The Luck of the Devil (4 page)
"It's only a kiss I want to steal," he murmured, matching action to words like the military man he was, taking her gently in his arms and bringing their lips together. It was a moment of such bursting radiance that Rowanne forgot her toes, forgot her brother, forgot that she was spreading more raspberry stains on his unmentionables where they were touching her body in the most interesting manner.
Only a kiss?
V
engeance is mine, sayeth the Lord… and every woman who thinks her affections have been trifled with by a handsome rogue. Carey's left cheek was as red as the stains on his pants, but if Rowanne had known it, her revenge would have been that much sweeter, for Carey was as stunned by the kiss as she was. What he meant to take by thievery became instead a gift, and the warm memory he thought to carry away became a firebrand searing itself into his very being. Captain Delverson was shaken. Either that or she had permanently addled his brain with the resounding slap before leaving the little room.
Carey stayed where he was for her reputation's sake, if not the five-fingers mark on his face. Hell, he'd received worse wounds with less reward. He searched out the butler's private stock and settled back to wait.
Miss Grimble thought Rowanne was still upset about her gown and their dashed hopes for a match between Gabriel and Miss Worthington, so did not get alarmed at her charge's lack of color or conversation. The companion was too busy trying to work the evening's rump and riot into chapter twenty-seven.
Gabriel thought it was oddly ill-tempered of his sister to hold an unreasonable grudge against Delverson; the chap had been everything amiable, as far as Gabe could see. Delverson had taken command of the awful situation, giving orders to the servants, organizing a tactical retreat that would have made Old Hooky proud. But Rowanne was still in a swivet on the carriage ride home, Gabe could tell, and he knew enough about his sister's megrims to keep his own counsel on his own side of the coach.
To say Rowanne was upset was to say a monsoon was damp. On the way back to Wimberly House, all that night and more than a few nights and days after, Rowanne relived that kiss. It was a good thing the blackguard was out of the country, she thought, for she did not know what she would do if she saw him again, strangle him or aid wholeheartedly in her own seduction!
Those were thoroughly unacceptable notions for a maiden lady, as she well knew, but they would not go away. Uncomfortable thoughts had that knack about them. When she worked on her miniatures, she saw the little terra-cotta dishes he had brought. When she danced, she recalled the waltz in his arms, and when she lay awake for hours in her bed she wondered how it would be to—
She went down to the library for a book of sermons. Absolutely, positively refusing to consider that she was close to throwing her cap over the windmill for a hell-born here-and-thereian who was, moreover, there, Rowanne decided to try harder to find Gabe a wife and then get herself a husband. Such feelings as were disturbing her rest and muddling her senses were permissible in the married state, and she was not getting any younger. In addition, Aunt Cora's letters were growing more and more condemning of the Wimberlys' failure to provide her grandnieces and -nephews; living with her as an ape-leader after Gabe married held as much attraction as going to the tooth-drawer. Rowanne could no longer consider raising roses in Dorset now either, though she had contrived a cunning trellis for a scale-model patio out of a broken ivory hairpiece. She fashioned climbing vines out of painted string and silk, despairing that she would never get much closer to the real thing.
"Why don't you take over from the gardeners here, then, if you are so eager to get your hands soiled?" Gabe asked, after her third sigh finally penetrated Plato's Republic. "We have ample room out back, you know."
"Yes, but that would almost be like growing things in tubs in a conservatory. I have always wanted a real garden, one that would blend into the landscape and look natural despite the planning. The London garden is lovely but can only look as contrived as my silk roses, with its walls and terraces and spouting-dolphins fountain."
"Then why don't you accept Aunt Emonda's invitation to go visit at High Clyme?"
They had just received a pleasant letter from their new relation, thanking them for their kind congratulations and the gift of a Wedgewood tea set. The gift had taken a great deal of discussion, for Rowanne's first answer to the question of what to get the new bride was a younger husband. Then she thought to send a family heirloom, one of the ugly ormolu clocks or the silver epergne that seemed to depict Hannibal crossing the Alps, elephants and all. The heirlooms already belonged to Uncle Donald, Gabe reminded her, so they settled on the tea set, which suited admirably, judging from the warm thank you.
"I am sure she would let you dabble in the mud," Gabe went on. "Lud knows there is enough ground."
Rowanne put down the magnifying lens. "But it would not be mine."
"Still, she seems an all-right sort, trying to mend the family breech."
"And she hasn't thrown us out yet, nor sent word of a coming happy event. Likely she wants an unpaid companion."
