Deverell's Obsession: A Risqué Regency Romance (5 page)

Harry shook his head. “No, but you’re on the right track.” He adjusted the lamp once more. “Let me put it all back together and then I’ll show you what I think this may be about.”

Dev’s heart jumped into his throat as he watched Harry’s delicate maneuvers with the emerald, little nudges and movements that finally seated the beautiful gem back into its nest. With equally dexterous skill, he swung the tiny lip back across the stone and into its slot, securing everything and returning it to its previous beauty.

“The workmanship that went into this, Dev. Our jewelers would be challenged to reproduce this today, so imagine how it must have awed everyone a couple of thousand years ago.”

“Truly a gift for a Queen.” Dev could only shake his head and stare.

“Now,” said Harry. “Come over here and I’ll show you what I think is the purpose of that ring. And this is only a guess, mind you.”

“At this point, my friend, after what I’ve just seen…well, you could tell me my horse is blue and I’d believe you.” Dev took a breath. “My mind is reeling.”

“Well, your horse isn’t blue. But that ring holds secrets.” He led Dev to a different part of his workshop, where there was an assortment of inlaid boxes, both large and small. “A hobby of mine. Magic boxes.”

Dev groaned. He was very bad at these kinds of puzzles. He’d been given one as a child and remembered spending one very frustrating holiday in the country trying to open the bloody thing. He never had. It might even still be there today, in the back of the greenhouse, where he’d shoved it into a plant pot and covered it with soil, thus consigning it to an early grave beneath an aspidistra.

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Harry. “You don’t have to open these. It’s an acquired taste. But there’s one that I recalled as soon as I saw the inside of that ring.”

He reached up and pulled down a fairly simple box, several inches square. On the top was a circle of concentric wooden rings, topped with a smooth ball of what looked like white marble or alabaster stone. The sides were smooth, there were a few inlays here and there, and around the ring on the top were carvings and indentations. It looked as if it might have been Indian.

“This is Persian.”

“
I was close. I would have said Indian
.”

“And as you can see, there are no obvious ways of opening it.”

“Right.” Dev frowned. He
really
hated these things.

“Now observe.”

Harry twisted the smooth stone and with a slight click it lifted off the top of the box. But instead of a round ball, it was a half sphere. Harry turned it upside down and showed Dev the base where there were some ridged carvings sticking upward.

“And now the clever bit. This took me weeks to figure out.”

Harry took the stone, moved the box slightly, and aligned the carvings beneath the stone with some carvings on one corner of the top of the box.

He pushed the stone into the matching holes…and the top popped up, revealing the empty insides.

“That
is
clever,” Dev agreed. “And damn sneaky.” Then the wheels fell into place inside his head. “Oh my God. The markings inside the ring? You think they’re a…”

“Key. Yes, I think they could well be a key that opens…what? I have no idea at all.”

“A key. She said it was a key…What the hell has she gotten herself into?”

Harry stared at him. “I think we could both use a brandy. And then you can tell me who ‘
she’
is. This Léonie.”

Dev stared at his friend for a long moment. “I can’t. Not yet. But I promise you I will come back when I have it worked out and you shall know everything.”

His long look was returned steadily, and finally Harry nodded. “If it’s that important, then I’ll accept your promise to return.”

“Thank you, Harry. You’re a true friend.”

“Who will, if you don’t keep your end of this bargain, find you, beat you senseless and steal this bloody ring for myself. Do you understand?”

Dev grinned. “Perfectly.”

Chapter Five

Léonie opened her eyes once more onto a room she didn’t recognize. But this time, there was no apprehension, just a sense of warmth and comfort. For a few moments she snuggled the coverlet up around her chin and relished the softness of her bed. This was luxury indeed.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she took in the warm golden curtains drawn across the window and the rich deep gold of the furniture. It was functional yet attractive; exactly suitable for a guest room.

Happy to have deduced that much, she realized that not only were her brains finally functioning, but so was the rest of her.

It was time to move from her cocoon and examine her surroundings.

“Oh miss, I thought I heard you. Please. Let me help.”

A young maid hurried into the room, bearing what looked like a dressing gown over one arm.

Léonie paused, seated on the edge of the bed with her toes on the thick carpet. “Oh, no, really. I can manage.”

She stood—and the room began to sway.

The maid was at her side. “You have to take it slow, miss. Nasty fever you’ve had. Takes time to get your strength back.”

Léonie had to agree, and allowed the girl to lead her to the chamber pot. Refusing further assistance, Léonie took care of matters and emerged feeling a great deal better.

“Now, miss, I have orders to either see you back to bed for a bit, or ask you to slip into this…” she picked up the dressing gown, “… and have a little breakfast in your private parlor next door. What do you feel up to?”

“I think breakfast sounds like an excellent idea, if you please.” She allowed the girl to slip the warm robe over her arms and tie it at the waist. “What is your name?”

“I’m Jenny, miss.” The girl curtsied. “I’m to take care of you while you’re here at Deverell House. If that’s acceptable, of course.”

