The Gypsy Duchess (11 page)

The dinner Moira had been so certain would be a complete disaster had actually turned out to be a great success, considering what even she could see was a strange mixture of diners.

Blackjack had been on his best behavior—most of the time. In truth, he had quite outdone himself with his stories of past adventures and youthful triumphs, most of which Moira recognized as having grown considerably more colorful since the first time she’d heard them. But even she had to admit, the rogue had a grand way of making a story come alive for his listeners.

Elizabeth had perked up considerably after Devon’s talk with her and even added a word or two to the conversation.

Alfie had said little but had eaten everything in sight, and for the first time since they met, had refrained from openly challenging everything Blackjack said. Only once was he heard to mutter under his breath. “Whose tail is the bloody old windbag tryin’ to twist now?”

Even Devon had appeared to enjoy himself, if the number of times his hearty laughter had rung out was any indication. Twice his gaze had locked with Moira’s and the warmth of his look had set her pulse racing so wildly, she’d lowered her eyes for fear he would see the shocking effect he had on her.

And then there was Charles. The very thought of him made Moira’s heart sing. It had been a long time since she’d heard him talk so freely or laugh so often. While he’d toyed with his food as usual and eaten about nothing, he’d ended the meal by looking about him and declaring happily, “Everyone I love in all the world is right here at this table…except Papa, of course, who is in heaven.”

Moira felt a lump rise in her throat, and reaching over to ruffle her stepson’s hair, found her fingers tangled with Devon’s—who had apparently had the same thought at precisely the same instant.

For one brief moment, their fingers entwined and she felt as if everything inside her had melted into a great pool of lava that flowed through her veins like liquid fire. Slowly she withdrew her fingers and bending over, dropped a kiss into Charles’s mop of silky black curls.

“If you gentlemen will excuse us,” she said in a voice that sounded shaky even to her own ears, “Elizabeth and I shall leave you to whatever it is you do when the ladies retire.” She placed a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “Come, sweetheart. We have lingered so long over dinner, I am afraid it is well past your bedtime.”

“Not yet, Mama, please.” Charles’s dark eyes searched her face beseechingly, “Grandpapa Blackjack has promised to tell us a story about the Spanish gypsies.”

Moira’s heart stopped.
What was that scoundrel up to now?
She stared daggers at her father. “And what sort of story would that be, Blackjack?” she asked pointedly. “And how do I know it is fit for young ears or for that matter, any ears?”

“Ah, Moira girl, what a worrisome creature you’ve become these days. Can you not trust your old da’ to know what to tell and what not to?” His blue eyes, so like her own, sparked with mischief. “Tis a simple story, probably woven of whole cloth, that I heard in me seafarin’ days, but as entertainin’ a tale as any I’ve ever heard.

Charles tugged at her hand. “Please, Mama, please say he may tell it.”

“Let me add my voice to the boy’s,” Devon said. “For I too have recently developed a curiosity about Spanish gypsies.”

Moira gritted her teeth in frustration, knowing full well she had only herself to blame for whetting Devon’s curiosity on the subject. But this story Blackjack was proposing to tell was just more of his infernal mischief making. He loved to walk the edge; it was the danger that had intrigued him the most about smuggling, not the profit. But this time he was putting her in jeopardy. And Charles. If Blackjack did anything to upset the balance she was striving to bring into Charles’s life, she would never forgive him.

Moira could see from the expression of diabolic glee on her father’s face, he knew he’d outmaneuvered her, and she dare not make an issue of it lest Devon suspect there was more at stake here than simple storytelling.

“Oh, very well,” she agreed, giving her father a look that promised future retribution. “But it would not be fair if Elizabeth and I should miss such a wondrous tale, I think we shall have to break with tradition tonight and stay with you gentlemen while you enjoy your port.

“A small concession, ma’am, since everything else about the evening has been so entirely traditional,” Devon said with a chuckle that raised the hair up the back of Moira’s neck. He accepted a glass of port from the footman and raised it as if in a toast. “So, Squire Reardon, tell us about Spanish gypsies.”

“A fascinating people,” Blackjack said, assiduously avoiding Moira’s eyes. “Or so I’ve been told.” Blackjack held his glass to the candle so the port wine glowed with the fire of a fine ruby. “The proudest people on earth, actually. They firmly believe they’re a notch or two better than any other gypsies, as well as all
gaujos
, which is everyone else God created.”

“gypsies proud! Now that’s a bouncer if ever I heard one.” Alfie’s thin face puckered in disbelief. “There was nothin’ proud about the dirty buggers wot was skulkin’ abut the Haymarket, stealin’ everything wot wasn’t nailed down. And it was ‘stupid
gorgios
’ they called the lads of the watch wot hauled ‘em off to Newgate—not this gowho name you’re claimin’.”

