Whisper To Me of Love (50 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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If Royce and any of the others noticed that she seemed oddly subdued when they returned from town shortly after noon that day, no one commented on it, and when she mentioned having a headache just before four o'clock that afternoon and stated that she wanted to lie down quietly for a few hours, no one was very surprised. A concerned expression on his handsome features, Royce escorted her to the stairs. “Would you like me to keep you company, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
Realizing miserably that this could be the last time that she ever saw him, she felt a lump swell up painfully in her throat, and her eyes misted. Hungrily she stared at him, memorizing the sweep of his long black lashes, the intense brilliance of those amber gold eyes, and the chiseled planes of his beloved face. Helplessly she reached out to brush back an unruly lock of tawny hair, and her voice unnaturally husky from the emotions she was concealing, she muttered, “No. Just let me lie down quietly until it is time to dress for dinner.” She forced a smile to her lips and managed to say lightly, “And if you disturb me before then, I shall be quite cross with you.”
He grinned. “Very well, my dear. You have my word on it—I shall let no one, including me, into your room until then.”
It was what she wanted to hear and yet she lingered, not able to tear herself away from him. Royce was watching her intently, almost as if he knew that something was very wrong, and aware that it would be fatal to arouse his suspicions, she turned and was on the point of going upstairs when there was the sound of approaching horses. Curious, she stood there, one foot on the bottom stair, Royce still by her side, as Chambers appeared and walked sedately across the wide hall to answer the knock on the door.
After a brief moment of low conversation, Chambers said over his shoulder as he ushered two gentlemen into the wide hallway, “Sir, it is your cousin come to visit from London.”
The two fashionably attired men were strangers to Morgana, but she had barely noticed the older man before her disbelieving gaze fell upon the classically sculpted features of the tall, young, dark-haired man standing just behind him. A small, shocked gasp escaped from her as she stared mesmerized into features that bore an amazing resemblance to her own! Clutching the banister as if it were the only thing that kept her standing, she watched as his gray eyes met hers and his face reflected the astonished consternation that she knew was on her own face. Her voice rusty and thick, she demanded, “Who
are
you?”
Like a man in a daze, he took two steps toward her and said almost numbly, “I am Julian Devlin. Who are
you?”
C
HAPTER
30
R
oyce had known that Morgana was going to come face-to-face with either Julian or Stephen eventually—he just hadn't expected it to be under these circumstances, and he cursed himself roundly for not having foreseen just such an awkward incident as the one that was rapidly unfolding in his foyer. Unlike the other occupants of the spacious hallway, he recovered himself immediately and, with magnificent aplomb, murmured, “I think that I can answer both of your questions—Morgana, I'd like to introduce you to a gentleman I believe is your half brother, Julian Devlin. Julian, this is my wife, Morgana Manchester.”
George, who had been as transfixed as the others, visibly started at Royce's words, and fumbling for his quizzing glass, quickly positioned it and stared intently at Morgana. “Apparent she's a Devlin,” George finally stated, “but she ain't Julian's sister, even on the wrong side of the blanket, and if she
was
Morgana, she'd be his cousin, not his sister, but she ain't Morgana—Morgana Devlin died at birth! Fact!”
In utter bewilderment, everyone stared at George. “What the devil are you talking about?” Royce demanded sharply, one arm curved protectively around Morgana's slim shoulders.
George glanced at the fascinated expression on Chambers's face and said meaningfully, “Think we should retire to some place less public.”
Zachary and Jack, drawn by their voices, stepped into the hall at that moment, and Zachary, his gaze darting from one face to the other, took in the situation instantly. Ignoring Jack's astonished gulp when he caught sight of Julian, Zachary swiftly crossed to Julian's side and, grasping his nerveless hand, pumped it vigorously up and down and exclaimed heartily, “Julian! By heaven, this is a pleasant surprise! Come into the salon and let me introduce you to a new friend of mine, Jack Fowler, Morgana's brother.”
Silently blessing his cousin for his tact, Royce said smoothly, “Of course! Let us all adjourn to the salon, where we may be more comfortable.” Gently urging a dazed Morgana along with him, he efficiently herded everyone toward the salon, stopping only long enough to say to Chambers “Please bring us a tray of refreshments—whiskey preferably!”
Numbly Morgana let Royce guide her to a chair in the salon and sinking down on it, she was unable to tear her gaze away from Julian Devlin's so very familiar face. Julian was having the same difficulty and the two of them were oblivious to everyone else, each one hardly able to believe in the stunning similarity of their features. Their resemblance to each other was even more remarkable since they were both of the same age and they could very well have been twins except for the differences that existed between Morgana's feminine features and Julian's definitely masculine ones.
