A Heart in Jeopardy (7 page)

"The real Castle Marin," Deveraux said, noting her interest.

"It is beautiful."

He agreed. "The family has always been proud of our history. Unfortunately, wind, weather, and time are playing havoc with history."

She looked at him quizzically.

He nodded toward the ruined keep. "Some of those walls are dangerously unsteady. This summer I intend to have it in some measure repaired—it has always been a favored spot for a picnic—but until then I've had to declare it unsafe and off limits."

She nodded in understanding, then turned to look up at it again. For a moment she thought she saw a flash of silver light from one of the turret windows, but it was gone so swiftly she was certain it was her imagination. Deveraux touched her arm, recalling her attention, and together they turned to the right, around the side of the house. Leona was surprised to see the curtain wall did not extend past the house. She had not noticed that when she arrived last evening. Beyond where the curtain wall would have stood, one could gaze out across fields and clumps of wood through which a glistening river flowed. But close by there was whitewashed fencing enclosing a small paddock. Inside were four horses. Two were a variegated gray heavily spotted with black over their withers.

"Those gray ladies are Andalusian mares. I picked them up in Spain."

"Oh, how beautiful," Leona said, watching the grays cavort in the paddock. They were so dainty and light in appearance, but with a high, proud energy.

"I'm going to breed them. Do you think there will be a market for horses like these in England?"

"Oh, yes," breathed Leona, enraptured.

He smiled. "It was my thought to have one saddled for you to ride. That is, if you think you could handle it."

"Of course I can! How I'd love to handle one!"

He looked over her head toward the stable block. "Ludlow," he called out to a bandy-legged gentleman pitching hay. "Have Lady Talavera saddled and ready for Miss Leonard in half an hour."

The man spit, then nodded his understanding and went walking in a rolling, gaited fashion toward the paddock gate.

"Come," Deveraux said, giving her his arm.

Warily she hooked her arm with his and let him lead her back into the house.

"Breeding horses is not just a hobby with me, you know," he said as they crossed the wide marble hall floor. He led her into the library and to a worn armchair drawn up near the fire. "Can I offer you something to drink? Some Madeira, port, sherry?"

"Just a small glass of sherry, thank you. You were saying something about hobbies?"

He handed her a glass. "Yes, that I can't afford them." He shook his head and sat down in a chair opposite hers, splaying his legs out before him. He held his glass up to the sunlight streaming in the tall windows, turning it every which way to see how the sun caught the cut crystal facets and shone through the amber liquor. "I'm raising horses for profit. I have to. I'm a younger son without property and therefore without the assets to grow more money. I have to watch out for myself, but what is a scholarly educated, sporting mad, military man fit for?" He laughed harshly. "Nothing, Miss Leonard—Leona."

He grinned. "I have your problem with names, though not for the same reason. You've been Miss Leonard in my thoughts for too long."

She laughed and blushed, not knowing quite how to take his words. "I do not know anything about horse breeding, but those two mares looked exquisite," she said a trifle tightly. She coughed to clear her throat. "I should love to see their get!"

"I think they shall pay out—eventually."

"Do you have other investments?"

He laughed. "At the moment investments are all I have! There is one I'm fairly hopeful of. My friend Hugh Talverton comes from near Manchester and all the cotton manufactories there. They're vile places for the employees: dark, dank, and hot. He has a notion to build a modem textile mill utilizing new technology. I and some others are thinking of investing." He looked at her sideways. "Do you think I should be dirtying my hands beyond hope if I become involved in trade?"

She pursed her lips, seriously considering his question. "No, I do not think so. In the past, yes. But not today. We are entering a new age. Many of the rules from our father's and grandfather's times will need to be bent, if not broken."

Deveraux nodded. "I thought you would not hold with the past. Any woman who would dress in man's clothing must be republican minded."

There was a teasing gleam in his eye that Leona, showing great forbearance, refused to feed. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips twisted wryly. "
Mater artium necessitas
. Necessity is the mother of invention."

"Latin yet! I am impressed—as I know you meant me to be." He held up his hands. "For the nonce, I retire from the lists, chastened."

