by Sahara Kelly
Deverell’s Obsession
by
Sahara Kelly
Copyright © 2016 Sahara Kelly
Cover art ©2016, Sahara Kelly for
P and N Graphics, LLC
Author’s Note
You may have noticed that there is an actual portrait used on the cover of this book. Thanks to the generosity of many art museums, a large number of paintings are now available online in the public domain, and this is one of them. So there is no copyright attribution needed here.
However, for those who are interested, this lovely portrait is by Louise-Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun, a prominent painter born in Paris in 1755. It is a self-portrait painted when she was quite young, but her work and her beauty lasted well beyond her youth. She was honored by Marie-Antoinette with an invitation to Versailles, where she painted more than a few portraits of the unfortunate Queen. I encourage you to read about this talented artist…she’s a fascinating story in her own right.
I have taken the liberty of not naming an artist for my version of this painting, since I’m not sure Mademoiselle Le Brun would have appreciated playing a role in a fictional romance novel written two hundred and fifty odd years after her birth.
But then again…one never knows…
If a trip to England is in your future, then I highly recommend planning a visit to the Isle of Wight. A quick ferry-ride across the water from Southampton, it’s home to Osborne House, one of Queen Victoria’s favorite summer homes. She passed away there in 1901.
Also in this book you’ll read about a fascinating geological feature – the Needles. They’re an impressive line of chalk rocks, sweeping into the ocean off the tip of the island. There’s a gap in the middle where one eroded, but the others are still standing tall.
Lord Palmerston (also mentioned in this story) had his own ‘obsession’ according to many, being convinced that England needed better maritime defenses. One of the sites he included in his plan was the tip of the Isle of Wight, right above the Needles.
Although not built until the 1860’s, long past the time he was Secretary of War, the Needles Battery came into being and there is now a re-creation of Palmerston’s vision on the site. His desire to protect the important ports of Southampton and Portsmouth was quite valid, but his timing was off. In 1897 Marconi set up the world’s first radio station there, and it was one of many observation points and fuel stations for the Normandy landings in World War II. Another of those small but fascinating anecdotes from British history and I hope I’ve not screwed it up too badly by taking a few liberties with it in this story.
Prologue
Her eyes spoke to him in a wordless language he understood deep within his soul.
They told of joy and sorrow, laughter and tears. Of pain, passion and a longing for something he knew only he could give.
Who was she? He had no idea. She had come to him as part of the estate, a long-lost memento of his family’s wanderings in the past.
He had dated her clothing to at least fifty years earlier, but her expression was as fresh as if he’d just been introduced to her at Almack’s. Her hair was richly shaded, sunny brown in some places, shiny black silk in others, depending on the light.
Her lips were ripe and warm, the deep pink of the soft bow gracing her blouse. They teased and tempted, and he could have sworn that they’d pouted at him a time or two.
She was modestly garbed, as befitted a lady of her time, so she was no peasant wench posing for a young painter who had neglected to sign his work.
No, she had an air about her, a look of composure and confidence that was bred into a woman of rank. Her skin was creamy silk and her cheeks flushed as if she’d hurried because she was late for the sitting. Were they always so rosy? Or had she dared to add a touch of rouge before posing?
He inclined toward the former, since she didn’t seem the sort of woman to enhance her appearance. Her face seemed modest in a certain light, yet seductive in others. Did she know?
He couldn’t tell by staring into those emerald green eyes.
The ones that had haunted him ever since she arrived to take up residence in his house. He found it hard to believe she’d been with him for less than a year, because she seemed part of his life, part of his every waking hour. He saw her the moment he arose, and her soft glance followed him into sleep.
In fact, that glance followed him everywhere—which had been unnerving at first—but then he’d become accustomed to her curiosity about his life. No matter where he went in his room, her eyes followed him, yet they did not judge, nor laugh, nor deride whatever he was up to. They merely showed interest…fascination perhaps?
Delaney Deverell sighed and turned away from the portrait hanging opposite his bed on the wall of his rooms. His friend Charles Fontaine was right.
She was his obsession.
Chapter One
“What the bleedin’ ‘ell…”
The oath was followed by a shout and a crash, neither drawing a lot of attention, since this was the Thames docks, after all. Foul language and the throwing about of cargoes, often to the detriment of same, was to be expected.
For the two women bearing tissue wrapped bolts of fabric, it was just another day.
Until the curse was followed by “’elp. This ‘ere’s a lady what’s fainted. ‘elp?”
Mary Brennan and Eileen O’Boyle glanced at each other and turned immediately toward the yells.
“What is it, lad?” Mary pushed her way past smelly fishing nets and a couple of barrels that were more than a little worse for wear.
“Lookee ‘ere. She’s out like a light. I din’t ‘it ‘er wiv nuffin’, I swears on me Mum’s grave.”
“It’s all right. Nay, you didn’t hit her. You didn’t have time. And ‘t’is free an’ clear of bruises, she is,” said Eileen, already on her knees and examining the prone figure.
“Tha’s good then. I’m orf.” He beat a hasty retreat.
