Devil's Match (2 page)

“Well, I never!” she sputtered to his back. “As if I'd have you! I'd die on the shelf first!”

As he let himself out the door, he could hear Vivian soothing her sister with, “Hush, dearest—'tis but his hateful tongue.” His anger seemed to mount in direct proportion to his descent down the portico steps until he shouted to his waiting driver and coachman, “You may ride inside—I'll take the ribbons myself!”

They looked at each other, exchanging glances of trepidation, before Barnes, the driver, moved to vacate the box. Grimacing, he muttered under his breath to the coachy, “ 'Tis the devil's ride ter town, by the looks o' hit.”

“Aye, but oo's ter blame 'im, wot wi' 'em Friday-faces,” Rogers hissed back as he clambered after “Messel'—jest wisht they was ridin' wi' 'im.”

His jaw set, his eyes dark with anger, Patrick heaved himself up into the box. Tossing his hat under the seat, he loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his coat before taking the reins. There would be a headwind and it looked like rain, but he meant to make good time back to London in spite of it. Flicking the whip to crack above his horses, he hunched forward in the seat as the coach lunged forward, threw the hapless occupants back against their seats, and picked up speed.

He was furious with his family and even more furious with himself. He ought not to have come at all, he knew, but he had—and look what it had got him! Certainly not the least goodwill from them—quite the opposite, in fact. Damn his Uncle Vernon! Could he not have forgiven a boy's hotheaded lapses? No, he reflected bitterly, none of them could. He'd never made them understand that his own honor had demanded the inquest—that it had been the only way to face Bridlington's father's accusations. No—they would never see that he had been forced into the quarrel; they could not know that the subsequent duels had been fought at the instigation of a vengeful parent. And they did not care, he reminded himself angrily. He'd seen the hatred and felt his aunt's contempt, and he'd been a fool. Aye, what a fool, too, for he'd made a wager to strike back—a stupid, foolish, ridiculous wager. For a tuppence, he'd just forfeit the thousand. Yet in his heart he knew he'd either have to make a push to win or swallow his pride. And it would gall him to have to lose to Charlie.

Rain began to spill soft drops on him and then as the storm gained in intensity he was pelted and soaked thoroughly. Oblivious of the storm, he urged his team on in the darkening afternoon until his anger was spent.

C
aroline Ashley viewed her charge with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Though only five years Juliana Canfield's senior, it sometimes seemed as though she were expected to fulfill a multitude of roles beyond those she had been employed to do, to wit, to restrain the younger girl's volatility and to guide her through a London Season safely until she could hopefully be turned over to an equally strong-willed husband. Her employment had been a master stroke on the part of her mentor, Miss Richards, headmistress at the select female academy where the very cream of the
ton's
daughters were instructed in the art of being ladies. That lady, seizing upon the despair of Lady Lenore, had suggested Caroline as a calming influence while informing the Canfields in almost the same breath that Juliana simply could not finish her education there. Sir Maximillian, after hearing the rather daunting list of Juliana's scrapes, had endorsed the proposal almost immediately. Lady Lenore, on the other hand, had demanded to know just how an unmarried female quite on the shelf could expect to guide anyone through a Season when she had not personally experienced one of her own. For once Sir Max had prevailed, and thus had begun an association that Caroline could only consider a mixed blessing—while learning to detest the cold and arrogant Lady Lenore, she had become sincerely attached to Juliana. In a matter of days, she had discovered that it was Lenore Canfield's overbearing, calculating disposition that inspired Juliana to rebellion. Had that lady been less inclined to rule and more inclined to affection, Caro believed the girl would have been better-behaved. But, since nothing short of being a totally insipid beauty would satisfy her mother, Juliana had asserted her independence in more ways than Caro cared to count.

She shuffled through a sheaf of papers sent over by Madame Cecile, the premier modiste to the
ton
, and selected several drawings for the girl's attention. “Take a look at these, my dear, and see what you like,” Caroline suggested.

“I don't know…. What do you think, Caro?” Juliana mused absently on another matter. “Should I leave a waltz for Ryburn? 'Twill quite fill up my card, and I've no place for Harrington.”

“I think,” Caroline reproved mildly, “that it is more to the point to examine these sketches so that we may give your mama an answer this morning. Besides, you cannot even know that both gentlemen will ask,” she added with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “Really, Ju, but 'tis rather conceited to have your ball card planned even before we reach the Beresfords'.”

“Oh, but I know they shall both press me to waltz,” Juliana responded airily, “for I am positive that each means to fix his interest to me. Why, Lord Ryburn assures me that I am all the crack, and Lord Harrington writes the most charming poetry to my eyes, as you might remember.”

