Nightingale (27 page)

The horse whinnied and pawed the ground.

“I doubt I could bear never to see you again. Perhaps I will sneak back to see you some dark night.”

Her voice dropped a third. “Oh, Sweetness, how shall I live without any of you? She is the mother every woman wants to become. And he … ” Devlin held his breath, hoping her words were about him. “I’ve already prattled on too much about him. I don’t see how I can ever marry another, when my heart and my soul will always belong only to him.”

Marriage? She was entertaining thoughts of a less-than-joyous marriage, not to Lout, but to whom? Not to Devlin, of course. A noble did not marry a commoner. It simply was not done. What of bloodlines?

On the other hand, it was within the prerogative of a duke to marry anyone he pleased. Conceivably he could argue that her father’s liaison with the German baron’s daughter created a link with nobility. It was rather sketchy, but might silence some.

No. What was he thinking? Pledging himself to a scullery maid for the rest of their lives? To ride out with her surveying his lands, to take her to church, to waken beside her, to give her babes to inherit her dark coiling hair and laughing eyes. He smiled, having contemplated other eventualities with less pleasure.

It might be a thought for when he lay restless in his bed at night. Or, perhaps not. Nocturnal thoughts of Jessica stimulated rather than lulled him.

Her footsteps quickened as she neared the house, unaware of his overhearing her private revelations shared with Sweetness … that is, Vindicator.

His mother wanted to dress Jessica in the grandest clothes, teach her the courtesies of society, show her off. Perhaps exposure to society would rid the girl of the idea of the inappropriate match with Lout or any man of his ilk. Perhaps the dowager might find a young, eligible man from a prominent family, someone worthy of a Nightingale.

That was it. His mother could find a proper husband for the girl, a perfect solution. The dowager’s choices would require his own thorough scrutiny. The idea definitely had potential.

His conscience would not allow him to claim it as his. After all, hadn’t his mother offered the same solution on prior occasions? What difference did it make whose idea it was? It obviously had merit. Yes, he would find her a suitable husband. Now, how to implement the plan.

Devlin realized he had not been missed by his family or their guests. The duke poured himself a sherry and was aware of a change in the room as Jessica descended the stairs, identifiable by the fragrance he recognized as hers.

Devlin suddenly had a clear view of the solarium, the hall, the stairways, and every occupant. He started as he caught his first full view of Jessica.

On the stairway, she was limned in light from windows on the landing, tall, stately, aglow in the pink frock he had glimpsed earlier. The cut of the gown accentuated her long, graceful throat beneath a short defiant chin, splendid collarbones, and promising swells at the neckline. Dark, unruly ringlets emphasized wide, trusting gray eyes locked upon his face. Devlin feared she would realize he could see her and mention it.

Lattimore was right. She was magnificent, fully developed. That revelation only muddied Devlin’s already confused thoughts concerning Jessica.

She glanced at Lattimore and bit her lips together, an obvious effort to veil her thoughts, but the energy was wasted and her disapproval showed. Devlin could scarcely conceal his pleasure at the girl’s lack of admiration for his brother. While his sight lasted, he turned toward his mother, who sat poised to one side of the hearth enjoying a bright give-and-take with Lattimore’s friends. Fry and Hardwick, cousins to each other, both the younger sons of their respective families, stood as Jessica entered the room. They had impeccable manners, yet wore — as he had guessed — ridiculously bedecked military costumes. They would probably have military careers, as Lattimore likely would do.

As darkness threatened to reclaim his sight, Devlin shifted his eyes again to Jessica. If he were never to see again, he wanted his last image to be of her.

She looked at the young men who continued conversing with the dowager, even as they stood, and her transparent disapproval continued.

Did she know either of the men? Perhaps. Yet, as far as he knew, neither Peter nor Marcus had been to Welter. The village was too primitive and remote for their tastes.

The darkness closed and he was imprisoned again with his questions. He might be able to find answers, if he could study the faces of the visitors and of his Nightingale. Alas, he would have to manage on verbal inflections, at least for the present.

