Nightingale (34 page)

Devlin stood on the stoop at Dracks, squinting toward the setting sun and reviewing his conversation with his old school chum. He might need to go back inside and apologize. Just as he decided to do so and pivoted, he heard a familiar pop as a missile ripped the air just below his ear. Fingers pressed to the spot came away sticky. Blood. He had been shot, or at least grazed.

That was the trouble with civilians carrying firearms. There was a constant danger of inadvertent discharges, which was the reason he preferred not to carry a weapon when he was in town.

Dabbing at the scratch with his neck cloth, Devlin hurried to his carriage, parked at the curb, and ordered an overwrought Latch, who had seen and recognized the sound of a gunshot, to take them home.

Meanwhile inside Dracks, members, unaware of the incident on their doorstep, talked noisily of wagers.

“Mark my words, the Miracle matter will end in a duel between the duke and Steen,” one man said.

“Nah, Steen’s too old and too wily to allow things to progress that far,” said another.

“Devlin may offer for the girl himself,” Gadspar speculated quietly, staring at the door that had closed behind Devlin.

“I’ll wager a hundred pounds against that,” one shouted, his bet prompting joyous shouts of agreement and challenge as men gathered in the lounge.

The noisy debate escalated but Gadspar, looking skeptical, walked out the door wondering where he might find Lattimore Miracle. He wanted to discuss this rather surprising turn with someone who knew the duke and the girl. What was her name? Ah, yes, Jessica Blair. A perfectly respectable English name. His mother knew some Blairs. Maybe they had people near Welter who could throw some light on this mysterious little coil. He would inquire.

• • •

It was twilight as Devlin blasted into the foyer and blew by Patterson without a greeting, instead snapping a question. “Where is Jessica?”

“She is with your mother, Your Grace, in the South rose garden. Shall I summon her?”

“That will not be necessary.” Devlin’s tone and body language warned it might be best to let this gathering storm blow through unhindered.

The duke thundered into the rose garden.

His mother carried a basket while Jessica stooped to cut long stems of blood red roses to lay across it. Their murmured conversation ended with Devlin’s shout.

“Jessica, I forbid you to attend Benoits’ ball on Saturday. Is that understood?”

Devlin seldom addressed her these days in any but the most gentle tones. His sudden, unreasoning belligerence seemed undeserved.

“What?” both women said, almost in unison.

The dowager was first to challenge the statement. “We sent our acceptance a fortnight ago, darling. Jessica and I will be attending together. She will be well chaperoned.”

“She needs to be more circumspect about her attendance at these things,” he said.

“But, darling, why should she deprive the Benoits? She is the most popular young lady of the coming season. Men flock to her like bees to clover. She is well-spoken and makes a lovely impression, not only on the young men, but on their mothers and fathers as well. She is exquisite on the dance floor, executes the newest steps with a grace I have not seen, even in Vienna.”

Devlin’s expression darkened, a rare occurrence when he addressed his mother. “She is my responsibility and under my protection, Madam. I do not intend to explain myself to you, to her, or to anyone else on earth, except perhaps the Queen. Jessica is not to attend Benoits and that is final.” He held up a hand signaling he would entertain no further discussion. With that, he turned on his heel and left the two women standing speechless.

“Well,” the dowager said finally, straightening to her full height and looking both indignant and confounded.

Jessica’s eyes fairly sparked. “I am under the man’s protection. I am not his bondservant, nor am I an upstairs maid to be ordered about with no civil explanation.” Her piercing eyes, pewter gray and glittering with righteous indignation, met the dowager’s.

“You and I have accepted the Benoits’ kind invitation and I fully intend to honor that commitment. You do not have to accompany me. If you prefer not to, I shall invite … ” She considered a moment, then continued. “I shall require Mrs. Conifer to attend with me. A duenna is perfectly acceptable as a chaperone, isn’t that correct?”

The dowager studied her charge. “No, darling, our accepting the invitation is as much my commitment as yours. We are absolutely in the right in the matter. We cannot go about playing willy-nilly with our obligations.”

