The Prince of Ravenscar (8 page)

“Not strange at all, I should think,” Roxanne said. “You feel all right now, Corrie?”

“Oh, yes, it comes and goes, as I said. Now, that is quite enough about me. I want to know about you and Sophie.”

Roxanne said thoughtfully, “I was considering staking Devlin out in the sun, to see what happens.”

Corrie sputtered her tea, wiped her chin, and grinned. “What an amazing idea. How I wish I'd thought of it. When can we do it?”

Sophie laughed. “How about I suggest to him that he take me out on the Thames at the Marksbury garden party on Saturday? I will feed him a sleeping draught and row back to shore. The three of us will remove him to a far part of the gardens and stake him out.”

“It will rain on Saturday.”

Roxanne stared at Corrie. “How do you know?”

“My mama-in-law told me it is an unbroken law of nature that it always rains when an alfresco luncheon is planned. She told me once she announced a date for an alfresco party, then changed it at the last minute. She said it hadn't mattered—English nature wasn't fooled—it poured buckets.”

“I think we should be optimistic,” Sophie said. “If my optimism is misplaced, we will simply postpone the staking until a bright, sunny day. What do you think?”

“I think we are mad,” Corrie said happily, rubbed her hands together, and laughed until she suddenly paled and ran into the corner and threw up.

“I'm coming, my lady,” they heard Willicombe call from outside the drawing-room door.

“I wonder,” Roxanne said later, as their carriage bounced along the cobblestones, “if we should remove Devlin's coat and shirt.”

Sophie said, “I wonder if he is as finely made as his uncle Julian.”

“Or Lord Hammersmith,” said Roxanne, and shuddered delicately.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

 

 

 

I
t is such a lovely warm day,” Sophie said. “Look yon, my lord, the sun is emerging from behind those lovely fluffy white clouds. I swear I do not smell any coming rain. What do you think?”

Devlin Monroe looked from the drawing-room window to the sprawl of well-manicured gardens that gently sloped down to the water, where pleasure boats were tethered to a long narrow dock, awaiting young ladies and eager young gentlemen. White tents dotted the landscape because there was always the expectation of rain. Devlin looked at Miss Sophie Wilkie's lovely dusky complexion. He raised his finger to stroke down her smooth cheek. She started, stared at him for a moment, then took a step back.

“My apologies. Your beautiful face was there, and my finger wouldn't be denied. Yes, look, the sun is now coming out. Amazing. Are you certain you wish me to row you on the Thames? Perhaps I should prefer if you rowed me.”

“Since I have practically lived in boats all my life, I should be delighted to row you, my lord. You can wear a hat and carry an umbrella. A black one, so you would not be mistaken for a lady with very short hair and a parasol, in mourning black.”

A brow shot up. “As an insult, that was fairly comprehensive, Miss Wilkie. Now I must row you, my manhood demands it.”

She gave him a sweet smile, but there was something in that smile, he thought, something he didn't particularly trust, something wicked. He studied her. “Would you like to tell me what mischief you are brewing, Miss Wilkie?”

“Oh, look, my lord, there is Corrie Sherbrooke. All alone, standing in full sun. Shall we say hello to her? Or would you wish I call her to come inside?”

“Only if James isn't in the vicinity.”

“Why ever not?”

“He does not appreciate me, I fear, ever since I asked Corrie's uncle for his permission to wed her.”

“Goodness, I wouldn't appreciate you, either. Corrie told me you found her amusing, nothing more.”

“Ah, last fall was an interesting time. A pity you couldn't have been here to witness all the drama. Corrie is an original. And now she is expecting a child. James did not waste any time.”

“That strikes me as being a rather indelicate disclosure for my innocent ears, my lord.”

“If you were really listening, you would have heard the whiff of sarcasm in my voice. In short, Corrie was forced to marry him. It was a pity, but she appears resigned to her fate.”

“Do you really think so? Let me see. James looks like a god, his form is close to divine, he is ever so smart, and I've watched him laugh and jest with her. Do you really think she has resigned herself to this appalling fate?”