“How lovely, Jenny. Of course it’s acceptable. I’m so pleased you’re here to lend me a hand.”

The girl smiled happily. “Very good, miss. Now if you’ll just take my arm. Lean on me if you need to. You’ve been under the weather for a bit, Mrs. Williams says, so taking it easy for a while is the best medicine.”

“Mrs. Williams?”

“Our housekeeper. I’m sure she’ll be up to say hello when you’re back on your feet.”

Opening the door for them both, Jenny led Léonie into a small sitting room, decorated in the same style as the bedroom. These were elegant guest accommodations, without a doubt.

“Now there’s tea and a bit of toast, and Cook thought you might like a few strawberries. That’s her jam—best in London Mr. Deverell says. And the berries are fresh up from the country. They’re in season, I’m told, but honestly? I’m a city girl. Dunno when strawberry season is, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right, dear. As long as the strawberries know. That’s the main thing.”

A voice from the doorway attracted Léonie’s attention and a slight woman entered, dressed all in pink. From the pale pink of her fichu to the deep rose of the ruffles at the hem of her day dress, she was a walking poem to the rose. Except for the cluster of brilliant red curls. Although even they were casually secured by pink ribbon.

“Good morning, my dear Léonie.” The woman swept across the room, enveloped Léonie in a gentle hug and dropped a soft kiss on her cheek. “Come and sit down. I’m so glad to see you awake and looking much better.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” Léonie sat, feeling rather overwhelmed and pretty much at sea since she had no idea who this charming lady was.

“We’ll manage, Jenny. You can go. Miss Léonie will ring if she needs anything.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Jenny curtsied and hurried away.

“Now.” The woman poured tea and pushed the cup and saucer toward Léonie. “Let’s talk, my dear. And please…call me Aunt Bertrande? Or actually I’d prefer Aunt Bertie. I’m Dev’s aunt, you see, so it’s quite proper.”

“You were in my room…I know I saw you.” Léonie grasped at a blurry memory.

“I was,” nodded Aunt Bertie. “Day before yesterday. The doctor came to see you and after he left, Dev told me I might drop in and say hello. But you were already a bit sleepy from the laudanum. Best thing for a head injury, though. Rest and plenty of it. You needed that day in bed.”

Reminded of that issue, Léonie gingerly lifted her hand to the back of her head. “Ouch.” It was very tender and there was still a dull ache behind her temples. But the blinding pain she knew had engulfed her—that was gone.

“Better, is it?” Aunt Bertie sipped her tea.

“It is.” Léonie reached for toast. “And I find I’m famished.”

The older woman smiled. “Not surprising. We don’t know the last time you ate anything and you’ve been asleep for over twenty four hours here..”

Léonie thought while she chewed. Up to this point she’d been afraid of where she was and whom she was with. She had no point of reference to tell her whom she could trust.

But here, in this lovely room, with tea, breakfast and a warmly smiling woman across from her, it seemed like a safe haven. A sanctuary.

And finally Léonie relaxed.

“I wish I knew, Aunt Bertie. Truly I do. But I have a confession to make. I cannot remember a damned thing.” The curse slipped out and she glanced up, blushing, only to see a smile brighten the face looking at her.

“Well in that case, dearest girl, we’ll have to figure the whole damned mess out, won’t we?”

*~~*~~*

Unaware that his aunt and his guest had reached an amiable point in their budding relationship, and were planning on masterminding a plot to uncover “everything”, Dev decided that he would make some subtle enquiries about this Elwyn person. Aubrey Elwyn. And where better to start than his club? So after working on routine business for an hour or so in the morning, he summoned Baxter, asked him to inform the ladies where he was going and set out.

The unobtrusive entrance to the Mitra club graced Boswell Street, a quiet thoroughfare near Russell Square. It had been named as a homage to the Indian Goddess of meetings, since the rooms were perfectly arranged to house such activities. It was less formal than many of the other, better known, gentlemen’s clubs, and Dev liked the quiet buzz of conversation that always greeted him.

He also enjoyed the scent of cigars, the whiff of good leather and the personal welcome he always received from whichever doorman was on duty.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Deverell, sir. Always good to see you at the Mitra.”

Smiling, Dev let the doorman relieve him of his overcoat, which he needed in spite of the season. This was, after all, England. Rain and cold winds in the summer were part of its charm. At least that’s what the residents asserted if asked.

“Anyone of note around, James?”

The doorman thought for a moment. “You just missed His Grace the Earl of Leicester. And Lord Thomas Hillier enjoyed a hearty breakfast this morning. But at the moment it’s quite quiet, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “We do have one newcomer…a Scottish gentleman. Goes by the name of McPherson.” He leaned over. “But I believe he is a little more than just a simple
Mr
.”

“What gives you that idea?” Always curious, Dev had to ask.

James tapped his nose. “I can sense these things, Mr. Deverell. Years of experience.” He paused. “Plus he was put up for membership by the Duke of Lochloden.”

