Nightingale (25 page)

His world dimmed, this darkness bleaker than before. His sight likely would return, but what joy if it cost him his Nightingale? She must not leave, yet he could not hold her against her will. What inducement could he use? What promise could he make?

• • •

That night Devlin lay wrestling with his conscience into the wee hours. He was groggy when a commotion arose at sunrise, and several of the staff scurried into the small dining room. They escorted Jessica in the tide. Each one seemed eager to be first to notify the duke that his brother Lattimore had arrived and was in the front hallway, he and two traveling companions being welcomed by Patterson.

As he heard the excited reports, Devlin’s smile was forced, and Jessica’s senses, already on edge, sharpened. Watching his face, she realized, first, that his erratic eyesight was gone again, and secondly, that for some reason he was not overjoyed at the news of visitors. The duke’s younger brother might require watching, maybe as closely as the mischievous child who had played nasty little tricks on a blind man when they received visitors at Gull’s Way.

Bracing, renewing her resolve to protect Devlin, Jessica was hardly prepared as Lattimore Miracle and two other strapping young gallants, dressed in evening attire, strode through the dining room door.

She knew immediately which of the three was Devlin’s brother. In spite of a marked difference in coloring, their square jaws, straight noses, and animated brows were remarkable.

The baby of his family, Lattimore, at twenty-five, was still seven years Jessica’s senior. She thought him handsome, his hair dark, rather than straw colored like the duke’s or the dowager’s.

Like Devlin, Lattimore wore a stylishly thin beard and mustache that circled and emphasized a generous mouth as he smiled, revealing large, even teeth, strikingly like his brother’s. He had dark, playful eyes with a familiar twinkle when he turned them on her as Devlin made introductions.

Lattimore stepped close and collected both of Jessica’s hands in his. “So you are the wench wreaking havoc in my family and its households.”

He was shorter and more sturdily made than his brother. The crown of Lattimore’s regal head came only to Devlin’s chin as the two men stood side by side.

Lattimore’s voice had a teasing, singsong quality to match his movements, his tone higher than Devlin’s. “I have come, my dove, to bring gaiety into your dismal little life.”

Disregarding his companions, who were appraising her, awaiting their own introductions, Lattimore turned to Devlin. “If I had had any idea, brother, that the reports were true, I would have sped to your sickbed. The servants in every house buzz with stories of our cousin.” His eyes stayed on Jessica. “I will also claim kinship with this winsome creature to assume my place as escort and chaperone.”

Devlin’s expression dissolved from pleasant to displeased at Lattimore’s teasing. “Jessica is no concern of yours, little brother.”

“Surely, you will not keep her tethered here? She is too young, too beautiful, too alive, to be buried in this mausoleum with you and Mama when there are parties and plays and historical sites to enjoy.”

Jessica stiffened. “I am in this house, your lordship, to assist, not to be entertained.”

Lattimore turned a stare on her. “You are one of those cheeky, educated girls, full of sass, are you?” He laughed as if his words rang with exceptional wit. “How utterly delightful.”

Jessica glanced at Devlin to see his face darken with an expression she had not seen. If the duke were concerned with her throwing in with his younger brother, he assumed wrongly. She had some experience with too-handsome brothers who thought of their own wishes first, last and always, and who had little regard for the needs of others, including ailing relatives.

In brief seconds, she considered battle lines drawn. She would remain at Devlin’s side, whatever the cost, and would not admire Lattimore except as was necessary.

She was hardening her resolve when the dowager swept into the room.

The rakish expression on Lattimore’s face lifted in boyish glee as he hurried forward, threw both arms around the dowager duchess and lifted, twirling her round causing her skirts to billow in an undignified way. Rather than upsetting the Lady Anne, his antics set her giggling like a maiden.

Jessica couldn’t help smiling at the dowager’s happy response. Perhaps she had been premature in her harsh appraisal of Lattimore Miracle. His genuine fondness for his mother counted much to his credit.

She glanced at Devlin to find his expression, too, changed to pleasure. A family together. A wonderfully handsome threesome. At its head a man who obviously had the good sense and intelligence to bear the mantle of authority. Could the old duke possibly have been any more stately? Or the elder brother, Rothchild? She could not imagine men better qualified in looks or disposition to assume the title’s responsibilities.

