The Dangerous Duke (2 page)

She laughed at the brief shadow of alarm that flitted across her son’s face. “No, there’s no need to fret. I’m not ready for Saint Peter yet. I have decided that my eyes are not what they used to be—even reading tires me. I want a young, fresh face and a lovely voice to help me while away the hours.”

Devlin scowled. “Mama, what worries me is that you might fall prey to some sly chit who just wants to leech off you. One constantly hears stories of these sentimental old fools being taken in by sweet looks and charming manners.”

His mother frowned, and said in a voice like cracking ice, “Am I to assume, Devlin, that you consider your Mama to be a sentimental old fool?”

“Of course not, Mama.” Devlin strode up and down the room like a caged tiger. “It’s just that you might feel weak…and anyone could take advantage…” His voice trailed away as he glanced at his mother’s outraged expression.

“Really, Devlin, I think when it comes to foolishness and sentimentality you might look to your own behaviour. If you’re going to judge every woman by the likes of the company you keep—and the fact that they seem to cost an inordinate amount of money—perhaps you should change your current circle of female associates to one with higher morals.”

“Mama!” Devlin felt as if he was losing control of the situation. Somehow, the conversation was slipping away from the topic of whether a companion was acceptable and into the dangerous, murky waters of his social pastimes.

“I know you disapprove of Penelope, but I can assure you she is of the highest
Ton
. She is a lady.”

“Really?” his Mama retorted acidly. “When I was in Society there was a different name for that kind of woman. You must produce an heir, Devlin, or else the estate and title passes to your dreadful cousin Oswald.” She shuddered. “The thought of Cornelia presiding over Deverell House sickens me. Even Lady Vane is a better prospect.”

The Dowager gave yet another expressive sigh. “Well, perhaps you had better marry her after all, even though I disapprove. She will never make you happy, you know…and of course you are aware that it is all about the money.”

The Dowager’s voice trailed off dramatically. She closed her eyes.

“I have no intention of rushing into marriage with Lady Penelope or any other female. Besides, Penelope doesn’t need to marry for money; she has enough fortune of her own.” Devlin’s tone was curt.

His mother’s eyes flew open. “Ah, but an ancient title like yours, as well as such a grand estate, is very hard to come by,” the Dowager replied, with a sly glance at her scowling son. “The ignominy of
not
marrying would be too hard to bear. Much as she may eschew matrimony to the outside world, every woman must marry sooner or later—better sooner than later—and marry well. If not, she might well be considered too fast, too fussy or…worse. Besides, expensive gifts could easily be construed as commitment. I believe she was wearing a very charming diamond spray at one of Lady Winterbourne’s
soirées
recently. You should be more discreet, Devlin.”

“How did you know?” Devlin muttered an oath under his breath, angry that this personal snippet had somehow found its way down to Deverell House.

The Dowager laughed. “I have my spies and I’m not a complete fool, even though I’ve been bedridden these past few months. Anyway, it’s your money and you’re free to waste it on anyone you choose.”

“Mama!”

“I have decided to appoint a young companion and I have already received several answers to my advertisement.”

“You did what?” Devlin exploded. “You placed an advertisement already?”

“Why certainly.” His mother raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Isn’t that what newspapers are for? I can’t imagine you finding me a suitable young woman, given your circle of acquaintance, and I’m certainly not going to ask about the neighbourhood or approach an agent in the matter, so a discreet advertisement was the answer. I think I like this reply. The others all seem to be from earnest young women who seem far too dull for my liking.”

She picked up a letter. “This young person has enclosed an excellent character reference from her aunt, a Mrs. Preston, who seems to be a perfectly respectable widow. She describes her niece as a ‘personable young woman,’ which means she is attractive. You may find yourself disappointed as regards the plain bluestocking. And—” the Dowager squinted at the letter “—there’s another reference from a very learned Mr. Murgatroyd, who is a schoolteacher. Also perfectly respectable.”

She peered closer at a page. “Hmm, Miss Preston appears to have excellent handwriting. Perhaps she can write my letters for me as well.”

Devlin snatched the letter as the pages fluttered onto the bed. He scanned the writing, his black brows drawn into a forbidding frown. His face was thunderous. “I see this Miss Preston can speak several languages, including French. French?” He looked at his mother in amazement. “What on earth do you want to read in French, Mama?”

“I don’t know yet; maybe Miss Preston can advise me.” The Dowager gazed upward as if in deep thought. “I seem to remember some charming volumes of French poems in the library that your Papa used to enjoy.”

“French poetry and Papa?” Devlin growled. “’Tis scarcely to be believed. I’m not happy about this, Mama.”

