Regency Wagers (11 page)

‘I can only do this if I know they remain safe.’ Devlin’s voice became low and insistent. ‘I must depend on you to look out for them. I will not be able to see to it myself.’

Bart stared at him as the hack neared St James’s Street. ‘I will do as you say.’

That afternoon, Madeleine was alone in the house. Linette napped. Sophie, who had insisted herself fully recovered, went to return her sewing to Madame Emeraude and get another batch. Bart accompanied her, so she need not carry the basket.

Devlin left to see the Marquess, to announce his decision to seek a wife so as to release his allowance.

Madeleine hated this solitude. Busy all morning, she had given herself no time to think of Devlin searching for a wife. And leaving her.

Now there were no distractions.

The only fantasy she could muster was of Devlin in a church with a beautiful lady like the Marchioness at his side, saying his vows. If she shook off that unwanted reverie, she saw him facing the same lady in his bed.

She grabbed her sewing and settled herself in the parlour’s window seat. The day was clear, the kind of day she once might have spent on horseback, galloping over the hills near her home. Those days felt as unreal to her as her fantasies about Devlin. She frowned over her stitches. Sophie had helped her design an apron to protect her dresses during the day. They had found an old bedsheet to make it with. Stitching was laborious, but she was determined to finish the garment when she was not needed helping Sophie with the dresses.

Sewing simply did not occupy enough of her mind, and
this morning of all mornings she did not wish to think. Devlin would marry and she would be sent away.

She supposed she should be grateful that he intended to take care of her and Linette. It was a good fortune, a perfect solution to all their problems. Perhaps Devlin would visit after he wed. Lots of men kept mistresses, she knew. Several had offered her a
carte blanche
, but Farley inevitably found out and they never offered again.

She refused to rank Devlin the same as those odious creatures who used to drool over her. He was not like them. Being with him was so different than being with other men. So wonderful. Devlin was a man like no other.

She turned back to her stitches. Perhaps if she became truly skilled at sewing, she and Sophie could earn enough for a little place to stay, enough to feed and clothe themselves and Linette.

Devlin would be free.

Madeleine concentrated on speeding up her sewing, necessary for a seamstress. She tried very hard to keep the stitches the same size and close together. Sometimes she would forget to use the thimble and push on the needle with her bare finger. More often, she poked herself with the needle’s point instead of moving her fingers away.

For a few moments, the effort consumed her mind, but a noise in the street distracted her. A shiny barouche with a splendid pair of matched bays pulled up in front of the house. The horses were as fine as any she had ever seen. What stable had bred them? she wondered. They were identical in size, their markings so similar one would suppose they had been twins. She wished she had seen them in motion.

The knocker of the door sounded, and she jumped. She peeked out the glass to see who knocked. An unknown man stood there. The driver of the elegant equipage?

She opened the door.

The man who stood before her was more refined than any she had ever seen. His buckskins and driving coat were so
finely tailored they looked moulded to his well-formed frame. His eyes, regarding her with a startled expression, seemed familiar, as did the set of his chin.

‘I was given this as Lord Devlin Steele’s direction.’ He eyed her as men usually did, but without the typical prurient gleam.

‘Lord Devlin is not presently at home,’ she said.

He stepped past her, across the threshold, though she had not given him leave to do so. Her heart beat in alarm and she was acutely aware of being alone in the house.

She straightened her posture. ‘Perhaps you would wish to leave your card.’

He removed his hat. ‘I wish to wait.’

She bit her lip. She dare not betray being alone. His eyes still carefully assessed her.

‘Who are you?’ His question was more like a command.

She bristled. Smiling with bravado through her nervousness, she said, ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself. I had thought it proper for visitors to announce themselves first.’

His eyes flashed at her insolence. She supposed he was not one accustomed to having his behaviour questioned. She smiled again and cocked her head as if waiting.

‘The Marquess of Heronvale,’ he said impatiently.

Her smile vanished. Devlin’s brother.

‘You are?’ he commanded again.

