to her chin and kissing her goodnight.

  “Dr Hughes said you should rest for a day or two. That we’re to contact him at the first signs of a chill or fever.”

  She saw it then, the look of terror swimming in his eyes, the cracks in the dam struggling to keep a wealth of emotion at bay.
>
  “I feel perfectly fine.”

  “Still, it is wise to heed his words.”

  Juliet nodded, and that seemed to bring him some comfort. “What time is it?”

  Devlin shrugged. “The clock chimed three the last time I heard.”

  The faint hum of activity downstairs and the slivers of daylight streaming in through the curtains told her she had slept for a whole day. She glanced around the dreary room, suddenly recalled she lay in the bed where Charlotte Drake took her last breath. The image of Mrs Barbary looming over the bed made her heart skip a beat.

  “What happened to Mrs Barbary?” She had a faint recollection of her falling into the water channel.

  Devlin lowered his gaze and shook his head. “The magistrate and the coroner have been this morning. We’ve had to leave her in the icehouse until the jury attends later today. The inquest is tomorrow.”

  Inquest? How were they to explain the nature of the woman’s death? “There is something I must tell you, about the letters, about Mrs Barbary’s involvement.” She tried to sit up.

  “I know.” Devlin leant forward and placed a comforting hand on her arm. “You told me last night while I lay with you on the bed. At first, I thought you were delirious but the more I thought about it the more it made sense.”

  “My grandmother was your grandmother’s maid.”

  “Yes,” he said in a hushed voice. “And I hope that wherever she is, she takes comfort from the fact that her granddaughter is an angel here on earth. That her granddaughter is the mistress of Blackwater and will see to it that her children treat others with the love and respect they deserve.”

  The notion touched her in a way she had not thought possible. She would do everything in her power to ensure Susan’s sacrifice was not in vain.

  “That makes Mrs Barbary my great-aunt.” Juliet tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. “She saw me as a Bromfield, as a member of the vile family who ruined her sister’s life. If only she would have embraced me.”

  “The woman could not see past her bitterness.”

  “She blamed your grandmother, too, for lying to her all those years.” As Juliet had no memory of telling Devlin anything about Mrs Barbary’s confession, she told him everything again from the beginning. “Do you think Mrs Barbary took her own life? Her death means we must tell the magistrate about my father’s illegitimacy.”

  A brief silence ensued before Devlin said, “I told the magistrate a variation of the truth. Yesterday, Mrs Barbary informed Cook that the icehouse was unsafe and that until she had inspected the problem, no one was to venture down there.”

  “Is that true?”

  “It is. Cook verified that the conversation had taken place as she had wanted ice to make sorbets.”

  “But how did you account for me being there?”

  “I told them the housekeeper lured you down there on false pretences. That she harboured resentment over the death of my grandmother and Ambrose and blamed you, a Bromfield, for what had happened. Tilly and the other maids corroborated her open hatred of Hannah and the baron.”

  “I see.”

  Why had he not told the whole truth?

  It was an opportunity to get his revenge on the Bromfields, too.

  “Everything else I told them was the truth,” Devlin continued. “I explained that I went out to find you and Rufus, that the dog led me to the icehouse. I told them how she tried to make her escape and got caught under the wheel.”

  A shiver crept down Juliet’s back like the trace of frosty fingers. The memory of being locked in that frigid room would haunt her forever.

  “Did they believe you?”

  Devlin raised an arrogant brow. “Love, I could sell rosary beads to the devil. Besides, there are no wounds or signs of violence on the body. And the doctor has confirmed that your symptoms are conducive with being in the cold for a considerable amount of time.”

  A wave of relief rippled across her shoulders. But still, she had some compassion for Mrs Barbary. Hurt and disappointment had made her do dreadful things.

  “But if you had told them about Susan, you would have hurt my father and Hannah, as you have wanted to do for so long.”

  Devlin sighed. He came to sit on the side of the bed, captured her hand and brought it to his lips. Those dark, mysterious eyes she loved searched her face. “And for every stone I throw at your father I now throw at you, at our unborn children, at the hopes for the future.”

  Love for her husband swelled in her chest. He had promised to protect her from the baron and not once had he faltered. “But I have suffered disgrace my whole life. I would welcome it gladly if I thought it might bring you peace.”

  “But you would not wish to hurt our children.”

  “We must hope they are strong enough of character to cope with anything that comes their way.”

