Love's Patient Fury (The Deverell Series Book 3) (17 page)

Yawning she heard more voices and realized Varian was not alone. She picked out three voices in the rapidly flowing conversation. Wondering who he would have let in to the adjoining chamber since he had her tucked in his bed, she pulled on a robe and carefully tip-toed to the open door.

Her eyes rounded. Mr. Seton. Mr. Colerain. Mr. Boniface and Mr. Alcott.  What were the officers of the crew of the
Corinthian
doing here at Deverell House with her father and Uncle in proximity?

It was a familiar scene, yet troubling in all ways. Merry pushed through the door and entered. She noted there were papers strewed across the rosewood table, brandy, and cigars. They’d been about their task for a while.

Seeing her closing in on them, the men quickly rose, bowed, and Mr. Seton gave the proper Your Grace. Both his accent and the correctness of his manner were a startling thing. The slow drawling voice of a Georgia planter had been replaced with the same proper British accent as Varian’s. It was then she noted how the men were dressed. Their sailor’s garb had been replaced by the expertly tailored garments of a gentleman.

She padded across the room, hugging her robe close about her.  Varian turned to look at her. “I’m sorry, my dear. Did we wake you? You were sleeping so soundly I expected you to be gone until morning.”

Blushing profusely, since there was any number of ways to interpret
that
, she collected herself and said, “Varian, what’s going on? Why are the officers of the
Corinthian
here? Has something happened?”

His arm slipped around her waist in that way he had when he was going to ease her down upon his lap. Merry let him without resistance since these men had witnessed much more shocking behavior between them, and she held the hope by willing compliance he would promptly answer her questions.

He did not. She looked at him. “Are you going to explain what is happening here?”

Varian arched a brow and said calmly, “Perhaps it is time to introduce you to my crew properly. Mr. Seton is Lord Saxton of the Foreign Office. Mr. Colerain is Sir Jeffry Coleman, a member of Castlereagh’s staff. Mr. Alcott—well he’s just Mr. Alcott—is an insurance investigator for the exchange. And Mr. Boniface was formerly in the employ of Lord Wythford at the customs office.”

Her eyes rounded, partly in surprise and partly in anger and partly because of his calmness in this disclosure. Varian had lied to her, lied to her about everything, and so clever he was she had not known it.  “You told me Mr. Seton was a traitor.”

Mr. Seton, having just taken a sip of brandy, choked on his drink.

Varian laughed. “All things are a matter of perspective, Merry. There is no black and white on this earth. Only gray. In American Mr. Seton is a traitor. In England he is an agent of the Foreign Office charged with infiltrating the American War Department. Don’t look so shocked. Their side does it too. And we did cross paths with me buying secrets from him. Only the payment was not coin. It was the information he was soon to be discovered and arrested.” He looked at Mr. Seton and made a dramatic show of looking apologetic. “That however was a lie, but having Mr. Seton join my crew has proven valuable to all of us in our endeavors.”

Merry’s doe-eyes widened and he could see she was thinking about more than what he had just told her about the crew. Of all the emotions Varian saw flashing in those endless pools of blue, it was the dismay and distrust he found most troubling there.

She asked on weak voice, almost dazed, “Was it all a lie? Was anything about the
Corinthian
true?”

He met her gaze directly and with a forefinger gently traced the tense line of her cheek. “It was all true, Merry.”

Her questions had not been a simple one. His answer had not been a simple one, as well. She sat as she was, perfectly still, then lowered her eyes and fixed to stare at the carpet.

Sighing, Varian pretended to miss the nuisance of her distress, and continued, “In my pursuit to uncover Rensdale’s crimes, I had cause to run across each of these men. We each held a piece, knowing not in true what it was we were investigating. Together our pieces formed a clear picture. We’ve been working together ever since.”

She looked up so she could search his face again. “Varian, why are you sharing this with me now?”

His answering expression was enigmatic, but he gently brushed a curl from her brow. “They will be our guest here, Merry. I did not want you knocked off your feet when you saw them there.”

