A Deal with Lord Devlin (2 page)

Quite the nerve, indeed.

Not known for his sunny disposition, James broke into a wide smile as his mother tittered about in a panic.

“Oh, Lady Mallen! I didn’t see you arrive, so busy tonight, you see. How lovely you look this evening. Have you noticed our gorgeous fruit sculpture?”

The whole room seemed to freeze while Lady Mallen gazed at the dripping swan.

“A fitting tribute for Sir Greenshaw’s marriage.”

She ended her statement with a deep curtsey just as the orange adorning the swan’s eye fell from the top of the melting sculpture and rolled beneath the sweets table.

“Lucy!” James’s mother yelled for his eldest sister. “Tell Cook we need more goose lard!”

James’s gaze followed the beautiful Charlotte as she swept through the whispering crowd. She didn’t look the least bit damaged to him. In fact, she looked like a goddess, strong and proud, as she turned to give his mother one last smile before disappearing from the room.

He could easily see what drew his cousin to her, divorced or not. Lady Mallen might be the perfect one to help him get his fortune back.

****

Charlotte despised the Devlin family.

All alone in one of Lady Devlin’s hideously decorated drawing rooms, the divorced wife of Lord Mallen seethed with anger and humiliation.

“The Devilish Devlins,” she muttered into the silence. A nickname long whispered behind their backs, though not even the Prince Regent himself would dare say it too loudly. The power and wealth of the Devlin family gained them a respect they certainly didn’t earn with their goodwill or manners. Charlotte didn’t know which member of the massive family she disliked the most. Certainly Andrew should be at the top of her list. He was the reason she was in this horrible predicament, after all, and the object of tonight’s revenge. Following a close second would be his aunt, the Dowager Countess of Devlin. That woman could melt snow with her evil glare. She, along with the rest of the ladies in the family, seemed to think it was their duty to make others feel as low as snakes. And her son! The black-haired Earl of Devlin might well have been the most devilish of them all. He certainly looked like a villain, staring down at her through his monocle. He had the absolute gall to just stand there and smile while his mother insulted her in front of everyone. The man actually looked like he could barely hold in his laughter! Well, she’d had enough. Charlotte no longer cared to impress the devilish Devlins. She came here tonight to make Andrew pay for casting her off like a bit of muslin. She had planned to throw his crumpled love letters back into his face, but her anger gave her a much better idea.

The fireplace.

“Of course! I shall burn Sir Greenshaw’s letters!” she cried, ripping the papers one by one into tiny pieces to toss into the fire on the hearth.

How dare the man! After two long years of hiding away in the country, she was finally dipping her satin slippers back into the terrifying waters of London society. And now it was all destroyed. “Horrid Andrew and his faradiddles!” She crushed a rather tedious love poem in her fist and tossed it into the roaring flames.

After much consideration, she had allowed Sir Andrew Greenshaw to court her this season
.
Andrew was
Charlotte’s perfect match in every way. Not a single whiff of scandal attached to his name, no gambling debts, no little indiscretions, not even a side-slip to cover up. Everything had been perfectly planned for a timely engagement that would redeem Charlotte’s reputation.

Well, Andrew was certainly getting married, but it wasn’t to her. This should be Charlotte’s engagement ball. With a sharp pang of despair she ran a hand down the length of her blue silk jacquard gown. She may as well toss that in the fire too! A pity such a gorgeous gown was going to waste. It was the very softest color of blue she had ever seen, almost silvery in the right glow of candlelight. Charlotte had instructed the seamstress to add a gold-colored rope trim across the neckline, sleeves, and directly below her bodice for decoration, a perfect match for her eyes. She would have looked stunning in the gold-and-blue gown, twirling around the dance floor in the arms of her adored fiancé—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shrill scream from the doorway.

“Lady Mallen, do take care! You are much too close to the fire!”

Charlotte spared a glance to see a dark-haired girl of about seventeen standing at the doorway with a giant tray of oranges.

Lady Devlin’s daughter.