Jessica frowned her confusion at the basket of long-stemmed roses. Even the sight and aroma of those did not ease her annoyance. She did not know what in the world had come over Devlin, but ever since he regained his eyesight, his moods had been capricious and increasingly difficult to fathom.

Devlin did not join them for their evening meal, nor did he appear in their box at the theater; although, to their mutual astonishment, Lattimore slipped in shortly before the curtain rose.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, sliding into a chair behind them.

They both greeted him amiably, neither able to imagine what could have induced Lattimore to attend “Romeo and Juliet.” He might be expected to endure one of Shakespeare’s darker dramas, but habitually complained about plays about what he termed “the buffoonery” of romantic love.

Each time Jessica glanced back, Lattie was scanning the other boxes, as if he were searching for something — or someone. Yet when she looked toward him, he favored her with one of his devastating smiles.

Escorting them through the crowds after the play, Lattimore chatted companionably. His banter dwindled shortly before he asked, quite nonchalantly, “Will you be attending Benoits Saturday?”

Jessica looked to the duchess for their response, refocusing Lattie’s attention by indicating his mother should be the one to answer.

“Perhaps,” Lady Anne said. “Will you be there?”

He dimpled. “If you and Jessica will be, I wouldn’t deny myself the excitement.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” Jessica asked, annoyed by his answer.

He looked all innocence. “Nothing, my sweet. Nothing at all.”

“Lattie,” his mother said quietly, “what is all the to-do about Benoits? You seldom show any interest in such galas.”

“That’s not so, Madam.”

“Exactly how many balls have you attended this preseason?” his mother pressed, her curiosity piqued.

He nodded, yielding the point. “None, but I have been remiss, and this one promises more entertaining than the usual.”

Lady Anne Miracle drew breath as if to pursue her questioning, as two young men crowded close, clearing their throats, almost as one, and addressed the threesome.

“Good evening,” one began, bowing to the dowager.

“We would consider it an honor if you two lovely ladies would accompany us to Decatur’s for supper,” the second one said, offering his arm.

As Lady Anne turned a gracious smile on the pair, sons of one of her dearest friends, she accepted their invitation and the arm. Jessica caught a glimpse of Lattie’s coattails as he melded into the throng of theatergoers.

• • •

A scurrilous wind brought the duke’s carriage to the curb to collect him from his club just as the rain began that night. The driver, wrapped tightly in his cloak, bent low against the onslaught. Hurrying to dodge the elements, Devlin leaped into the vehicle and slammed the door, presuming the welcoming torches had been snuffed by the nasty weather.

He felt unsettled, vexed by an ominous disquiet. He didn’t like having to disappoint his mother and Jessica about their plans for Saturday night, but he was responsible for their safety and was conscious of that. That was probably the cause of his unease.

If the chit had not challenged him, he might even have provided a reason for his order, but damn it, she needed to trust him to have her best interests at heart and not question his every decision.

Perhaps the ladies would be about when he arrived home. Why in hell was Latch driving so erratically? And where had Figg got off to on such a night?

Devlin pulled the leather rain curtain back to peer out.

This was not the way home. They were racing pell-mell toward the docks. Not a place for either his ducal carriage nor its occupant on this sinister night.

“Latch,” he shouted, “where in blazes are you going?” The man did not answer. Perhaps the wind had deflected his inquiry. Devlin sat forward on the seat and thrust his head out the window. In doing so, his hand brushed the side of the carriage. Where was the raised ducal crest? He ran his fingers over the side where the crest should be. It was not there.

This was not his coach, though it was similar. And this driver, pushing his team much too fast over this badly cobbled street, just as obviously was neither Figg nor the lackadaisical Latch.

Devlin did not delay. When the carriage slowed for an uneven turn, he jumped, shoving the door closed as he flew, the noise of his departure apparently lost in the howls and rumblings of the storm. He stumbled into a shadowy doorway where he paused to brush off his clothing. He watched the carriage careen, continuing its wayward flight.