• • •

Lattimore suggested they go calling in the afternoon. Devlin declined without making any excuse. Smiling at his mother, Lattimore did not insist.

Lady Anne went up for her afternoon rest, leaving Devlin and Jessica alone.

As they strolled through the ballroom, Jessica wondered whether to share her suspicions about Fry. Perhaps after Devlin’s sight returned permanently, she would. Besides, her suspicions were based largely on speculation and instinct.

To distract herself, she walked over to examine the sporting foils displayed over the mantle above the massive fireplace.

“Men, with their superior strength, often have the advantage of women,” Jessica said, stretching onto tiptoe to finger the swords.

Devlin perked up, curious.

“With the lighter foils, an agile woman could compete with a man, if the combatants are equally armed.”

“You are mistaken, my pet,” Devlin said, rising to the bait. “Even a weak man has more strength than a strong woman, no matter how dauntless the lady might believe herself to be.”

She worked one of the rapiers free and, taking it in hand, slashed the air. “He may have superior strength, but that could be counterbalanced by her greater quickness.”

“A man properly trained would be more likely to issue a fatal blow when a woman, reluctant by instinct, might hesitate.”

“Then she should train like a man; condition herself to overcome such instincts.”

“Idle conjecture.”

“We have weapons here, Your Grace. Perhaps we should endeavor to prove our points.” She whipped the air with her foil and laughed. He grimaced at the pun before a slow grin took his face, making him look a handsome rogue.

“All right. Retrieve the foils, milady, and let us proceed with your enlightenment.”

She emitted a half snort, half laugh. “You may be a lord of the realm, Devlin, but you are blind … for the moment. Are you not?” She regarded him skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Have you accepted the limitations of your disability?”

“I do not require sight, Nightingale, to best a child with a capped blade. Even blindfolded, I am an excellent swordsman.”

“I am surprised you have had success as a swordsman, Your Grace, if you underestimate your opponent in such cavalier fashion.”

Again rising to the bait, Devlin recovered his voice and a smattering of his pride. “One could say the same of you, my pet. A lord of the realm could hardly boast about throttling a babe. Touché.”

He raised his voice. “Patterson, bring us padding to protect our vitals and check the blunting on these foils.” He lowered his voice, but continued as if the message were for Patterson rather than aimed entirely at her. “I am going to provide our guest a much-needed lesson in humility.”

Patterson appeared immediately carrying the requested pads as if he had been prepared and only awaiting the command. “He is an excellent swordsman, Jessica.”

Devlin’s expression darkened. “Who gave you leave to call the lady by her Christian name?”

“Why, she did so herself, Your Grace,” Patterson said, taken aback.

The duke’s glower deepened as he turned toward his charge. “You must not give servants permission to call you by your given name, Jessica.”

“Devlin, I am all but a servant here myself, yet you insist I use your familiar name.”

He bowed his head, struggling to beat a smile ignited by her usual impeccable logic and candor. The lines between family members and servants had grown less distinct since her arrival. When his sight returned, he would rectify the lapse. For the time being, he would muddle along with lines between servants and nobility wavering like his sporadic vision.

Even as he entertained those thoughts, his sight came again, allowing him to see Patterson’s shadowy form as he helped Jessica.

Devlin stepped to one side, blinking, again eager to see as much of her as he could.

Her profile grew distinct. He saw the shine of her dark hair pulled back and bound at the crown, before it cascaded down her swanlike neck, and over her ramrod straight back. He was impressed again by her posture and stance. Her carriage was regal.

She was lifting something dark in both hands. It was the breastplate to shield her fragile body, not only from the duke’s blade, but from his perusal as well. Patterson stepped behind her, fitted the plate and tied the laces at her back.

As Patterson fitted the same protection to the duke, Devlin marveled that his eyesight lingered longer than before. He squinted, straining to bring her features into focus, but they swam before him. Because the wavering made him nauseous, he closed his eyes.

A moment later, he whipped the air with his blunted sword, and opened his eyes again, still able to see. Jessica stepped directly in front of him. Damn, her angelic face was hidden behind a mask.