“Then they couldn’t have been Spanish gypsies,” Blackjack declared firmly. “Probably Hungarian or Romanian or some such thing. Not all gypsies are the same, you know. Not that Spanish gypsies are above stealin’ when the necessity arises, but they’ll not be skulking about to do it. No need, when they’re so devilish clever they can steal a horse right out from under a man, and him not knowin’ it’s gone till he finds himself walkin.”

He gave Alfie a quelling look. “But back to me story, which I hope I may be tellin’ from now on without interruption.” He cleared his throat. “Some years ago, or so I was told, there was a
gitano
, a Spanish gypsy, living in a cave in the hills of Andalusia. Tall he was, which is unusual for a
gitano
and as handsome a fellow as ever walked on God’s green earth. But ‘twas not his comely face that set him apart. ‘Twas the magical way he had of playing a guitar.”

“A guitar?” Alfie scoffed. “Last I heard, it was violins wot gypsies played.”

“Spanish gypsies play guitars,” Blackjack said, his patience obviously wearing thin—almost as thin as Moira’s peace of mind. She could see where his story was leading and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Twas said his music was so beautiful and so powerful, those who listened believed they heard the voice of God,” Blackjack intoned reverently. “People came from all over Spain to hear him play—and not all of them gypsies either. Even the king himself once climbed the rocky path to the gypsy’s cave just to hear his magic guitar.”

In spite of her reservations, Moira found herself entranced by her father’s words. She stared into space, remembering how she’d sat by the hour as a child, watching strong, brown fingers move across the strings of a guitar as swiftly as summer lightening…remembering how she’d been swept up in the power and passion of the wild, exotic gypsy music.

“
Deditas de Oro
! But of course, I heard of him when I was with Wellington in Spain,” Devon said. “He’s one of the Spaniards’ favorite folk heroes. Been dead nearly thirty years and still the people, peasants and grandees alike, speak of him as if they’d heard him play but yesterday.”

He stared straight at Moira. “And wouldn’t you know, he was killed over a woman. A typical Spanish tale of passion and tragedy. As I heard it from a Spanish grandee, the story was he fell head over ears for the daughter of one of Spain’s most powerful noblemen and when the girl didn’t respond to his overtures, he resorted to—there’s no other word for it—rape.”

Moira gasped. “But that’s monstrous. I don’t believe it.” She caught herself up short. “That is, it doesn’t seem as if a man who could create such beauty in his music would do such an ugly thing.”

Devon nodded. “No, it doesn’t. And apparently most of Spain, other than the girl’s father, thought she lied. But the gypsy had to flee for his life. Unfortunately, the nobleman’s henchmen hunted him down and hanged him. And shortly after, the girl threw herself off a cliff. End of story. What a terrible waste!”

“Ah, but ‘tis not really the end at all.” Blackjack smiled mysteriously. “For here’s where my story takes a twist. It seem that the paid assassins were music lovers like the rest of Spain and only pretended to hang him, then helped him escape, along with his wife and young daughter and thirty or more of his gypsy followers.”

“Escape to where?” Devon asked, and Moira held her breath.

“Well now that’s the question, isn’t it?” A wicked smile danced in Blackjack’s eyes. “But this much I know for certain. The young seafaring lad who told this story in a tavern in Penzance—and a fellow Irishman he was so I’ve no doubt that ‘tis true—said he was conducting a bit of business off the coast of France a year or so later, and the Basque gypsies offered him a handsome sum to transport twenty or so of their Spanish brethren to safety in England.”

“England! Are you certain of the destination, Blackjack?” Moira asked, her narrowed gaze locking with his. Picking up the knife she’d used to cut her mutton, she ran her finger along the blade as if testing its sharpness. “Andalusia being one of the southernmost provinces of Spain, one would expect anyone escaping from there to sail across the Mediterranean—not travel the length of Spain and cross the Pyrenees which they would have to have done to reach France.

“It does seem illogical,” Devon agreed, “unless they feared the long arm of the nobleman could reach into Africa. But Moira is right. The Pyrenees, for God’s sake. What time of year was this? I guarantee a ragtag band of gypsies would never make it over those mountains in the winter.”

But they had made it in the dead of winter though they’d buried more than half their number, including pregnant women and small children on the way.

Moira stared at her father in tight-lipped anger. Never had she been more disgusted with the care-for-nothing rogue than she was at this minute.

