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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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Pip and Ben shrugged their shoulders. “We really don't have any other choice, do we?” Ben said.
Flatly, Jacko agreed. “No. The dimber-damber has made sure of that!”
“How soon do you think that he intends for us to start our new endeavor?” Pip asked curiously.
“Within the week, I would suspect. There's that sparring match tomorrow at Fives Court, and we're to work the crowd.... I'll probably see him that evening to turn over whatever trinkets we've managed to steal.”
Pip stretched and muttered, “I suppose once we get a bit of experience behind us, we'll wonder why we ever had any reservations about becoming housebreakers.”
Ben gave the dark, curly head an affectionate caress. “Oh, aye, no doubt you are right. We've become so expert at picking pockets that there is no excitement left—that sparring match tomorrow will probably be rather boring to us, now that we've decided to turn our hands at a different type of crime.”
Knowing the daredevil streak in both of his younger siblings, Jacko frowned. “I wouldn't get too cocky if I were you two—we're very good at what we do, but there is also a possibility of a mistake.”
Pip hooted with laughter. “A mistake? Me, make a mistake? And at a sparring match, at that? You know I find them boring, so I'll be much more inclined to concentrate on business—picking pockets for our dear,
dear
dimber-damber. The bloody bastard!”
 
 
In one of the grand homes that graced Hanover Square, two gentlemen were enjoying a glass of port, having just finished an excellent meal of spring veal and tender peas. They were sitting in an elegantly appointed room, straw-colored silk-hung walls contrasting nicely with the jewel tones of the ruby- and sapphire-hued Oriental rug that lay upon the floor. Tall, narrow windows that overlooked the square were draped in an exquisite ruby velvet, while overhead the many long tapers of a multifaceted crystal chandelier bathed the spacious room in golden light.
His long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, Royce Manchester was sprawled in a high-backed chair near the flames that danced on the hearth of a marble-fronted fireplace. Despite the fact that it was early June, the day had been a chilly one, and Royce was glad of the warmth of the fire. Taking a sip of his port, he remarked, “I trust that the weather will be less inclement tomorrow, when we attend that damned sparring match you insisted I
must
see. Since neither of the pugilists are particularly noted for their skill, I suspect that we shall find it rather boring.”
Zachary Seymour, Royce's young cousin, merely grinned, knowing full well that Royce
never
allowed himself to become bored. If the match proved to be as dull as Royce feared, Zachary was quite certain that his much-admired cousin would find a way to salvage the afternoon.
It would have been obvious to even the most casual observer that the two men were closely related, in spite of the differences in their ages and coloring. At thirty-three, Royce was at the peak of his physical prowess, his tall body lean and fit, with well-defined, powerful muscles, while Zachary, barely twenty years old, was still a stripling, his shoulders not quite as broad, his movements still sometimes revealing the gawky grace of youth. Zachary might not yet have achieved Royce's powerful build, but he had already surpassed his cousin's six-foot-three-inch height by half an inch—much to his delight and Royce's feigned disgust.
But it wasn't only their tall, broad-shouldered bodies that were similar; each possessed the same compelling topaz-colored eyes and arrogantly slashed black brows. And if Royce's thick, tawny hair was in direct contrast to Zachary's black locks, there were still obvious resemblances in their straight noses and strongly molded chins. In ten years time, except for his black hair, Zachary would look very much like his cousin.
His grin widening just a bit, Zachary murmured, “You're probably right, but since we have nothing else planned, it won't harm us to see how handy they are with their fives.” Sending Royce a sly look, he added innocently, “Of course, if the weather remains wet and cold, I could go by myself—I realize that as you grow older, you are more affected by the changes in temperature.”
At Royce's startled look of outrage, Zachary burst out laughing, his dark young face alight with mirth at having slipped under his cousin's guard. “Oh, Royce, if you could just see the expression on your face.”
“I'm pleased that my advancing years give you such delight. Considering that I am such a doddering old man, I am surprised that you consented to come to England with me!”
“Well, at your age, I couldn't very well let you come alone, could I?”
Royce's shout of laughter greeted Zachary's words. “You ungrateful young devil! I
should
have left you in Louisiana with Dominic and your sister, Melissa! I may be on the brink of my grave when viewed from the eyes of an infant, but at least with me you are spared the billing and cooing of our newlyweds!”
“Infant?”
Zachary replied, a little stung, then seeing the teasing glint in Royce's eyes, he grinned a bit shamefacedly. But unwilling to retire from the field defeated, he narrowed his eyes and added dulcetly, “I suppose at your mature age, I do seem an infant.”
Royce was not to be drawn, however, and he merely grinned. “Sometimes, my dear cousin, you do indeed!”
Zachary pulled a face, but decided not to pursue this particular line of conversation further. While Royce was never cruel to those he had affection for, he could be quite blunt in his speech. Thinking over several escapades that he had partaken of in the past few weeks since their arrival in the middle of May in England, Zachary wisely changed the subject.
Getting up from his own chair by the fire, Zachary crossed the room to pour himself another glass of port from a crystal decanter. His glass refilled, he turned to his cousin. “Shall I pour you another while I am up?”
“Why not? The night is still young, and it will not shock the servants if their
backwoods
American employer has to be put to bed with his boots on!”
Despite his words, there was nothing “backwoods” about either Royce or Zachary; from the intricate folds of their starched white cravats to the mirror shine of their boots, both men were as elegantly attired as any aristocratic English gentleman. But Zachary was uneasily aware of a caustic note in Royce's voice that should not have been there.
Returning to his seat by the fire after filling Royce's glass, Zachary asked casually, “Have you seen Lord Devlin recently?”