“Hmm.” Dev considered the matter. “Well in that case, you’re probably quite right. Where might I find this Scot, do you know?”

“I believe he’s in the Shakespeare room, sir. Enjoying a brandy, I believe.”

“Well, I think I might join him. In the room
and
the brandy, if you would be so good…?”

“I’ll have one sent right along, sir.”

“Good man.” Dev nodded his thanks and strolled off down a corridor leading to the room dedicated to one of England’s greatest playwrights. The dedication took the form of a rather imposing alabaster bust of the chap himself and about two thousand copies of Hamlet.

Or so it seemed to Dev, who wasn’t particularly fond of the play but was always amused by the reverence it received from others.

Walking through the open door, he was pleased to see a good fire warming the room, and several chairs placed appropriately around it, and also around the few tables gracing the space.

There was only one man inside though, and all Dev could see was the back of his head over the top of one of the fireside chairs.

“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” said Dev politely. “But that fire looks damn cozy on a day like this one.”

The man stood and turned…and blinked. “Good Lord. I know you.”

“And I you.” Dev was stunned in his turn. “Charles and Hannah and that God-awful Derby mess. You were there. You were leading the forces of justice if I remember rightly.” He shook his head. “Damn. You’re a
Bow Street Runner
.”

“At times, yes.” He held out his hand. “Ian McPherson. And I’m pleased to make your acquaintance again under less trying circumstances. Deverell, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” said Dev, shaking the hand. “Talk about coincidences.”

“Sit. Please join me.” Ian waved a hand. “This is a lovely club, but it’s always nice to share a conversation as well.”

Intrigued, Dev took a seat and welcomed the sight of his brandy as a servant appeared with a tray. “I took the liberty. Will you join me?”

“Already ahead of you.” Ian gestured to the snifter beside him. “Perfect day for a good fire and a drop of brandy.”

“Not Scotch?” Dev grinned.

“Sometimes.” Ian grinned back. “But…when in London, do as the Londoners do. And that, dear sir, is brandy at the club.”

“Your health.” Dev raised his glass and sipped, appreciating the warm burn of the liquor. “Ah, that’s good.”

Ian did the same. “It is indeed.” He put his glass down. “So what brings you to the club today?”

Dev took another sip and considered the situation. He did not want to make a fuss about his inquiries—it was early and he had no real idea of the direction they would take. He had hoped for a light and casual conversation with one of the town know-it-alls, who would place Elwyn for him with no difficulty.

However, meeting Ian McPherson might be more than a coincidence. It might be Fate helping Dev’s inquiries along. After all, who could possibly be more reliable than a Bow Street Runner?

And Dev had seen the man in action. He’d been very impressed indeed.

“Well, have you decided to trust me?” Ian looked at him, with one eyebrow aloft.

Dev sighed. “You’re good.” He returned his brandy to the small table beside his chair and leaned back. “I think I have. But I will stress that I would prefer our conversation to remain private.”

Ian nodded. “I understand. Your confidences are safe with me, Mr. Deverell. You have my word.”

Dev accepted that oath of honor and began his tale. “At this time I have a guest at Deverell House. A young woman who was set upon before she could make formal contact. She’s…she’s the niece of my Aunt’s old friend…” he improvised on Bertie’s creation, “…and she has unfortunately lost some of her most recent memories.”

“How unpleasant.” Ian frowned.

“We have high hopes that her recovery is underway, of course. But I am trying to learn more about her and possibly the reason for the attack on her. One of the only clues I have is a note from one Lord Aubrey Elwyn, recommending she seek “sanctuary” at Deverell House. The word “sanctuary” is a direct quote, by the way.”

“The attack was recent?”

“Early yesterday. At the docks. Wharfside.”

That gave Ian pause and he continued to frown. “No companions or anything?”

“None. She was fortunate that a couple of good Samaritans rescued her and contacted me.”

“Lucky indeed.”

“I will add that my Aunt wasn’t aware she was arriving, and I’ve not seen her before.”

Dev’s conscience kicked him on that point, but how on earth could he explain his obsession to a man still practically a stranger?

“Hmm.” Ian stared into the fire, lost in thought. “Elwyn, you say? Aubrey Elwyn?”

“Yes. That was the signature on the note.”

Ian’s deep blue gaze returned to study Dev’s face.

Dev grinned. “Well, have you decided to trust
me
?”

“
Touché
.” Ian laughed. “Yes, Mr. Deverell, I think I have.”

“In that case call me Dev, for God’s sake.”

“Only if you’ll call me Ian.”

“Done and done.” Dev nodded. “So what can you share with me that might have anything to do with this business?”

“Aubrey Elwyn was found dead two nights ago at his home in Whittingford.”

“Really?” The statement stunned Dev.

“Yes.” Ian’s face was serious now. “
Murdered
, Dev, along with his housekeeper. Their throats cut from ear to ear.”

“Well….
fuck
.”