Guest.
This tidbit of Varian’s unfathomable, never-ending plotting was madness; having these men at Deverell House with her father and Uncle Andrew. Links to the past. Links to crimes. Publically revealed. It made no sense, after all his years of patient planning and subterfuge, and the level of his incaution frightened her.

Another thought came to her. Suspicion rose in her eyes. “How did you get my grandmother to help you? This journey to London. It’s your doing. The crew being here when we arrived. You had notice, when grandmother’s letter only came two days ago. Don’t deny it. How did you do it? How did you get my grandmother to help you?”

His thumb brushed the tense line of her jaw. “Margaret is not helping me. She is helping you.”

An artful walk through the truth. Not a lie. What was Varian doing?

Swallowing hard, Merry said, “There are times you make me so afraid.”

He knew Merry well enough to know that was not a simple statement, as well. It turned outward toward all her other doubts and fears about him. His mouth softened slightly with a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Little One. I would never let harm come to you. Whatever happens, remember, I am moving heaven and earth to make sure I live out my days with Merry.”

~~~

The meeting ended some time past. Varian sat in his chair. He adjusted Merry’s weight and stared down at the beauty of her sleeping face. He supposed she would be more comfortable in the bed, but he remained where he was enjoying the feel of her nestled peacefully against his chest. He had not been wrong in this. In her too quickly shifting world of fast shocks, probing eyes, burdensome scandal, and youthful heartache, she had needed something familiar to remind her of who they had been together before their return to England. Seeming strange when it had occurred to him and later proven true by this night, it was their days on the
Corinthian
which were her most recent happy and comfortable moments within herself. Having the crew meet him here was as much about helping her find an easy stride again as it had been the pressing matters that required their attention.

Merry was struggling so much these days. Watching it was a painful thing. Hurt and distrustful, she would not turn to him for help in this. Varian would not let her turn away from him, even if he could not always express his care for her directly so she could see it.

Kissing her inky brow, Varian wondered if she even knew how desperately he loved her. On a quiet voice, aloud, for no one to hear, he whispered, “All be well, Merry. I will not allow you to stop loving me.”

~~~

Noting the lateness of the hour, Merry started to rise from Varian’s bed to return to her own bedchamber.

Varian stopped her with a warm hand on her arm. “Stay with me and watch the morning brighten. You are not in Lucien’s house any longer. We are in my house, Little One. In the bed you belong in.”

His eyes shimmering like shiny apple seeds were Merry’s undoing. She let Varian pull her back atop of him. It was foolish to indulge her need to be with him. When he looked at her thus she could not stop herself.

The feel of her curves melting into his firmer angles made Varian shiver. Brushing the gossamer curls back from her face, he said in a voice that surprised him by being a trifle unsteady, “Touch me, touch of Merry. I have missed you so.”

Merry looked up and saw the change in those black depths. The sad light was flickering, the one that only flickered when he was troubled by all the things he locked deeply inside him. She wondered if it were her. Or something else. His past. His present dangerous pursuits.

She did not know for certain. She only knew in this moment she felt, for the first time in many weeks, as if the wall between them was completely gone. She did not know the exact cause of his inner turmoil or the cause in the change within her.  Yet she felt the burning need to offer herself in comfort for whatever weighed so heavily upon him and a burning need for his flesh to comfort her, as well.