“Your own use of sarcasm is wasted on me. It is only ladies who are prone to flights of fancy, Miss Wilkie. Beautiful? A man would think James Sherbrooke and his twin, Jason, to be good sorts, nothing more than that until they cheated at cards, for example.”

“He has a twin?”

“Yes. They are identical. However, Jason has moved to America. Baltimore, I believe, is the name of the provincial city where he now resides. Unlike his brother, Jason is horse mad.”

“And do they cheat at cards?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“Then men must admire them as well?”

“There is no need to go that far. Now, let us say hello to Corrie, see if perhaps she wishes to throw up behind one of Lady Marksbury's prize rosebushes.”

Sophie and Devlin Monroe, hat back on his head, his umbrella tucked under his arm, walked out into the gardens overflowing with laughter, endless gossip, extravagant jewels, and champagne goblets in every beringed hand. Devlin eyed his mother across the wide Marksbury lawn, saw she was well pleased with Viscount Earswick's ponderous attention, and that was what counted. He hadn't realized his mother found crop rotation so invigorating. She looked very impressive today in her purple satin gown with sleeves the width of a tree trunk. As for his sire, the duke was probably down at the Marksbury stables, eyeing Lord Markham's new bay gelding he himself had wished to buy. Mayhap he would drop a warning in Lord Markham's ear, since he knew his father was perfectly capable of having the gelding stolen right out of the stables.

Devlin wanted to speak to Julian but didn't see him. He'd said he might show himself if he couldn't find anything more amusing to do with his Saturday afternoon, which he probably had. Then Julian had asked Devlin about Miss Wilkie, an eyebrow raised. “The chit pleases you, Dev?”

“Like Corrie Sherbrooke, she is an original. I fancy to give her some attention, at least for a while. No need to pour it on, however.”

“She seems a good sort of girl, so perhaps you should consider pouring it on in liberal amounts. Your father is right. You are now twenty-seven, time to wed and produce an heir for the succession. Life is terribly fragile, Devlin. A man can die in a moment.”

Devlin looked at his half-uncle closely. “You are morose today. What are you thinking? Has something happened?”

And Julian told him about his smuggling run and how he knew that there'd been another there, observing them bringing in the gin and tobacco. No more shipments until Julian found another landing site, a pity, for this one had served well before he'd left three years earlier. He imagined Harlan would have suggestions.

Devlin Monroe smiled now at Sophie. “Miss Wilkie, I fear my mother has seen you. Yes, she is dismissing the aged roué who was doubtless encouraging her to rotate her barley crop more frequently. She still does not know whether to despise you or nab your fat purse.”

“Even if I were an heiress, I think she would still despise me, since my mother was best friends with her own stepmama,” Sophie said. “How odd that sounds when Corinne is younger than your mother. I am not, you know—an heiress, that is. My father is a vicar, the younger nephew of Viscount Denby.”

“Yes, I know exactly who you are. My mother had only to ask me, but she never does. I cannot imagine why she wants an heiress in the family. Well, every parent wants their offspring to fatten the coffers. But the truth is I have no need to wed an heiress, since the ducal boat sails nowhere near the River Styx. Even the thought of marrying an heiress—no, I thank you. They tend to be unpleasant, from my experience, full of conceit and their own worth, and double chins abound.”

She said, “Roxanne is an heiress.”

“Ah, well, that settles it, then,” he said.

“Settles what?”

He gave her a flick of the finger against her cheek, simply couldn't help himself, and walked away from her, raising his black umbrella over his head. Sophie watched him meet his half-uncle, who had appeared around the corner of the house. The two men fell into close conversation. What were they talking about? They seemed so serious. Was something wrong? Had something happened? How to get Devlin to row her on the Thames?

Sophie grinned and walked to where Corrie stood, staring with intense concentration at Lady Marksbury's rosebushes.

As for Devlin, he and Julian had moved to stand at the top of the grassy slope of the Thames embankment, watching several small pleasure boats move smoothly through the calm water, rowed by young men eager to impress. Devlin said, “I know you're worried about the
Blue Star.
Have you any word of her?”

