Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Madeline Martin

  Devlin reminded himself it was not of his affair, but then the weasel spoke to Rachael and Devlin couldn’t remain distant. Two long strides and he was beside them. He couldn’t understand why he disliked Tenney so much, except that his methods were abominable. One did not discard a person after six years with a letter, particularly if there wasn’t a continent between them. A short carriage ride was not a great hardship, surely.

  Devlin took an extra second to observe Rachael after he stopped in front of them. ‘Miss Albright. Mr Tenney.’ He ended his words on an upbeat note. ‘It is so fortunate to see you both.’

  Then he frowned. ‘Forgive my manners, Mr Tenney. I’m Viscount Montfort. And though it may seem we don’t know each other, I do feel that I know you as well as I ever could. Miss Albright has told me so many things about you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were acquainted.’ The man’s eyes, which did a good impression of a reptilian blink, took in Devlin. ‘Kind of you to say.’

  Tenney could do with an adjustment to his nose. It was much too long and pointed. How dare he criticise Rachael for something so insignificant. Well, on Tenney’s face, it was significant. Blasted thing was pointed straight at Rachael.

  Rachael should thank the heavens she was not marrying Tenney. And, she didn’t even have to concern herself about doing worse.

  A silence surrounded them and, for Rachael’s sake, Devlin ended it.

  ‘And you, Miss Albright—’ Devlin paused at just the right moment, giving himself the appearance of catching a faux pas. His voice softened. ‘I only do not ask you for this next dance because I know the two of you will want to dance. Much to my chagrin.’ Those words took his strength and he was surprised his teeth didn’t shatter.

  One reel was ending and another dance would start soon.

  ‘Please. Do not let me keep you from dancing.’

  Tenney studied Rachael before he held out his arm. After a brief second, she took it.

  That would give her time to compose herself and get used to seeing that toad. Besides, two betrothed people should waltz and it would be noted if they didn’t.

  And Rachael could see how fortunate she would be not to be dancing with Tenney for the rest of her life.

  Devlin watched them together. Rachael stared at Tenney’s neckcloth. Then Devlin caught Payton’s glance and his nod towards Rachael. His cousin doffed an imaginary hat to Devlin and Devlin decided he’d best leave the party for a short while. He spoke to the guests, each greeting winding him closer to the door, and made his way outside as if he were only going to talk with someone else.

  He didn’t want to make Rachael more nervous by watching her.

  He found his carriage, discerned one of the drivers had wandered somewhere and the other’s snores rumbled as his head had almost dipped into the neck of the waistcoat he wore while he still held the ribbons.

  Bits of murmured conversations fluttered his way as some guests arrived and some left. The sounds of the horses nickering to each other. The creak as a carriage wheel turned. The drivers talking among themselves while they waited on their masters to finish the night. A bit of a ribald tale sounded, followed by guffaws.

  The story was humorous and, he supposed, by the slurring of the man’s words, ale had improved the flavour of it.

  Life went on, as routinely as it always did, sprinkling happy and sad, contentment and upheaval, and irritations and joys.

  He wondered if Tenney might be one of the people who wallowed best in a pool of misery, unable to feel alive except when surrounded by misfortune.

  Who knew? Who cared?

  He walked over to the drivers of another carriage. He didn’t even know who the vehicle belonged to. ‘Like a cigar?’ he asked.

  One nodded and stepped to the ground. The other declined.

  Devlin reached into an inside pocket of his frock coat, pulled out a cigar and gave it to the man. The man used the lantern hanging from the carriage to light it.

  ‘Do you ever get tired of waiting for the night to end?’ he asked the man.

  The driver took a puff of the cigar. ‘Not unless it’s freezing cold. We have a few hours to take it easy. To peruse the stars. Jasper can fall asleep as soon as the carriage stops, and if he starts snoring, I wake him up out of pity for the horses. They can’t rest with all the noise.’

  Devlin didn’t speak.

  ‘Kinda nice to get a glance of the women’s fripperies. The men acting bored by it all, but doubt they really are. Me, just sitting in my comfortable boots, getting to rest my legs. Share a drink with a few friends on occasion. Always a bottle somewhere about for a long night to go easier. This is my favourite part of my employment. A chance to attend a soirée and yet not dance or dress uncomfortable.’

  The other one in the seat added his opinion. ‘I like Mr Albright’s soirées.’

  The cigar ash flickered off as the man’s head darted to his friend. Devlin expected if the light were better, he would have seen the man smoking give his friend a stern stare.

  ‘Why?’ Devlin asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Why?’ Devlin wondered again.

  ‘It’s the family,’ the one with the cigar admitted, the lighted end waving. ‘Mrs Albright remembers us. Near the end of the night, the housekeeper sends a maid out with a bite to eat. Only time I ever had tarts with fripperies on it was at a party she’d had. Those little sprinkles of sweetness were almost too sweet, but they were good.’

  ‘You hope never to leave early from here.’ The one in the box spoke. ‘And sometimes, a maid brings out a bottle of wine or two. She said the mistress of the house is pleased for her to do it. Makes the night pass more speedily.’

