The Prince of Ravenscar (22 page)

“It seems a paltry attempt at revenge,” Roxanne said slowly, tasting the salt air in her mouth. “I mean, why the Dower House and not a direct assassination attempt?”

“Richard tried that in London last week, so Julian told me. But he wasn't really serious, Julian said, because he knew he'd be hanged, so I suppose, as a man of little imagination, he was forced to destroy the Dower House as a sort of token slap in the face when he knew Julian would be riding here to Ravenscar. However, I do believe this time he has pushed my uncle to the brink.”

“The brink? Surely you don't believe Julian will shoot him?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged.

She wanted to punch him but managed to control herself. “Look at those stone walls. Why are they there?”

“Those are protective walls so the four spaniels aren't tempted to abscond to Land's End and chase rooks. The run leads directly from Julian's estate room to the cliffs. Well, some cliffs—they're not at all high above the beach. The dogs can dash about here, daring each other to leap off the cliff, which wouldn't hurt them, even if they leapt.”

“But they don't know that.”

“No.”

Devlin paused for a moment, lifted his face to the cloudy sky. “Do you know, I'm beginning to believe my uncle isn't regarding your niece with an elder's indulgent eye anymore. What do you think?”

Roxanne tossed a rock over the edge of the cliff, watched it bounce on the rocks and fall onto the dirty sand some ten feet below. “I believe Julian has a fondness for her, since his mother does. Is it more? Maybe. Do you not like Sophie as well?”

“Oh, yes, she sparkles, you know. I've watched her ignore the gentlemen who have tried to attach her, not that they've had all that much time. And why does she ignore them? I wonder.” He walked to the edge of the cliff and studied the beach below. He turned slowly to face Roxanne. Her vibrant hair haloed her head. He said slowly, “It is the strangest thing, but I have not visited any of my mistresses in over a week now. Do you not think that odd?”

“It is possible,” she said, not looking at him, “that you are so charmed by Sophie you have no wish to indulge yourself.”

“Indulge myself,” he repeated. “What a quaint way of putting it. No, being charmed by Sophie hasn't anything to do with it.”

A shout came from Ravenscar. It was Julian. “Devlin! My mother requests your presence.”

“Ah, well, perhaps it's best, you know?”

“No,” Roxanne said. “I don't know if it's for the best or not.” She walked in silence beside him back toward the huge stone manor, mansion, castle, palace—she didn't know what to call Ravenscar, and at that moment, she didn't particularly care. She was twenty-seven years old, the same age as Devlin Monroe, the future Duke of Brabante. She wasn't a young miss suffering in the throes of her first Season, terrified she wouldn't gain one single marriage proposal or enjoy any gentleman's exclusive attention. No, she was a seasoned matron—well, very nearly—and she knew what was what and how men and women behaved, but this: Did Devlin admire Sophie more than Julian appeared to? She didn't know. It seemed to her, though, that Sophie hadn't suffered a single throe of anxiety. On the other hand, she was twenty years old, not a young girl of eighteen fresh out of a protected schoolroom. Roxanne loved her, indeed, she did, she was so like Bethanne. Was she too young for Julian? If so, she was the perfect age for Devlin. She sparkled?

Roxanne's heart hurt, something she recognized even though she'd felt it only once before in her adult life, with her long-ago suitor John Singleton, who had only wanted her money.

THE NEXT MORNING

 

 

 

S
ophie stood facing Julian in his estate room, her arms crossed over her chest, the four spaniels sleeping on every available chair and the sofa—it was, in short, a dog's room. That made her smile as she gently picked up Beatrice, sat herself down on the leather sofa, and laid the dog gently on her lap. She began to lightly caress Beatrice's long, floppy ears, resulting in soft snorts of pleasure.

“She appears to like you, Sophie.”

“She likes what I'm doing to her, that's all. I will say it again, since you did not appear to hear me, Julian. I do not wish to return to Hardcross Manor. Why should I? I do not like the feel of the place, nor do I like the inhabitants. I do not trust the baron. He is all smiles and bonhomie, but there is something lurking in his eyes that makes me nervous. And there is Richard. I might forget myself and try to pound him into the floor. Actually, I don't want to have to see Vicky across the breakfast table again, either.