Gabe wiped his spectacles with a lawn cloth. "That's not like you, to be so judgmental without evidence."
"You forget, brother, that I do have evidence, in an incorrigible rake. If she is anything like that nephew of hers…"
"Gammon, Ro, they are not even blood relatives, and I am not sure Delverson's wild reputation is entirely deserved."
Rowanne murmured to herself, "Trust me, it is."
"What's that, my dear? Never mind, you have been resty lately. Maybe you have been trotting so hard you'd benefit from a month or more in that clean country air and all that nice dirt."
"What, a month in someone else's household? Last week's halibut would be more welcome. Besides, you yourself know how awful house parties can be, with no solitude, no familiar servants who care about your comfort, and no choices. A female guest has to sew when the hostess feels like sitting quietly, entertain when she invites company, even retire for the evening when the lady of the house is tired!"
"But you would not be such a guest, you are family."
"And a stranger to both our uncle and new aunt. No, Aunt Emonda may enjoy her teapot in peace—and her honeymoon too. I am too busy to leave town now anyway. Did you see the pile of invitations? No one goes to the country in the middle of the Season."
Especially if they want to shop at the Marriage Mart.
Rowanne did not read purple-covered novels from the lending library. Not often enough, at any rate, to have her heart set on a storybook romance. Storybook heroes were all well and good—in the pages of books. In real life heroes tended to act outside comfortable conventions or, worse, go off to war. No matter, Rowanne was all too practical to wait for love to sweep her off her feet. She had been born to the principle of marrying well and had no doubt that if her father were alive, he would already have arranged an advantageous marriage for her. The gentleman would have been wealthy, titled, and well connected, whether she felt affection for him or not.
Rowanne reassessed her requirements. She was wealthy enough in her own right to consider a man's fortune of little concern, as long as he was not marrying her for the money, and expediency meant less than comfort, although she was not about to run off with the footman or anything. She wanted a man she could respect and the kind of life she was used to living. If he had a bit of property somewhere, all to the good. Now she added another factor: He had to answer the new longings that toad Delverson had aroused. To this end Rowanne started experimenting over the next few weeks.
Miss Wimberly's most persistent suitor was Lord Fairborn, whose self-esteem was as high as his shirt collars. With some little effort, Rowanne happened to lead their steps away from the bright lights at Vauxhall onto one of the infamous Dark Paths. Fairborn's kiss was wet and pulpy, reminding Rowanne unpleasantly of Miss Worthington's oyster. Rowanne had the dandy back in the lighted areas before the cat could lick its ear.
Sir Allerby, who gambled often and won less often, according to the omniscient Miss Grimble, was permitted to escort Rowanne to the balcony at Lady Haight's rout for a breath of air. His kiss was as dry and lifeless as yesterday's toast. Rowanne decided she needed a cool drink instead of the night's breeze.
Squire Farnsworth was next. ("Country gentleman, in town one month a year, but a good portion of Lincolnshire in the family. Pigs.") Rowanne wondered if Miss Grimble meant the cash crop or Farnsworth's manners. His kiss in the bushes of Hyde Park left her breathless all right, but only because he crushed her ribs so tightly.
Surely a Frenchman knew how to kiss! Le Comte de Chambarque was a newly arrived
émigré. ("Ancien Regime. Lost the land, saved the money.") He was elegant in his manner, draping Rowanne across his arm, whispering French love words. The languid kiss would have made Mrs. Radcliffe weep, but his mustache tickled.
Lord Cavendish ("Good ton, gazetted rake.") tried to stick his tongue in Rowanne's mouth, so she bit it, garlic breath and all.
Weeks became months and Miss Grimble was hard-pressed to come up with new men to bring to Rowanne's attention. Hostesses began to look askance at the popular Miss
Wimberly, and her dance partners were sending raffish leers her way. Miss Grimble's hair-ridden upper lip was pursed, and even Gabe wondered if females were accustomed to sowing wild oats. He did not ask what she was about; he just kept nodding and smiling at the chits she dragged home, listened to them batter the pianoforte, watched them simper over tea, danced with the required number of wallflowers—and hurried home to his books and speeches.
Then it was nearly summer, with Aunt Cora's querulous demand that Rowanne attend her at Bath and explain precisely what she was doing, making micefeet of her reputation. Aunt Emonda wrote again, inviting Gabriel and Rowanne to High Clyme for the warm months. Rowanne was almost tempted, until Lady Clyme's next letter mentioned that her niece Suzannah would also be in residence for the summer. Perhaps Miss Wimberly recalled Suzannah's stepbrother, Captain Delverson? Miss Wimberly needed no reminders. She would not go to Dorset if the Holy Grail was buried there.