  “And they will be.” He bent his head and kissed her. “How can they not with you as their mother?” A mischievous smile formed. “Besides, we have the letters. We have the proof your father fought so desperately to find. We will use them to our advantage. Shall we go to London? Shall we visit your father and tell him of our lucky discovery?”

  The thought of forcing the baron to acknowledge his hypocrisy caused a knot in her stomach. “Yes, though I doubt the meeting will be pleasant. And then promise me we can forget all about the letters.” She sat up, though the task was made more difficult by the mounds of blankets on the bed. Then she realised she was naked. “Good Lord.”

  “You refused to wear one of the nightgowns purchased from the modiste.” Devlin’s gaze slid across her bare shoulders, igniting a fire in her belly. “I have had a hell of a night trying to keep you warm.”

  “A hell of a night?” she teased. “What about today? I feel cold to my bones and Rufus is of no use.”

  The hound opened one eye upon hearing his name but then fell back to sleep.

  “What would you have me do?” Devlin said with a grin. “Stoke the fire? Fetch another blanket?”

  He was the only thing she needed. “Body heat is supposed to be the best way to warm the blood.”

  A wicked glint flashed in his obsidian eyes. “As I have a rather large body, I should be able to heat you quite quickly.” Devlin stood. He strode over to the door and called Rufus. “I shall take him down to the stables and let a groom take him out.”

  Rufus jumped off the bed and came to heel at Devlin’s side. Juliet could hear him talking to Rufus as they headed out of the door and down the stairs.

  In a matter of minutes, her husband returned. He locked the door, stripped off his clothing and slipped into bed beside her. “Now, where would you like me to start?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “If you have come to berate me over my conduct the other day, then you can save your breath.” The baron stood before the fire in the drawing room, his hands clasped behind his back. He wielded his arrogance like a shield, but Devlin had the one weapon capable of cleaving it in two. “I assume it’s just a matter of time before you find an excuse to call me out.”

  Devlin relaxed back in the sofa while Juliet sat comfortably at his side.

  “And I don’t know why I must be party to this ridiculous conversation,” Miss Bromfield complained from the chair opposite. “So I wrote to tell Ambrose he was a fool. So I told a few tales, cast aspersions on his character. I was upset. Do I not have the right to voice my opinion?”

  “You have no right to spread malicious lies,” Juliet said with a level of confidence Devlin had not seen when she stood outside his house in Wimpole Street, nibbling her bottom lip. “You have no right to slander a gentleman’s good name just to bolster your own sense of worth.”

  Miss Bromfield tutted. “He’s dead. What does it matter?”

  “It matters to me.” Devlin cast the chit his hardest stare, took pleasure in her nervous gulp. He glanced at the baron. “We thought you might like to know that we found the letters you seek.”

  Miss Bromfield
sat forward. “You mean Ambrose kept them?” With hope in her eyes, she looked up at her father. “Well, surely that means he cared something for me.”

  Devlin held the next sentence in his mouth for a few seconds as one would a fine wine. He savoured the taste, anticipated the way its potency would relax his shoulders, would send a wave of satisfaction surging through his veins.

  “I am not speaking of the letters sent to Ambrose,” he said, relishing every word. “I speak of the letters written to my grandmother, to Charlotte Drake. Letters written by her maid Susan while she attended your parents, Baron.”

  All life drained from the baron’s face. He reached for the mantel and gripped the wood. “You found them? You’ve … you’ve read them?”

  “Numerous times.”

  The baron gulped. With trembling fingers he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a handkerchief and used it to mop the beads of sweat from his brow.

  “Papa? Is everything all right?” For once, Miss Bromfield sounded anxious.

  The baron could not find his voice and simply shook his head. The action sent Miss Bromfield into a tizzy. Still looking confused and bewildered, she jumped up and assisted her father into a seat.

  “What is it, Papa?” She turned to Juliet and scowled. “What have you done?”

  “It is not a case of what we have done,” Devlin said, unable to suppress his jubilation. “But more a case of what your grandfather did.”

  The baron’s complexion turned grey, sallow. He swayed in the chair, looked ready to cast up his accounts. “Leave us, Hannah. I’ll not have you party to this conversation.”

  “Miss Bromfield stays,” Devlin said, his tone hard and unforgiving. The witch would hear everything he had to say. “She stays. Else you leave me no option but to put the evidence in print. Some magazines thrive on gossip.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “It would be a fitting retribution, do you not think?”

  Miss Bromfield braced her hands on her hips and glared. “I do not know what game you’re playing here but say what you must and then leave. You should be grateful I have not thrown you out already.”