“Wait…” Eileen called after the retreating figure. “Well be damned to the lad. Now what do we do?”
“Here,” Mary held out her hand. “Give me your bundle and see to her. I’ll run for a hack. There’s some around, thank God.”
“All right.” Eileen passed over her package and then knelt to tend to the unconscious woman.
Although girl might be a better description, thought Eileen. She looked too fresh and youthful to be wandering the docks alone, and her clothing was certainly of good quality.
The dressmaker in Eileen rose to the fore and noted the fine lawn of her gown, the Venise lace trim to her petticoat and the elegant style of her spencer. Her bonnet wasn’t of the latest design, but her overall beauty would blind anyone to the fact that she was perhaps six months behind the current fashions.
If she were to guess, she’d place the lass at twenty or twenty one, and perhaps the daughter of a relatively well-off aristocratic household.
Why she was flat on her back in the middle of a filthy alley next to the Thames docks, was anyone’s guess.
Eileen touched the base of her neck, feeling the pulse fluttering there. It was reassuring, because the girl was so still and pale.
They would have to lift her, of course, so Eileen eased her arm beneath the spencer, in order to raise her upper body. As she did so, the bonnet fell off and it was easy to see what had caused her to lose consciousness.
There was a really nasty lump on the back of her head and some blood had matted the hair around it.
“Oh, you poor wee thing,” crooned the soft-hearted Eileen. “We’ll get you home and set you to rights quick as a wink.”
And true to her word, Mary hurried ba
ck down toward them with a burly driver following behind her.
After some careful maneuvering, a bit of money changing hands and a rather bumpy drive back to their own front door, Mary and Eileen were able to carry their charge inside and settle her in one of their guest rooms.
The fact that the last occupant had been a prostitute fleeing an abusive whoremaster…well, the lass didn’t need to know that. The sheets and pillows were spotless and the room bright with sunshine filtered through lacy curtains.
Still the girl lay silent as a corpse.
“Should we summon a physician, d’you think?”
Mary glanced at Eileen, who shook her head. “Nay. Let’s give her a few more hours. You saw her head wi’ that lump. ‘T’is likely she’s sleeping through a headache larger ‘n all of Dublin.”
“Well, let’s get her comfortable then.”
Ever practical, Mary and Eileen gently removed the girl’s clothing, tut-tutting over the fine fabric spotted with blood at the back of her neck. As they did so, she sighed a little, as if in unconscious appreciation of the assistance they were rendering.
The two women unfastened the pins in her hair, which allowed Eileen to turn her a little and cleanse the wounds around that lump.
“Looks like she took a solid whack from something very hard.”
“Miracle she survived, is what I’m thinkin’.”
“There.” Eileen eased her back down, pulling the long soft tresses away from the ointment she’d used to cover the scratches, and positioning her head so that the injury wasn’t pressed against the pillow. “Can’t tell if whatever hit her caused those scratches or if she got ‘em when she fell. All I know is this poor lass has been set-upon badly.”
“She’s got a lovely figure. Active, for certain.” Mary observed the long slim legs as she eased a soft flannel nightgown down over the girl’s body.
“And her hands are well-tended, too.” Eileen shook her head. “I canna get past that bump on her noggin.”
Mary smiled at the Irish expressions, as she always did. “I’d like to return the favor to the brute who thought that was a good idea.”
“Me too.”
“Anything to tell us who she is I wonder?” Mary questioned.
“No jewelry, or seamstress’s mark in her clothing,” Eileen answered absently as she pored over the gown and undergarments. “Everything is well-made and excellent quality, right down to her boots.”
“So she’s quality then?”
“Most likely.”
Mary dabbed the spencer with cool water, easing away the spots. “Wait a minute…”
Eileen looked up. “What?”
Frowning, Mary touched the spencer again, squeezing the seams in her hands. “There’s something…”
She reached for the small pair of scissors she kept on her chatelaine. One never knew when a loose thread might need snipping. At this moment, they were perfect for removing a fine line of stitching just inside the high collar. It looked to her as if a slight tear had been carefully mended.
To the surprise of both women, a tiny silk-wrapped package fell out onto Mary’s lap.
“What the dickens…?” Eileen leaned over.
Cautiously, Mary unfolded the silk and revealed a folded piece of paper.
And a delicate gold ring with a perfect green jewel in the center.
“I’ll be damned,” breathed Eileen, touching the note. “Read it, love. I don’t have my glasses to hand.”
Mary nodded as she put the ring and the silk carefully on the small table next to the bed and unfolded the note. “This is why I nag you to keep ‘em with you, darlin’.”
“Oh hush. Nag later. Read now.”
Mary cleared her throat. “To whom it may concern. The bearer of this ring desires sanctuary, which shall be granted according to the dictates of Lord Aubrey Elwyn, of Whittingford. Such granting will repay the debt owed in full, rendering any future obligations null and void.”
“Good heavens.” Eileen blinked.
“There’s one last line…” Mary held the paper to the light. “It’s an address. Deverell House, Portland Square.”