“It's not only the
Blue Star.
And no, I haven't heard a word.”

“Then what is it?”

Julian eyed his half-nephew. He said, “I remember not long ago when you believed what your mother told you: I was naught but an interloper, an adventurer out to destroy your legitimate family—in short, an unwanted disgrace, your grandfather's most striking mistake in an otherwise long life of uprightness and common sense.”

Devlin laughed. “You're right, Julian. All my life, my mother dinned in my ears that you were a bastard in everything but name. My father never said a word against his own father or against you. Then I finally met you when I went up to Oxford at eighteen. Perhaps it would have taken longer to appreciate you if I had not been desperate. Even if you were everything my mother said, you were there, and you appeared quite competent.”

Julian laughed. “I'd wanted to meet you for some time, and here was my unknown half-nephew, who'd gotten himself into a proper mess. I remember I was proud of you, even though you should have run rather than face down three bullyboys bent on breaking your head.”

“You know what really won me over? Your teaching me how to fight dirty. It is a fine thing, Julian. Did I tell you a cutpurse tried to bring me down two years ago on Boxing Day? I was no more than a dozen steps away from my own town house when he leaped out from an alley, knife slashing.” Devlin paused, smiled big. “I, myself, dragged him to the watch after I'd given him a good pounding. Now, you have distracted me. What is it, Julian?”

J
ulian debated with himself, then said, “Richard Langworth was at the ball last night, looking at me like he wanted to stick a knife in my gullet.”

Devlin nodded. “I saw him, too. However, he made no move toward you or your mother, as least that I saw. Is he still of the same opinion as he was when Lily died?”

“He evidently is, given the death look in his eyes last night. I had hoped he would recall he'd known me to my heels—but apparently any recollections on his part didn't change anything. He obviously still blames me. I also saw him looking at you as well, and there was an expression on his face I well recognized.

“I believe he might hurt you to get to me. Stay away from him, Devlin.” Julian saw immediately that this was the wrong approach. Never tell a man to keep away from danger; he will always do the opposite. “What I meant to say—”

Devlin slashed his umbrella through the air. “You will never be a diplomat, Julian, nor do you have my facility with words, which means you said exactly what you meant to say. I will be careful, I promise you. What I cannot grasp, knowing you as I do, is how he can believe you murdered your wife, his sister. Good Lord, Julian, he's known you all your life. Surely he knows you would never harm a woman, much less your wife of six months.”

Julian's voice was emotionless. “One deals with what one must. The sun is very bright today, Devlin. You are wise to hold the umbrella over your head.”

“You're right. I don't wish to take any chances. Now, about Richard Langworth—”

“No, I will say no more about it. I merely wished to warn you.” Julian turned to stare toward a large covered barge lumbering downriver in the distance. He wondered at the cargo. Something very heavy, mayhap something smuggled. It warmed his heart to think of goods coming into England with no excessive import duties.

“Good Lord,” Julian said, more to himself than to Devlin. “It was Richard who followed me to Saint Osyth. He's the one I sensed was watching my men bringing in my goods.”

“You've already had a smuggling run? This soon?”

Julian shrugged. “I wanted to see if it was still enjoyable. It was.”

“Then you will have to change your landing spot,” Devlin said. “You could ask me to go along, you know.” He saw Julian stiffen. “I see. You still think I'm a puling lad who has to be protected.”

“No, you are a future duke.”

“Wellington was already a duke when he fought at Waterloo. Had I been with you, I could have circled back and cornered Richard.”

Julian said nothing at all.

“Oh, to the Devil with you. Very well. Would you care to row Sophie Wilkie on the Thames? She asked me to row her, but the sun is very strong today. You know how the water reflects the harsh light on your face.”

Julian cocked a black brow. “My mother would be pleased to see me in the young lady's company. But it is not to be—I will say it again, she is too young for me, and that's the truth of it, but she appears a good sort, Devlin. You might consider doing the rowing of the young lady. Keep well covered, keep close to shore, and sing love songs to her. What do you think?”