Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (31 page)

Well, the moment of truth had arrived, the moment when she proved that she meant every word of it!

“I’m so sorry to have scared you,” Grace said, rubbing Maribeth’s hair. “All will be well. Come, guide me to my bedroom. We must find Emma posthaste so she can help me dress for the ball. Can you find her for me?”

“Yes, anything for you,” Maribeth said.

Upon entering her bedchamber, Grace strode to the bellpull and rang for Emma. She paced the floor as she waited—solidifying her path forward. Ignoring Devlin’s announcement was a solid plan. As she took another turn about the room, telling herself his words did not matter one whit, the door swung open.

“Oh, you’re back,” Emma cried, rushing into the room. “Goodness, what were you thinking? We haven’t much time left.”

“Calm yourself, Emma.”

“Shush, you! I’ve grown a headful of gray hairs while searching for you.” Emma guided her to a stool and pushed her down, none too gently. “Sit there and hold your tongue while I tend to you.”

Her best friend was in a fair state of panic, flitting about and mumbling under her breath until she found everything needed to complete the intricate braids she’d planned to complement Grace’s dress. She braided, pinned up bits of hair, and hummed all the while, until only a few loose strands framed Grace’s face.

“Don’t move,” Emma said, squeezing her shoulder. “Abigail lent me her curling tongs. You’ll be the belle of the ball when I’m finished.” A few minutes later, she sighed, apparently satisfied with her masterpiece. “You’re positively stunning!”

Grace caught a curl in her fingers, weaving it around one digit. It was still warm and sprang to life when she released it. “How can I ever thank you, Emma? You’ve been a dear friend to me throughout the years.”

Emma clucked her tongue. “You’re attending a ball, not a funeral. Why so melancholy? Come, let’s see if we can’t lift your spirits with your gown.”

Twenty minutes later, Grace stood in the finest creation she’d ever worn. Devlin had insisted on buying it for her and saw to every detail himself, from the fabric and cut of the gown, to the color and lace trim. A knot formed in her throat as she ran her hands over the satiny material.
Actions speak louder than words.
Wasn’t this tangible evidence of how much Devlin cared?

“No frowning this evening,” Emma said as she pinched Grace’s cheeks. “I’ll concede the gown is worthy of tears of joy, but you’ll ruin all my efforts if you weep.”

Her best friend was right. Tonight they celebrated Dominick Sommerset’s return to good society, something for which she would be forever grateful.

“Besides, I have a surprise for you,” Emma said cheerfully.

Grace lifted her brow and along with it, her spirits. Curiosity got the best of her. “What kind of a surprise?”

“The best kind,” Emma said, standing before her. “Jewelry.”

What is this?
Grace only possessed the gold chain and cross Brother Anselm had gifted her with on her first birthday under his care. Emma ought not to waste her precious wages on a gift. Grace was of a mind to voice her opinion when Emma slid a ring onto Grace’s finger, and her world tilted on its axis.

Flashes of memories swarmed in her head, too many to count as they whirled through her mind at lightning speed. Thousands of memories … laden with intense feelings … yet she couldn’t make heads or tails of them. She braced her hand against her chest, gasping for breath. What in the world was happening? She wobbled in place and clutched her hand long enough to yank the ring off her finger. The dizziness abated, and she stumbled to the edge of the bed with Emma’s assistance.

“Where did you get this ring, Emma?”

"Grace, tell me what’s wrong."

"Where, Emma?"

“From the medicine lady. It’s one of a kind, and I wanted you to have it so you may shine tonight. You’re so very dear to me.”

Grace tilted her head.
What medicine lady?
She was on the verge of asking when it hit her and everything came into focus—making sense of the visions dancing in her head. She stood and threw her arms around Emma, squashing her friend in a bear hug, squealing. “This is the ring with the hidden compartment for spirits, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Emma choked under the weight of her hug. “Are you all right, Grace?”

“Simply wonderful,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t thank you enough for this gift.”

The ring had belonged to Rosalie, and she finally had a strong connection! Brother Anselm would praise the Lord when she shared the good news. Grace straightened her back and prepared to fight for her life. Eveline Mitchell was not a victim.

