by Clee, Adele
The Devereaux Affair
Ladies of the Order - Book 1
Adele Clee
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Thank you!
Copyright
Books by Adele Clee
Prologue
Witherdeen Hall, Hampshire, 1807
Seat of the Marquess Devereaux
“Don’t go! Don’t go to her!” Bennet’s young eyes flashed with terror. His breath came in shallow pants. “Let’s hide. I know where. Stay. Don’t let her take you.”
Bennet did not give Julianna time to respond. He seized her trembling hand and pulled her down the broad oak staircase, past the portrait of a stern man in a white wig and scarlet robe, past pictures of women with soulless eyes and gaunt faces. Sad women like her mother. Lonely creatures desperate for someone to fill the void. Past the mounted stag heads. The marquess liked collecting trophies.
The shouting upstairs shook the ceiling, had the hanging lantern swinging on its chain. Somewhere glass smashed. High-pitched yelling battled with the marquess’ gruff growls and thunderous roars in a war no one would win.
“Whore!”
Julianna knew what it meant. Men had called her mother the name before, always when angry or consumed by a jealous rage. Giselle de Lacy reacted by stuffing her clothes and jewels into her valise, always captured Julianna’s hand and dragged her away from the terrible place, to start a new life with a new lord who would take care of them until they were forced to flee again.
“They’ll stop bickering soon,” Bennet whispered, “and everything will be as it was before.”
But Julianna had witnessed the performance so many times she knew the curtain was about to fall and she’d have to leave Bennet tonight.
Tears filled her eyes.
She didn’t want to say goodbye to her only friend.
She didn’t want to sleep in a new bedchamber with dolls for company, their lifeless faces filled with nothingness, their eyes as dead as the ladies in the paintings.
“It’s no good, Bennet,” she whimpered, tugging on the boy’s hand.
“No. She’ll not take you. I’ll fight them both if I have to.”
Bennet hadn’t always been brave. He was nothing like the quiet, withdrawn boy she’d met on her first day at Witherdeen. For a month, they’d barely spoken. Everything changed the day he received a whipping from his father. The day she found him sobbing in the cupboard beneath the stairs where he’d been told to remain until morning. She’d brought him a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin and an apple she’d stolen from the pantry. They’d been inseparable ever since.
“Quick, we’ll hide.” Bennet dragged the marble table away from the wall, though the fancy gold legs scraped the chequered floor. He pressed the oak panel until it clicked open a fraction to reveal the small cubbyhole. “They won’t expect us to hide in here.”
She followed him into the dark space, used by the marquess as a torture chamber to punish his ten-year-old son, knowing someone would notice they had moved the table. In a matter of minutes, Julianna would be ripped from the arms of her beloved friend, torn from the only place that had ever felt like home.
They tried to calm their breathing, but there was little chance of anyone hearing them. The thuds above stairs were louder than the rumbles of thunder outside. A door slammed. The boards on the landing groaned beneath stomping footsteps. The vile words and curses grew louder.
“You devil-crazed witch!” The marquess was in the hall now.
Julianna’s heart thumped in her chest.
Bennet gripped her hands and squeezed tightly.
“Denver will tire of you within the week,” the marquess bellowed. “He’ll not tolerate your incessant whining. Does he know you have the French Disease?”
“If I have, I’ve caught it from you! Julianna! Come quickly!”
“You’ll have to send the brat away. Denver won’t want her.”
“Don’t listen.” Bennet covered her ears with his hands.
But she shrugged from his grasp. She didn’t want to be in that quiet place, alone with her thoughts. Hearing the blazing row was better than the endless silence.
“Julianna!” her mother cried.
“I need to go, Bennet.”
“No.” He cupped her cheeks, wiped away her tears. “I need you.”
“It’s no good.” There was no point fighting. “It won’t be forever.”
“Stay.” His throat was thick with fear.
Shouting erupted in the hall again.
“No man will tolerate your harlot ways. Go. Take your heathen spawn. My son deserves better than a whore’s waif for a companion.”
Her mother ignored him. “Julianna, we’re leaving! Come down now!”
“They’re in the cupboard, fool. The girl doesn’t want to leave with you.”
With seconds to spare, Julianna gripped the open neck of Bennet’s nightshirt. “Promise you’ll find me when you’re old enough.”
“I promise,” he panted. “Promise you’ll return if you can.”
“I promise.” She hugged him, tried to gather her courage when the cupboard door flew open and an enraged Giselle de Lacy grabbed Julianna by the sleeve of her white nightgown and yanked her out into the dimly lit hall.
Everything happened quickly then.
Bennet charged out of their hiding place, shouting as loud as his father.
Her mother dragged her across the cold floor while the marquess gripped Bennet by the scruff of his nightshirt and brought him to heel like a disobedient pup.
The couple shouted nasty things, cruel things, hurtful things.
