True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (10 page)

Damon fidgeted with the cuffs of his
jacket. His very stance— heels apart, toes tapping— seethed with
irritation.

"You are young," True added. "It may
not feel like it now, but there is so much life ahead of you. Time
enough to go out into the world and make your mark. But you must be
well prepared for it. Whatever successes your brothers have found—
whatever adventures they have had— remember they were once sixteen
too and restless as you are now. You will find your purpose, just
as they have."

Perhaps he should explain to the boy
that he had hopes of Damon one day taking over the helm at
Deverell's, but no doubt that would sound very dull to a sixteen
year-old. At that age True was working a fishing boat and
contemplating a life of piracy, having narrowly escaped a swing
from the hangman's noose. He'd had nothing to his name back then
but reckless courage and a quick mind for numbers. He could never
have imagined where he'd end up, presiding over London's most
notorious and successful gentleman's club, which he hoped to hand
over to his ungrateful brood.

Currently it was Ransom, his eldest
legitimate son, who was being groomed to take over at Deverell's.
But True felt something special in Damon. Was it because the boy
used to be so close, so full of unconditional admiration for his
father? Ransom, on the other hand, still strongly favored his mama
and thought her the wounded party. She must have whispered plenty
of her lies into the boy's ear over the years, and prodded at him
with her cruel knives of jealousy, so it wasn't Ransom's fault he
was confused.

True didn't even blame his son for the
bullet which, two years ago, chipped the bone of his right
shoulder.

"Accidents will happen," he'd amiably
exclaimed to the Justice of the Peace.

Fortunately that "accident" had put a
stop to Ransom's engagement with Miss Pridemore, who would have
caused the boy endless pain. True was happy to sacrifice more than
a bit of shoulder to keep his son out of trouble. It only gave him
a little stiffness from time to time, the odd twinge if he'd been
sitting still for a while and then moved suddenly. Fortunately,
since he wasn't a man who spent a great deal of time sitting still,
his shoulder rarely had a chance to seize up.

But really, he mused, none of his boys
understood the lengths he would go to protect them. As for his
daughter, she may as well be from another planet, or France. That
was why he felt it necessary to get his memoirs down for
posterity.

"So the choice, dear boy, is yours,"
he said to Damon. "But remember, once made it cannot be undone. You
will then be trapped. I suggest you give the idea more than a few
hours to ferment, but beyond that I cannot make you do anything. I
wouldn't dare try."

With one final groan of frustration,
the young man turned sharply, strode to the door and jerked it
open.

* * * *

Olivia stumbled, swaying back on her
worn heels.

The young man stared in surprise, one
hand on the door handle. He bore some resemblance to his father,
but his face was softer, more spoiled, as yet unmarked by life and
experience.

"Sir!" he exclaimed, "There's a stray,
odd-looking female skulking about in the hall."

She hastily gathered her wits. "I was
not skulking." Scrambling for an explanation, she added, "I was
looking for...anybody." Since there had been no other sign of life
when she came downstairs, Olivia went searching and followed the
sound of raised male voices to this door.

Her new employer suddenly appeared
beside the younger man, leaping into view— with considerable
vitality for that hour of the morning. His eyes raked over her and
then flared brightly, as if they were matches and she a piece of
flint. "Ah, Mrs. Monday. Finally you rise. May I introduce my son.
Damon, this is Mrs. Olivia Monday, a parson's widow from Chiswick,
and my new secretary."

The young man scowled. "What on earth
do you want with a female secretary?" His tone oozed suspicion as
he looked Olivia up and down again.

"I'm dictating my memoirs, dear
boy."

"
Memoirs
?"

"What else would I want her for? Look
at that pinched face, ready to disapprove. Hardly ornamental, is
she? Not to be confused with a chorus girl from the Drury Lane
Theatre."

"Your memoirs," his son repeated yet
again.

"Quite so. I am writing my life story
so that when I am dead I shall leave behind me the True gospel, by
which you may lead your life. After all, when I am swept up by the
Grim Reaper, who will there be left to guide you with wisdom? Even
I —fine male specimen that I am—cannot live forever."

Damon gave his father another
skeptical glance and then swept by Olivia with a low grunt,
"Something to look forward to then."