As they saluted one another, he said, “You must talk or hum, Nightingale, so I will know your whereabouts.”

“What opponent is going to give you that advantage, Your Grace?”

He was more annoyed with the return of the familiar darkness than by her ongoing ridicule.

“This one,” he quipped.

Patterson spoke as he returned to the chamber. Devlin was not aware the man had left. The servant carried a tiny bell which he had attached to a length of yarn.

“I suppose we agree then,” Jessica said, continuing their banter, “for Patterson has brought a bell, at my request, and is tying it around my neck to facilitate your search.”

“That will be helpful. My thanks, Nightingale.”

As they circled, each moving to his right, the bell tinkled joyously. “How like a man to claim every advantage,” Jessica taunted.

Devlin pivoted to keep her positioned squarely in front of him. “You have a light step,” he said. “Most male opponents tread heavily, breathe loudly, or grunt or boast as they wield their swords.”

“In this instance, Your Grace, silence and stealth could be among my few allies.”

“Then let’s have the best effort you and your allies can muster, or is it your plan to wear me down with dancing and idle chatter before our swords ever cross?”

She lunged and he parried more gracefully than she thought such a sizable man capable of doing.

“Ah, Your Grace, you perceive my strategy.”

Again they circled, before he jabbed a point at her mid section. She sidestepped, too nimble for the blade.

Admiring their skills, Patterson considered that their swordplay resembled a dance choreographed for the theater, with two well-rehearsed performers.

Henry, the duke’s valet, scurried by in the hallway, but the scene within brought him back and he slipped into the room to stand beside Patterson.

“They make a fair match,” Patterson whispered without taking his eyes from the performance, inhaling sharply when Jessica jabbed but caught only air as the duke did a neat pirouette, dodging the move.

“Well done, Your Grace.” Jessica wanted to be chivalrous, thinking to veil her chagrin at this blind man’s ability to avoid her blade. She intended him no harm, of course, but she grew angrier with each miss, and the pique induced her to greater risks.

Overly eager, she misstepped with a determined thrust and teetered too close as she slashed at his vexingly elusive middle.

Grinning and aware of her disadvantage, Devlin raised the hilt of his blade and brought it down, thinking to thump the top of her head in retaliation for her vigor.

The blow, intended to be only a tap, miscalculated her height, however, and connected with a resounding thud.

Patterson and Henry, joined by a gaggle of maids and one wandering stable boy, all of whom had slipped into the doorway behind them, gasped, yelped, and groaned as Jessica gracefully wilted to the floor. The tinkling bell went silent.

“What happened?” Devlin called. “Jessica? This is no time for playing. Where are you?”

Flailing, his free left hand swiped back and forth to meet only thin air as Devlin slid his feet, nearly stepping on the form crumpled on the ballroom floor.

“Patterson! Someone, come quickly,” he shouted, adding to the muffled confusion as servants prodded one another, fearful that the master would discover they had been idly watching the sham combat, yet frantic to aid the fallen contender.

“What has happened? Any of you! Someone speak up.”

The stable boy swallowed a lump in his throat, ducked low and scurried into the room. He skidded on his knees to a stop near the fallen Jessica.

“You dropped ’er like a rock, Yer Grace,” the boy said, admiration evident in his tone. “She’s down.”

“And out,” a female voice volunteered.

Hearing soft groans, Devlin stopped flailing and shouted to the room at large. “Where is she?”

“Down here, Yer Grace. At yer feet. Watch now, if ye don’t intend trampling ’er to finish ’er off.”

Jessica groaned. Devlin tossed his foil, which skidded over the floor as he dropped to his hands and knees. His concern for appearances forgotten, he crawled, closing on those pitiful sounds. In a moment, his groping hands caught one of hers. He clasped the captive wrist and felt for a pulse. It seemed slow and even compared to the pounding of his own. Her groans and her breathing sounded muffled.

The mask. He pulled closer to her and fumbled with the ties securing the mask against her face. After some blundering and fending off the assistance of other hands, he freed the safeguard and tossed it aside.

He ran his fingers over her thick, coiling hair, searching frantically for the sticky ooze of blood.