Nightingale (37 page)

“Not to a rich man like yerself, yer lordship.”

The duke risked a direct look into Lout’s eyes and saw the man had more spark to him than Devlin expected. “Of course, we are asking you to sacrifice your marriage to an attractive young woman.”

“Yes, well, there’s that to consider too, yer honor.”

Now that they were down to it, Devlin realized he wanted Lout to relinquish all claims to Jessica. The offered money had mellowed Lout, had him sounding agreeable. It might be wise to raise the ante.

“A sum like one hundred pounds should guarantee more than temporary restraint.”

Lout eyed him suspiciously. “Begging yer pardon, gov’ner, I miss yer meaning.”

“What I mean is, for one hundred pounds, I would expect you to renounce your betrothal, along with any other claims you might have upon the lady.”

Lout’s frown indicated thoughtful consideration before he grunted what sounded like acceptance. Devlin wanted to be sure.

“Do you agree?

“I do, yer worship.”

The many wrong titles Lout used gnawed at Devlin. He wanted to correct the man, however, he didn’t want to upset negotiations when they were progressing so well, so he held back.

“Exactly what is it ye’d expect of me for yer blunt, your lordship?”

“You will release Miss Blair from her betrothal and … ” He added as an afterthought, “you must give your word never again to speak of your past association with the lady.”

“One hundred for me letting ’er out of it permanent, free as a bird, so to speak?”

“I thought the offer of a prosperous future for a woman you profess to love plus one hundred pounds extremely generous.”

Lout gazed at his hands fisted together on the wooden table and shook his head. “If it were only up to me, I might be willing to walk, ye see, but there’s my ma and pa to consider, too.”

“Is Miss Blair obligated some way to your parents?”

“Not so’s anyone else would know, but she loves my folks like they was ’er own kin. They’ve been counting on ’er to be the one to bring a herd of young Louts into ther lives to brighten ther last dreary days on this earth.”

Devlin recognized the story for what it was: a credible, spontaneous, fabrication. Lout was more facile mentally than the duke had anticipated.

“I didn’t realize there were family obligations involved. Obviously I have overstepped.” Devlin slid his chair back, annoyed with himself for underestimating his adversary. It was not the thing a seasoned campaigner would do, exposing his position like that.

Lout was on his feet quickly, his tone apologetic. Devlin took heart as he saw Lout wring his cap in his meaty hands. “I can settle it with ’em for ye, Yer Grace, if ye could see to parting with a wee bit more — say another twenty pounds?”

The man did know the proper means of address and had been vexing Devlin intentionally with the other designations. Concerned the duke might walk away from the deal, Lout leaped to bargain for more. Devlin felt victorious, but kept his face a blank.

“I want this to work, Lout,” Devlin said, “but it is of more interest to others than to me. I was willing to give it a modicum of my time, and a reasonable amount of cash, but not an inordinate portion of either.” He paused. “All right, an additional twenty, but not a shilling more. Do you and your family relinquish all claims upon Jessica Blair for the total sum of one hundred twenty pounds?”

Lout nodded, but studied the duke suspiciously making Devlin wonder if he had revealed too much. He had decided to renege on the additional twenty pounds when Lout said, “I’m thinking ye do well at the tables, Yer Grace.”

“I’m not much of a gambler. I usually avoid gaming.”

Lout continued nodding and eying him. “Ye may have missed yer calling, Yer Grace.”

Carriages came and went Saturday morning. Patterson noticed that Devlin was out of his study on an unusual number of errands, which kept him circulating, greeting the parade of suitors coming and going.

Patterson surprised the duke once listening at the closed salon doors. “Your mother is with them, Your Grace, if you are concerned about the young lady’s reputation.”

Devlin grimaced, but did not abandon his post. Patterson, too, stopped to listen a moment to the simpering voices of several admirers in that chamber, driveling on about Jessica: her luminescent skin, the silky shine of her hair, her charm, her wit, her manners. The old retainer arched his eyebrows and smiled to himself. If anyone knew the minds of those young gallants, it would be the duke. Patterson rather enjoyed seeing Devlin’s agitation. The duke knew how to thwart inappropriate posturing. He had seen — maybe even practiced — similar ploys for years.