  ‘Then there was the juggler,’ the one with the cigar added. ‘I didn’t know a man could toss such things about. A few of the maids brought out torches and we stood about and watched. A sight it was.’

  ‘A juggler?’ He’d never dreamed of the night’s entertainment going out to give a performance for the staff.

  ‘Mr Albright can have a temper if things don’t go as he wishes, but he’s got a good heart,’ the other man said. ‘His temper is like a blustery storm that leaves calm. His staff say it’s a grand house to work in.’

  ‘Just like my staff say?’ Devlin asked. Devlin doubted his staff had ever stepped outside and said a word to the carriage drivers, but one never knew.

  ‘Absolutely. Of course.’ Both servants spoke in tandem.

  ‘Best house ever,’ the one with the cigar added.

  Devlin hid his humour, assured the men had no idea who he was or which house was his, but it didn’t matter. The man speaking was a rake in his own way, Devlin supposed.

  ‘What do the staff say of the life behind closed doors here?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ the one with the cigar answered. ‘What goes on inside a house is sacred to all.’

  ‘I would well respect and appreciate that,’ Devlin said, valuing a good fabrication when he heard it. He would wager the servants shared many tales, but tact was required in employment.

  He waited. ‘I wondered, if in this household, it is all a façade?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ the man from the box said. ‘Least ways, don’t think it could be.’

  ‘It’s safe to say...’ The driver took a puff of the cigar and let the smoke drift into the night. ‘I would think it is safe to say, from just casual observation, that Mr and Mrs Albright are on the inside exactly as they are on the outside. They likely never get snappish with their carriage driver.’

  The other one chuckled. ‘Except if a horse near steps on Mr Albright’s boot and then knocks him down. I expect a servant who let that happen might need a set down.’ Both men shared a glance and a chuckle.

  ‘So, it exists. True happiness in marriage.’

  The end of the cigar brightened and nodded along with the sp
eaker’s words. ‘But only in sparse quantities, if the tales of the other houses are to be believed. It is as if a happy bolt of lightning struck Mr and Mrs Albright and their servants reap the rewards. Sad Mr Albright might not be having many more events like this. It’s said he’s been a bit slow in payin’ some of the merchants.’

  ‘Did the contentment bolt strike any other household in London?’ Devlin asked after considering what the man said.

  The man with the cigar laughed. ‘Many of them have good lives—happy lives—but a bigger amount are more sad than happy even with all the fripperies they can purchase. Some of them must get enjoyment out of being cross.’

  The man then scratched his chest. ‘Hard to tell who has it the best, us on the outside or them on the inside. That lightning bolt don’t know the difference between a man with a heavy purse and a man with no purse who has food. Just seems to strike and miss at random.’

  Devlin gave a light tap to the man’s arm. ‘Well, I’d best return to this event.’

  ‘And who be you?’ the smoker asked.

  Devlin paused. ‘One that was struck by a confused bolt of lightning, I’d say.’

  The man chuckled. ‘Was nice tongue-wagging with you.’

  Devlin had to return to the house, pleased he’d stepped outside.

  Mrs Albright likely knew exactly how the staff enjoyed the night. Devlin didn’t know whether to be disappointed or impressed that the Albrights’ exterior ran deeper than the surface, or sad that he wasn’t sure how deep his own interior ran.

  He had no gift for numbers like his father and Payton had. No deep love of politics. No true affection for gambling. The only skill he had was to jest without making people angry. He could say what everyone else was thinking, but say it in such a way as to remain friends with everyone afterwards.

  He didn’t really understand it and wouldn’t have paid attention except Payton, who had inherited the family mathematical brain, but chose to hide it, had commented on it in exasperation. Devlin had once convinced two men who were ready to go at each other’s throats that a nonsensical competition would be in order and the night had ended with laughter.

  A useful skill that Payton had grumbled about, but insisted Devlin accompany him on one particular occasion when he was short of funds. He’d claimed that with Devlin’s charm and his mathematical abilities, they could have been the best swindlers in London.

  Devlin had chastised his cousin for thinking such foolhardiness, but was curious.

  Later that night, everyone joined in the wager Devlin had started, even though it was obvious by then that Payton had a winning hand. Somehow, Devlin had convinced the players the sport wasn’t in the game, but in betting against Payton. Payton had left whistling, with his pockets full.

  If Devlin hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have believed it. It was as if the people had wagered without caring whether they won as long as Devlin kept the banter going.

  The music rose from inside the house, diverting Devlin’s attention.

  He hoped he had never been such a cad as Tenney was. True, he knew several women had envisioned themselves in love with him, but he had been honest when those quiet sentiments arose and the words of their love tumbled out. He’d always given a kiss and told them that it wasn’t true feelings they felt, only intensity caused by the closeness they’d had together. He’d extricated himself faster than Payton could count.

  One mistake had taught him.

  He’d not even lost their friendships over the word love. But once he heard it, he never saw the women in the same light as he had before. He trod lightly around them, and he knew they’d somehow understood it was nothing personal, it was just the way of things. It was better for all concerned for both of them to drift apart.

  Devlin stilled, wondering if those women who’d said they loved him had only listened to his words of sweetness and never saw beneath the exterior. That was a wager his cousin would take and fill his coffers.