Leona relaxed and smiled. "I don't know if I should allow that. Isn't it the better military strategy to get the enemy on the run?"

"If first you are certain that the enemy is in full retreat and is not luring you forward to be squeezed into obliteration from the flanks."

"Ah-hh. Yes, a possible scenario. Thank you for the lesson."

He tipped his head in acknowledgment He swung one long leg over the arm of his chair in a shockingly casual manner and set it to swinging as he sipped on his sherry.

Leona felt uncomfortable in the silence. She downed the last of her sherry and fidgeted in her chair. "Where are Lucy and Mr. Fitzhugh? I should hate to leave the horses standing."

Deveraux laughed. "If you stay here a while, Miss Leonard, you will discover that my sister is rarely on time and never before-times. It was worse before that Jewitt harridan of hers arrived, so I take comfort in small ways and scarce notice anything less than half an hour."

"What does Mr. Fitzhugh have to say to his fiancée's habits?"

Deveraux looked at her wryly. "You have perhaps noticed David's sartorial elegance? . . . Come to think of it can't but help notice it in comparison to me."

Leona noticed, but did not know what he meant, for to her his restrained attire suited his large frame admirably. In comparison, Mr. Fitzhugh's attire looked almost fussy. Of course, she could not admit that to Mr. Deveraux!

Deveraux lolled his head back against the chair cushion and spoke lazily. "He and Lucy are well matched. We used to say that one day Fitzhugh's regiment would miss a battle while he dallied in his tent straightening a sash."

"You know, of course, that I could call you out for that," David Fitzhugh said amiably from the library doorway.

"You could, but if you were so inclined, you would have done so two years ago," Deveraux said without turning his head to look at him. "Is it too much to hope that you've brought my sister in with you?"

Fitzhugh laughed as he sauntered into the room.

Deveraux nodded, then turned toward him, swinging his leg to the floor and sitting up straight. "I have lately begun to wonder who will be the latest for your wedding—Lucy or you."

"Considering taking bets?"

Deveraux scratched his chin. "It has possibilities. Might set me up quite nicely, what do you say?"

"I say Lucy might have something to say about that."

Deveraux winced. "You're right. Best not to tease the she-devil. Last time I did I got a rather large vase pitched at my head."

"A vase?" Leona asked, trying to imagine the delicate and feminine-looking Lucy throwing a vase at anyone.

"Yes. She hit me, too. Always did have a good throwing arm on her. Take that as a word to the wise, friend." He rose from his chair and clapped David on the back.

"A point well taken."

"What is a point well taken?" Lucy asked, entering the library. She was a vision of elegant loveliness in her midnight-blue riding habit trimmed with light blue velvet. A jaunty little hat of matching light blue with darker blue feathers perched on top of a mass of black curls.

"Nothing important," reassured David Fitzhugh, grinning broadly.

"That's a matter of opinion," countered Leona. "Your brother was warning Mr. Fitzhugh that you have a good throwing arm."

"That's torn it," Deveraux complained.

Lucy sighed, mockingly. "That vase story again, Nigel? Haven't you—in all these years—been able to think up something better than that old tale? What my dear brother conveniently forgets to mention is that I was but eight or nine at the time, standing less than ten feet away, and he had his back to me. Furthermore, dear brother, you made an irresistibly large target."

"He still does," retorted David Fitzhugh. "Always was a wonder how he survived those battles in Spain."

"The French never had a chance to see me. The sparkle from your polished buttons reflected the sun back into their eyes," Deveraux drawled.

"This conversation reminds me of my brothers' altercations. They tended to last indefinitely. I think, before you two gentlemen become thoroughly enjoined, I should remind you that the horses are waiting," Leona said dryly. Without pausing to see if they were coming, Leona and Lucy swept out of the room and on outside to where a grizzled old groom and a couple of stable boys held the horses.

Not to Leona's surprise, the two gentlemen followed them out. She smiled to herself. Deveraux came up behind her to toss her into the saddle of a prancing dappled-gray Andalusian.

"Managing again?" he growled as he settled her on the sidesaddle. He steadied the horse with a quick pull on the bridle.