Happily they received another invitation, to help make up a house party at Lord Quinton's country residence in Suffolk, where Rowanne's ex-governess/companion, Miss Simpson, was slowly establishing herself in local society. Her standing in the community would be raised no end, Lady Quinton teased, if she could attract a Toast like Miss Wimberly to her little gathering of Whig gentlemen and their wives. Gabe would be content with Lord Quinton's company, and near enough to town for quick trips back. Rowanne accepted. After all, Suffolk was a whole new county of gentlemen.
Despite her thoughts about house parties and staying over-long in other people's homes, Rowanne was delighted to reestablish her friendship with the older woman, improve her riding, go for long walks on the downs, read forgotten treasures from Lord Quinton's extensive library. She finished a set of needlepoint firescreens, one for Wimberly House, one for the dollhouse. She learned to fish and she kissed more than a few local squires. Kissing the fish might have been more rewarding.
Gabe did not tumble for any of the local belles either, so fall saw both of the Wimberlys reestablished in Grosvenor Square, Gabe with a healthy tan and an eagerness to resume debates in the conference rooms at Whitehall, Rowanne slightly freckled and more than slightly disgruntled at having to face yet another Season on the catch for an eligible parti.
Then Miss Grimble's book was published.
A
London Life, by a Ladies' Companion, said one review, was a titillating glimpse into the ton and its denizens by a keen observer of human nature in its party clothes.
The first volume was into its third printing within a week. Common readers bought the book to laugh at their so-called betters, caught with their pants down and their hair in curl papers. The polite world rushed to see who could be identified in the unnamed characters, and pray it was not themselves. Entire evenings were given over to unraveling clues to the characters and possible authors, instead of charades or card parties. The consensus was that
the book had to have been written by a committee, there being so many precise details. The tome held the usual scandalous tidbits, but young, unmarried girls of good repute were never mentioned. A London Life dealt primarily with the ages-old conflict between women trying to get men to the altar and men trying to get women off in the dark.
Members of the ton thought the book either hilarious or outrageous, usually depending on whether they thought they were mentioned in it or not, and sales continued brisk. A second volume followed in a few months and was equally as well received, especially when this one chronicled the little-known occasion of a certain rotund gentleman who bent down to pet the lapdog of a young lady when his unmentionables gave up the fight and ripped from back to front. The lady, no wandlike sylph herself, laughed so hard her corset snapped and slid down around her knees. They were married by special license, as soon as her father caught sight of them in their disarray.
Unfortunately, the young bride had only confided the tale to one person, her best friend, Lady Diana Hawley-Roth. Lady Diana was known to have had a companion, a dark specter of a Beldam with the mind of an accountant. Where was this silent spectator now? Living with that fast Miss Wimberly, that was where. If the upper ten thousand did not outright accuse Rowanne of co-authoring the books, most believed she had knowingly harbored a viper in their midst.
"I do wish I had understood the nature of your memoirs a trifle better," Rowanne complained to the viper. "Not that I did not enjoy the book, but Lady Sefton gave me the cut direct today in the park."
"No, Miss Wimberly, she cut our carriage, not you personally. I was also in the chaise."
"Yes, but I have almost no invitations for this week, except dear Lady Quinton. Whatever are we to do, Miss Grimble?"
"We shan't do anything. I shall leave, then the silly geese will forget all about the connection and you will be society's pet once again."
"But where can you go? I fear no one will hire you again. I can give you excellent references, of course, but I cannot think my word will hold much weight. Careful parents would worry their daughters' suitors will be scared off lest they be the object of your jibes. In addition, your last lady made an unfortunate marriage and I have made none, despite your valiant efforts, so you have no great record to cite."
"Very kind of you to be concerned with my future, I am sure, Miss Wimberly, but you need not be. I had a small sum set by and invested which, together with the book advance, would have seen me through in any event. The books are doing very well, you know, and Mr. Kenton, the publisher, wishes more and is willing to pay an even higher price. I shall be taking up residence in a respectable boardinghouse for ladies of genteel birth in Kensington before the end of the week. There I may concentrate on my writing. Of course I shan't be collecting new tales, but I have a wealth of material on which to draw. After that I think I shall try my hand at novels."
"How, ah, fortunate for you. Do you really think people will stop wondering if I helped write the stories?"