“Please step back before the flame catches your gown!” The youngest Lady Devlin (or was she the middle one? Charlotte could never tell them apart) was hopping about with her oranges like a rabbit with ringlets.

“I will not be stopped.” Charlotte tore another strip from her letter, intent on her task. “And afterwards, I shall dump the ashes on his gold-buckled shoes!”

“Oh, please do stop!” Lucy begged. “Your skin will turn the most unsavory color if you burn.”

Ignoring the girl, Charlotte pushed past the grate to reach closer to the dwindling flames, paying no attention to the hem of her gown when it brushed up against a stray piece of coal. “Thoughtless, deceiving man! He thinks he can just court me for weeks and profess his love—”

“Your gown…” Lucy tumbled forward, scattering oranges everywhere. “Oh, Mama’s sculpture! This is awful!”

“He has ruined me!” Charlotte flung another strip into the fire. “The final nail in my coffin. I shall never be invited back into polite society again— What is that terrible smell?”

“You’re burning!” Lucy screamed.

A pair of strong arms pulled her from the fireplace at the very moment she realized her gown was on fire.

Charlotte let out a scream as the ashes from the half-burnt paper went flying through the air, fluttering all around her like a gray blizzard. She was on fire! Horrible Andrew had caused her to catch on fire!

“Water, Lucy!” a male voice barked out.

Charlotte’s backside hit the floor. The room was thrown into chaos as Lucy ran about grabbing vases to dump on the blazing skirt.

“Here!” In her panic, the young girl tossed one entire vase, roses and all, toward Charlotte’s head.

Charlotte managed to duck just in time, but her savior was not so lucky. She heard a loud crack, followed by an even louder expletive, as the vase found a target. She peered back to see a rather wet gentleman dressed in the most hideous color she’d ever seen.

“Lord Devlin!” she cried, recognizing the Earl’s dark frown as he looked up at her, rubbing his left temple. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Hardly the greeting I deserve for saving your life,” he retorted, smacking at the lace of her rather charred underskirt. “And just what do you think you’re doing, jabbing at the fireplace?”

She gasped, yanking the delicate lace out of his reach to cover every inch of her exposed ankles. How dare he speak in such a saucy tone, and after knocking her down, to boot! He should be assisting her to her feet and apologizing.

“I found her all alone in here!” Lucy contributed, eager to help. “Mama said no one was allowed in the Oriental room, but I don’t think she meant any harm. Lady Mallen, did the flames touch your skin? Shall I have them call for a doctor?”

“I am fine, Lucy.” She impatiently brushed a few droplets of water from her arm before turning back to the gentleman in front of her. “Do not trouble yourself, sir. I am quite unharmed.”

“I can see that,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Thanks to me. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to stand so close to an open flame?”

He didn’t look as though he expected an answer to his insulting question, and she wasn’t about to grace him with one.

“I’ll have you know,” she snapped, still sitting on the floor, surrounded by flower petals, ashes, and torn paper, “that I was attempting to burn a most despicable love letter, from
your
cousin.”

Lucy gasped as Lord Devlin peered down at her, his eyes sharply blue through the gold rim of his absurd monocle. “We have forty-seven first cousins, madam. You will have to be more specific.”

She bristled at his tone. How was she supposed to know he had that many relatives? Her cousins numbered six. “I am speaking of your cousin Sir Andrew Greenshaw,” she replied tartly. She was certain that would gain her a bit of respect.

The Earl drew back as though she held a plate full of spoiled fish. “Then I have no doubt your letter contains nothing but rubbish.”

Charlotte didn’t care one bit for his superior tone. How dare this man insult his own family? “Andrew may be a lying gabster, but he is twice the gentleman you are. He never spoke ill of his family and would
never
leave a lady sitting on the floor.” She crossed her arms, enjoying the tinge of embarrassment across the Earl’s face.

“Andrew does have rather good manners,” Lucy chimed in, gaining a harsh glare from her brother.

“And you have a rose petal in your cravat,” Charlotte childishly sang out, pointing toward the soaked neckcloth. “Andrew’s cravats are so stiff a strong wind cannot unruffle them.”

