Leslie LaFoy (39 page)

Act two had commenced with the removal of the soup bowls and the serving of the salad. In the course of it, Edmund had established that they were both unattached and currently uninvolved. Meg had blushed, dismissed his obvious interest with a roll of her eyes, and then stolen glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd caught her every time, and when she finally escaped, her face had been positively flushed.

Act three had been during the removal of the salad plates and the serving of the main course. Edmund had simply grinned and watched her work. Meg had tried— and failed miserably—to ignore him.

Act four… dessert. Edmund had lyrically told Meg that any woman who could make such delicious lemon pie deserved the key to his heart. Which he was gladly willing to surrender on the spot. Meg had paused at the
door, said she could appreciate such devotion, and promised to introduce him to Hannah.

And now Meg was back and for the last time. If Edmund didn't want the evening to be a waste of persistent flirtation, then he was going to have to take decisive action within the next minute or two. Only dessert plates, silverware, and two empty wineglasses needed to be cleared away. It wouldn't take long for Meg to have it all gathered up and be gone.

Claire glanced at Devon, who was sitting with his elbows propped on the table, watching the scene with evident interest. His gaze slid to hers and he gave her one of his heart-tripping smiles.

“Allow me to assist you in taking these things out, Mistress Malone.”

Claire tore her attention away from Devon to find Edmund holding Meg's serving tray. Meg stood on the other side of it, trying to take it away from him. “ ‘Tisn't necessary, Mr. Cantrell,” she protested. “An’ ‘tisn't appropriate, either. A guest doesn't carry his own dishes to the kitchen.”

He grinned and tugged on the tray. “I'm not a guest. I'm one of the family. And if you think I prefer the after-dinner company of Devon over that of a beautiful Irish lass, then we really ought to take this chance for you to get to know me better.”

Devon laughed. “Let him help, Meg. But keep that cleaver handy.”

“I'll not be a needin' any cleaver, Mr. Devon,” the Irishwoman shot back, releasing her claim to the tray. “I'll have a righteous Hannah right by me side. He'll not get away with anythin' untoward.”

Edmund, all innocence, freed a hand to press it over his heart. “Untoward? Me? I assure you, Mistress Malone, that my intentions are purely honorable.”

“Oh, an' 'tis the first time I've ever heard those
words,” Meg scoffed, pushing open the pantry door. He stepped past her with the laden tray and she followed, adding, “Mind the silverware doesn't slip off the plates there, Mr. Cantrell. I don't want to spend hours muckin' about in the mud a lookin' for a fork that's been allowed to go missin' 'cause ye was all moony-eyed.”

The door swung closed behind them and then there was only the sound of the wind, the rain, and the rumble of nearing thunder. Claire sipped her wine, feeling Devon's gaze touching her and delighting in the caress.

“We seem to have found ourselves alone,” he said quietly, his voice warm velvet, his quirked smile still in place. He rose from his chair and came toward her, adding, “What would you like to do with our evening, Madame Rivard?”

See where a kiss might take us
. Reason instantly reminded her that it would take them into a permanent union that would cost her everything. Her heart promised that love would make not only their bodies one, but their minds as well. If she had the courage to take a leap of faith. “Perhaps you could read me some of Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets.”

“Perhaps not,” he instantly countered, his eyes bright and his smile widening as he held out his hand. “Think of something else.”

Make love
. She put her hand in his. Her heart—and reason—went with it.

Drawing her to her feet, he whispered, “Something a bit decadent. Maybe even a little wicked.”

All night long
.

“I'm thinking,” she hedged, shocked at the unerring direction of her thoughts. The devilish light that suddenly ignited in his eyes emboldened her enough to confess, “Most unseemly thoughts.”

With his free hand, he reached into his coat pocket and produced the coin he'd taken from Edmund. “A shilling if you'll share them with me.”

“Oh, they're worth far more than that, sir.”

“I might be willing to pay a sovereign,” he countered, a delightfully wolfish edge in his smile. “If you'd be willing to give me a small sample to assure me that the coin's worth finding.”

Would you give me your heart? Your love?
“It's not your money I need, Devon.”

