Leslie LaFoy (30 page)

“To Lady Claire,” they said in chorus as they lifted their glasses in her direction. Francis's smile was broad and impish. Richard Henry cocked a brow and winked in wordless congratulations.

“Thank you, one and all,” she offered, heat suffusing her cheeks. “But I've done nothing beyond what any wife would do.”

“Any
good
wife, Lady Claire,” Francis corrected. “Good wives are few and far between. Devon is most fortunate to have found you. I do hope that you're planning to accompany him to Williamsburg when the House goes into session. It's quite the social occasion and I'd welcome the opportunity to introduce you to my own lovely wife.”

“And I, mine,” his brother added.

She didn't have the wardrobe required for socializing with the wealthiest women in the American colonies. “I look forward to making their acquaintance,” she offered diplomatically. “I hope our respective duties will permit our meeting.”

“Oh dear,” Mother Rivard exclaimed. “Three weeks. That doesn't allow us much time to acquire a suitable wardrobe for you, Lady Claire. I suppose all we can do is travel to James City and throw ourselves on the mercy of a kindly dressmaker.”

It would be cruel to let the woman plan and look forward to something that would not, could not happen. “There's far too many tasks needing my attention at Rosewind for me to be traipsing off to James City for new gowns, Mother Rivard. What I already have will do.”

Henrietta blinked and knitted her brows. “But…”

“Lady Claire, you are a rare gem.” Francis laughingly declared, reaching out to take her hand in both of his. “I beg you to impart your philosophy to my wife when you meet her. I'd be forever grateful if you could
spare me the expense of her twice-annual purchasing forays.”

“I'll do my best, Francis. It's all that I can promise.”

“Should Devon ever prove himself the utter fool and cast you aside…”His smile broadened and he leaned closer. “I have an unmarried son who's every bit the handsome devil your husband is.”

Claire chuckled. There wasn't another man on earth the equal of Devon Rivard in any respect. “I'll be mindful of the option, sir.”

From the other end of the table, Devon laughed. “You might also be mindful of the fact that his son is all of ten years old.”

“Eleven this July,” Francis amended. “And at the age, I might add, where he's still somewhat malleable.”

Claire looked across the table at Devon and smiled. “Malleable would be nice.”

Devilment sparkling in his eyes, he grinned and replied, “Wouldn't it, though.”

An unexpected warmth spread through her, deepening the sense of peace that had settled over her earlier. Whatever the reason for Devon's courtly manner, she enjoyed the effect. Having him openly appreciate and admire her… She would remember it forever as the most singularly wonderful evening of her life.

EVON BID HIS GUESTS
good night at their chamber doors and made his way down the dark hall. Three brandies, a couple of cheroots, and—through the course of the fourth and fifth brandies—a heated debate with Richard Henry over the philosophical merits of extending the concept of natural rights to include women… Yes, it definitely had been an evening of excess. And he'd enjoyed it immensely. In fact, he couldn't remember when he'd finished a day with such an utter sense of satisfaction.

He couldn't keep from smiling. His house sparkled, radiating elegance and heartfelt care from top to bottom. Each course of dinner had been a culinary masterpiece. His guests were not only comfortable, but openly appreciative of the genuine warmth of his hospitality. And he owed the wonderful state of his mind—indeed, his world—all to Claire. Beautiful, sweet, competent, charming, intelligent, articulate Claire. The perfect hostess, the perfect wife.

His step faltered as realization struck him. It was the brandy, he told himself. Brandy combined with the heady rush of a spirited debate and too much tobacco smoke. His brain was foggy and he'd be a damn fool to make any long-term decisions while in his present state. Besides, a man ought to be stone-cold sober when asking a woman to be his wife in every sense of the word. If for no other reason than to assure her that she wasn't agreeing to spend a lifetime tethered to a drunkard. And Claire certainly deserved better than that. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him or to Rosewind.

The smile returned to his face. Thanks to George Seaton-Smythe's conniving and ingratitude—not to mention his own desperation—he'd received the brightest bit of luck of his life. Who would have thought so that terrible morning in Edmund Cantrell's office? He certainly hadn't. And neither had Claire. Had she, too, changed the way she felt about their marriage? Considering the tender regard in her eyes that evening at dinner, how easily she'd laughed…

Devon looked along the hall, deciding that if there was light spilling from beneath the lower edge of her door, he'd hang good sense and sobriety. The worst she could do was refuse to discuss anything with a man obviously a sheet or two to the wind.

There were two bands of light weakly spilling out into the darkness, Claire's near the end of the hall on his own side and Wyndom's on the opposite wall and some distance closer. Devon considered them both and his optimism ebbed away. Talking to Claire would have to wait until later. He needed to speak with his brother, to find out what had precipitated the beating in James City and what the likely repercussions would be for Rosewind. Maybe, if God was feeling unusually kind, this time there wouldn't be any.