Studiously avoiding her eyes, Blackjack picked up the serviette and wiped away the beads of perspiration that had sprung to his brow. “The lad who told the story was a bit foggy on some of the details—the exact time of year being one of them,” he said vaguely.

Moira sniffed. “The whole story sounds a bit foggy to me.”

Devon took a sip of wine. “But damned intriguing nevertheless.”

“I’ve heard better,” Moira said. She turned to her father. “And you’ve put Charles to sleep with the telling of it, Backjack, so you’d best carry him up to the nursery for me.”

Blackjack leaped to his feet, a sheepish look on his face. Moira bid good night to Devon and Elizabeth and picking up a candle, followed her father up the stairs with Alfie trailing behind.

At the nursery door, she turned the sleepy duke and his young companion over to John Footman’s care and taking her father’s arm, led him into the hall. “I’ll have a word with you, Blackjack,” she said, and closed the nursery door behind her.

“Now, Moira girl, I know what you’re going to say,” her father protested. “But there’s no cause to get all riled up. I was just having a bit of fun with your stiff-rumped earl.” He chuckled. “I’d a suspicion he’d have heard of your grandfather, spending so much time in Spain and all.”

“Damn you and your mischief making, Blackjack,” Moira said bitterly. “Haven’t you complicated my life enough without causing me more misery? What if the earl had guessed what you were hinting at?”

Blackjack looked highly indignant. “What if he had? I don’t know why you’re so ashamed of your gypsy blood that it must be kept a deep, dark secret. I’ve never felt the least shame that I married you mother.”

“I am not ashamed of my gypsy blood. If it were not for Charles, I’d shout the news from the steps of Carlton House. But can you imagine the earl letting me raise a peer of the realm once he knew I was half gypsy?”

“Why not? It didn’t seem to bother the old duke.”

“There’s where you’re wrong, Blackjack. It would have bothered him a great deal, had he known. He was as a fair a man as I’ve ever met and I owe him more than I could possibly repay. But the one time I tested the waters and told him a band of gypsies had asked permission to camp on White Oaks land, he threatened to set the dogs on the ‘filthy scum,’ as he called them, if they ever crossed his boundaries. There is no reasoning with
gaujos
where gypsies are concerned. The two halves of my blood hate each other with a passion.”

She sighed deeply. “For Charles’s sake, I dare not let anyone suspect my secret—especially the Earl of Langley.

D
evon had barely had time to rise to his feet before Moira swept from the dining room, taking her father and the two boys with her. Typical of her
dégagé
attitude, she had left him alone with Elizabeth, a single, unchaperoned female of marriageable age.

The woman had no regard whatsoever for social convention; it was easy to see why, with the possible exception of Lady Caroline Lamb, she had been the most talked about woman in London during the past four years. But unlike Lady Caroline, who obviously flaunted convention with a view to shocking the
ton
, Moira simply ignored it—not the ideal attitude for the woman entrusted with the raising of a young peer of the realm. But—Devon smiled to himself—that was not the only role he had in mind for the lovely vixen, as he planned to show her before the night was over.

In the meantime, however, there was Elizabeth to consider. He toyed with his wineglass, trying to think of a tactful way to take his leave of her so he could search out Moira. A few minutes of polite conversation, then he would plead exhaustion. Though, if the truth be known, he had actually never felt more wide awake or imbued with energy.

“An interesting evening,” he said finally. “One I’ll not soon forget.”

“The squire is a talented storyteller.” Elizabeth’s delicate brows drew together in a frown. “Although one could wish, for her grace’s sake, he were somewhat more judicious in his choice of subjects.”

Devon nodded his agreement. “I gained the impression she was not happy with his telling of the tale about the Spanish gypsies. Though I’m not sure why. It seemed harmless enough.”

“I imagine she felt a subject touching on passion and tragedy too adult for the duke’s young ears.” Elizabeth said primly. “I know I did. Alfie, of course, is beyond shocking.”

Devon chuckled. “Alfie is a scamp.”

“He is that,” Elizabeth agreed. “But a lovable one. And frightfully clever. Do you know what he calls Squire Reardon?” Her eyes twinkled with sudden humor. “A ‘huff-and-puffer,’ which he claims is the term used in the London stews to describe someone prone to exaggeration. It’s shamefully disrespectful, but it does seem a rather apt description, doesn’t it?”

“Very apt indeed, considering the fanciful tale he concocted was about the fate of the gypsy guitarist all Spain has been mourning for the past thirty years.”

“Still, one has to prefer it to the story as one heard it originally.” Elizabeth looked wistful. “Every story should have a happy ending.”