“Well, for once in my life It’s
my
happiness and not yours that I’m concerned with!” the Dowager snapped. “I’ve written to Miss Preston, inviting her to Deverell House for a personal interview.”

Devlin was aghast. “You’ve invited her here? To Deverell House?”

“Why certainly. How else am I to interview her properly?”

“I am astonished,” Devlin replied. His mouth was set in a stern line. “The next thing we’ll have a band of gypsies settling in with us.”

“Gypsies? Come now.” The Dowager laughed. “What is so intimidating about a fresh-faced young woman of twenty?”

“Twenty?” Devlin exploded. “Good God, Mama! We’ll be running a nursery next.”

“Devlin, I declare you are becoming most odd. When I was twenty, I was already married to your dear Papa. My mind is quite made up and the young lady should be here by Friday.” The Dowager waved her hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Devlin; you may close the door on your way out. Please tell Harbottle I need her. In fact, this conversation with you has rather fatigued me.”

The Dowager gave a delicate cough, lay back on a mound of ruffled pillows and closed her eyes. Devlin stared at his mother for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

“French poetry!” he roared, storming down the broad sweeping staircase to the hall. “Blenkins!” he shouted, as the butler scuttled into view. “Tell Finch to get Lucifer saddled, I’m going out!”

“But, Aunt Preston,” Fenella gasped, dropping the letter on the floor. “What shall I do now?”

“Do now?” her aunt snapped, looking at Fenella in astonishment. “What do you mean, you silly goose? You’ll go, of course. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Yes, it is,” Fenella whispered, pressing both trembling hands against her beating heart. “But now that it’s here, I’m not sure if I want it.”

“Of course you do,” her aunt chided. “Now stop behaving as if you’re in a Cheltenham tragedy!”

The old lady picked up the letter and gazed in admiration at the elegant missive. “The Dowager Duchess of Wyndlesham. Ooh, what a beautiful crest…see here, my dear. All gold swirls and coronets. Fine paper too. What lovely refined writing she has. A little shaky, so I suppose the poor thing is unwell. Just as I thought. That’s why you’ll do very nicely there.” Aunt Preston eyed her niece, who was sitting dejectedly on the sofa, tears plopping off the end of her nose. “Now what?”

“Aunt,” Fenella sobbed. “I have no clothes. I’ll present a very poor picture arriving at this great place with but a few old dresses that are too small for me.”

Aunt Preston gazed with a fond expression at her niece. “No one with a grain of sense will even notice what you’re wearing since you are so lovely, my dear, but I understand.”

She trotted over to the mantelpiece and took the lid off a blue-and-white patterned ginger jar. “I have some money set aside for emergencies. It’ll be enough for Mrs. Soames to make up a couple of dresses—nothing fancy mind you—but respectable and pretty. Now stop being such a milksop. The Dowager wants someone with character, not a wet hen.”

“Oh, you are a darling, Aunt.” Fenella flung herself into her aunt’s arms, crying with happiness.

“Dry your eyes; we’ve got to get you ready,” her aunt said with brisk determination, disentangling herself from Fenella’s grateful embrace. “When will they send for you?”

Fenella read aloud, “‘My dear Miss Preston, would it be inconvenient to ask you to travel down to Deverell House for a personal interview with me and my son? My carriage will collect you on Friday.’ Friday?” She stared at her aunt in horror. “But that’s only five days away.”

“All the more reason to make haste,” Aunt Preston said, jamming her bonnet askew on her head and thrusting the money into her reticule. “Come along, Missy. We’ve no time to lose.” She clattered down the stairs with Amber yapping at her heels.

“Do hurry up, Fenella. Don’t stand there gawking. There’s so much to arrange. And the son is ‘Devil’ Deverell, a devilishly handsome rake. A real ladies’ man I hear. They say he has the Devil’s luck. They call him the dangerous duke.”

A rake? The dangerous duke? With the terrible nickname “Devil”? This was going to be an impossible situation. Fenella crammed her bonnet onto her unruly curls and ran after her aunt.

* * * *

On Friday morning, Fenella was packed and ready, waiting for the Dowager’s carriage to collect her. The indefatigable Mrs. Soames had worked like a Trojan to produce one serviceable travelling suit and several pretty dresses. Fenella bemoaned the fact that the material was not as fine as she would have liked, but a sharp reminder from her aunt that beggars could not be choosers soon silenced her. Two attractive bonnets completed the wardrobe. Aunt Preston insisted on Fenella taking all her luggage on the trip, since she could not possibly imagine her niece being refused for the position.

Fenella sat in the tiny parlour, absent-mindedly patting Amber’s head. Now that the moment had come, she was not very sure of herself. Perhaps the Dowager was a demanding old crone who would make her life a misery? Perhaps the other servants would take against her?