Victor held out a black tailcoat, and Devlin shrugged into it, pulling it tightly over his white, rounded scoop waistcoat. With his matching black slacks and polished dress shoes, he certainly looked the part of a wealthy marquess. At least the standing collar of his shirt curved open at his throat and didn’t threaten to strangle him. Bending over, he sheathed his dagger into the calf holster and stood. One could never be too careful, especially amidst a nest of vipers.

“Are you ready, Dominick?” Victor asked, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Devlin ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth and swallowed. Hearing his birth name spoken aloud was oddly distasteful. He could still recall his mother’s deranged salutation as he rowed away on the dinghy that would bring him aboard
The Bloody Mary
.

Give your father my regards when you see him in Hell, Dominick.

He sometimes wondered if his mother had ever loved him. The Butcher was a maniacal, rotten bastard, but even he had loved Devlin in his own demented way.

Devlin snorted and rubbed his eyes. “What a wicked twist of fate. I’ve fought relentlessly for the right to call myself Dominick Sommerset, and now that I’ve won, I wish nothing more than to be known as Captain Devlin Limmerick.”

“Fate is a fickle mistress,” Victor murmured, turning toward the bedroom door. “But you are a man of means. In the end, you can do whatever the bloody hell you choose. Either way, I believe Eveline will stand by you.”

“That’s what I’m counting on, too,” Devlin said under his breath as he reached for the sealed envelope sitting on his bedside table.

He shoved the envelope into an inside pocket of his evening jacket and followed Victor into the hallway. They strode side-by-side to the stairwell and descended to the entrance at a clipped pace. The clatter of horse hooves on the cobbled driveway announced the arrival of his first guests. A swarm of bees hummed in his gut, and he wanted to be sick. The feeling would pass soon enough. After a moment he pressed his lips together and nodded for Hatchet to open the front door. An elderly couple entered, and the man handed Hatchet his card.

“Lord Albert Winters, 7
th
Earl of Salcombe, and his countess, Lady Winters,” Hatchet announced.

Anyone unfamiliar with Hatchet’s normal demeanor would’ve found his haughty tone befitting a butler of the highest rank. However, Devlin recognized the mocking gesture and smiled. He stepped forward, bowed to the earl, and then took his mother’s hand, placing a kiss on top of her white glove.

“So good of you to come, Mother. Father sends his regards.” He smiled at his stepfather and motioned toward his study. “Please excuse us, Lord Winters. Victor will join you for a glass of port in the study while I take a few minutes to reacquaint myself with my mother in the parlor.”

Lord Winters raised an eyebrow to his wife. She folded her hands primly before her and ushered her husband away with a nod.

“We are not to be disturbed, Hatchet,” Devlin said, grabbing his mother’s elbow and leading her to the east parlor. She eyed Hatchet with almost as much disdain as she did Devlin’s hand on her elbow. The moment he closed the double doors, she stormed into the center of the room and whirled on him.

“Victor and Hatchet,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve lost your mind if you hope to pass off your seedy crew members as respectable servants! Two hundred guests will arrive in less than sixty minutes to greet
my son,
the 8th Marquess of Covington. You cannot introduce your servants as Hatchet and Victor! For the love of God, use their surnames at the very least. Please tell me they have surnames.”

He chuckled and strode to a side table where a decanter of wine awaited his pleasure. “You haven’t laid eyes on
your
son
in sixteen years, and all you wish to do is scold me regarding the names of my staff? I thought you might at least inquire after the health of our dear old friend, the Butcher.” Pausing, he tipped his head in thought. “But I suppose that isn’t necessary. Because he’s dead. I killed him. Shoved a scalpel into his neck. The one he planned to castrate me with, according to your agreement. Glass of sherry?”

The woman did not flinch under his pointed barb as she strolled toward him. She smiled sweetly and asked, “Is it poisoned?”

Devlin met her halfway and handed her the glass. “Regrettably, no.”

They stared at each other for some time, sipping their wine. The years had been kind to his mother. Her blond curls didn’t show any hints of gray, and the lines around her eyes and mouth were almost imperceptible. An indication she did not smile often. She had even managed to retain an attractive figure. His scrutiny of her person must’ve rankled, because she turned away and strolled to the fireplace.

“Do you have the contract?” she asked, tossing back the last of her drink. “I’d like to put this business behind us as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Devlin pulled the document from his jacket pocket and held it out to her.