Devon smiled noncommittally. At the moment it was not the ending of a story that interested him, but the beginning. Moira’s story to be exact. For it had just occurred to him that as the mysterious beauty’s companion, Elizabeth might well be privy to some of the secrets the lady guarded so jealously. The trick was to learn them without appearing to pry.

“An odd relationship that, between the duchess and the squire,” he said, hoping to draw Elizabeth out. “More like a mother and her mischievous son than a daughter and father.”

Elizabeth nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’ve noticed that too? Her grace would never complain, of course, but I do think he is often a trial to her.”

“So it would seem,” Devon said dryly. He wondered if Elizabeth was aware to what lengths this reversal of roles had once driven Moira to save her exasperating parent from the Hangman’s noose.

“The squire is so…so exuberant,” Elizabeth continued. “Her grace even went so far as to forbid him access to you when you were ill for fear he would overtire you.”

“Did she really? How considerate of her.” And how clever. If it hadn’t have been for Ned, the truth might never have come out about either her father’s unsavory past or her reasons for abandoning Blaine.

Devon could see he was wasting his time trying to extract information from Elizabeth. She obviously knew even less than he about her employer’s background. He rose from his chair with a view to bringing the evening to an end.

Elizabeth rose with him, after first retrieving a pair of black satin slippers from beneath the duchess’s chair and placing them on the chair seat. “She is always leaving them about the house,” she said with a fond smile. “She can scarcely bear to wear them, you know. Probably because she never owned a pair until she was twelve years old.”

She clamped a hand over her mouth, a horrified expression on her face. “Oh dear, whatever possessed me to say that? It was told me in strictest confidence.”

Devon’s lips curled in a triumphant smile. His efforts had been worthwhile after all. Another piece of the puzzle was in place. Moira had apparently known severe poverty as a child. It was not hard to believe with a ne’er-do-well like Reardon for a father. “I shall carry the dreadful secret to my grave, ma’am,” he said solemnly.

“I hope you do, my lord, though I know you speak in jest.” Elizabeth looked dangerously close to tears. “It is just the sort of story the gossipmongers of the
ton
would love to spread, and they have already said such dreadful things about her simply because she has no use for their shallow way of life.”

“I promise I shall be discreet, Elizabeth. I have been ground up in the London gossip mill myself often enough to be wary of feeding them even a grain of information about anyone else.” Devon caught Elizabeth’s hand in his and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I shall bid you good night then, sweet lady, and pleasant dreams.”

“Good night, my lord, and thank you,” Elizabeth said with a tremulous smile, withdrawing her hand from his and starting for the door.

“Hadn’t you better take her grace’s shoes with you?” Devon called after her.

“No, for I feel certain she will remember where she left them and come to collect them before taking her nightly walk around the garden,” Elizabeth replied. “She ever only goes barefoot within the house.”

Devon followed Elizabeth up the stairs to the second floor, then took his leave of her as if retiring to his chamber for the night. Moments later, with his greatcoat over his arm, he slipped quietly back down the stairs to the dining room.

The servants had already cleared away the remains of the dinner and snuffed the candles, leaving the room in darkness except for the moonlight shining through the bank of tall, mullioned windows at the far end of the room. He stepped into the shadows to wait—and to think about the beautiful woman for whom he was waiting.

It had been years since he had looked forward to a liaison with such anticipation. There was a mystery about Moira that drew him like a magnet; an intelligence so quick and clever, its brilliance outshone the plethora of candles that had earlier decorated the massive table. For, though she had taken but a single taper with her to light the way to Charles’s chamber, her leaving had seemed to rob the room of all illumination.

And she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He’d suspected as much since he’d realized the kiss they’d shared had been more than a dream. Tonight his suspicions had been confirmed. In one brief, unguarded moment, her eyes had met his in a look so full of longing and passion; it had been all he could do to keep from leaping across the table, bad leg and all, and taking her in his arms.

From that moment on, he’d been so intensely aware of her presence, everyone else had faded into the background. Oh, he had gone through the motions of conversing with Elizabeth and listening to Blackjack’s stories. He had even answered questions put to him and asked a few himself.

But it had all been like a dream. The only reality had been his burning need for the sensuous beauty whose silent invitation had made his palms sweat and his heart pound as if he were a mere stripling about to take his first pleasure with a woman.

He traced his finger along the binding of the slippers he held in his hand—the slippers Elizabeth had said Moira would come seeking. Alone, in the darkened room, he smiled to himself. When she came, she would find him waiting.

Moira tucked both Charles and Alfie into their beds and kissed them good night, then made her way to her own suite to collect her warm wool pelisse. The days were pleasantly mild for the first week of March, but the night air was still too chilly to walk outside without a wrap.