“Charming drivel,” Caro observed dryly. “And since you have not the least intention of accepting an offer from either of them, it is not very becoming of you to flirt with them so outrageously.” She looked up to see Juliana fluttering her eyelashes over the much-praised cornflower-blue orbs to test the effect in her mirror.

Apparently satisfied, the girl turned back with a giggle. “Oh, Caro, did you
ever
think I should take half so well?” she demanded naively.

“There was never a doubt in my mind, love, although you simply must stop twitting your mama else I shall be turned off.” Caroline sobered. “Only this morning, Lady Canfield wished to know how I could have countenanced your dancing three times with young Rupert Rowan at Lady Bennington's. You know full well that to stand up more than twice with the same partner bespeakes a particularity certain to be remarked. And since it is common knowledge that Captain Rowan is nothing but a gazetted fortune hunter, your mama was not amused.”

“Oh, Caro, I
am
sorry.” The girl was instantly contrite. “Certainly I have not the least interest in Captain Rowan—I swear. He fawns on one in the most excessive way, you know, but I could not help it. I saw Mama watching me like she always does and I did it to vex her. I saw little enough harm at the time.” With a sigh, she moved to pick up the sketches that Caroline had selected. “Do not worry about Mama, Caro. She's been in high dudgeon since she came back from West-over. Besides, Papa thinks you quite the most exceptionable companion he could have engaged for me. He says he can see the wonders you have wrought.”

“He does not. Juliana, you must give over this tendency to exaggerate.”

“But he does—he said so yesterday before you came down to nuncheon—I swear it.” She took in Caroline's neat, dark braids, her fine, expressive brown eyes, and her delicately defined profile before confiding further, “You know he said something else, too—that you'd be more than passably pretty if Mama would but spare the blunt to rig you out properly. And he's right—if you had had a Season, you'd be a married lady instead of having to dragon for me.”

“A delusion at best,” Caroline sighed as Juliana returned to her favorite subject beyond herself. “No, my dear, it would never have happened. Oh, I'll give you that my birth's respectable, but who's to forget that my papa put a period to his own existence rather than go to debtors' jail? And do not be going on about the Gunnings marrying dukes or some such nonsense—that was years and years ago. Now, a man as rich as a nabob desires an heiress.”

“Still—”

“Ju, you know 'tis Madame Cecile's busy season. If you would have new gowns, you must decide now.” Caroline redirected her charge's attention back to the matter at hand. Pointing to one of the drawings in the younger girl's hand, she persisted, “What do you think of that done up in a soft blue taffeta? Or even in a deeper shade perhaps? And you might consider the other one in a silver gauze, I think.”

“Lud, I don't care, Caro—'tis you who have the good taste. I am quite sick of clothes and fittings, if you want the truth of it. 'Tis the only thing Mama seems the least inclined to spend money on, isn't it?”

“Nonetheless, it must be done, my dear. Both your parents are determined to fire you off in style.”

“And how do you think I feel, Caro, to go off night after night rigged out in the latest gowns while you trail after in that old rose silk of yours? You have all the instincts as to what is right—yet you cannot even dress above a poor relation! I mean to speak to Papa about it, Caro!”

“You'll do no such thing!” Caroline's dark eyes widened in alarm. “Ju, promise me that you will not! You'll make matters worse for me with your mama if you even attempt it.”

“Fiddle.”

“You know I was merely engaged to go about with you—Lady Lenore made it quite plain that I was not to put myself forward in the least.”

“Well, I do not like it at all. We are friends, are we not, Caro? Oh, I know I was displeased when Mama and Papa hired you, but you were not what I expected. Caro, I like you!”

“Then leave it be!” Caroline burst out with asperity. It was a familiar argument, and one she had no intention of pursuing again. Try as she might, she could never get Juliana to realize the precariousness of her position. The girl refused to understand the jealousy a young female could evoke in a household. “Your pardon for raising my voice, my dear,” she sighed. “I fear I am become more like you than the other way around.”

“Then perhaps we are good for each other,” Juliana responded, “for you will suppress my scrapes and I will give you a modicum of levity. You may have instructed in deportment for Miss Richards, love,” she added with a twinkle, “but I suspect you have often wanted to cut up the tiniest dust yourself.”

They were interrupted by a tap at the chamber door. Caroline rose to open it to one of the footmen, a fellow with some years' service in the Canfield household. He beamed affectionately across to his master's daughter and lowered his voice almost conspiratorially to announce, “There's a visitor belowstairs for you, Miss Juliana—I took the liberty of putting the person in the blue saloon without disturbing Simpson.”

“But who—?”

“Ah … one of your cousins, miss.”

Both Juliana and Caroline rolled their eyes at the thought of even a few minutes spent with either Miss Charlotte Danvers or Miss Vivian Danvers before Juliana caught the warning in the footman's expression. “Oh.” She formed the word silently and nodded. Turning quickly to Caroline, she directed, “Take whichever drawing you like to Mama—I shall be back directly.”

