Dair Devil (45 page)

“Perfectly all right. Of course I don’t have to tell you,” Dair said conversationally, “what with four children and another on the way, you must have a perfect understanding of how it is. No doubt the Duchess has had bouts of morning sickness. It is often the way with females in the first few months of breeding, that they inexplicably develop an aversion for those flavors and scents they love most…”

The Duke blinked his incomprehension, but when Dair just stood there grinning knowingly at him, he staggered back, as if he had been struck, such was his shock. Then, without a word, he turned on a heel and strode off to his mother’s sitting room, as if he’d just been told the house was on fire. Dair followed.

“Roxton! Julian! Wait up! Your cup! Give me your cup!”

The Duke stopped, looked down at the coffee cup in his hand, thrust it at Dair, and then yanked aside the brocade curtain, disappearing into his mother’s sitting room. Dair was still smiling at the look of utter disbelief on his noble cousin’s face to the news of his mother’s pregnancy when he was admitted into the small entrance hall of the Gatehouse Lodge twenty minutes later.

Rory was sitting on the next-to-last step of the stairs waiting for him.

T
HE
PRESENCE
OF
the butler prevented the couple from being anything but politely civil. Dair nodded and Rory, who had a hand to the polished banister, bobbed a curtsy. Yet, the look and smile which passed between them said it all. They were ecstatic, and tense with excitement and heightened anticipation. Both had dressed carefully, wanting the moment to be accorded its proper due. After all, it was not every day a couple got engaged, and in the wider Society in which they mixed, it was rare for that couple to be deeply in love.

When the butler disappeared into the study to see if his lordship was ready to receive his guest, they had a few moments alone. Both seized the opportunity. In two strides, Dair was at the foot of the stairs. He caught Rory to him and she threw her arms about his neck.

Dair could not remember a day where he had been as happy as he was on this day. All his past fears about marriage, about ever finding the right woman to share his future, least of all finding a soul mate, had evaporated, and all because of this divine creature in his arms. He had no doubts whatsoever. He hoped the same was true for her. So he was alarmed when, after they had shared a kiss, the smile on Rory’s flushed upturned face dropped into a pout.

“Is—Are you—Is everything all right?”

“I am not sure…You need to kiss me again. I am not convinced I like you without whiskers.”

He stifled a laugh and instantly relaxed, whispering near her ear,

“And here was I affording you the opportunity to kiss a different gentleman… You could then tell me which one you’d prefer to take on your honeymoon.”

She gasped and then giggled.

He held both her hands and took a step backwards to look her up and down. He liked the outfit she was wearing very much. Over a chemise of the finest cream linen, with a wide flounce at the hem and a similar flounce to both sleeves, was a pink-lavender open-robed gown of shimmering silk. It hugged her lithe frame, from small breasts to tiny waist, and opened out over her hips, to display the cream linen underskirts. Her waist-length straw-blonde hair, too, had been carefully dressed, swept up off her face and loosely piled atop her head, pinned, beribboned, and the weight allowed to fall down her back. And her shoes, of course, matched her gown. All in all, she was beautiful and radiant, and just how he imagined a bride looked on her wedding day. He wished they were about to go up before the vicar.

He swiftly kissed the back of one hand, and then the other, as he heard the door behind him open, and let her go, saying softly, “You look so beautiful. Don’t send for another gown. Wear this one to our bridal. The color perfectly matches the sapphire I gave you.”

Rory beamed with happiness, so much so, her blue eyes filled with tears. All she could do to answer him was smile and nod when he asked,

“Wait for me here…?”

As Dair followed the butler into her grandfather’s study, she sank back onto the step, to wait, unaware she was toying with the unfamiliar, but reassuringly present, pale lavender sapphire betrothal ring.

The meeting took much longer than Rory anticipated. More than once the butler enquired if she wanted him to fetch her a glass of wine or a cup of tea and a biscuit. But Rory was too nervous to eat or drink. She tried not to listen for sounds, and it was impossible to hear voices or conversation, but once or twice a loud burst of laughter penetrated the oak-paneled door. Then there was nothing for the longest time that Rory began to drift off to sleep. It was now very late, and she had had such a big day, a momentous one, spent on Swan Island, that with the darkness of a late night, it was almost as if she had dreamed it.