There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, Royce closely watching Morgana, George absently twirling his quizzing glass as he stared off into space, Zachary's and Jack's eyes moving from first Morgana's face and then to Julian's while those two continued to look at each other in incredulous disbelief. Chambers's entrance, with a tray loaded with several different kinds of refreshments, a few moments late momentarily introduced an air of normalcy and there was a flurry of movement and sporadic conversation while everyone was served.
Upon the butler's departure, silence would have fallen again had not Royce, a glass of whiskey in his hand, said bluntly, “And now George, would you mind explaining your very odd statements earlier.”
“Nothing very odd about 'em!” George retorted smartly, “Told you Morgana Devlin died... .” he thought a bit and then continued, “nineteen years ago this spring. Everyone knew it! Why I even had a wager with Newell about whether Andrew's get would be a boy or girl! Remember it distinctly! Remember I won because the child was a girl—Morgana!”
George's words made even less sense than his previous ones, and shaking his head, Royce asked grimly, “Who the hell is Andrew, and what does he have to do with this situation?”
Julian roused himself slightly, and tearing his eyes away from Morgana's face, he said quietly, “I assume he is talking about Andrew Devlin, the sixth Earl of St. Audries; he was my uncle—my father inherited the title from him.”
“Exactly!” George said happily. “Andrew Devlin, capital fellow! Liked 'im! Everybody did!”
“Are you telling me that Morgana is Andrew's byblow and not Stephen's?” Royce demanded with an edge to his voice.
“Already told you she ain't Morgana, but she couldn't be Stephen's, has to be Andrew's,” George replied testily.
“How do you know that?”
George looked at Royce as if he were rather simpleminded and then, turning to Morgana, asked, “How old are you, gel?”
It never occurred to her to object to his right to question her, and she replied unhesitatingly, “Nineteen. I became nineteen this year, on the ninth of May.”
At her answer, George's face paled, he took an agitated step backward, stared hard at her, and reaching for his quizzing glass, examined her even more closely from head to toe, almost as if she were some new form of life. Putting his quizzing glass down, he began to pace up and down the elegant room, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Obviously he was deep in thought, and everyone watched him, waiting with breathless expectancy for him to speak. Stopping suddenly in front of Morgana, he barked, “Your mother! What was her name?”
Morgana swallowed nervously and muttered, “Jane Fowler.”
“High-flyer that had all the bucks atwitter twenty-five, thirty years ago? Striking gel—tall, bosomy creature with a head full of chestnut curls and china blue eyes?”
“Yes,” Morgana answered reluctantly.
George reached again for his quizzing glass. “You don't have the look of her—you're a little slip of a thing, don't look at all like her! Not a bit.”
Morgana bit her lip. “She always told me that I took after my father's side of the family.”
George snorted. “Oh, you've the look of the Devlins, I'll grant you that, but there is something about the shape of your face and ...” He looked a little uncomfortable, and clearing his throat, said gruffly, “Something about your small size and the slender build of you that reminds me of someone I met over twenty years ago in London.” He glanced at Royce. “Remember it because she was the only female I ever felt the slightest inclination to marry. Remember a lot of things. Got an excellent memory. Remember things everyone has forgotten.” When Royce would have impatiently interrupted him, George added hastily, “Thing is, I was only nineteen and she was already married. New bride in fact, on her honeymoon.”
Royce was frowning. “And? What does all this have to do with my wife and her resemblance to the Devlins?”
George stood in the middle of the room, and it was apparent that he was grappling with a great problem. Finally, his expression extremely thoughtful, he said, “Think I should tell you a story.”
Standing behind Morgana's chair, one hand resting possessively on her shoulder, Royce said grimly, “Tell your damn story, but get to the point of it.”
George nodded and, with surprising succinctness, related a series of fascinating events, starting with Stephen Devlin's marriage to Lucinda and their subsequent, indefinite, removal to the continent, where Julian had been born. He touched briefly on Andrew Devlin's whirlwind courtship and marriage to the lovely little heiress of Bath and ended with an explanation of Andrew's death as well as those of his wife and infant daughter. His audience had listened raptly, their eyes locked in various degrees of astonishment and consternation on his face.
When he finished speaking, there was utter silence until Royce said slowly, “George, I've heard that tale before—perhaps not all of it, but Zachary mentioned something about it weeks ago in London. And while it is a very sad and affecting tale, will you please explain what the devil it has to do with Morgana!”