Leona gathered her reins, hooked her knee around the pommel, and straightened her skirts before answering. "I see it as relieving what promised to be a long session of unrelenting boredom."

"Based upon your own vast experience."

She inclined her head, then pulled on the reins to turn the horse away.

A chilly smile curved up the comers of Nigel Deveraux's lips. Miss Leona Leonard was far too independent and clever for her own—or anyone else's—good. It was all the fault of those worthless brothers of hers. Edmund Leonard he knew more by reputation, but Captain Charles Leonard he personally knew too well. He was a parasite. He quite happily took everything anyone did for him as if it were his due, the thought of returning the favor never entering his head. No doubt Leona managed Lion's Gate without compensation. Deveraux wagered she also invested what little of her own principal she had on the assumption that when she turned the financial status of Lion's Gate around, her brother would reward her for her efforts. Deveraux doubted that eventuality. Any money Leonard gave out would be to tradesmen to supply his own wants. Of course, if the news Jack Randall— Damnation! He must remember to think of Randall as Lord Keirsmyth now. It was difficult to do, for almost as much as he, Randall hated inheriting his title. Every day Deveraux prayed for Brandon's recovery for he feared inheriting his brother's place. He did not want it. He wanted his brother to live, damn it! The duty his brother set on his shoulders weighed his spirits, but he was duty bound.

With a smile he remembered Randall's inventive and colorful swearing on learning of his cousin's passing. They had all steered a wide path around his tent. Now he was Marques of Keirsmyth and head of the family to what he less than affectionately termed parasites. Though he sold out, he spent much of his time yet abroad—far from his encroaching relatives. If the news Keirsmyth passed on in his last letter from Brussels was true, Leonard was about to get leg-shackled to a wealthy Belgian widow. With Leonard flush in the pocket, where would that leave his sister if he decided to sell out—which, with the change in fortunes, Deveraux was sure he would do, and do it before the Iron Duke came up against Boney on the battlefield.

It would be like Leonard to return to England, take up residence at Lion's Gate, and proceed to lord it over the neighborhood leaving his sister to find her own way or to play the role of unpaid housekeeper. Dash it all, she probably would, too, for it seemed the clever Miss Leonard was quite blind to her brother's faults. But of what use would it be to try to tell her that? Talking wouldn't pay the toll, not with Leona. She was like a young horse given her head too often. With the bit firmly between her teeth, she was not likely to respond to overtures to stop her headlong gallop to heartache. There had to be someone else to whom she could turn over the responsibility for Lion's Gate before she was thoroughly abused. A family solicitor, a retired estate agent, a relative, someone!

He kicked his horse into a canter to catch up with Leona, determined to draw her out and get some answers.

Leona loved the wind's caress and the warmth of the sun. She cantered easily down the cart track that led from the manor park toward the river that she'd seen in the distance from her bedroom window. The countryside was fresh from yesterday's rain, the smells of wood and grass and damp earth heavy in the air. Tall beech trees lined the track, their branches majestically bare of leaves. In summer, the little road was no doubt a shady avenue relieved only by patches of dappled sunlight filtering through the tall trees.

The sound of the rhythmic clump-clump of the horse's hooves as they hit the damp ground was soothing. It invited emptying the mind of cares and joining with nature.

Leona smiled. Then suddenly she was laughing with a heady, joyous feeling of complete freedom. The feeling took her by surprise. It was freedom from responsibility and duty. It was freedom from the burden of caring for others. Those were the cornerstones upon which she built her life. She should have felt bereft. Instead she felt light and incredibly happy. She didn't understand it, but neither could she stop smiling.

At the sound of her laugh and the glimpse of her smile, Deveraux spurred his horse on to come even with hers.

"Race you to the dovecote!" he shouted, pointing toward a broad circular tower in the next field.

Without acknowledging his challenge, Leona turned her horse toward the tower, then glanced over her shoulder to grin and nod agreement.

Deveraux swore good-naturedly and set off after her.

Leona's answering laughter wafted back on the wind, spurring Deveraux's race.