Aunt Preston burst into laughter at this fearful confession and pinched Fenella’s wan cheeks, saying, “My dear, you’re such a fetching lass that everyone will love you. Maybe even the ‘Devil’ himself, eh?”

Devil…what a name. She would just have to keep out of his way. With luck, he would spend all his time in London. Fenella was not exactly sure what rakes did to deserve their bad reputations, but from what she had read, she was positive that fallen women, gambling and horseracing must somehow be part of a rake’s depraved activities.

All too soon, a carriage drawn by four splendid, matched bays arrived at the neat little house on the outskirts of London, and a solemn-faced, liveried footman was knocking at the door. The neighbours were agog with admiration and curiosity, clustering in their doorways, pointing at the elaborate gold and crimson crest on the side panels of the carriage. Fenella swallowed the huge lump that had mysteriously appeared in her throat, hugged Amber hard while dropping a few surreptitious tears onto the dog’s glossy coat and then clutched her aunt in an embrace.

“Oh, Aunt, is this the right thing for me to do?” she whispered, gazing up at her aunt’s face.

Aunt Preston blinked back her own tears and said in a falsely cheerful voice, “Of course it is, my dear. You must get out into the world and meet people. Allying yourself with a grand and powerful family is the best thing for you. You must associate with the right company; perhaps now you’ll be able to meet a nice young man.”

“Oh, Aunt,” Fenella sobbed, “I don’t want to meet a nice young man.”

“Tush! Of course you do,” her aunt admonished her. “You are young and beautiful. You cannot stay cooped up in this house with an old woman and her old dog. You’ll write to me and tell me all the exciting things that’ll be happening. I am sure there’ll be parties and the like for entertainment. You may not be able to attend, but you’ll see something of Society. Moreover, if the Dowager likes you, she may well take you under her wing. The right patronage….”

Her look was meaningful.

The footman gave a discreet cough and Fenella knew she must go. Smothering her aunt with kisses, she gave the old lady a final tearful embrace and then was ready to depart. The footman helped her up into the carriage and packed her boxes behind. Aunt Preston clung to the carriage door and thrust a small package into Fenella’s hand.

“It’s the last of the money I saved. Mrs. Soames was too kind, my dear. I’m sure she didn’t charge us enough, so there’s a mite left over should you need something. Pin money.”

Before Fenella could reply, the driver cracked his whip and the carriage jerked forward, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Several urchins scampered in excitement behind the wheels, yelling and cheering. The last glimpse Fenella had was of her aunt standing in the doorway of the house, Amber jumping up at her skirts while she tearfully waved a handkerchief after the departing carriage.

Fenella leaned back against the squabs. It was the first time she had felt truly alone. She still missed her Papa desperately. Although her aunt was very kind, Fenella felt the lack of the intellectual stimulation of a mind as enquiring as her own. Colonel Hawke had been an exceptional man. He was intelligent, educated and pored over books whenever he could; he drank in knowledge and imparted it to his clever daughter. Languages were his specialty and Fenella had inherited this talent. Fenella had never really known her Spanish mother. The sudden death of her mother from fever when Fenella was three had brought father and daughter close together for thirteen happy years, before Colonel Hawke made the fateful decision to send Fenella back to London for what he called “a proper life.”

Instead of being home, England with its grey skies and constant rain was a foreign place to the frightened, confused girl. She had known no other life but that of the regiment; her closest companion had been her father. Now Fenella had to learn about well-bred conversation and the subjects that were decidedly not to be mentioned in company. Childless, Aunt Preston looked upon Fenella as the daughter she had never had. She taught the young girl the manners and mores of Society and exhorted her niece to forget the past. Fenella tried, and time dimmed some of the memories, but never those of her beloved father.

Fenella’s exhaustion finally got the better of her and she dozed until the carriage jerked to a stop. Fenella opened her eyes. Through the window, she could see dull grey skies; a fine drizzle was falling. Suddenly the driver’s face appeared in the window, startling her. She jumped and gasped in fright.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss,” he said, touching his cap. “But we’re about to take the turn down to Deverell House. Many folks like to admire the place from the top ’o the road. So p’raps you’d like to take a peep out?”

Fenella nodded; she was anxious to catch the first glimpse of her new home. The driver opened the door and helped her to the ground. Fenella found herself at the crest of a hill, looking down upon a most incredible vista. Through the acres of treed parklands, she caught sight of majestic columns, turrets and mullioned windows of a beautiful red-brick house. A long winding drive led up to the main entrance. The house itself overlooked an exquisite lake. Swans floated serenely on the silvery blue surface. As she gazed, long fingers of bright sunlight broke through the clouds, floating downward, illuminating the peaceful scene.