She waved her hand as if his question was foolish, but curtsied politely. ‘Miss England at your service, my lord. I am the…the housekeeper.’

‘Indeed?’ His eyebrows lifted in a top-lofty expression and his eyes flicked up and down her person once more.

She took a breath. ‘Lord Devlin intended to visit you this afternoon, my lord. Perhaps you might find him at your residence.’

He made no move to leave. ‘I will wait for him.’

She took his hat and showed him into the parlour, where he stood continuing to watch her. She scooped up her sewing
from the window seat and twisted the material in her hand, wishing she had finished the garment so it could cover her pale yellow muslin dress.

‘I shall bring tea.’ It sounded like what a housekeeper might do. He still stood, watching her.

As she moved to leave, his voice stopped her, sounding less imperious. ‘Tell me, Miss England. My brother…is he well?’

An odd question. ‘Yes, he is. Very well, my lord.’ She curtsied again and hurried out the door.

The Marquess watched the retreating figure, wondering what to make of this surprise in his brother’s household. Housekeeper, indeed. The young woman—lord, she looked more like a girl—was a breathtaking beauty with startlingly blue eyes and dark unruly hair. Where had Devlin found her? He had heard no rumours of his brother forming a liaison.

He strolled around the room, intrigued, as well, with the genteel furnishings. The place must have commanded a respectable rent. With this ‘housekeeper’, it was easy to see why Devlin wished to move. And he could see why his little brother had overspent his due. A woman of Miss England’s face and figure would not come cheap, as her tasteful new attire could attest.

He’d not reckoned on his brother living with a mistress, had not conceived the notion even when Serena reported seeing Devlin with a woman. Devlin had introduced Serena to her as if she were respectable. Devlin should have told him about her.

He should not be surprised Devlin had not. Ned wandered over to the window. He would have disapproved. He would have given Devlin a list of cogent reasons why keeping a mistress was irresponsible and he would have reminded Devlin of his duty.

Ned had often thought about keeping a mistress himself. There were times when his masculine urges raged in a manner
he could not inflict upon his delicate wife, and a willing woman would have easily slaked his desires.

But he had not.

In any event, Devlin had no business keeping a woman. He had no fortune of his own to command. Ned stood again and peered out the window. He had planned merely to assure himself Devlin was not ill and be on his way. He pulled on the bell cord.

Miss England appeared at the door. ‘Yes, my lord?’

At least she played her role of housekeeper well. Puzzling, she spoke like an educated miss. Still, her youth did not make sense. She could be no more than nineteen.

‘Please have someone instruct my tiger to walk the horses.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied.

He watched from the window to see it done and was surprised when Miss England went from the house to speak to his tiger.

A few minutes later, she entered with a tea tray. She poured the tea prettily and offered some lemon cakes, as well. He noticed tea leaves swimming in his cup.

He could not resist baiting her. ‘Tell me, Miss England, how long have you been in my brother’s…employ?’

‘Not long, sir,’ she replied, an edge to her voice.

‘He had not spoken to me of having a housekeeper.’

She did not lower her gaze at this question. She smiled instead. ‘Indeed? Do gentlemen discuss such matters?’

He narrowed his eyes, ‘Was it you whom my wife met with Devlin—Lord Devlin?’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, my lord. She kindly spoke to me.’

He ought to wring Devlin’s bloody neck. How dare he put Serena in such a position, to speak to one such as this Miss England? He glared at her.

But at the moment she looked more like a timid young girl, nervous and uncertain. It was difficult to maintain his anger.

‘May I be excused, my lord?’ Her cheekiness had fled, at
least. He wished to ask more questions, but could think of none.

‘Deddy?’ A small voice sounded from the doorway, and Miss England turned pale.

Ned turned to come face to face with a tiny child, no more than a baby, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

The very image of his brother.