“I want all of us to remain here at Ravenscar, not go back to Hardcross Manor. If you wish to visit, why then, it is a short ride.” She paused for a moment, frowned. “As for Vicky, I was thinking she might be pretending to oddness. That way, she can say whatever she pleases, and from what I've seen, no one stops her and asks her why she's saying such ridiculous things.”

“An act?” Julian leaned down and picked up Oliver, and like Sophie, he began stroking the dog's long, soft ears. “She didn't used to be so odd,” he added.

“What did she used to be?”

“I remember her so clearly as a little girl, all giggles and smiles and mischief. I can see Lily scolding her for some childish misdeed, then hugging her. As Vicky grew older, though, she changed, as everyone must. I really can't pinpoint when she became as she is now, but it has been a while.”

“You were at Waterloo?”

He stopped stroking Oliver's ears. Oliver yipped, and Julian began rubbing his belly. He nodded curtly, “Yes, I was. How do you know that?”

“Your mother told me about your commendation from the Duke of Wellington himself.”

“You were very young at that time.”

“Yes.” Sophie had known two other men in her village who'd fought with Wellington at Waterloo, and neither of them wished to speak of it, either. “So were you. You were a boy. And then you went into the shipping business?”

“That's right. This demonstrates to you what a small world we inhabit—I met Thomas Malcombe, the Earl of Lancaster, in Genoa. He is very successful in shipping. He saw my enthusiasm and asked me to join him, to see if I could be of use to him, I imagine. I was. Then he helped me strike out on my own. Thomas Malcombe is an excellent man. He lives part of the year in England, in Glenclose-on-Rowen; part in Ireland; and at least three months a year in Italy. He always takes his wife and four boys with him. They're a grand family.”

“So where is your small world in this recital?”

“Malcombe's wife is Meggie Sherbrooke, James Sherbrooke her cousin, the Earl of Northcliffe her uncle. Do you know, Pendragon—that is their home in Ireland—is the premier training mews for racing cats in Ireland?”

“Racing cats?” Sophie said blankly. “How does one race a cat? I can't imagine it. No, that's not possible, you're jesting with me.”

“Not I. Actually, I once attended a cat race at the McCaulty racecourse near Eastbourne. Eight racing cats out of twelve actually crossed the finish line. There was betting and cheering and some fisticuffs; a tough sport, is cat racing. Thomas told me once that at the first cat race in Ireland, his dog got loose and decided to race with the cats. As you can imagine, it was pandemonium. If ever you meet the Malcombes, Meggie can tell you all about it.”

Sophie studied Beatrice's soft ear. “You've done so very much, Julian. No, no, don't tell me it's because you are so ancient and you've had simply dozens of years to click up your heels and do everything imaginable—no, you started when you were only a boy—Waterloo, for heaven's sake—whereas I've only—” She broke off, sighed. “I'm whining, aren't I? My twenty years on this earth have been excellent. I've never known want or been around bad people—well, there was Mr. Jack, who strangled his wife, but he was drunk at the time and never remembered a thing. My father is a trial, but he is not rotten like Richard Langworth. Let me get back on track. To me, all the inhabitants of Hardcross Manor worry me to my toes. To Roxanne's toes as well, I think. I spoke briefly to your mother, and she thinks it a marvelous idea if we remain here until we return to London. Actually, when your mother sent you to find Devlin yesterday, she wanted to get his agreement to remain here as well.”

He eyed her. “So you went behind my back.”

She gave him a blazing smile. “Doesn't a competent commander always line up his supporters before he charges forward?”

He eyed her again. He knew when a person was unmovable, particularly ladies, who excelled at deciding what they wanted and getting it. He knew his mother wanted Sophie here so they would be thrown together every single hour of the day. He was getting quite used to the pitiful sighs from her whenever he didn't give Sophie his full attention. How many times would he have to repeat to her that this girl was young enough—nearly—to be his daughter, not his bloody wife?