She was asleep, slumped against the banister rail, when in her dreamlike state, the door to grandfather’s study was suddenly yanked wide and the man she loved strode out into the hall. On his frock coat skirts followed her grandfather. Why couldn’t she wake up? Her head was so heavy. Her grandfather spoke to her, and although she heard his words and instinctively did what he asked, she could not remember exactly what he said. She rose up and he offered her his arm. But when he moved away from the stair, there was her husband-to-be. He was standing in the middle of the hall, and the front door was wide. She wanted to cross the small space that separated them but her grandfather kept her at his side, his hold on her arm, vise-like. It was then she realized she wasn’t dreaming at all. She was wide-awake, and nothing and nobody was making any sense.

A
LMOST
AN
HOUR
EARLIER
, when the butler had announced Major Lord Fitzstuart to his lordship, Lord Shrewsbury had greeted his best agent as he always did, with affable good humor. He was always genuinely pleased to see the young man, and relieved he had survived his latest assignment unscathed. He knew most of what had occurred in Lisbon from Dair’s coded report, sent as soon as he had disembarked at Portsmouth. He also knew that the most crucial pieces of information would not be in ink but reported verbally. What he most wanted was the name of the double agent within his own Secret Service; a name the Major had gone all the way to Portugal to retrieve.

So he was bitterly disappointed when Dair told him bluntly that he could not supply the name, but that he could supply the person who could give him the name, but that there were conditions attached. When wasn’t there? Shrewsbury conceded.

The two men sipped fine port from crystal glasses; port brought back from Lisbon in crates by the Major, as Dair related all that he had been told by his contact, M’sieur Lucian. Shrewsbury was most surprised and intrigued to discover this M’sieur Lucian was in fact back from the dead, heir to the Stretham-Ely earldom, and the Duke of Roxton’s closest cousin. He was even more interested that the lost heir had himself been a spy, and wondered what information, if any, he could offer him about the court of the Empress Catherine. Of course he agreed to the man’s terms for his return to England, and told Dair he would have Watkins arrange for M’sieur Lucian’s immediate safe passage home.

Mention of William Watkins steered the conversation away from Lisbon and back to England. Out of politeness, Dair asked after the Weasel’s broken nose, to which Shrewsbury laughed heartily and said it was about time his secretary got knocked off his high horse and returned to where he belonged, the back room amongst a mountain of papers where he could do least harm. For a second Dair felt sorry for the secretary, but that evaporated remembering why he had punched him in the face in the first place. Shrewsbury was having the same thought, and surprised Dair into thinking he could read minds when he said bluntly,

“I’ll have you forget why you broke Mr. Watkins’ nose. Best if people believe it was two men falling out over a wager of some description—I don’t care what—as long as my granddaughter’s name is never mentioned.”

“It never will, sir.”

The old man continued to stare at Dair, as if he expected him to be more forthcoming about the incident, but Dair remained silent, and Shrewsbury said in a low voice,

“Grasby told me all about what happened at the Physic Garden. He also told me he must have been mistaken in thinking he saw you in close contact with my granddaughter. Of course we both agreed this was nonsense. Grasby said it must have been a trick of the sunshine in his eyes…” Shrewsbury looked Dair up and down and visibly huffed. “You might be a womanizing lothario with dancers, whores and other men’s wayward wives—and the best of luck to you—but one thing we both agreed you are not is a seducer of young—”

“Sir, I—”

“—innocent females of good birth—”

“Sir, I—”

“—particularly the sisters of your closest friends, whatever Watkins might try and convince us to the contrary. My secretary has always had you pegged for a brainless libidinous muckworm, and I would hate to think his estimation had any basis in fact. But you’ve never let me down in the past and I know you won’t now. You quite rightly forgot all about that incident at Romney’s studio and I know you’ll do the same now, about Watkins’ idiotic attempt to ask my granddaughter to marry him.” Shrewsbury shook his head. “The sheer idiocy of the man defies my intelligence. What did he think would happen? What did he think my granddaughter’s response would be? How did he ever convince himself he was worthy of her?”