He laughed softly. “That's good. Because I don't have any.” He blindly tossed Edmund's coin on the table, then slipped his arms around her waist and drew her to him. “I do, however,” he murmured, “seem to have recently acquired a great deal of hope.”

“About what?” she asked, slipping her hands up and over his shoulders to brazenly undo the bow at his nape. He said nothing, and in his dazzled, breathless silence, she became braver still. Letting the ribbon fall, she threaded her fingers through the silken warmth of his dark hair. “Hope about what, Devon?” she asked again.

“Life,” he whispered, gazing down at her, his eyes dark pools of wonder and appreciation. “Claire, I want to—”

They both started at the crash and turned as one toward the sound. Rosewind's front door stood wide open, with wind and leaves and rain and a sodden Darice Lytton blowing in through it.

“Goddamnit!”

Yes, Claire thought. Devon had summed up her own feelings perfectly. She'd never in all her life so resented an intrusion.

“You can't turn me away!” Darice wailed from the threshold, water dripping from all over her and pooling around her feet. “You just can't. The roof of Lytton Hall is leaking like a sieve. There's water everywhere. Everywhere! All my beautiful things are being ruined. I couldn't bear to watch.”

Devon quietly growled, “Well, God forbid that she
stay there and put some effort into saving what she could.”

“It's too late for her to go back tonight,” Claire observed just as privately. “We'll just have to be gracious about it.”

Devon swore again, but she ignored him and glided forward with a feigned smile and reassuring words. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Lady Lytton. Of course you're welcome to spend the night here. And in the morning we'll all go over to Lytton Hall and see what we can do to salvage your possessions. I'm sure that, in the light of a new day, things won't seem nearly as disastrous as they do this evening.”

“I'm soaked to the skin,” she declared, smoothing her bodice down. It had been tight when dry, and was now clinging to her more-than-ample breasts.

Devon, apparently rooted to the dining room floor, indulged in another round of muttered curses. Claire took a candle lamp from a foyer table and moved toward the stairs, saying, “Then let's be about getting you settled into a guest room so that you can change into something dry. I'm sure that we can find you some—”

“Devon,” Darice interrupted her to purr, “do be a dear and send your man out to help mine with my baggage. I'll need the blue leather trunk brought up straightaway.”

The woman had taken the time to pack her clothes before fleeing her flooding home? Claire stopped on the stairs and looked over her shoulder, incredulous. She was even more stunned to find Darice standing in the doorway with her skirt hiked up to a scandalous degree and wringing the water out of it. Devon, his chin lowered and his hands fisted at his sides, was striding toward the woman. Claire was about to call out, to beg him not to harm her, when he altered his course just enough to avoid running her down as he stormed out of
the house. Darice looked after him, a satisfied smile touching the corners of her mouth.

Claire tamped down her anger as best she could. “This way, Lady Darice,” she said curtly. She gestured to the top of the stairs, and Darice found the good grace to accede to what was an obvious command.

As Darice followed her, Claire silently chastised herself for rudeness and then made a deliberate, valiant effort to be a bit more cordial. “I hope you don't mind if we lodge you in the room adjoining Mr. Cantrell's. The Lee brothers left just hours ago, and we haven't had time to prepare those chambers for another guest.”

“As long as there's a sturdy bolt on the connecting door.”

Darice thought Edmund would sneak in and try to seduce her? “I don't think you need be concerned,” she replied, unable to keep her amusement suppressed. “Mr. Cantrell seems to be developing an interest in Meg. I rather suspect he'll spend most of the night in the kitchen paying court to her.”

“A solicitor courting an indentured servant?” Darice sneered. “A common kitchen maid?”

Hospitality
, Claire reminded herself.
Cordial hospitality
. “I don't think the notion of social class means all that much to Mr. Cantrell. He strikes me as a most open-minded man.”

“Any man who can court money and chooses not to is a fool.”

“Some people simply don't value wealth as much as others do,” Claire pointed out, knowing even as she did that the observation was falling on closed ears.

“Well, Devon certainly isn't one of them,” Darice asserted, laughing. “Money matters more to Devon than anything else on earth.”

