Captive Scoundrel (2 page)

“Sir, your candle has rolled toward my room,” she said rising. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

“Who the hell…Ah, here’s the holder.”

Faith pushed her door open, retrieved his still-burning candle and lit hers with it. She could see him now, picking himself up. An older man, short, barrel-chested and muscular.

“Give it to me, woman, my master needs me.” The man grabbed his candle, slammed it into its holder, and ran to Justin Devereux’s room. Faith followed, stopping at the foot of the great four-poster to watch the man straddle the figure in the bed and wrestle him into submission. The lament ended on a whimper and the sturdy fellow stood. “He’ll do for now. He don’t do that often, but he’s hurt himself a time or two.”

“He seems strong for a sick man.”

“Always was strong as a prize bull at market fair. Can’t understand why he’s no better.” The stranger raised his candle for a too-bold scrutiny of her person. “You the new nurse?”

She nodded. “Faith Wickham.”

“Harris.” He grinned. “B’God, the master would like you. Always did like ‘em dark-haired and winsome.”

Faith felt an all-too-familiar warmth steal up her neck. “And why should I care what Vincent Devereux likes?”

Harris scowled. “Justin Devereux’s master here.” He pointed to the bed. “Been with ‘im since ‘e was no more’n a lad of seventeen, near eighteen years now. I’m all he’s got.”

“Well, Harris, now he has the both of us.”

His lowered brows spoke of suspicion and doubt.

“But isn’t Vincent Devereux master here?”

“Vincent’s the younger brother, and…Well, it ain’t up to the likes of me to judge. But my master is the Duke of Ainsley, will be in my mind till the day he dies. But accordin’ to the House ‘a Lords, Vincent’s the present duke. Gave him the title.”

“He’ll have to give it back.”

“If you say so, Miss.”

She saw that he thought her daft. “You’ll see.” She raised her candle and gazed at a room from a child’s nightmare. Thick tapestried windows and blood-red velvet bed hangings dominated —as if Justin Devereux was already confined to his coffin.

Two portraits hung above the bed. One, of a handsome devil holding a babe in a long, white gown. The other of a blond goddess. Both would be better placed in the drawing room. Faith doubted the goddess lived here, else she would never let such a likeness go to waste so far from sight. “Who is she?”

“Catherine Devereux. Justin’s wife.”

“I didn’t know he had a wife.”

“A witch, that one. Never figured how she snared him. Not in his style. And he hasn’t got a wife. Not now. She’s dead.”

Shocked, saddened, Faith rubbed her arms at the chill…and realized she faced this stranger in her nightrail. She should leave or…“Mr. Harris, I’ll sit with him if you wish.”

“Just Harris. Go back to bed. Ye’ll not start till Vincent sets you to it. Go on with you now.”

Back in her room, Faith fell asleep wondering if she had the strength to withstand the darkness of spirit that permeated Killashandra Hall.

She approached a huge castle encircled by thick gray mists.

A shrouded figure wove aimlessly among gnarled bracken bearing neither leaves nor flowers, but large menacing thorns.

With foreboding, Faith turned away, casually at first, then with a more determined step. But the robed being steadily followed, an emaciated hand clawing its face and hood, as if trying to clear its vision…until one skeletal hand stretched toward her in mute, agonized appeal.

That silent plea frightened Faith more than the slow, steady steps plodding in her direction. She began to run.

Gasping, she stopped at the edge of a deep precipice overlooking a jagged cliff, a black whirlpool at its base. Heart hammering, she turned to face her pursuer.

He came close, bearing fear. Neither alive nor dead.

Faith screamed, stepped away from his seeking hand…and went too far. She was falling. Falling.

Just when she could smell the whirlpool, and feel it filling her nostrils, gentle arms caught her and held her close, saving her from certain death.

Heart calming, Faith warmed, content, safe. Then she looked into the eyes of her saviour and the skeletal face of the cloaked figure stared back with black, unseeing orbs. Her fleeting safety in his arms forgotten, she wrestled free and tumbled toward the dark turbulence below.

Panic seized her, hands grabbed her.

Faith fought frantically. She began to scream.

“Wake up, miss. There, there. Are you all right now?”

Faith recognized the abigail who’d accompanied her here to Killashandra. Was it only yesterday? “Oh, Jenny.”

“You were dreaming, Miss.” Jenny opened the curtains. “The master says ‘e’ll see you in ‘is study soon as you’ve eaten.”

“Good, then I can get on with my duties.” After the girl fixed her hair, Faith smoothed her faded, gray percale. A few minutes later, she stood before the duke’s door fighting an urge to beg transport home. But remembering Justin Devereux’s anguish, her desire to flee vanished. A footman opened the door and bowed for her to enter. “Miss Faith Wickham,” he announced.

Vincent Devereux gaped. The nurse bore the beauty of a goddess. Huge, green eyes gazed straight at him, bold as you please. Black curls framed a porcelain face, tumbling to rest against full breasts. He coughed and stood. “Ah, Miss Wickham, from Arundel is it? Come to care for my unfortunate brother and little Beth.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. A pretty piece, he thought, for Justin’s final days. “Welcome. You are gravely needed. Please sit down.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” She took the straight chair facing his desk. Vincent sat behind it.