The circumstance loomed too peculiar to be chance. Could someone have arranged for him to be spirited away? Who? Who would benefit from his absence, be it temporary or permanent?

John Lout came to mind, but even if this effort were not beyond Lout’s mental capabilities, which he considered it to be, it likely was beyond his purse.

Were the thieves who had accosted him on the highway all those weeks ago making another attempt? Perhaps there had been another attempt on him. He dabbed at the place where a shot had grazed his neck. The theory seemed a reach. What could possibly be at stake? He thought of Jessica’s imagined fears and wondered if she had guessed better than he knew.

These efforts had required prior planning and payments, if he were, in truth, a target.

The coach clamored to an abrupt stop in the lamplight of a warehouse in the second block down. Two men darted out as the driver leaped from his perch and ran to fling open the coach door.

Although Devlin could not make out their words, the men all shouted at one another before an overly tall, familiar person emerged from the warehouse. His muffled command silenced the men who followed as he led them back inside the darkened building.

Devlin pulled his hat down and rolled the collar of his greatcoat up around his face, then hunched his shoulders against the driving wind and rain. So Peter Fry was somehow involved in this little drama. Devlin could think of no reason Fry might wish him ill. Perhaps the man was a hireling. If the evil attempts were not done at Fry’s initiative, the intriguing question was: whose?

The duke flagged down a commercial carriage when he had had his fill of walking and contemplating. On stepping into the house, he asked Patterson to summon Bear, if the man were in his quarters above the stables.

“Are my mother and Jessica at home?” he asked the majordomo.

Patterson smiled. “No, Your Grace. It is common knowledge among the servants in the various households that the Miracle ladies are the most popular in the ton. I expect they will not return until shortly before dawn. And Bear is … away for the evening, Your Grace.”

“When he arrives, have him come to my study.”

Bear did not appear until the wee hours of the morning, whereupon, Devlin closed them in the study for a private conversation.

• • •

The clock sounded half past three before Devlin dismissed a yawning Bear to seek his bed. The duke doused the lamps and sat alone with a brandy, staring into the fire. He did not reveal his presence below stairs when his mother and Jessica arrived sometime after the clock in the hallway chimed four.

At sunrise, having decided on a plan of action, the duke freshened himself and his clothing, and left the house long before businesses opened in town.

• • •

Lattimore arrived at the house before noon and gave his mother a genuine smile when she invited him to stay for luncheon. Her invitation fit his plans.

“Jessica,” he said when the younger woman appeared, “I understand you are a horticulturist.” He took her arm as the three of them wandered into the salon, and turned her toward the garden door. “Mother tells me you have particular success with yellow roses. I would like to see them, if you would be so kind.”

She glanced at Lady Anne who nodded, both ladies inferring the dowager was not included in the invitation. Jessica mimicked the nod and smiled at Lattimore. She thought him pleasant, even handsome, for a man who appeared to lack the character apparent in his brother. “Certainly.”

Lattimore expressed no interest in the roses or any of Jessica’s other horticultural successes. He seemed instead to be terribly tense. “Darling?”

Jessica’s startled gaze sought his face when she registered the endearment.

He regarded her soberly. “Will you marry me?”

“Certainly not.” She stood, her response as abrupt as his question.

“I am serious.”

“So am I.”

“Why would you refuse without giving the question thought?”

“Because you obviously have not given the question enough thought yourself.”

“I want to marry you.”

“Whyever for?”

He intertwined his fingers, the gesture of a recalcitrant child. “Rumors say the dowager and Devlin are determined to make a match for you.” As Jessica considered how to respond, Lattimore signaled silence. “Allow me to continue, if you please.”

Jessica bit her lips. Patience was her most pronounced shortcoming and she warred with it in an effort to think before speaking.

“It would simplify matters,” he said.

“It would complicate things for me.”

He continued as if he had not heard. “I have property, although my holdings are not as vast as those belonging to the duke. I am not destitute, and Devlin is generous.” He looked pained at making that admission. “He would never suffer me … us … to live in poverty.”