Devlin gritted his teeth, exercising already tense jaw muscles, clenched and unclenched his fists in and out of his trouser pockets, and paced. As the number of Jessica’s suitors increased daily, the duke’s patience diminished at a like rate, and the list of those he considered suitable husband material dwindled with equal dispatch.

The dowager, on the other hand, grew more cheerful with each name Devlin or Jessica crossed off the list, much to Devlin’s surprise. Lady Anne appeared to have decided on a husband already, and was biding her time until Devlin and his ward came to her foregone conclusion. Everyone abandoned thoughts of preparing Jessica as a governess.

Through the morning, Devlin recognized several voices: Pearce Rockwell and Clement Browne, both too old; Peter Fry, too devious; Marion Criswell, a notorious gambler and card cheat; William Touchstone, a rake who had maintained the same mistress for a dozen years and doubtless would continue the liaison after he was wed. Voices he did not recognize made the duke edgier than those he did.

One thing he knew: thus far, not one showed worthy of the prize.

He stepped back into the alcove, in the shadows beneath the stairs, to allow a group to pass, then launched himself into the face of Touchstone the Rake.

“Do not come here again.” The duke’s flashing eyes conveyed clear warning indicating argument might lead to bloodshed.

“See here, Miracle, the girl likes me.”

“She doesn’t know you, Touchstone. Before supper tonight, she will. Do not return, and do not let me hear you have spoken her name in any company. Is that clear?”

The visitor glanced at Patterson stationed by the front doors. The butler kept his eyes averted, although he had heard Devlin’s warning.

Touchstone slapped his gloves against his open palm, perhaps hinting, appraising his challenger.

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Do not forget with whom you are dealing, Touchstone.”

The other man jutted his chin a moment, then bowed, conceding the point.

Making no effort to hurry, Touchstone donned his gloves. When he delayed his departure, Devlin made a growling noise in his throat, as if he were clearing it.

Touchstone’s eyes rounded, he wheeled and walked briskly to the door, which Patterson opened with uncharacteristic haste.

Devlin felt better satisfied by the way both Touchstone and Patterson responded to his anger, but as he turned, he came face to face with someone who did not: Jessica.

“You are never to do that again.” Her voice rasped with raw emotion.

“Do what?” Devlin asked, pretending innocence.

“Intimidate a caller of mine.”

He tried to realign his features to a more docile expression as he moved closer, his arms opening to embrace her. “Now, now, Nightingale. Darling.”

She turned a shoulder to him, pivoting to return to the salon. “Do not try to gull me changing faces like that. I have seen your entire repertoire, chameleon. Neither dissembling nor disguise will work on me.”

Posting himself between Jessica and the door to the salon, where his mother remained seated, Devlin touched the girl’s shoulder.

“Jessica, there is no reason to carry on. Not one man calling here today is worth the snap of your fingers.” He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. “Certainly not one of them deserves the dowry I’ve put behind you.”

She rubbed her hands together as she whirled to face him. “Damn you, Devlin Miracle, my regard cannot be reduced to a sum of money, nor am I a horse to be auctioned to the highest bidder. I am a woman, with a heart and a soul.”

The unfairness of her statement offended him. “Your welfare is my only interest, dear heart.” He looked toward the salon as if conjuring images of the men who had paraded in and out through the morning.

“Which of those do you consider whole cloth from which you might tailor a suitable husband? Enlighten me, for I cannot venture a guess. I guarantee you one thing: if you name at this moment one you deem acceptable, I will have you married to the man before the year is out. Tell me now, which one has won your heart, or even your fancy?”

She looked ready to explode, but something in his face calmed her. She stared at him a long moment. When she spoke, her tone was soft.

“Is your plan to scuttle the interest of any man who finds value in me? Are you determined to protect them from the callous scullery maid you mistakenly took into your home?” She withdrew as he advanced a step toward her. “Do you fear I will corrupt their titles or sacred bloodlines or disturb lives of humdrum tedium, absent any depth of genuine meaning?”

He cleared his throat in an attempt to interrupt, but she was not to be thwarted. “I’ll grant I have little knowledge of how society functions, but I have depths neither you nor your kind can plumb.”