"Certainly. Next month's volume will have my own name inscribed as author."
"Next month's?" It was time to visit relatives, as far from London as possible.
Aunt Emonda wrote that Lord Clyme was not in prime twig. His gout was bothering him, with the cool weather coming on, and perhaps Rowanne could put off her visit for a few weeks. Rowanne was pleased to see the woman seemed to have some care for Uncle Donald. On the other hand, if Emonda was indeed a money-grubbing harpy, she deserved to be tied to a crotchety old man. Either way, Rowanne was left with the choice of being considered no better than she should be in London, without even a chaperone for respectability, or Aunt Cora. It was a hard decision.
"So you're here to visit your dear auntie, eh? For the first time in three years, and in the middle of the Season, and with only your maid along? Cut line, girl, what have you done now?"
When Rowanne explained about the books—news of the authoress's identity had not yet trickled to Bath—Lady Silber called for a restorative. "You see," the old woman said after a hearty swig of brandy, "I told you to get a husband! All this niminy-piminy business of playing with toys has addled your brainbox. You need a man, Rowanne, then you can write blasted exposés yourself."
Rowanne looked away. "I have not found a man I can like. I am thinking of putting on my caps."
"What?" her aunt shrieked like a parrot with its foot stuck in the cage door. "I must be harder of hearing than I thought. You did say you couldn't find a pen that writes and you were taking a nap, didn't you? No niece of mine could be so totty-headed. Downy thinkers run in the family, girl, just look at your brother. No, he's not leg-shackled yet either. Well, speak up, missy. Why ain't you married?"
"Give over, do, Aunt Cora, I doubt any man would have me now."
"What, because you flirted too much or because that harridan wrote too much? Stuff and nonsense. You've still got your mother's fortune and her good looks. I hoped you didn't have your father's brains too; they weren't enough to go around the first time. Looks like I'll have to take things in hand if I ever want to see you ninnyhammers settled. Fine thing it is, when a woman my age has to start playing Cupid for a pair of clunches. Well, maybe the flap about the memoirs will die down in the spring and we can go to London to see about that brother of yours."
"Spring? That's months away. I thought—"
"What, that the ton had memories like fleas? They do, unless things are written down for them, like your Miss Grimble's name on every reading list. You did say there would be more coming, didn't you?"
"Yes, but did you say you were going to London with me?" Now Rowanne was only a curiosity; with Aunt Cora's outspoken ways she would be a laughingstock.
"Of course. You can't go alone, can you? I should have been there to chaperone you in the first place. You'd have been wed for years now. Of course if you wouldn't be so hard to please about the Bath gentlemen this time around you could save an old lady the trip. You can make yourself useful meantime. Take Toodles for a walk in the park."
Toodles was her aunt's French poodle, a miserable, snappish, yapping canine with an absurd haircut. He looked more like a sheep shorn by a blindfolded bank clerk than a dog, with tufts and wisps and little pom-poms at his feet and tail. Rowanne shuddered. It looked like she was going to see a lot of Toodles.
Captain Delverson was also seeing more of the French than he wanted. The wars in Portugal and Spain seemed to go on forever, with no end in sight. Wellesley pushed the French back, they regrouped and advanced. The British retreated, rallied, and called another victory—at unimaginable costs in English soldiers' lives. The men were disheartened, sick, tattered. They wanted to go home. So did Captain Delverson.
War was not a game anymore. Carey had another scar across his cheek, a piece of shrapnel imbedded in his shoulder, the start of graying hair at his temples, and an aching desire to stand on his father's property and watch things grow instead of seeing them ground into dust. He would no more quit and sell out than he would desert any friend in need, though, so he stayed through skirmish and engagement and siege, and managed to survive them all, a little more ragged, a lot less devil-may-care.
His men still loved him and his odd luck still held.
Helping to lead Graham's first charge at Barrosa, Carey took a piece of the very first cannonball in the leg. He was off his horse and half conscious, waving his men onward. They marched ahead valiantly, "for the cap'n," leaving him bleeding in the dust to wait for the medics or his man Rudd to find him. The French had other ideas. In a maneuver typical of Napoleon's armies, another, smaller column of French moved behind to crush the British between the two pincers of enemy forces. The only thing between this new detachment and the unprotected rear flank of Delverson's men was the captain himself. Listening to the rumble of the oncoming soldiers, Carey thought he had perhaps ten minutes to live. There was not even a tree to hide behind, nor so much as a hillock for cover, if he could have reached it, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He could have lain unmoving, pretending he was dead, but he still had his pistol and his saber. He could keep at least one or two of the bastard's off his men's tail. Carey said his prayers, touched the talisman in his pocket, and took aim.