“I’ll miss you!” Julianna cried numerous times as her mother hauled her out into the rain, down the stone steps and into the waiting carriage that did not belong to the marquess.
“Come, Julianna, we’re leaving this wicked place.”
The carriage reeked of cologne—a new smell, just as sickly, just as choking. Some things never changed. And when they reached their new home, Giselle de Lacy would make Julianna sound like an asset when really she was a noose around her mother’s neck.
Look at her pretty red hair.
She can play the pianoforte better than any girl her age.
The carriage jerked forward. Rain lashed the windows. Tears lashed Julianna’s cheeks. Amid the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder, she heard Bennet shouting.
Julianna turned and stared out through the viewing window.
Bennet had broken free from his father’s grasp, took to chasing the carriage down the long winding drive, oblivious to the sharp gravel beneath his bare feet. But the vehicle picked up speed, the distance between her and her beloved friend stretching, stretching. Soon it would be miles.
Julianna pressed her palm to the glass.
Promise you’ll find me when you’re old enough.
But she knew she would never see Bennet Devereaux again.
Chapter 1
Hart Street, London, 1824
Townhouse owned by the Order
Julianna Eden had her ear pressed to the
drawing room door, trying to catch a hint of who the prospective new client might be. He was wealthy and powerful. That much she’d heard from Mrs Gunning—the woman paid to keep house and ensure the smooth running of the Order’s business premises. He had a voice as rich as fine wine, that much Julianna had discovered for herself. A voice that stirred the hairs on one’s nape, seduced the senses. A voice a lonely lady should avoid at all costs.
“Mr Daventry will summon you if he agrees to take the case,” Mrs Gunning whispered when she came to see if Julianna was still waiting in the hall.
Mr Daventry was the master of the Order, a group of enquiry agents who helped victims of crimes, those without the funds to fight for justice. The gentleman’s latest project involved hiring ladies who all, for one reason or another, might have ended up in debtors’ prison, the workhouse, or flogging their wares in Covent Garden. Intelligent and insightful women who may be of help on certain cases.
“Won’t you reconsider?” came the deep masculine voice sounding somewhat irate. “I know the men work for the poor and needy, that only your female agents accept wealthy clients, but this is a serious matter. Can you not make allowances for a friend?”
Mrs Gunning patted Julianna’s arm. “Don’t be offended, dear. Mr Daventry’s agents have a reputation for getting the job done. I expect the marquess is embarrassed to find himself in such an awkward position, and notable men don’t want to appear vulnerable in front of a lady.”
“The marquess!” Julianna almost choked on the words.
By her calculation, two dozen peers in England carried the title. Most of them were doddery old men living uneventful lives. The man on the other side of the drawing room door was most definitely young and virile, which narrowed the odds considerably.
“You must have misheard.” Julianna prayed the housekeeper had forgotten to remove the cotton plugs from her ears. “Why would a marquess need to hire an enquiry agent?”
Mrs Gunning clutched her chatelaine to prevent the keys rattling and shuffled closer. “It has something to do with death threats,” returned the sturdy woman in a quiet voice. “That’s what I heard him say before you arrived.”
So, Julianna wasn’t the only one who’d listened at the door.
“Did you manage to hear his name?”
Please don’t let it be Devereaux.
Mrs Gunning shook her head. “He’s handsome, though. Shoulders so broad and strong he could work as a packhorse. And he had that devilish twinkle in his eye one often sees in confident men.”
Julianna breathed a small sigh of relief. Confident men were often immoral. Mr Daventry would not place a female agent with a rakehell. Not without the support of a gentleman agent, and they were all busy leading their own investigations.
“The ladies of the Order are as skilled as the men,” Mr Daventry said bluntly.
It was an exaggeration. Julianna’s skills would hardly inspire faith. She was light on her feet, could disappear from a room unnoticed. She could withstand a barrage of insults and scathing criticism, bear it all with good grace. She could smile, make the world believe she was blissfully happy when inside her heart might be breaking.
“Skilled in combat?” returned the delectable voice. “Because that’s what we’re talking about here. It’s only a matter of time until the devil succeeds, and I’m too bloody angry to make sense of it myself.”
“Why don’t you meet her, decide if she’s suitable? Explain your dilemma. See if she has any logical suggestions as to where she might begin.”
The lord’s deep sigh rang with desperation now. “Women gossip and spin stories. I’ll not have the ton knowing my private business. That’s why I came to you. I’ll not have people think I’m too damn weak to handle my own affairs.”
“The ladies who work for me have experienced hardships. They’re not spoilt and pampered and are above the pettiness one associates with the ton. Trust me, Devereaux. If I’ve picked an agent to work on your case, it’s because I know she’s competent enough to get the job done.”
Devereaux!
Merciful Lord!
Julianna might have felt a flutter of pride upon hearing Mr Daventry’s praise, but her world suddenly shifted on its axis. Shifted to such an alarming degree, her knees buckled. She stumbled backwards, three steps … four … until she hit the wall.