His face twisted with unbelief. “You cannot be serious. You cannot suppose for a moment that I consider you unworthy of any of these lapdogs. Darling … ”

“Don’t address me with those empty endearments you use with your friends in that sneering way. I have seen you and your ilk. I understand your contempt for acquaintances you address that way. Do not reduce our … our friendship to that.”

“What do you mean my ilk?” His voice contained a warning. Closing the scant distance between them, Devlin caught her arms. Steadying her, his expression softened. He ran his hands to her shoulders and back to her elbows before shifting them to her waist.

“Our friendship? My precious little hen wit, what I feel for you is much more than friendship. You know I adore you. Admit that much, at least.”

She struggled in a halfhearted attempt to free herself, but he held her fast.

“Jessica, have you no feminine instincts?” He scanned her face before his gaze settled on her full, pouting mouth. His entire body tensed in remarkable ways — in remarkable places. Surprised, he nearly retreated, but consciously commanded his hands to maintain their hold on her. He tried to rein in his emotions, passion, which, until that moment, he had been only vaguely aware existed.

Reeling, he tried to control his facial expression and his hold on her and, at the same time, examine the reason for his sudden, inexplicable, emotional instability.

Defying his will, one of his hands crept up her arm to her shoulder where it lingered a moment before it rose further to clamp her warm, firm throat.

As if not wanting to challenge his movements, she turned her head and directed her dark, tempestuous gaze to the floor.

Devlin thumbed the point of her pert little chin. Proportionately, it was too short for her face, a face with enormous eyes, the fickle color of which was concealed at the moment by lashes that lay softly on flushed cheeks.

His thoughts darted here and there like a mouse staying beyond the claws of the scullery cat. Of the men pursuing Jessica, Lattimore probably was most promising. In all fairness, however, Devlin wanted to respect Jessica’s opinion and she did not favor Lattie. Feeling vaguely satisfied at that random thought, Devlin released a deep, shuddering sigh. Neither he nor Jessica spoke.

His mother opposed Jessica’s betrothal to John Lout. That, of course, was a joke. John Lout did not now, nor had he ever, qualified as a mate for their beloved Nightingale.

Then who? Devlin felt genuinely perplexed as he gradually and thoughtfully released her. Dolefully, he watched as she withdrew and fluttered silently up the stairs.

• • •

The dining table was set for one when Devlin went down for supper Saturday evening.

“Where are the ladies?” he asked. Each day he looked forward to meals with his two companions. Lattie was there as often as not.

Patterson presented his usual inscrutable face, but there seemed an unusual twinkle in his eyes. “The lady Jessica requested a tray be brought to her rooms.”

“I see.” Devlin nodded. “She is sulking, I suppose, angry that I would not allow her to attend Benoits tonight.”

Patterson stiffened slightly. “I suppose you are correct, Your Grace.”

“What of my mother?”

“She, too, asked for a tray.”

“She’s not ill, is she?”

Patterson’s smile escaped before he could pull it back under control. “No, Your Grace. In fact, she seems in particularly high spirits.”

“Then why is she not dining here? With me?”

“She was involved in something and didn’t want to set it aside. She even asked that the tray be delayed.”

Pacing, Devlin locked his hands behind his back and strolled the length of the room before he finally sat in his lone place at the table that could accommodate as many as thirty.

He did not have much appetite, dawdled over his food, and replayed in his mind his declaration about not allowing Jessica to attend Benoits.

He would make it up to her. Only yesterday he had found a nice, dapple gray gelding to draw the jaunty black cabriolet he had purchased as a surprise for her. Jessica often took his mother out and about — with a driver, of course — in the afternoons on social excursions. He smiled, visualizing Jessica driving them in their airy little conveyance.

Jessica would never have asked for a rig of her own, but he had seen her eying the young matrons who enjoyed the independence of driving themselves, a practice that was the latest rage.

Another thought: Margolin owned a well-behaved black filly that Jessica would enjoy, tall enough to accommodate her long legs, and black, like Sweetness. They would make a handsome, pair, stallion and filly, taking the afternoon air. Devlin scowled, before he allowed a smile of surrender. Jessica had him thinking of Vindicator as Sweetness.