His men were not as resigned to death. When their second in command went down and they were left with a very green junior officer and a mess of frogs ahead, the troops fell back. The youngster could not rally the men, who turned and ran, straight to Captain Delverson and the oncoming second wave. The outnumbered French were not expecting to come face to face with grinning, whooping, fresh forces, and went down quickly. Carey turned his now-buoyant men to face the original target, but General Graham, wondering where the hell Delverson's company was, sent a squad from the left flank, and the baggage train was approaching from the right with the medics and supplies, so the French retreated. Captain Delverson was promoted to major, right there on his back in the dust.
"The men like you," General Wellesley told Carey in the Spanish hospital when he came to make the promotion official and pin more bits of ribbon and metal on Carey's uniform. "And you've got more between your ears than a pretty face. Besides, we are running out of young officers. You take care of yourself, we need you back on the lines."
The leg was healing, the fevers passed, and the nurses fought over who would care for the handsome officer—and two of them were nuns! Best of all, with Carey in one place for a few weeks, the mail caught up with him.
I hate you, I hate this school, and I wish I had never been born, his sister Suzannah wrote. It will serve you right when I die of a broken heart. I swear I will come back and haunt you all your days. Her next letter, noticeably more grammatical and legible, was full of her new friends Angela and Denise and the touring company production of Romeo and Juliet the entire school got to attend. Carey moaned. Just what his sister needed, another dose of high melodrama and romantic twaddle. Nor was he pleased when Suzannah included young Heywood's progress at university along with her news.
Woody made the cricket team and might try rowing unless he is sent down on account of his marks. Isn't that capital? Which, Carey wondered, that the looby was a good batter or that he might be home again in Dorset?
Emonda's letters were less disturbing to a man laid up miles away from doing anything about wayward dependents. Lord Clyme goes on well, she wrote in her neat hand, except for the gout, which he will not blame on the port he drinks. The vicar calls regularly, and I have begun to teach Sunday school. Mrs. Jeffers thinks that Heywood will be sent down shortly. Lord Clyme says the boy is no scholar and you should have encouraged his father to buy his colors instead. With your permission I shall allow Suzannah to spend the summer with her friend Angela's family in Brighton.
Carey was astounded at the chit's good sense and wrote back immediately,
having his bank add handsomely to Suzannah's allowance so she might have a new wardrobe for the trip, anything to get her away from Dorset. He also wrote to Emonda that the army life was not all it was cracked up to be and he hoped young Jeffers would not enlist, not even if he was a skinny teen-aged gigolo. Emonda seemed content with her life, and Carey was relieved.
Carey's last letter was a scribbled note from his cousin: I've done it! Am getting hitched to Phoebe Allenturk. Capital horsewoman, don't you know. The wedding's not for a year, thank goodness, so plan on being here. Your turn is next.
So old Harry was getting married. Carey laughed out loud, sending Rudd for the laudanum in case the fevers were back. "No, my friend, we need that aged sherry! M'cousin's getting leg-shackled and the illustrious line of St. Dillon will be secured for another generation."
"Good match, is it, sir?"
"The best. Phoebe's a sturdy countrywoman with no die-away airs, the only child of Harry's neighbor, with marching lands and the second finest racing stable in Somerset. Harry's is the first. She used to be a tomboy in britches, so she'll suit Harry to a tee, not cut up stiff about his hounds and his ramshackle manners. Best of all, her father has been a lusty old goat for as long as I can remember, so Phoebe might even believe a husband's infidelity is part of the marriage vows. I cannot picture my cousin confining himself to one woman. Trust Harry to find himself a rich, complacent bride."
Carey smiled over his sherry. He liked Phoebe, and she would make Harry a comfortable wife. That wasn't the kind of marriage Carey would want, of course, if he ever wanted to jump the broomstick. He saw himself head over heels with a graceful, spirited beauty—she might have wavy brown hair and look up at him with doe eyes alight with intelligence and humor—not a riding companion or partner in landshares! They would love each other so deeply, their passion so strong, neither would think of taking another lover. Memory of a certain kiss was quickly suppressed as Carey laughed at himself, for now he was beginning to sound like Suzannah. Then he sobered. Suzannah was growing up, Emonda was growing wise, and even Harry was settling down! Only Carey stayed still, where his future was no further than the next battle. He could not afford to dream of a bride; he had to rejoin his men.