After Lattimore set his mother back on her feet, Lady Anne’s voice carried over the company. “Let’s go into the solarium. Patterson, please bring us some refreshment.”

Arm in arm, Lattimore and his mother led the company into the room bright with morning light filtering through leaded windows.

When Patterson returned, however, he looked grim. He stepped close to Devlin and whispered. The duke sobered. He whispered a question or two, and responded. Patterson retreated crisply to the hallway.

“What is it, brother?” Lattimore asked, having released their mother to allow her to welcome with kisses on their jaws the two young men in his company, ones she apparently knew well.

Devlin turned, giving no indication that his vision was impaired. “Are there more in your party than the three of you?”

“At this hour?” Lattimore laughed. “It’s early, brother. Only impudent family or brazen friends come calling this time of day. Why?”

“A boy reported three men followed you here. They seem interested in our garden walls, as if looking for a breach. Odd, wouldn’t you say?”

Lattimore’s two friends sobered as quickly as Devlin had, but his younger brother chuckled. “Devlin, we are not at Gull’s Way. Thieves and villains do not frequent this neighborhood. You are under siege only by these three present, a civilized mob that includes your own, sometimes ill-mannered brother.” His smile faded. “What measures would you take if we were about to be set upon?”

“Bear has been notified.” Devlin’s expression lightened.

Laugh lines appeared again at Lattimore’s mouth and eyes, mirroring his brother’s. “Then we are indeed fortified. I have not seen Bear in years. Does he still have his teeth?”

Devlin’s grin broadened. “Yes, in spite of his advancing age. Years toughen the man’s hide, sharpen his eyes and wits, and improve his skills.”

Obviously the brothers shared regard for the giant they both affectionately called “Bear.” He was another of the enigmas in Devlin’s life that Jessica did not understand. For people like Bear and Lattimore, she supposed she would trust Devlin’s instincts.

“Nightingale,” Devlin said, summoning her with a hand, “come here and greet my brother. He often does not think before he speaks, or consider how his words might be perceived. Don’t stand back, child. Step up here and curtsy.”

Jessica glared suspiciously as Lattimore cut his eyes, arched his brows, and gave her a look a hungry man might give a meat pie.

She dropped a curtsy, tried to smile, and inclined her head, exhibiting all the hospitality she could muster. She gave similar acknowledgments to the other gentlemen when they were introduced, Peter Fry and Marcus Hardwick. There was something familiar about Fry, an overly tall, clumsy man who offered a silly grin. He reminded her of a friendly, overgrown dog. Jessica couldn’t think where she had seen him before, but his buffoon’s behavior did not fit that memory. Certainly he had not worn this ridiculously decorated military uniform. He and Hardwick both, for that matter, appeared to be in costume.

After introductions, Jessica excused herself, saying she needed to return to her duties. In truth, she had no tasks, except packing, of course, but she wanted to allow the family and friends to converse in private. Also, she did not care for Lattimore or his friends whose eyes made sly lascivious sweeps as if visualizing her form beneath her clothing.

When she made her excuse, neither the dowager nor Devlin urged her to stay.

• • •

“How much longer will the wench be with you?” Lattimore spoke with more than his usual indifference.

Devlin did not pretend to disregard the insult implied in the question. He was already put off by Lattie’s undisguised interest. Other conversations in the room stilled as everyone attended the duke’s answer.

“A while. Why do you ask?”

“How long do you expect to need her … ah … services?”

Devlin moved to the tea tray and biscuits Patterson had brought. He poured himself a cup, as if he could see. “Is our reunion limited to an interrogation about my guest, or are we to have personal exchanges? How are you getting on these days?” Devlin took a sip of his tea.

Lattimore laughed congenially, but pressed on. “I understand you know little about her.”

“Enough to trust her with my life.” Devlin dropped his voice. “I was required to do exactly that, you know. She proved reliable when I was my most vulnerable.” After a length of silence, Devlin’s smile dimmed. “Lattimore, Jessica is dear to me … and to our mother. I intend her to live permanently beneath my protection, although I have not yet mentioned that to her. I would like to provide everything she needs or wants, from now on. She has earned all it is in my power to bestow.”