With an impatient huff, she stalked toward him and ripped it out of his hand. She set her glass down and riffled through the pages. Apparently satisfied with its authenticity, she walked to the fireplace and tossed the papers on top. They lit up in flames, and Devlin stared, mesmerized, as the fire destroyed the evidence of her treachery.

He had always imagined he’d feel a blinding rage when this moment came, or at least a pinch of anger, but never once had he imagined he would feel a sense of undeniable relief. The nightmare was finally over. The Butcher was dead. The contract was destroyed. And he never had to lay eyes on his mother again.

He wanted to shout with joy. He was free of his demons, and he didn’t give one lick what happened with his mother. Her presence wasn’t paramount to him keeping his end of the bargain with Josephine. And all of a sudden, his path forward crystalized in his mind.

“You’re welcome to stay for the remainder of the party,” Devlin said, heading for the parlor door. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at the woman who’d sent him on a journey to Hell and back, and grinned. “Or you can leave before the other guests arrive. You may decide, Mother. But after tonight, I don’t wish to hear from you ever again.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a delicate curl. “Oh, believe me, Dominick, I wouldn’t miss the coming event for a golden goose.”

He paused and leveled her with a heated glare. Her smile grew wider, sending a chill up his spine. The woman was up to something no good, but he couldn’t fathom what game she played. But no matter, he’d set Victor or Hatchet on her tail.

At the moment, he had more pressing matters requiring his attention. He charged up the stairs, two at a time, anxious to end his arrangement with Josephine. He must speak with Grace before the mad rush of well-wishers arrived, but he didn’t have much time.

At the head of the stairs, Maribeth barreled into him. She looked a fright with her hair standing on end and her dress full of wrinkles where she’d wrung her hands in the material.

“Grace needs you,” Maribeth cried, tugging at his hand. Her cheeks were stained with dried tears, and a fierce frown pulled at her lips. “She had an episode in the attic. We were playing hide-and-seek, and then she was screaming. Jumped out from behind a large painting, mumbling and rambling on. I’ve never seen her that way. God’s truth, it was terrifying. Something is terribly wrong. I promised to find Emma, but you must go to her now and calm her. Please, Devlin.”

His heart rate skyrocketed at the urgency in her steps. Maribeth wasn’t prone to hysterics. He recalled quite well what happened the last time he and Grace visited the attic and she touched a painting. Brother Anselm had assured him the space was clear of all spirits. What on earth had happened?

“Calm yourself, Poppet.” He strode with her toward Grace’s room and squeezed her hand. “We must call her Eveline from now on, leastwise in public. She’s the daughter of a respectable baron and should be acknowledged as such at the ball. We want her to feel comfortable, don’t we? I’m heading to her bedchamber now. Everything will be fine. Off with you, I say. The ball is set to begin soon, and you’ll scare away all the guests in your current state. Or have you decided not to participate in the first dance?”

“You’ll take care of her?” Maribeth asked, biting her lip.

“Of course.” He rubbed her cheek. “You can trust me. Go now, or you’ll miss our dance.”

“Thank you,” she said, hugging him hard before racing away in the direction of her bedroom.

Seconds later Devlin barreled into Grace’s chamber, prepared to find her in a state of hysterics as well, but instead found her embracing Emma and laughing.

Upon his entering, Emma squealed like a pig roasting over a fire pit and glared at him. “Bugger me, but you gave me a scare! What’re you about, Lord Sommerset, barging in here? It’s a good thing I’ve finished Eveline’s hair, or I might’ve run a hairpin right through her head.”

“My apologies,” he said, his breath coming out in little pants. “I was told—”

The words died on his lips as Grace turned to face him. Her attire shouldn’t have taken him so wholly by surprise, considering he had commissioned the gown himself, but he had underestimated the magnificence of the emerald-green silk against her pale skin.

He’d taken care in ordering the evening dress, ensuring the cut was modest but still appealing to the male eye. If Grace could see the white satin underskirt, kilted in front and trimmed with Mechlin lace, he was sure she would find it beautiful. She swept her hands over the emerald silk overdress, made like a polonaise, and a pretty pink blush rose above her low neckline and short cap sleeves. Emma had swept up the front of her hair and woven miniature white roses through the chatelaine braids draped over her shoulder.