She slipped back down against him, her cheek against his chest, her hands gliding down his powerfully muscled arms. She whispered, “Touch me, touch of Varian.”

~~~

Their too brief days at Deverell House flew by for Merry. Tucked into the strange assembly Varian had gathered here—for whatever bizarre intent he held including the officers of the
Corinthian
with the Merricks—Merry’s hours of lightness passed in a comfortable flow of laughter and chatter, and her darkness hours passed with his passion. It was harder for Merry not to love Varian at Deverell House. Away from Bramble Hill, it was easier for Varian to maneuver time alone with her. There were in all moments on the surface of his flesh just enough evidence of the man Merry had fallen in love with that she could not ignore the tugs at her heartstrings.

Merry was not ready to let herself believe all would be well. She was not ready to trust there was a future with this man or to trust he would be there with her. She was not ready to say again to Varian she loved him.

But in her eyes there was just enough sparkle when she looked at him, that Varian believed all things. It was on her face, she was beginning to open her heart to him. It was in her smile. It was in the gentle touch of her hand upon his as Varian sat beside her in the carriage to make their day’s journey to London.

Staring ahead, not trusting his own heart enough to look at her, Varian’s face was an expert mask of calm, but inside him was a man much troubled. Troubled by regrets. Troubled by his love for her. Troubled by what awaited them in London. The future. It was coming. He could not stop it. Not even for Merry.

He wished he could spare her what lay ahead. He wished he were free to be only what Merry wanted him to be. Their days at Deverell House were not the honey month she deserved. It was but a precious handful of honey days. It fortified Varian for what he knew awaited them both. He prayed it would be enough to carry Merry through the events he desperately wished he did not have to force upon her.

It did not set well that he could not always be kind and loving to Merry. The cruelty of the past and the danger of the present would not permit it. There were times it was hell for Varian to love Merry.

CHAPTER TEN

Margaret Merrick was a small, thin, mannish looking woman, just shy of her eighty-first year. In her day, she had been a great beauty, but age had taken her bloom and replaced it with a sharp edge of severity. She had been a soldier’s wife, had seen more than her share of war on the battlefield, was fiercely loyal to a monarchy she had lost two sons to—one in France and one in America—and now had to deal with
this
.

The carriages rumbled to a stop on the misty cobbles in front of the long line of her staff assembled to greet Lucien. The courtyard was eerily quiet now that the horses were still. Merrick Hall was large by London standards, with acres of woods and lush gardens, a barrier holding the encroaching city away, though not quite far enough to please Margaret.

Merry sprang from the carriage and ran to her grandmother. The old woman’s scheming and forcing them all to London didn’t detract from Merry’s joy at seeing her grandmother. She was used to the dowager duchess’s scheming, and she’d always adored her grandmother’s harshly powerful yet comforting presence. It did not surprise Merry that Margaret’s first words were, “Foolish girl. Go to your room and wait for me, or I will beat you with my cane in front of them all.”

Merry made a small pout and placed a kiss on the bluish-skin of her cheek. “Don’t pretend you are not happy to see me. I have missed you, Grandmamma.”

One thin gray eyebrow lifted as Margaret watched the rest of her family alight the carriages. “And I would have thought you too busy with that scoundrel you married to give a passing thought about me.” Merry blushed from chin to hairline. Margaret chortled. “Ah, you still blush. Perhaps the penny ballads are true and your father sleeps between you in bed. I would have thought that scamp would have figured a way to climb over Lucien.”

Merry went a shade darker, and chided, “Grandmamma! Behave yourself.”

Margaret’s gaze locked on the Deverell carriage. So where was Varian? She was still enraged by the note he’d sent. She had done his bidding anyway. Her life was too tame, too calm of late, the curse of being old. Varian’s exploits were always so amusing. Lucien would have her head if he ever discovered how much she knew and how much she had helped Varian. Morgan or not, it was in all their interests that she give him what protection she could. Not that she could explain that to Lucien. Not yet. Most probably never.

Out of the corner of her eye she gave her granddaughter a fast once over. Against all odds, she shared a secret with Merry, not that she’d tell her, and against greater odds the chit had married their secret. How the devil had the girl managed that?

This time when her eyes settled upon her granddaughter she allowed a smile to soften her lips. “Go inside, child. Let me deal with your father. Then I will deal with you.”

Margaret pursed her lips in that crotchety way she had and completely pushed from her mind her granddaughter. Right now her thoughts were fully claimed by the angry countenance of her son.

Blue eyes locked on blue. “Lucien, take your mother’s arm. We will talk in your study, or do you prefer to leave your mother standing here all day?”

Aggravated, but not showing it, Lucien said, “Hello to you too, mother.” He kissed her on the cheek and offered her his arm.

She made one hard stare at the Deverell carriage before she allowed Lucien to assist her toward the door. “Why does Windmere tarry in his carriage? Is he injured? Infirmed?”