“Goodness. What’s wrong, child?” Mrs Gunning hurried forward and gripped Julianna’s shaky hands. “Are you feeling unwell? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Promise you’ll find me when you’re old enough.
“I should go. There’s been a mistake. Tell Mr Daventry I’m not ready for a case of this magnitude. Tell him I’m sorry, sorry to embarrass him in front of a client, sorry I’m not as strong as he thought.”
Julianna continued with her mumbling apology. She would rather find herself alone and destitute, rather beg outside St Paul’s than have her treasured memories disintegrate to dust.
But Mr Daventry opened the drawing room door and stepped into the hall. The master of the Order was a man of thirty whose commanding presence unnerved most people, yet he looked upon Julianna with sympathetic eyes.
“Lord Devereaux would like to meet you, to decide if you might prove suitable, if you’re the right person to take his case.” Mistaking her shock for fear, he lowered his voice. “Devereaux is a good man beneath the bravado. You will be safe in his employ. Nonetheless, I shall warn him to treat you with the utmost respect.”
There wasn’t a man in London who would cross Lucius Daventry.
An immense sense of gratitude surfaced. He had rescued her from the steps of the Servants’ Registry, given her a chance to earn a decent living, provided a home with three other female agents, all under the care and supervision of Miss Trimble. Unlike her mother, Julianna did not sneer at the hand affording every basic comfort. She should offer an explanation. Tell him that working for the Marquess Devereaux would be like tearing open an old wound.
But then Bennet Devereaux appeared, filling the doorway with his impressive shoulders, the sleeves of his fashionable black coat clinging to his muscular arms. She tried to look beyond his manly physique for the boy she remembered. Yes. Daylight caught the golden flecks in his brown hair. His amber eyes still seduced the senses with their rich, autumnal hue.
“Ah, Devereaux.” Mr Daventry turned to his friend, who stood openmouthed and rooted to the spot. “This is the agent I mentioned. Allow me to introduce—”
“Miss de Lacy. I know.”
“Mrs Eden,” Mr Daventry corrected.
“Mrs Eden!” The marquess flinched. “You’re married?”
“Widowed,” she said but did not sound at all like herself.
Mr Daventry frowned. “You know one another?”
The marquess gripped the door jamb. “We were good friends.”
Bennet had been her only friend until she’d joined the Order.
“Childhood friends,” she managed to say. “But that was a long time ago. Indeed, I’m surprised you recognised me.”
His gaze seemed to drink in every inch of her all at once. “I would know those wild red curls anywhere.”
She coughed to halt the onset of tears. The boy she’d held in her heart was no more. In his place stood this attractive man with an aura of arrogance. This stranger had consumed the mind and body of the only person she had ever truly loved.
Julianna straightened. She would grieve for Bennet in her own time, as she had done before, when she was old enough to know he was not about to appear like a knight errant on his trusty steed and save her from a living hell.
“Under the circumstances, my lord, perhaps you might prefer to work with another agent.” She glanced at Mr Daventry, hoping he could read her silent plea. “Perhaps Miss Gambit might prove a suitable replacement.”
Mr Daventry rubbed his sculpted jaw while considering her suggestion. “Mrs Eden is interested in history and archaeology. I thought you could say you’ve hired her to write a book
about the ruins of Witherdeen Abbey.”
Julianna sucked in a sharp breath. “The position means moving to Witherdeen?”
Lord Devereaux nodded. “Hopefully, your explorations will take you further afield than the understairs cupboard.” He sounded amused, but his eyes were like those of the ladies in the paintings lining Witherdeen’s walls—downcast and doleful.
Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should take tea in the drawing room, Mrs Eden. Discuss the matter at length, decide if you are the best person to help Lord Devereaux with his pressing affair.”
Her heart screamed for her to run. The damaged organ would not withstand the torment, the pain. But Bennet Devereaux’s allure was as strong now as it was then, and she longed to see Witherdeen again.
“I would be interested to hear of his lordship’s dilemma.”
“Excellent.” Mr Daventry invited her to step into the drawing room, one as elegant as any in Mayfair, though in Hart Street they spoke of theft and murder, not of ribbons and lace.
Mrs Gunning hurried to the kitchen to make tea.
Awkwardness descended like a dense fog, so palpable it took effort to breathe. Lord Devereaux lingered. He seemed unable to decide if he should wait for her to sit, if he should treat her as an old acquaintance or a woman soon to be in his employ.
Julianna sat in the chair while the gentlemen settled on a sofa positioned around the low table. Mr Daventry opened a leather portfolio, removed a handbill and placed it down in full view. It was not a printed notice. The words had been cut from a broadsheet, arranged neatly and stuck onto the paper.
“Devereaux, you may speak in the strictest confidence. Mrs Eden is sworn to secrecy and will discuss the case with no one but her colleagues.”