“Well, I’ll be damned…”
The two women stared at each other in surprise. They recognized the name Deverell. It belonged to a man who had befriended their darling Julia when she became Lady Gordon some time ago.
“This world’s a funny place, Mary.” Eileen shook her head. “Best get to it then. A message needs to be sent, you’ll agree?”
Mary nodded. “Can’t see anything else to do…” She looked at the girl again, stroking her smooth forehead. “But I hope we’re not going to be adding to the poor wee thing’s problems.”
At that moment, the girl opened her eyes.
They were the emerald green of young trees in summer.
*~~*~~*
Dev prided himself on keeping active, even while at Deverell House, so an early morning ride was routine. He’d found that if he got to Hyde Park early enough he could manage a short gallop without shocking any wandering dowager into a shrieking frenzy.
So he was returning to his own front door when a lad ran up, out of breath and panting hugely.
“Easy there lad.” Dev rubbed the bony shoulders as the boy bent over and rested his hands on his knees. “Catch your breath. You’ll collapse at this rate.”
“Sorry sir,” gasped the lad. “Lookin’ fer Devell House.”
“Would that be Deverell House?”
The boy nodded. “Tha’s it, right enough.”
“Well you’re in luck. This is the house and I’m Deverell.”
“Praise be.” He took a note from inside his pocket. “Message fer yer, sir. Says it was urgent-like, they did.”
“Who did?” Dev gingerly took the note, which had absorbed some of the grime from the lad’s clothing.
“Two ladies, sir. Over by the docks.”
Dev’s eyebrow rose. “Really?”
“Nice ladies, sir. Them two makes dresses. I run errands for ‘em now and agin. Pays me well too, they do.”
Dev cocked his head to one side as he wondered about that statement. “Would they be Mary and Eileen by any chance?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “You know ‘em, then, sir?”
“We’ve met.” Dev nodded. “Thank you, boy.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here. For your trouble. And give my regards to the ladies, will you?”
“A whole guinea?” The lad was staring at him as if he was an angel descended from the heights. “Fer me?”
“Go buy a good meal. And make sure your family has enough food too.”
“I will, sir. Thankee, sir.”
And with much touching of his forelock and bowing, the boy took himself off, as breathless as earlier, but for a different reason.
Curious, Dev unfolded the note and read the contents.
“Dear Sir, you may not remember us but we are friends of Lady Julia Gordon and we met briefly late last year, here in London. We are writing to inform you that this morning we rescued a young lady in distress and amongst her possessions was a note with your address on it.
If you would care to visit, you can see the ring that accompanied that note, and perhaps give us a clue as to the young lady’s identity. Our goal is to return her safely to her family and we beg your assistance.
Thank you,
M. Brennan and E. O’Boyle”
Well, well. A mystery. Dev was thrilled, intrigued and very happy that today would hold something a little out of the ordinary. He was getting dangerously close to being bored—the results of which often turned out to be disastrous. His friends Lucius and Charles were both married. Which was all well and good, but left him at loose ends.
Following up this note couldn’t hurt, surely?
He was already back on his horse before his butler came to the front door.
“I thought I heard you, Mr. Delaney, sir. Shall I summon a groom for your mount?”
“Not necessary,
Baxter. I have a new errand. I’ll be gone for a while. Not sure how long.”
“May I inquire as to your destination, sir?”
“Yes.” Dev wheeled his horse around and dug in his heels. “Inquire away.”
In a clatter of hoofbeats, Dev was on his way before his butler could roll his eyes and sigh at his master’s off-center sense of humor. He’d worked for the Deverells since young Delaney was in short coats, so he was used to his master’s unique interpretation of things that were amusing. Once Baxter assumed the position of butler to the household, such knowledge did not, however, make life any easier.
Clouds scudded across the sky, harbingers of rain later. Dev glanced up as he clattered through the London streets, heading for the docks. It was his hope that whatever the weather chose to do that day, it would do it when he was safely under some shelter.
He didn’t dare trot or canter; the streets were now quite busy with people going about their daily business. The nearer he got to the river, the more wagons he saw, loaded with goods, either heading to or away from the cargo ships he knew were tied up alongside the wharves.
It was a rough area, full of working men with short tempers and long thirsts, and he’d rather not traverse a few of these streets at night, alone. But his destination was a surprisingly quiet road with tidy houses, many of which had been converted into shops. The traffic there was a great deal more orderly than would now be rumbling alongside the water.
His appearance was expected, since he had no sooner pulled his horse to a halt than a sprite of a girl with brilliant red hair dashed out of the door, and almost got herself knocked over.
“I’ll take yer ‘orse, Mister Sir.” She grinned at him, showing a prominent gap where a tooth had fallen out.
“Wee Brenna, is it?”
“Aye ‘t’is that. Fancy yer recallin’ ma name.” She danced from one foot to the other, eyes wide.
Dev dismounted and looked at the tiny girl, then at his horse. His horse, to do him credit, had stilled and behaved himself in a gentlemanly fashion. But that didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at his master.