After taking a deep, fortifying sip of his wine, George replied evenly, “Well, there are still some things that I know that you don't, but one thing should be apparent from my story—Stephen can't have been her father; he was in Venice or some such place when she was conceived!” George thought a moment, then added fairly, “At least, he was supposed to be; didn't appear in England until Andrew had been dead for over a fortnight.”
Royce was now staring very hard at George, a curious feeling of premonition stealing through his body.
Morgana had listened to the story so far in a state of curiosity, impatience, and growing bewilderment. What did these people, one of whom was named Andrew, have to do with her? She understood from George's exchange with Royce that it would seem that
Andrew
Devlin, not
Stephen
Devlin, was her father, which would explain his earlier statement about being Julian's cousin, and she was conscious of a curious feeling of relief that the icily arrogant man she had seen that day was her uncle and
not
her father! Andrew sounded much nicer! And it was comforting to know that he hadn't just abandoned her, that he had been dead by the time she was born—he might not even have known that Jane was pregnant when he died. Her voice soft with a mixture of wonder and pleasure, she said, “So Julian is my
cousin
and not my brother.”
George nodded, but fixed a stern, considering gaze on her. “Is your name really Morgana ... or did you just choose it to give yourself airs?”
Morgana stiffened furiously in her seat, her lovely eyes darkening with outrage. Her chin lifted haughtily, and through clenched teeth she got out, “It is
my
name! My mother gave it to me! And how dare you imply otherwise!”
George looked at her flushed, angry features a long time, and then, giving her a twisted smile, he bowed and said softly, “When you're angry, you resemble your mother to an astonishing degree.” A tenderly reminiscent smile curved his mouth and he muttered, “She was a gentle soul, wanting to please everyone, but if you made her angry ...” He shook himself as if brushing away a ghostly memory, and then, glancing back to Morgana, asked quietly, “You're certain of your birth date?”
Not the least mollified by anything he had said so far, the black curls fairly bristling with dislike, she snapped, “Yes! Just as I'm certain my name is Morgana, I know that I was born on May ninth, in the year 1796!”
“Interesting!” George said to the room at large, a peculiar expression crossing his usually amiable features. He glanced at Julian and, meeting Julian's intent gaze, muttered, “Don't think you're going to like what I'm going to imply next, and before you fly up into the boughs and decide to call me out, I'll tell you right now, I ain't meeting you—no matter how much you think I've insulted you!”
Looking across at Royce, George took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Think you should know something about that infant girl that died... .” He risked another wary glance at Julian before continuing reluctantly, “Everyone knew that the Devlins were poor as church mice. Oh, it's true St. Audries Hall was once a fine place, but that was before Andrew and Stephen's father had played ducks and drakes with the family fortune. Everyone knew that if Andrew married, it would have to be for money, and no one was very surprised that when he was finally leg-shackled, it was to an heiress.” He hesitated, and appearing more and more uncomfortable, he went on doggedly, “When Andrew died, Stephen inherited the title and the little of the estate that was covered by the entail, but the
money
belonged to Hester ... or her child if she died.”
George cleared his throat nervously and took a sip of wine. “Everyone knew it—great many wagers in London about what Stephen was going to do if Hester and/or the child lived. Lot of speculation and rumor that spring about what was happening at St. Audries Hall. Everyone knew that the little widow was ill, that she hadn't wanted to live after Andrew was murdered, and no one was surprised when she died.” Shooting an assessing glance at Julian's set features, he said bluntly, “People
were
surprised when the infant died. Lots of gossip about that! All sorts of ugly things were whispered—that Stephen had smothered the baby at birth, that Lucinda had drowned the infant.... Someone even said they had sold the baby to a band of gypsies as soon as Hester died. Lots of gossip.”
Morgana stared at George in growing horror, her eyes huge in her face, and she wondered if he was mad. She sent Julian an apologetic look, but it was obvious that Julian had reached the end of his forbearance.
His fists curled menacingly at his sides, he stood aggressively in front of George and demanded furiously, “Are you implying that my parents committed such a despicable act?”
Appearing not the least bit ruffled by Julian's actions, George met his angry gaze and said calmly, “Ain't implied anything yet—just repeated gossip! But before you work yourself into a rage, think you should know two very interesting things—the child that died was named Morgana, which isn't a very common name, and she was born on May ninth, 1796!”
Royce's hand involuntarily tightened on Morgana's shoulder at George's words, but she was not aware of his movement as she sat there stunned. Julian went white at his words, and he looked dazedly from Morgana's face to George's. His eyes dark with horror and disbelief, he demanded thickly, “Are you saying that she is my
legitimate
cousin? That my parents gave the baby to this Jane Fowler and then claimed that the infant had died?”

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