“Really fine, inn’t?”

Fenella nodded in agreement. It was unlike anything she had imagined and yet she suddenly felt afraid. There was a strange churning sensation inside her stomach; excitement welled up inside her, as if she were moving toward her destiny. But what could that possibly be? A lone horseman galloped far below them, heading for the house. He was riding a magnificent black stallion. Fenella’s experienced eye could see at a glance that he rode with skill and ease. Man and beast melded together into one as they galloped.

The driver pointed to the speeding figure and said, “There’s the master. Finest seat in the land they say. Finest bit o’ horseflesh as well, although he’s the very divil hi’self, that horse. Only one man can handle a wild creature like Lucifer and there’s no wonderin’ why! Like master, like beast.” He chortled at his own private joke and then handed Fenella back into the carriage.

As the carriage rolled down the road, Fenella’s heart beat faster than before. The sight of that proud figure had stirred her somehow.

“Oh, stop being fanciful,” she whispered to herself. “He’s a dangerous man and I will stay right away from him.”

With that admonition firmly in her mind, she sat back and enjoyed the remainder of the journey to Deverell House. Soon the carriage turned into the main gate and was bowling merrily up the drive. With a crunching of gravel, the horses halted outside the imposing entrance and the footman opened the carriage door, helping her down. Fenella’s body ached all over from sitting for so long. The footman escorted her to the front door where a stern-faced butler bowed.

“Good evening, Miss. Mrs. Perkins will take you upstairs.”

Fenella was trembling from both fatigue and nervousness. She would have given anything to sit down for five minutes and compose her ruffled thoughts and dishevelled ringlets, but this wish was not to be granted.

Mrs. Perkins, resplendent in black silk and with a forbidding, stiff-backed demeanour, rustled up the huge sweeping staircase. Although she appeared to be as stern as the butler was, there was a surprisingly kind note in her voice as she said, “This way, Miss. Her Grace is expecting you. His Grace is with her.”

At the sound of those words, Fenella’s heart sank toward her boots. Not only did she have to face the Dowager’s interrogation, but also this dreadful man was to be present.

Mrs. Perkins led the way to a white painted door, knocked, and upon hearing the command to enter, opened it. “In you go, Miss. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.”

Fenella gave a wan smile and nodded. Then, pulling in her stomach and thrusting back her shoulders, she stepped into the room.

“Come in, my dear, and let us take a look at you.”

The voice came from an elderly lady, sitting propped up on a sofa. She wore a pale-blue frilled satin bed jacket; a small rug covered her knees. On her lap sat the largest white Persian cat Fenella had ever seen. The animal stared at her with a supercilious expression and meowed in disdain.

“Don’t take any notice of Scheherazade, my dear, she is just jealous. Come and sit next to me so I can see you properly.” The old lady patted the sofa, smiling in welcome at her visitor.

As Fenella walked over to the sofa she could not help noticing the rich furnishings. A Persian carpet covered most of the floor and the walls were hung with exquisite paintings, some of which were country scenes and others family portraits. An elegant writing desk took up one far corner; behind it was a bookcase filled with books. Ornaments and bric-a-brac cluttered the surfaces of several small tables. At the other end of the room was a large four-poster bed, with the embroidered curtains drawn around it. A long sofa, covered in grey velvet, took up the middle of the room. A number of lamps cast a welcoming glow in the room, as lowering clouds outside had gathered in a stormy sky. A fire crackled quietly in the grate; Fenella was grateful for its warmth after the chill of the drive.

“I’ve been in bed so long that this is a very special day,” the Dowager said. “I got up particularly to meet you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Fenella said, with a small curtsey, “but please don’t tire yourself on my account.”

“That’s exactly what I said to Mama.” The coolly sardonic voice came from the window.

Fenella turned and gazed with shock upon the dashing Devlin Deverell, Sixteenth Duke of Wyndlesham. Was this the famous and dreadful rake she had heard about? He was devastatingly handsome. Fenella had seen many men in riding dress before, but none such as this. Tight buckskin riding breeches emphasized his manly physique. His face and arms were unfashionably tanned. However, that only served to enhance the crisp whiteness of his ruffled shirt, left open in a careless way to expose the strength of his chest and the curling dark hairs that peeped out. After her life in the camps, often helping with the wounded, Fenella had seen glimpses of naked men, so the male body held no surprises for her. Nevertheless, she had never felt this way before. Suddenly, the scene felt shockingly intimate to Fenella. She was staring at his physique, transfixed, and then at his face, as sharply etched as a Roman emperor’s head on a gold coin.