Stepping up to his brother's door, he knocked, deciding
that if there was anything that would sober him quickly, it would be a conversation with Wyndom. He winced at the call for him to enter, wishing that it hadn't come, but resolutely turned the knob and pushed open the door, saying, “I saw the light coming from under the door and thought we might talk if you're up to it.”

Propped up against the headboard, his back cushioned by a sea of feather pillows, his brother quipped, “Please, Devon. You saw the light under the door and decided that as long as I was awake, there was no point in putting off till tomorrow the bludgeoning you could do today.”

“It would appear that I'm not the first in line for the privilege,” Devon countered, leaning his shoulder against the jamb and crossing his arms over his chest. “But you're far better at it than anyone else.” Wyndom's battered, swollen face and the sling on his arm testified otherwise. Pointing that out, however, wouldn't accomplish or resolve anything. Devon sighed and stared unseeingly at the wood floor between himself and Wyndom's bed. “Might I ask who pummeled you in James City and why?”

“No one you know and it was over a debt.” “A gambling debt,” Devon supplied, knowing all too well the pattern of his brother's folly. He brought his gaze up to meet Wyndom's and gently asked, “Has it ever occurred to you that you're not a very good card-player?”

“I suppose you're better than I am at that, too.” How could a grown man stand to hear himself whine like a boy in short pants? “Hell, Wyndom,” he answered, suddenly too weary to be exasperated or angry. “Everyone's better than you. Why do you persist at gambling when you never win? When huge debts and a battered body are all it ever gains you?” “I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy losing? You enjoy drowning in debt? You enjoy being physically beaten?”

“You don't understand.”

“Well, you're right about that. I don't understand. And I never will,” Devon admitted, accepting, deep down inside, that he was never going to be able to change Wyndom; the die had been cast long ago. He could reason, bellow, plead, and rescue until he took his last breath and it wasn't ever going to make a difference in his brother's attitude and behavior. All he could do was limit the damage. “What's the sum total of your current debts? Do you have any idea?”

“No.”

Of course not. Thinking about it would require facing reality for a moment or two. “How much do you owe the man who battered you in James City?”

“Nothing,” Wyndom snapped. “The matter's been resolved to his satisfaction.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickling, Devon observed, “Somehow I don't think the satisfaction of bloodying you was sufficient for payment, either in part or in full. You can't spend satisfaction at the local tavern.”

Wyndom haughtily countered, “You might be surprised by what some people will gratefully take in trade.”

Jesus. He was tired of traveling this same old path. Resolving that this was going to be the last time he did, Devon asked, “And just what do you have of value to trade, Wyndom? You don't own a damn thing.”

“As you are ever so fond of constantly reminding me.”

“That's because you keep forgetting it.”

“I have my wits and my resourcefulness,” Wyndom snapped, sitting up straight in bed, his pale blue eyes sparking with resentment. “It will no doubt surprise you to learn that some people consider my abilities to be of
considerable merit. Of more merit than mere material goods and possessions.”

“And just how,” Devon drawled, “have you used your vast wits and resourcefulness to this James City person's advantage?”

Wyndom settled back into the pillows with a sardonic smile. “That, dear brother, is none of your business.”

Dread, cold and leaden, settled in the pit of Devon's stomach. It
was
his business; he could sense it gathering like a storm on the horizon. Dear God, he didn't have the resources or the strength to weather another one. There was only one way out. Resolved to do what he must, Devon said sadly, “I'm afraid that you've backed me into a corner, Wyndom.”

“There's a first,” his brother replied flippantly. “We should note it in the family Bible.”

“That can be done if you'd like,” Devon conceded, pinching the bridge of his nose to ease the dull ache blooming in his head. “I'll have Mother slip the notice between the pages for pressing.”

Wyndom blinked and looked concerned for the first time since Devon had entered the room. “What notice?”

Devon met his brother's gaze and gently but firmly answered, “You've left me with no choice but to publicly announce that I'm not responsible for your debts— past, present, or future. I'm going to have a legal notice to that effect published in every major newspaper in the colonies.”

Wyndom studied him for a long moment as if trying to decide if the threat was an empty one.

Devon shook his head. “I'm done, Wyndom. My tolerance is at its end. I'll send the notices tomorrow.”

“You goddamn bastard.”

“Undoubtedly,” Devon agreed with a resigned shrug. “But I don't have the wits and resourcefulness
that you do. I'm tired of cleaning up the disasters that come in your wake. I'm tired of trying to make you see reason. We've reached the point where you're going to stand up like a man—whether you like it or not—and be solely accountable for your actions.”

Wyndom glared at him, his jaw set. “As soon as my tobacco crop comes in,” he announced regally, “I'll be taking up residence elsewhere.”

Devon managed a half-smile. “What tobacco crop?”