N
ed stared at the child, a doll-like little girl who clutched a wooden horse in her hand. Even the toy was like one Devlin had carried with him at that age. She had blue eyes instead of green. Even so, this little girl was a female version of Devlin twenty-five years ago. The child stole a wary glance at him and ran to Miss England, who scooped her up in her arms.

‘I want Deddy,’ the child said.

Miss England flushed.

‘Daddy?’ Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

The young woman blinked rapidly.

‘The child’s word for papa?’ Perhaps the child had picked up the Scottish term from the faithful Bart.

Her eyes darted. ‘No, indeed, for a…a…toy.’ She looked at the girl. ‘Go above stairs now, sweetling. Mama will be up directly.’

The child flung her little arms around Miss England’s neck. ‘No!’

Ned remembered that feeling. Chubby arms clasping his neck, the awesome knowledge that such devotion could be directed at him. His littlest brother, following him everywhere when he was home on school holiday. Worshipping him. Needing him.

‘She is Devlin’s child.’ He did not ask.

A panicked look flashed across Miss England’s face. She recovered quickly, meeting his eye. ‘She is
my
child.’

Her child? She looked barely old enough.

The little girl studied him with wide lash-fringed eyes. ‘Who zat, Mama?’

‘He is the Marquess,’ she responded.

His title would mean nothing to the child. But it would warm his heart if he again heard a childish voice call him Ned.

The little girl squirmed and her mother set her down.

Ned squatted to the child. ‘And what is your name?’

‘Winette,’ the shy little voice said, a thumb popping into her mouth.

‘Winette?’ He looked to Miss England.

‘Linette,’ she said.

Ned smiled at the child. ‘That is a splendid horse you have, Linette. May I see it?’

Linette thrust the hand holding the horse in Ned’s face.

‘A splendid horse, indeed. Does your horse have a name?’

She released her thumb. ‘Deddy’s horse.’

Ned glanced at Miss England. Her hand had flown to her mouth. With a halting gesture, he touched Linette’s dark curly hair. His brother used to run to him for comfort, he recalled. Ned would mop up his tears and stroke his hair just like this.

‘Markiss play?’ the little girl asked, cocking her head and batting her eyelashes.

Ned laughed and ruffled the child’s hair, a smile lingering on his lips. Yes, he would like to play again, to sit on the floor and gallop a wooden horse.

He stood instead. ‘I shall take my leave,
Miss
England. Please tell my brother he shall hear from me.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ She hurried to fetch his hat and gloves and to open the door for him. The child hovered behind her, and he gave the little girl a final smile as he walked out of the door, his barouche pulling up in front of the house.

Linette ran out the door, pointing. ‘Horse! Horse, Mama!’

Miss England rushed out to grab her. Ned caught the child first and held her until Miss England took her hand. Regretting he had to leave the child, Ned continued towards the barouche. He stopped, a thought interrupting the plan half-formed in his head.

He turned back. ‘Miss England?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Are you married to my brother?’

Surprise flashed across her face and she blushed deep red. ‘No, my lord.’

He continued on his way, climbing onto the barouche and snapping at the rungs while his tiger leapt on to the back.

From an alleyway across the street, black eyes watched the retreating vehicle and glanced back at the mother and child re-entering the house.

What was meant by that tender scene? Lord Farley wondered. The Marquess of Heronvale going all mawkish over Madeleine’s child? Perhaps the man’s fancy ran toward young ones. Rumour said he had no fancy for his ice-maiden wife.

Farley tried to calculate what small fortune a marquess might spend for the rare chance to dally with such a child. He rubbed his hands at the thought.

Perhaps he should have sold the child to settle his debts instead of giving up Madeleine. Madeleine had become so much more difficult since the child was born. He should have got rid of it straight away.

Cursed chit—Madeleine had vowed to slit her own throat if he so much as touched the child, and he’d decided to keep her happy. He’d counted upon her being grateful enough to come willingly to him, like the first time when she’d been flushed with delight. That was what he desired again.