These were obviously rhetorical questions not requiring a response, so Dair remained silent. When Lord Shrewsbury held up the decanter, Dair shook his head and watched him refill his glass and put the decanter back on the tray at his elbow. He reasoned it was best to let him have his say, in the hopes that once he had let off steam about Weasel’s pathetic behavior, he would be more conducive to Dair’s proposal of marriage. And after all, he and Weasel were chalk and cheese in every way, shape and form!

“It’s a damned shame I need his expertise in constructing and deconstructing ciphers, or I’d have got rid of him as soon as I learned of his reprehensible behavior,” Shrewsbury confided, still warm to his topic. “Grasby’s brother-in-law he may be, but that doesn’t give him the right to even
think
of my granddaughter in any way whatsoever! And even if I wanted a husband for my granddaughter, the last place I’d look is Billingsgate! His grandfather was a fishmonger, for God’s sake! Whereas hers—
me
—is an earl! If his sister hadn’t come with a fifty thousand pound dowry she’d still stink of fish, too! Speaking of my dear granddaughter-in-law, my grandson and his dear wife are due here tomorrow. I told them not to give Watkins a seat in their carriage; he deserves to be left out in the cold. Justifiable punishment for his gross presumption. Besides, if there is to be a celebration, it will be for
family only
.”

The old man’s eyes lit up and he gleefully rubbed his hands together. He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

“Grasby has some news… News! He wouldn’t put it in ink. He says he must announce it to me in person. I can tell you, my boy, I pray to God it’s that his wife is breeding—
finally
! I’m not getting younger, and neither is my grandson’s wife! Three years married and nothing to show for it. Now, if you were to marry, my guess is you’d have your wife with child within the month, if not the week! You’ve already proven you can breed. But I don’t blame Grasby. I blame her. Flighty, nervy creature… If you’ll take my advice, marry a widow with children. A pretty little widow, but one with children, so you know she can breed. If I’d given it more thought, and not let that fishmonger’s ransom addle my brain, I’d have found a nice fertile widow for my grandson…”

When the Spymaster General paused to sip at his port, Dair gauged it was the right moment, and Shrewsbury in the right frame of mind, for him to broach the subject of his own marriage.

“As it so happens, sir, I have rather important news of my own to share with you.”

The old man sat up, all attention, and Dair found himself clearing his throat. Still, he managed to keep his deep voice steady and impassive.

“I’ve decided it is time to follow in Grasby’s footsteps and marry.”

Shrewsbury’s face split into a grin and he smacked his silken knee in delight.

“By Jove, but this is excellent news indeed, my boy! Excellent news!”

“Thank you, sir. Your support means the world to me—
to us
. I’ve written to Lord Strathsay, and to his man of business, giving them my news, and requesting the necessary arrangements be made for me to assume management of the family estates. And my mother has been advised of my intentions and the need for her to quit Fitzstuart Hall and take up residence in the dower house. Of course, not at once, but arrangements need to be made so my wife can take up her position as lady of the house.”

“So marriage is more than a new thought? You’ve been contemplating the notion for some time?”

“That is difficult to answer. Had you wagered me upon my return from the war that I’d marry within a twelvemonth, I’d not have risked coin on the possibility.” He shrugged and smiled self-consciously. “But life, thankfully, is not ruled by the betting book, is it, sir? Which leads me to request that I be released from my obligations to the Service. I am sure you agree I cannot, when I have a wife and family, and estates to manage, continue to act as a free agent.”

“No. That is entirely understandable. Marriage comes with a set of obligations and responsibilities, particularly for a man in your position, who will one day inherit his father’s title. It pleases me no end you are taking the institution seriously. There are some within our ranks who treat marriage with less than the dignity it deserves. Not that I’m advocating you take your vows literally. You don’t have to become a plaguey priest upon marriage; far from it. But I do advise you not to waste time or seed on your mistress until your bride is breeding. Once you’ve accomplished the deed, you can return to your mistress, or what filly takes your fancy, with a clear conscience in having done your duty. If your bride is a sensible, compliant creature—and I do not doubt you’ve chosen one who is—she’ll be relieved to be left alone. Who is the—”