Lattimore glanced at his friends who appeared to be intent on the exchange. “Devlin, I do not believe we have ever before had brigands sizing up the walls.”

Devlin returned his cup to the tea tray. He locked his hands behind his back and assumed a thoughtful frown. “Correct. We have not experienced such a thing, at least not before you and your party arrived. I doubt anyone beyond these walls is overly interested in one insignificant girl. Have you enemies, brother?”

“My poor, deluded duke, if you think your guest an insignificant girl, you have lost your sight, and your sense of touch as well.”

“Be careful, Lattie. Jessica is an innocent and will be treated so by this household and all who enter here.”

Lattimore shot a quick glance at their mother who had settled on a settee near the hearth away from the group. Fry and Hardwick hovered over a decanter, eavesdropping without even pretending to pour the libation.

“How can you know she’s so innocent if you’ve neither seen nor touched her?”

Devlin eased into a chair, leaned back, and propped an ankle on the opposite knee, demonstrating a lack of concern. “I knew more of that child without seeing her, than I have known of ladies I have entertained in my … residences.” Both brothers, one seeing and the other not, cast harried glances their mother’s direction. “I know that she is tall and has rather … ah, well … attractive proportions.”

Lattimore gave a snort. The duke continued, but shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his chair. “She is an honorable, intelligent child, Lattie, even for one so young. She has a marvelous sense of humor and amazing skills with people. She communicates with stable boys and scullery maids as easily as she does with Patterson or the dowager or me.”

“As I asked, how long do you expect to keep her here?”

“For as long as she will stay. How does our arrangement bear on you?”

Lattimore shouted an artificial laugh. “The most outstanding beauties in the court have blossomed beneath your attentions, brother. They grieve at your absence. It has been rumored that even in her raw form, this one may prove the most dazzling of the lot. I suppose it takes more than a blind man to see the potential for trouble in this situation.”

“You are saying you find her comely, then?”

“Surely you already knew that.”

“How could I, sir? As I mentioned, my appraisal is based on regard and camaraderie. Without sight, I adore the cheerful, mischievous imp that she is. Nightingale’s unfailing optimism lifts me to the light even while I endure this abysmal darkness.”

After a moment of silence, Lattimore cleared his throat. “First, Devlin, let me clarify: your Nightingale is not a child. She is a woman, brilliantly made. Her face is a pleasure to look upon and her form willowy and graceful. She walks as if music accompanies her steps.”

Devlin remembered grappling as they struggled through the thicket back to the horse, the intimacy of her rocking between his thighs on the ride to Gull’s Way, and, of course, he savored the memories of the picnic, and of their recent tussle on the library floor.

During the time she had been his guide, his hand on her shoulder, he had been aware of her regal carriage, the swan’s long, graceful neck, her straight, strong shoulders and back providing a live crutch on which he had come to depend. “A woman brilliantly made” sounded right.

Jessica trudged up the stairs. She hated leaving Devlin with those men, none of whom were his friends.

She paused, suddenly remembering where she had seen Peter Fry, at least a silhouette of him. He was the man she saw walking with Martha, the maid who died at Gull’s Way.

Jessica realized that she might have seen him even before that; in Welter, with John Lout and his ruffians. A strange coincidence that the man had been in Welter, then at Gull’s Way with Martha, and reappear here as a friend of the duke’s brother. Could he be the nobleman whose baby Martha carried? Might he have murdered Martha to keep his identity a secret? Jessica stopped in the upstairs hallway. Was this Fry a man who could dispatch a lover and his own unborn child with a murderous blow?

Jessica felt new concern for Devlin. Closed in her own room, she paced. She was the duke’s truest friend, and he liked her. She admired the duke as she had never admired any man. She wished him able to see again. To see her, perhaps to enjoy looking at her as she enjoyed looking at him. When his sight was permanently restored, however, she must leave. Wasn’t she even now supposed to be packing the borrowed trunk?