Farley leaned against the lamppost. He removed a pinch of snuff from its box and inhaled it. After a spasm of sneezing, he glanced back at the door she’d walked through, recalling
the sway of her hips. She was made for seduction. If ever there was a woman created for passion, it was Madeleine.

So why did she withhold that passion from him? It enraged him. He thought he’d taught her a lesson when he forced her to become the bribe in his crooked games. He’d intended to offer her only a few times, but she’d made him a tidy profit. Men would come to his establishment every night, hoping to win time with her, especially if he offered her only every now and then. Then they returned often, losing more blunt each time.

While she was fat with child she’d earned him nothing. If he’d been in London he’d have dealt with her before it had grown too big to get rid of, but one did not refuse an emperor’s summons or, to be more accurate, one from an emperor’s emissary. Not when the emperor paid well for information gleaned from brandy-loosened tongues and gentlemen desperate to settle gambling debts.

He should have taken her to France with him, but that night before he left she’d angered him, and it had suited him well enough not to set eyes on her for a while. Besides, she’d become something of a patriot. More than once he discovered her poring over newspapers filled with stories about the war. If she had discovered his business dealings with Napoleon, she might have been stupid enough to pass the word to some fool willing to put country above fortune.

Stepping out of the alley onto the pavement, Farley gazed once more at the apartments where Madeleine lived with Devlin Steele. He thought of her naked beneath Steele, and his own loins ached.

He’d have her again, even if he had to kill to get her.

Madeleine paced the floor, wishing Devlin would hurry home and dreading when he would.

What could be worse for Devlin than the Marquess of Heronvale learning of her existence and that of her child? She
knew what could be worse—his suspecting the child to be Devlin’s.

Oh, she should never have opened the door. He would have gone away none the wiser had she not.

Linette walked up to her. ‘Mama? Where’s Markiss’s horse?’

‘Gone, Linette,’ she said for what seemed like the hundredth time. Linette had not stopped speaking of those cursed horses. They were beautiful animals, she had to admit.

After what seemed like hours but could barely have been more than one, Devlin walked in. Linette reached him first and was lifted into his arms.

‘Markiss’s horse! Markiss’s horse!’ Linette chattered.

Madeleine tapped her foot in impatience.

Devlin frowned at her. ‘My brother was not at home, so we remain penniless.’

‘He was here.’

Her words were drowned out. Linette grabbed Devlin’s cheeks and yelled, ‘Markiss’s horse!’ as if getting louder would help.

‘What the deuce is she talking about?’ Devlin asked.

‘I told you. Your brother was here. He came here, Devlin. He saw Linette. Markiss. It is her way of saying the Marquess.’

‘Good God,’ Devlin said. ‘What did he want?’

‘To see you.’

‘For what purpose?’

She lifted her arms in frustration. ‘I do not know. He did not confide in me.’

‘Good God. He met you?’

‘Of course he met me.’ Her voice went up an octave. ‘I have told you.’

She knew it was a terrible thing for Devlin’s brother to learn of her existence. Still, it stung to realise Devlin thought so, as well.

Devlin set Linette down, putting his hand to his brow.

‘You need not worry.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I told him I was the housekeeper.’

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the hallway.

Madeleine glared at him. ‘It is not a jest, Devlin.’

Grinning, he drew her into his arms, even though she tried to pull away. ‘You are nothing like a housekeeper.’

She pushed at his chest. ‘Be serious. What are we to do?’

Linette ran up with her toy horse. ‘Deddy play!’

‘Not now, Lady Lin.’ Devlin continued to hold Madeleine. Linette pulled at his trousers.

‘We do nothing, Maddy,’ he said. ‘Ned would know of us sooner or later. My brother always discovers my secrets.’

Madeleine settled against him. As long as her presence remained a secret, she had an easier time pretending. In the full light of day, however, her existence was a shameful one.

Madeleine rested her head against the comforting beat of Devlin’s heart.

‘Are Sophie and Bart here?’ His deep voice resonated in his chest. It was like feeling the sound, as well as hearing it.