He didn't want anyone here at Ravenscar for the simple reason that he wished to smuggle in goods one final time, and he didn't want to take any chances. He'd never before considered smuggling this close to his home—too dangerous, too many eyes—but after Richard had followed him to Saint Osyth and discovered his midnight hobby, he knew it had to stop. So one last time. No one would know, no one would find out. He'd direct in boats from the channel to row their way up the River Horvath to a small landing. His cave was very close by.

One final time.

He would simply have to sneak out, very quietly. No one need ever know. He was fooling himself—he knew to his boots that if they were here, they'd find out. He could picture Sophie listening for his footfalls at midnight, putting on her own boots and following him, Roxanne at her side, Devlin carrying his pistols.

Unfortunately for him, he could also see Sophie standing with her hands on her hips in his cave, looking around in wonder at the incredible stalagmites and stalactites, listening to her own voice echoing off the high ceiling, and inquiring politely what he was doing there. He could also see her grinning wildly with the news that smuggled brandy was to arrive in ten minutes.

Damnation.
What was wrong with him? There would be no cave visits by Sophie or Roxanne or Devlin; it was absurd to even consider it—Julian realized he was brooding, something he found unacceptable in himself. Brooding was for melancholy poets, not for men who actually accomplished things. When there was a problem, he liked to throw himself on top of it and wrestle it to the ground, not brood about it.

He eyed Sophie, who was now sitting opposite him, calmly swinging her foot and watching him. Beatrice was still sprawled on her lap. She'd said her piece, and now she waited. He liked that in her. She didn't keep talking and talking, in case she found another argument to convince him of something she wanted to have, or repeat the same argument over and over, as most people did.

He said at last, voice remote, “I have a lot of business to conduct.”

“Yes, of course you do. What is your point?”

“Some of the things I have to do I simply can't talk about. Also, my business will require most of my time.”

Her eyebrow hoisted itself up.

“I must see to my yacht.”
Where had that idiocy come from?

“
Désirée
? I should very much like to see her. Show me a dirty deck and I shall scrub it for you. I am a useful girl, Julian. Use me.”

J
ulian's eyes nearly crossed. If only she knew—yet another sign of her innocence, her damnable youth. He said, “I thought Roxanne was the enthusiast. You also sail, Sophie?”

“Roxanne has never been on a boat in her life. It's true her father, my grandfather, nearly drowned when he was a boy, so there was never any boating for his three daughters. He was simply too afraid to allow it.

“My parents, however, were vastly different. Not that my father, the vicar, likes to sail, mind you; as I think about it, Papa doesn't like to do anything that might make him breathe hard or bring sweat to his brow. But to his credit, he never objected when mother and I were invited to sail with the Caruthers on their yacht. Yes, I enjoy sailing.”

“But Roxanne spoke of the gentleman in Brighton who had a yacht, and then she shuddered. With pleasure, I supposed. I thought Devlin would stomp on his hat.”

“She said that only to make him want to stomp. She is very good at it. So will you take me out in your yacht, Julian? Will you let me scrub a deck?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Very well, we will remain here, for the time being.”

But what of Richard and his father? And mending the breach? Then there is the Dower House, and what of my final smuggling run?
He cursed under his breath.

He gave Sophie a look of dislike. “It's amazing what the younger generation gets away with,” he said.

“Watch and learn, my lord.”

Julian was still brooding when they saw Vicky off some thirty minutes later. He said to her as he handed her into the carriage, “Do thank your father for his hospitality, and tell him I should like to speak to him again. Perhaps he can visit me here.”

Vicky nodded, then said, “Should you like to speak to Richard again?”

“Quite possibly.”

Vicky took his hand in hers. “I do not know if Papa still believes you killed Lily. Richard does, of course. He loved Lily very much, and he did find you leaning over poor Lily, lying there as dead as one can be. I believe Father wants you to convince him you didn't kill her. As for the Dower House, I do not know if Richard had the fire set. He has become secretive, so I cannot be certain.”