No, it didn't, but Darice's ignorance was to her advantage. Stopping, Claire opened the door of the guest room, then turned and handed Darice the candle lamp
while saying, “I hope you find the accommodations satisfactory. I'm sure your baggage will be up shortly. Good night, Darice.”

“I want some hot tea brought up as soon as possible,” Darice announced, making not the slightest effort to move out of Claire's path or into the room. “And some scones. With clotted cream and strawberry jam. I was too distraught to even think of eating before I left Lytton Hall.”

You weren't too distraught; you were too busy packing to move into Rosewind. Go to hell, Darice. And take your scones, clotted cream, and strawberry jam with you
. Claire stepped around the woman and walked away replying tightly, “I'll see what can be done.”
Your Majesty
.

She met Ephram and the blue trunk on their way up the stairs, noting that his clothing was as dry as the proverbial bone. “He's going to kill her,” he muttered as she stomped past.

“Good. I'll help him,” she shot back, continuing on her way, seething. There was a huge stack of sopping, dripping trunks in the center of the foyer floor, and while Devon was nowhere to be seen, she could hear him swearing above the roar of the wind and rain. She looked out into the darkness, seeing only the slashing of rain and the driver struggling to free the poor, soaked horses from their harnesses.

She went on, knowing there was nothing she could do at the moment to assist Devon in dragging things in. And Lord knew she wouldn't be able to calm him, either. Her own anger was burning just as brightly. Together, they would gleefully murder the Widow Lytton.

The rain was cold and heavy and wind driven. And she was not only drenched but swearing aloud by the time she dragged her sodden, muddy skirts through the kitchen door.

Hannah, Meg, and Edmund were leisurely seated in front of the cooking hearth, teacups in hand. All three turned at her entrance, their mouths agape. Edmund recovered first, gaining his feet and saying, “My God. You're steaming. Literally steaming.”

“Darice Lytton is back,” Claire announced, advancing on the central worktable and the tea service sitting on it. “The roof of Lytton Hall is leaking and it's just too dreadfully wet for Her Highness to stay there tonight. She wants hot tea and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam brought up to her immediately.”

“Scones?” Meg repeated, almost choking. “She wants us to be makin' her scones this time o' the night?”

“What the Princess wants,” Claire snapped, slapping a basket of leftover dinner biscuits onto the tray, “and what the Princess is going to get are two very different things. She'll be happy to get tepid tea and cold biscuits, or she can haul herself and her baggage right back to Lytton Hall.”

“The Princess isn't here for tea and scones,” Edmund calmly announced, setting his teacup on the table. “She's here for Devon. Where is he?”

Claire, accepting a clean but utilitarian cup and saucer from Hannah, replied, “At the moment, he's hauling Her Majesty's considerable wardrobe in out of the rain. And he's none too happy about it, I might add.”

Edmund crossed to the door and picked up an oilskin tarp. As Claire headed toward him with the tray, he looked past her and smiled. “The needs of friendship require me to leave you for a bit, my dearest Meg. But keep a light on for me. I'll be back as soon as I have Devon tucked into the solitary safety of his room.”

With Edmund at her side and holding the tarp over their heads, Claire stepped back out into the night and the storm. There was no shouting over the wind, and so she waited until they'd entered the butler's panty and closed the door to say, “Devon doesn't need a keeper.”

Tossing the tarp aside, Edmund rushed ahead to push open the dining room door. “Agreed. He needs someone to guard his flank. Darice Lytton could have taught the Trojans a thing or two about surprise attacks.”

She managed a smile, the first since the woman had burst into the house and shattered the magic moment with Devon. In the foyer they found a mountain of luggage surrounded by a pond of water. Ephram and another dark-skinned man were using sheets and brooms in what appeared to be a largely futile attempt to keep the pond from growing into a lake.

“Ephram,” Edmund began, “do you happen to know where—”

“In the library, sir,” the other replied without looking up from his task. “And I warn you… he's in a bear of a mood.”

“Understandably,” Edmund conceded, squaring his shoulders as he considered the hall leading to the master's lair.

“I'll deliver the tea,” Claire promised, “change into dry clothes, and then relieve you of your protective duties so that you can get back to your dearest Meg.”

“You don't really mind, do you? She has the most beautiful smile and a delightful sense of humor.”