  Rachael had listened to his declarations, but didn’t fall for them as the others did. She likely wouldn’t have wagered against Payton in the betting game.

  Tenney would have lost a lot of funds this night. He wasn’t gambling on the right deck of cards.

  Tenney had decided, for whatever reason, that Rachael was not the wife for a barrister, and he had possibly found someone who he believed might make a better wife to advance him. A daughter of someone who could promote his career. Someone other than Rachael.

  Ambition was not a bad thing.

  But a house shouldn’t be built on it.

  Rachael was so much better off—assuming she did not get attached to someone worse.

  Then he remembered Payton asking Rachael to dance and the adoration in his eyes. Payton fell deeply, passionately in love for all of a night and fell out even faster. He said love couldn’t be counted with numbers, therefore it was a figment of the imagination, but he liked to use his imagination. An imagination, he claimed, best exercised.

  Blast. He’d better get inside. He didn’t want Payton aware of Rachael when she decided to get over Tenney. She wouldn’t have improved her situation.

  Frowning, he walked into the house. Rachael might need him and he would happily throttle Tenney for her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The music ebbed and flowed around them, much like Rachael felt her stomach was doing. There was not another person on the face of the earth Rachael would have wanted less to be dancing with than dear Ambrose and her burn ached from all the dancing.

  Not only that, she had suddenly taken a strong dislike to the overpowering scent that Tenney always sported.

  ‘I hope my honest letter did not upset you.’ Tenney took her hand, lifting it as the music for the waltz began.

  Well, that answered any doubt she might have had about someone else writing the letter.

  She took a deep breath before answering.

  ‘At first it did,’ Rachael admitted. ‘But then I decided that the strain of taking on a wife might be wearing on you. And you didn’t mean any of it. That you’d likely changed your mind, but it was too late to recall the words.’

  She’d told herself that to keep from hating him.

  He led her away from the other dancers. His voice was soft. ‘I meant every word. You have none of the finer qualities I seek in a wife...like some do. You’ve put me off for years now and I am ready to wed. And when I compare you to others, I immediately discern how you, a glorified merchant’s daughter, have not blossomed into your potential.’

  She had once stood outside under the eaves on a wintery day. Snow had been on the roof. Someone had slammed a door and suddenly snow had slid from the roof and coated her head in moisture. Tenney’s words covered her the same way.

  They danced on and she knew how it would have been for Wellington and Bonaparte to dance together to a funeral dirge. Only they would have respected each other so much more.

  ‘I am so sorry you feel that way,’ she said. ‘I have waited some years to marry you. It is as if we were already married in my parents’ eyes. Now you think you don’t wish to marry me. Six years we have courted. I’m irritated.’

  Irritated in that she would have liked to have put him under the snowdrift on an eave and slammed a door. With him lying in the snow, face up. And with icicles on the roof, melting.

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug within the dance and her words rolled off him much easier than the snow had melted on her face.

  ‘You could not have informed me of this earlier instead of telling me you were waiting until you could afford a wife and family?’

  ‘Husbands who don’t wish to be married can be rough on their wives.’ He gave a long slow blink, much as a duellist might cock the hammer on a gun. ‘It is in your best interest to call the wedding off.’

  She suddenly remembered his joy when he’d told her of his uncle settling a pl
ump sum on him so he could purchase a house for them. The money had arrived for Tenney, but he had yet to find the perfect house that would suit them.

  ‘Will you return the funds to your uncle?’

  He batted the question into nonsense with a blink. ‘It is too late. I’ve purchased a house. But you will not be living in it. I do not intend to share one window with you. It is not in your best interest to pursue a marriage with me. Unless you are a bigger imbecile than I think.’

  He had a way with his statements just as Devlin did, but in his case, he made people’s stomachs roil without effort.

  Music wafted around them so peacefully, everything seemed as normal as it should and she imagined a few more, bigger, icicles on a roof.

  He’d just given her one more reason for needing her to call off the wedding. His uncle would likely understand Ambrose keeping the house if she didn’t wish to wed him, feeling empathy for his nephew.

  She searched her mind for the proper set down for him, but none in her vocabulary suited.

  ‘In truth, I will not take one penny from you, Mr Tenney—Ambrose. I am my father’s heir and he will ensure that I am provided for. I just cannot tell my family at this time as they will be inquisitive. I must have time to absorb the news. It would not do to burst into tears at a question.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Tenney said. ‘It is a feeble excuse in that you wish to grapple with me and try to get a settlement price from me.’

  ‘No. I will take nothing from you.’

  ‘That will change,’ Tenney said. ‘Your father’s jewellery business is going bankrupt. The shops are, at best, wavering. It is only a matter of time before the creditors take them. You misled me about your station in life. You plainly deceived me.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’ Rachael stopped moving, but he gave her a tug and pulled her along with him.

  Rachael used all her strength to keep moving and could spare none to speak. Surely Tenney lied about her father. Her father had mentioned economising on occasion, but never with a sense of urgency. Then she recalled the memory of her father’s tightened lips when her mother spoke of a dowry.