Madeleine did not move from his warm, strong arms. ‘They went to Madame Emeraude’s, but that was a while ago. I believe they may be dallying.’

He chuckled, producing more interesting vibrations. ‘They are the unlikeliest pair.’

No, she thought.
We
are. A man of Bart’s class may marry a girl, no matter what her reputation. A lord may not.

The next morning Devlin woke, tangled in Madeleine’s embrace. He stared at her face, inches from his and, in sleep, looking innocent as a lamb, so very young and vulnerable. His heart ached with tenderness for her.

She had not come to him in the night. He’d been restless and eager, desire heating his loins until he could wait no longer. He crossed the room, opened the door, and lifted her
into his arms. She’d not protested when he carried her to his bed.

He intended to make love to her this morning. More than once, if the child slept long enough. Knowing he must give her up made him hungry for her, as if he needed to get his fill of her while he could. Enough to sustain him for the rest of his life.

Her eyes fluttered open, immediately filling with tenderness. A heartbeat later those eyes registered alarm and then, slowly, carefully, turned blank.

‘Shall I make love to you, Devlin?’ She spoke in that sweet voice that sounded as if it came from someone else. Her hand slid across his scarred chest and descended, nearing to where he was already hard for her.

He caught her wrist. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Miss M.’

He had not expected to see this side of Madeleine again. He’d resigned himself to a limited time with her, but he expected her passion. Had not that much passed between them?

It angered him, made him want to teach her a lesson. He could show her how a man takes what he wants. He could climb atop her and force her to love him, before their time ran out.

Devlin sat up and ran a hand raggedly through his hair. His heart pounded and his throat tightened so that he could not take a breath. The walls of the room closed in on him and he heard the beat of the French drums, the pounding of horses’ hooves charging. Retreat! he thought. Run. Ride. Gallop until your lungs feel like bursting and you are safe behind the line.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his clothes.

‘What are you doing?’ Madeleine’s modulated voice trembled a bit.

He could show her his anger, but he would be damned if he would let her see this panic that so frequently beset him.

‘I am going out.’ He left the room, still buttoning his trousers.

Madeleine, her breath coming rapidly, waited a few moments before donning her nightdress.

The previous night had been more than her daydreams could have imagined. He created sensations in her that she’d not known possible. Her body had responded to him, and she had performed all the tricks she had been taught to perform. But this time she had
meant
them. She had wanted to share her pleasure with him, wanted to feel him under her hand and her lips, wanted to bind him to her forever.

She must not allow herself to love him. She must give up foolish dreaming and prepare for leaving him. She must hope that the lady he wed would be worthy of him, and that he would eventually fall in love with her and be happy.

Such a thought was too miserable by half.

Madeleine opened the door connecting her room and Devlin’s. Linette still slept, but in a short space of time the sun would send its fingers through the window to poke her awake. Madeleine hurried to dress herself and to drag a comb through her unruly curls. In the scratched mirror, her lips looked swollen from Devlin’s kisses. She lightly touched her breast, remembering how his hand had felt there the night before, remembering the ferocity of their lovemaking.

Her body sprang to life. The light from the rising sun increased its brilliance. The sounds of Linette’s breathing grew louder. From the open window, she could smell dampness in the cool morning air. She could not afford to feel so alive again. She vowed to tame the desire he aroused in her and to become dead again. As she had been at Farley’s.

After all, leaving Devlin would be a little like dying.

Devlin strode through the streets with only one thought in his mind. To run. To ride. To be on horseback again with the sensation that nothing could catch him. No man, no musket ball, no blue eyes that stared blankly through him.

He quickened his pace as he neared his brother’s stable. Entering, he called a ‘halloo’ and walked past the gleaming
berlin carriage, a well-sprung curricle, and what appeared to be a brand new barouche. The smell of hay, so long missed, came back to comfort him.

A squat, wiry figure emerged from the most distant stall, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Yes, sir. What is it, sir?’

Devlin peered at him as he walked closer. The man was about his age and familiar. ‘Jem, is that you?’