She’d seen Elizabeth enter her chamber just moments before when she’d returned from the nursery, so she felt certain Devon must have opted for an early night as well. At least she hoped he had. The last thing she wanted was to find herself alone with him.

Just thinking about the magnetic energy the man possessed struck terror in her heart. Try as she might, she had been unable to take her eyes off him during dinner, and they had exchanged one look that had burned its way into her very soul. Never had she felt more vulnerable nor more filled with a terrible, aching need to know the fulfillment that only this man could give her.

A glance at her bare feet reminded her that, as usual, she had kicked off her shoes during dinner. Knowing her nocturnal habits, her staff would have left them for her to collect before her walk. She smiled. Although just this morning, that cheeky fellow, John Footman, in his new capacity as butler, had hinted he was contemplating hiring a tweeney to do nothing but gather up the shoes she left about the house each day and return them to her chamber.

The dining room was deep in shadow when she entered. Placing her candle on the edge of the table, she knelt down and felt under the chair but found no slippers. She dropped to her knees and was just about to crawl under the table to continue the search when she heard a familiar voice ask, “Could these be what you are looking for?”

She raised her head to find Devon standing over her, her slippers dangling from two fingers of his outstretched hand. A shaft of moonlight caught the glint of gold in his hair, the glint of amusement in his eyes.

Scrambling hastily to her feet, Moira snatched the slippers. “Thank you, my lord St. Gwyre,” she said, hopping on one foot while she jammed the other into a slipper that suddenly seemed to small, when it had fit quite nicely just a few hours before.

“Let me help,” he said, wresting the slipper from her protesting fingers and fitting it neatly onto her foot. He held out his hand. “Now the other.” She had no choice but to give it to him and lift her other foot.

“There you are, all properly shod,” he declared. “Though I can understand why you find wearing them so annoying. With me it’s nightshirts.”

“N—nightshirts?” she stammered, utterly confused.

“Haven’t worn one in years, much to my batman cum valet’s disapproval. For an ex-smuggler, Ned can be annoyingly proper at times. To tell the truth, I never could stand the blasted things—nightshirts that is. They have an aggravating tendency to work their way up into— ”

“A roll at one’s waist,” Moira said without thinking. She felt the same way about wearing the silly item English ladies called a night rail as she did about wearing shoes.

“Are you saying you too choose to sleep au naturel, lovely lady? What a provocative image that inspires.”

“I am saying nothing of the sort, my lord.” She felt her cheeks flush hotly and was grateful the light was too dim for Devon to see how he’d disconcerted her.

“How disappointing. You deny it then?”

She would have to lie to deny it and she was the world’s worst liar. She chose instead to skirt the issue. “This is a most improper conversation, my lord, and apropos of nothing,” she declared in her chilliest voice, pushing past him to stride toward the door.

“Ah, but there you are wrong, ma’am. It has definite significance.” Devon’s laugh had a wicked ring to it. “I am assembling a most fascinating puzzle, you see, and another piece has just fallen into place.”

Moira sniffed. “It is plain to see you are either foxed or given to speaking in riddles, and since I feel ill equipped to contend with either circumstance, I shall bid you good night.”

“What a bouncer! I am convinced you could contend with a herd of stampeding Indian elephants with one hand tied behind your back,” Devon said. “But what is this ‘my lord’ business? I thought we had agreed it was to be Moira and Devon from now on.”

Moira stepped from the darkened dining room into the corridor where a footman waited with a branch of candles to light her way to the garden. She stopped long enough to button her pelisse with fingers that had an annoying tendency to tremble, and to her surprise realized that Devon was shoving his arms into the sleeves of a caped greatcoat.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper, although she could see very well he was now in the process of fastening the frogs that marched down the front of the garment.

“Preparing to accompany you on your nightly walk,” he whispered back, “since I was certain you planned to invite me.”

Moira’s heartbeat accelerated alarmingly. In her present vulnerable mood, she didn’t trust herself to walk in a moonlit garden with “the most notorious rake in London” and she trusted him even less. “I had no such plans,” she said coldly. “I always walk alone.”

“For shame, madam,” Devon declared, cupping her elbows with his strong fingers and propelling her forward past the grinning footman. “When we have the promised talk of ours, we must remember to include the subject of manners. Informal is one thing; rude is another. Now, which way is it to that garden of yours?”

She was never certain how she got there, but moments later, Moira found herself walking with Devon along the gravel path that wound through her favorite garden. They passed James Keough, standing silent and watchful beneath the same mulberry tree where she had encountered him on each of her previous walks since the brothers had taken on the guarding of the young duke.