“But you'll be at daggers-drawn with your cousin in minutes, Ju. Perhaps I ought to go down with you to keep the peace.”

“No—'twill be all right, I promise. Just tell Mama I will have the silver one, please.”

Before Caroline could make sense of her haste, Juliana had slipped down the back stairs with the footman trailing behind her. Fervently hoping that Caroline could detain her mother, she threw open the door with a squeal of delight and ran to hug him.

“Oh, Patrick—'tis you, after all!”

“Hallo. Ju.” He grinned as he set her back and disengaged her arms from around his neck. Giving her a quick appraisal, he teased, “Well, I can see that beneath all your fine clothes, there's still an incorrigible hoyden.”

“Patrick Danvers, is that any way to greet your favorite cousin?” she demanded in mock pique.

“Given the selection, it ain't much of a distinction, is it?” His hazel eyes lit up in amusement as she tossed her blond curls and moved away to position herself in the best light, making sure that her perfect profile was outlined by the window. “And you can save the flirting for someone who will appreciate it.”

“Patrick!”

The amusement faded and he sobered. Abruptly he changed the subject. “You heard what happened at Westover, didn't you?”

“Yes, and it is the most hideously unfair thing! Patrick, 'twas monstrous cruel what Uncle Vernon did.”

“Alas, did my aunt not tell you how unfair it was to all of us?”

“But to say you have to marry! And so soon!”

“Oh, I suppose everyone gets leg-shackled eventually, Ju.” He smiled at her indignation. “After all, isn't that what you're trying to do with your Season?”

“Well, it's what Mama's trying to do, if that's what you mean.” She turned her head to meet his eyes. “Surely you don't mean to attempt meeting the terms, Patrick—'tis impossible!”

“Et tu,
Ju?”

“What?”

“You don't have any more faith in my chances than the rest of them, do you? I'd not expected it of you.”

“Oh, Patrick—no! 'Tis not that, precisely, but … well, can you?”

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “Perhaps. Not that I'll take an Antidote or anything just to get the money. While I'm not as rich as Croesus, I'm comfortable enough that I don't have to sell my name for the family fortune.”

“You shouldn't have made the wager, Patrick.” Juliana bit her lip as soon as the words had escaped. “Oh, I know—coming from me, that's rich, isn't it? I'd have done the same thing if I'd been facing Charlie and Charlotte, I am sure.”

“It was this curst temper of mine,” he admitted. “I should've stayed home since I never expected anything from Uncle Vernon anyway. But I will own it was vastly entertaining when old Weatherby read off the rest of the will.”

“Mama's still mad as fire.”

“So are they all, no doubt.” He moved to stand beside her and looked out the unshuttered window for a moment. “Ju, I'll need your help if I am to try pulling this off. I am afraid that the sort of women I know don't qualify under Uncle Vernon's terms.” He caught himself and flashed a rueful smile. “Your pardon—I am unused to polite society—I should not have said that.”

“Pooh. As if I did not know about barques of frailty and the muslin company, after all. Besides, Patrick, we have always been able to say anything to each other.”

“Almost anything,” he amended. “Thing is, Ju, I don't know any respectable females.”

“No …” She shook her head. “If you mean that I am to present you to eligible ladies, I cannot do it. For one thing, it won't fadge; for another, it would cost Miss Ashley her position with Mama. If it were just me —if I thought it would work—I'd do it, but your suit would not be welcomed, Patrick, and if Mama knew I'd helped you, she'd turn Caro off without a character. She blames Caro for everything, anyway.”

“Caro?”

“My companion. Papa hired her to keep me from getting into scrapes, you know, and I suppose it has worked a little.”

“She's a veritable paragon if it has. The last I heard, you'd been sent home from school for trying to elope with the dancing master.”

“ 'Twasn't the dancing master, Patrick—
he
was at least thirty and had the longest nose,” she remembered mischievously. “If you have to remember the tale, remember it right—'twas the music master—he had soulful eyes and a very fine pair of shoulders, too.”

“Lud, Ju! One could almost pity Aunt Lenore.”

“Patrick …” She sobered suddenly. “If you want the money …”

“Well, I'm not in beggars' row, Ju, so it's not so much that,” he answered, “as the thought of Charlie and Quen and Larry's crowing that prompts me to try.”

She turned away and took a deep breath. “Patrick, there is me.”

He stared, bereft of speech for a moment, at his beautiful cousin. He'd heard she was the Toast of the Season, that Brummell himself had dubbed her “the Canfield Jewel,” and he knew how determined his aunt was that she make a good match. “No, Ju, I'd not ask you to do it.”

“Patrick—”

“You don't fancy yourself in love with me, do you?” he asked gently.

“Well, no, but—”