Royce sent him a sardonic glance. “Now, I wonder why you asked that particular question.”
“Because the only time you get that particular note in your voice is when Lord Devlin has said or done something to annoy you.”
Royce started to deny it, but then thought better of it. “You're perfectly correct. I was at White's earlier today, and as I was on the point of leaving, Lord Devlin and a few of his cronies arrived. That damned fop wrinkled his haughty nose at me as if he smelled the barnyard and murmured just loud enough so that I could hear, ‘I say, it seems as if they let
anyone
join White's these days.' I'll tell you, Zack, I was within ames-ace of calling him out then and there, but George Ponteby was with me and he made certain we left there damned fast.”
Zachary grinned at him. “Well, you shouldn't be so surprised—it isn't as if you've gone out of your way to overcome the Earl's dislike of us these past few weeks.”
An expression of injured innocence on his handsome face, Royce asked ingenuously, “And what, I ask you, did I ever do to arouse his antipathy in the first place?”
Zachary settled back in his chair, plainly enjoying himself. “Well, in the first place, I don't think that you did anything. Lord Stephen Devlin just doesn't like Americans, especially ones with manners as good or better than his own, and—here's the most telling point—ones who are nearly as wealthy as he is.”
“You see! His dislike is entirely irrational!” Royce averred piously, a wicked twinkle in the amber gold eyes at direct variance with his tone of voice.
“Not entirely irrational! The fact that you are an impeccably well-mannered, disgustingly wealthy American with many friends in the best social circles in England may have annoyed him at first, especially since, despite his own aristocratic birth and fortune, he is only tolerated by those same people. But I think that the cause of his
real
animosity toward you may have occurred during your last trip to England, don't you?”
Royce innocently raised his eyebrows. “Why, whatever do you mean? Your new brother-in-law was with me during that trip to England four years ago, and I think if you will ask him, he will tell you that we both behaved with
flawless
decorum.”
Zachary nearly choked with laughter at Royce's words. Dominic Slade had not discussed his previous trip to London with Zachary in any great detail, but from the few comments that Dominic
had
dropped, Zachary strongly suspected that there were
several
incidents that were considerably less than decorous! “Of course, you are right,” Zachary agreed. “His actions are utterly irrational.” Giving his cousin a mocking glance, he murmured, “After all, what did you ever do to him?”
Royce smiled seraphically, staring with great interest at the ruby liquor in his glass.
“I mean, why should the man be upset because four years ago you seduced away his mistress right from under his nose? At least, that's what Dominic intimated one night to me. And of course, no one would be annoyed at losing to you, I believe it was, several thousand pounds playing piquet?
That
happened a scant week after our arrival here, if my memory serves me correctly. Nor would it bother any normal man, after boasting that they owned the finest pair of blooded horses in England, to be soundly bested by you in a race wagered on by half the ton, a race which, let me remind you, occurred just last Wednesday. No. No. You've done nothing to annoy the man at all.”
Looking inordinately pleased with himself, Royce said ruminatively, “Well, you know, I would never have singled him out like that if he hadn't annoyed me so much by acting as if I were dirt under his feet, and if he hadn't been so determined to prove that
he
was superior to a mere ‘colonial.' Hell, we haven't been an English colony for over forty years! And remember—I wasn't the one who challenged him either to the horse race or that damned tedious game of piquet. He left me no choice each time but to accept the gauntlet he'd thrown down.”
“And four years ago, when you stole his mistress?” Zachary inquired with a grin. “Did he challenge you about her, too?”
“Well, no,” Royce admitted readily. “But I ask you, could I leave a high-flyer like the lovely Miranda in the care of a skin-fisted old rake like Devlin?”
“Since I have never met the lovely Miranda, I can't answer your question,” Zachary replied lightly. “But I think you will agree that the Earl of St. Audries does have
some
foundation for his aversion to your company.”
Royce's handsome mouth twisted ruefully. “You know it's the damnedest thing, Zack! I usually don't go out of my way to make enemies, but there is something about Devlin that sets my teeth on edge—and unfortunately, it appears that I have the same effect upon him!”
“Perhaps it's just that the Devlins don't like Americans,” Zachary said gloomily, thinking of his own clashes with Julian Devlin, the Earl's heir and only child.
“Could be,” Royce agreed quietly. “But in your case and Julian's, I think your disagreements have come about because you both are too much alike!”
“Alike?”
Zachary growled with displeasure. “We are nothing alike! How can you possibly compare me with that vain, arrogant puppy?”
Royce smiled at Zachary's words. “Puppy” could very well apply to both Julian Devlin and Zachary Seymour, and while Royce was certain that neither young man was as vain as the other claimed, they were both occasionally arrogant. Despite the animosity between himself and the Earl, Royce actually liked young Devlin, or at least he had seen nothing these past weeks to make him change his initial favorable impression of the young man.
Giving Zachary a lazy smile, Royce said lightly, “Despite your protests, I'll wager that you and young Devlin will be close cronies once you both realize how much you have in common.”
At Zachary's outraged expression, Royce laughed, and rising lithely to his feet, he murmured, “I'll leave you to mull that over while I go in search of far more amiable company—prettier, too!”
A knowing look crossed Zachary's face. “The fair Della?”
“Naturally!”
Driving his pair of high-stepping horses through the London traffic toward the comfortable little house that he had procured for his new mistress, Della Camden, Royce decided that this trip to London was really an excellent experience for his young cousin. Except for a few race meets in Virginia, Zachary hadn't been more than ten miles away from Willowglen, the plantation near Baton Rouge in Louisiana where he and his sister, Melissa, had been born. It was past time that Zachary gained a little “town bronze,” and London was certainly the place for
that!

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