How Vincent loved to hear, “your grace,” in reference to himself, and about time. Vincent had waited his whole life for this, and he deserved it. It had been difficult to have his brother declared incompetent—Justin’s tenants needing care having won it. A new dilemma, however, sat across from him. The dratted nurse. Her abilities in the sickroom were damned near legendary, which was why he could not say no to hiring her. Well if she was so dedicated, dosing Justin would be primary, which he could applaud. It still infuriated him the way Justin’s Scoundrel friends—school friends, of all things—had other influential big-wigs stipulate that someone be appointed to Justin’s care.

But alas, Faith Wickham could be his answer.

He smiled. “The most important task you will execute…” He coughed, cleared his throat. “Your foremost task is to care for my brother. He had a carriage accident you know; went over a cliff. Catherine, his wife, died. My brother suffered untold damage. Brain fever. Irreversible.” He shook his head. “Can’t walk or speak. Lies there like a babe.” His voice quivered. “We must put food to his mouth, drink to his lips.”

Closing his eyes, Vincent touched his brow before allowing himself to continue. “A medicine has been formulated for him. No cost has been spared. It is crucial to his welfare. Miss Wickham, do you attend me? Ah yes, I see that you do. The medicine is to be given without fail each morning and evening at eight. Eight precisely. Should you stray from this for even a few minutes, he could die. It is imperative that you follow this routine for the handsome wages I will pay you. My brother’s life is in your hands. I do not need to tell you how much that means to me, Miss Wickham.”

“Am I to understand your brother could die at any moment?”

“I didn’t say that. Did I say that? Listen carefully now. If given his medicine in the proper dose at the proper times, he may live for years. But he will surely die if you neglect it for even a short time. Obviously, the doctors could not say how long it would take, and we wouldn’t want to find out, would we?”

“Certainly not.” She seemed to compose herself. “You previously mentioned a little one?”

“Justin’s daughter, Beth. You will see to her as well. You will be caring in my stead for my family, as I shall be away.”

“How did your brother survive such an accident?”

Vincent looked down to see ink covering his hand. He took a calming breath. “Justin and his wife were thrown from the carriage. Catherine tumbled to the sea below, but Justin landed in an outcropping of bushes.” Vincent stared at his hand, detesting the need to recant something so painful. Again.

“Thank God.”

He swiped, uselessly, at the ink on his palm. “What?”

“Thank God he was saved.”

“He was not saved, Miss Wickham!”

Her chin came up. “I see.”

Leave it to Justin to have a champion, even now. “You don’t understand. My heart aches to see my brother suffering so.”

She nodded. Her eyes glistened. “It does hurt to see someone you love suffer, and no matter how very much you try, you cannot…” She drew a ragged breath. “You just cannot….”

Vincent experienced an alien stirring, but he shook it off. Deuced uncomfortable. “If you’re finished quizzing me….”

The nurse looked up in surprise, ire replacing sorrow. Good.

“My niece has a nursemaid…Sally, I think. You will oversee her work with the child. My brother’s man, Harris, will see to his personal needs. The servants will answer directly to you.” He rose to pace. “Even the housekeeper, Mrs. Tucker, will defer to your judgment concerning the running of the house.”

“But certainly, it is the housekeeper, not the nurse—”

“It is my wish, Miss Wickham,” he shouted. “That you bear the responsibility for everything happening in this house. You will answer for every person’s actions.” He narrowed his eyes. “Every person’s errors. This will be done as I wish.” He braced his hands on the desk. “If you are not in agreement, you may pack your bags, and your family may forfeit your wages.”

The mantle-clock struck the hour.

“It will be as you wish, your grace.”

Those had not been the words behind her tight lips. Vincent was gratified she understood. He sat. “Hemsted, my man of affairs, will give you an allowance for household needs. He will be here often; he runs my estates. I leave tomorrow for France. I will return from time to time, though I cannot say when, nor if it will happen with regularity. If you wish to contact me, you may do so through him. If you have no further questions….”

She stood, her beautiful self ramrod-straight, and Vincent smiled inwardly. “Your wages will be sent to your family as Vicar Kendrick requested. The dressmaker will be here this afternoon to measure you. No cost will be spared.”

“The dressmaker? But I need no clothes—”

“Yet you will accept them. We must not have anyone thinking I am clutch-fisted or would employ an unworthy to care for—”

“But, I assure you—”

“Miss Wickham!” He walked around her and hovered close enough to smell springtime. “If you do not do as you are told, on your first day, concerning such a simple matter, then I have made an error in hiring you.” Silence. At last. “I trust we understand each other?”

Hands fisted tightly, the beauty nodded. “I will endeavour to do my best for those in my care.”

Vincent chose a new pen. “See that you do.”

When the door closed behind her, Faith knew if she were to respond to the turmoil inside, she would run and never look back.

New clothes? Oh foolish squandering of money—money better spent in Justin’s room or the hall. But she must do her employer’s bidding; too many depended on her.

With dirt-water gray eyes and thin blond hair, Vincent had nothing of the look of his brother. Justin Devereux, near death, looked more imposing than Vincent in his prime. And he hadn’t convinced Faith that he cared a jot about his sick brother. His words were correct, but his manner. She shivered. Yes, he faced a difficult situation, yet there was something she could not like about him.

A few minutes later, anxious to meet her young charge, Faith approached the second room connecting hers, that door opposite Justin’s. Also dismal, Beth’s chamber was as much in contrast to Faith’s beautiful room as her father’s. And the child…a tiny, hollow-cheeked toddler with a crown of burnished ringlets, her striking blue eyes filled with fear. When Faith tried to embrace her, the child became frantic, so Faith let her go, and the child ran to hide in the corner.