“Lady Mallen certainly speaks the truth about that.” Now that the threat of fire had passed, Lucy seemed eager to converse. “Mama says no gentleman in London dresses better than Cousin Andrew.”

“I am sick to death of hearing about Andrew’s virtues,” Lord Devlin replied, fumbling at the front of his shirt. “Perhaps you can borrow his starch for your bizarre hairpiece, unless it’s supposed to be worn on your ear?”

Charlotte gasped, one hand flying to the side of her head. “Bizarre, indeed!” She struggled to replace it on top of her curls. “It is made from ostrich feathers!”

“Looks rather more like you raided the pigeon coop.” He ended his offensive speech by holding out his hand to assist her.

She slapped it away. The outrage! Insulting Andrew was one thing, but insulting her very expensive Parisian hairpiece was unforgiveable.

“I very much doubt I will be taking advice from you,” she snapped, determined to avenge the slight against her wardrobe. Her eyes settled on the closest thing to her. “Your boots are shockingly dusty and very old-fashioned! I suggest you instruct your valet to throw them out.”

“Because of the dirt? Or the lack of style?”

“Either reason would be sufficient,” she sniffed, tripping over torn lace as she tried to regain her feet and landing once again on the floor.

“Oh, do let me call a doctor, Lady Mallen!” Lucy ran over to assist by thrusting a vial of smelling salts under Charlotte’s nose. “Think of the scars you could have inflicted on yourself. The good Lord certainly must have sent my brother to you. He planned for James to arrive at just the right moment.”

“It wasn’t the
Lord
who sent him.” Her senses returning, Charlotte realized how very humiliating this all must look. And the Earl wasn’t helping the situation, either. Why, he hadn’t even bothered to help her to her feet! “Andrew apparently received all the manners in the family.”

Lord Devlin stared down at her, his hands clasped firmly behind him. “You are so enamored with my cousin, then?”

“Certainly not,” she informed him, pushing away Lucy’s hand and the smelling salts. “This letter,” she held up a charred piece in her fist, “is informing me that
my
Andrew had decided to become engaged to another woman.”

Lord Devlin turned his gaze toward his little sister, who was soaking up every word. “Quick, Lucy, run and fetch Lady Mallen a glass of something cool.”

“Must I?” she said, looking eager to hear the rest. One dark glare from her brother sent her running.

“It gets worse,” Charlotte continued, rather hoping the Earl never looked at her that way. “You will never believe who he has tossed me aside for.”

“Himself?” James spoke up, attempting to read from the unburnt papers scattered about the floor. “The man never met a mirror he didn’t fall in love with.”

“This isn’t the time for jests, Lord Devlin! Andrew has set me aside for—”

“Lady Francesca Delton,” James said quietly. He extended his hand toward her for the second time. Exhausted from her outburst, she accepted.

“I am well aware of Andrew’s marriage plans. I’m hosting his engagement ball, after all.”

“I know that,” she said, unnerved by the sympathy she saw in his eyes. “I am merely still in shock over a gentleman who would break his own word.” Everything had been going so well with Andrew. On the arm of a man like Sir Andrew Greenshaw, Charlotte would have been accepted, even welcomed back into society.

“What do you mean by that?” Lord Devlin said sharply, still holding onto her. “Did Andrew make some sort of promise to you in these letters?”

“
I love you more than the morning air, worship the sweet grass beneath your feet, and await the day I can call us husband and wife,”
Charlotte recited, her anger rearing up again like a riled snake.

“He actually signed his own name to such nonsense?” James snatched the letter before she could protest.

“His poetry was a bit tinny on the ear, but he made up for it in quantity.” Charlotte bristled while Lord Devlin scanned her private correspondence. Oh, who was she trying to fool? Andrew’s poetry was quite horrible.

“Unbelievable.” James held the letter like it was made of glass. “Andrew had the arrogance to write a love letter to you the very day his engagement was announced.” He let out a sharp laugh. “He will have to pay handsomely to keep this quiet.”