The boy strode away down the hall with
no further word to his father, who now left the door open,
suggesting he expected her to enter. If she waited for a polite
invitation, Olivia supposed her limbs might grow cobwebs, so she
followed him into the room.

"I feel your gaze burning holes in my
back," he muttered. "Your faun-like eyes hold a particularly
intense quality, Mrs. Monday. You have questions to
ask?"

"No, sir. None." She would watch her
tongue today. However he behaved this morning, she would not
comment on it. Who did she think she was— Great Aunt Jane? It was
none of her business what he did or said or thought. As long as he
paid her.

He swung around and propped the seat
of his riding breeches against the front of his desk, arms and
ankles crossed. "Your lips, madam, are so tightly stitched
together, I fear they have something to withhold, but I would
rather you keep nothing inside. A woman's thoughts, when not
allowed air, are like thorns buried in the skin. They become
infected if they are not plucked out the moment they stick there.
So we shall be honest and straightforward with each other, Mrs.
Monday, if you please."

"Shall we?"
Ha! After the way he deceived her last
night?
She held her tongue, but only
just.

"You will never get anything from me
but the truth, however unpalatable. But then, I am a man. I don't
have the deceitful tendencies common in the female sex."

She remained silent, knowing full well
he wanted to prod her into an argument again. He reminded her of
one of those very large dogs with too much energy— the sort that
left muddy paw prints on a lady's gown and occasionally knocked her
down with his cheeky enthusiasm. A dog whose undisciplined behavior
was usually dismissed airily by its owner as "high
spirits".

"What did you think of my son, Mrs.
Monday? Too handsome for his own good, eh?"

Her answer was a tight, "Yes." For
anyone's good, she suspected.

"You saw the family resemblance.
People do say he takes after me the most of all my
cubs."

"I'm afraid so." Oh, dear, she
couldn't stop herself. Under no circumstances should she let this
friction between their personalities become one of those sparks
he'd warned her about, but there she was again, being scornful,
when a simple "Yes" would have been sufficient.

"We have not impressed the parson's
widow with our Deverell charm, I see. You disapprove of
us."

Olivia's fingers began to hurt in
their tense knot.

"Hmph. I suppose I should be glad of
that," he added. "Wouldn't want you trying to seduce me, panting
after me with your tongue hanging out."

"I didn't think that was
one of the requirements of my position here."
Why the devil couldn't she stay silent?

He laughed lazily. "So what do you
think of me? Go on, Mrs. Monday, describe me— as I seem through
your large eyes —in three words."

"I'd rather not." She'd said enough
already, more than she'd meant to.

"Can't you think of any?" he
challenged. "Don't disappoint me today by suddenly being shy with
your opinions."

Olivia struggled for a moment,
searching for words that were honest but wouldn't get her into
trouble. "Large...loud... lively."

"
Lively
?"

"Restless." The word that came to mind
was 'potent', but that could mean too many other things and he
would define it in some way to embarrass her, no doubt.

"Why was your plain little face so
shocked just now?" he demanded. "No doubt you think my son
disrespectful and you wonder why I would allow it."

Had her expression been so obvious?
"If you knew that, why ask me?"

He walked around his desk to his
chair. "Damon is sixteen. I don't waste my breath on correcting the
inevitable." Pausing a moment, he gave her an odd look for which
she had no apt description. Then he added, "Of course, you're not
long out of that age yourself."

She almost laughed. "I am eight and
twenty, Mr. Deverell."

"Really? I would never have guessed. I
suppose it's because you're so small and nondescript."

"And I certainly never spoke in such a
tone to my father, at any age."

He stared at her for a moment, then
cleared his throat and ran fingers through his hair. "So I am a bad
parent." She caught a slight smirk play over his lips as he dropped
into his chair and swung his booted feet up on the desk. "I thought
I'd get that particular criticism out of those terse lips
eventually."

Olivia hastily replied, "I know
nothing of being a parent. I am here only to write for
you."

She'd never seen a man sit with his
boots up on a desk before. Not even Freddy Ollerenshaw would do
that, although he didn't own a desk to put his heels on
anyway.

Such a pose was something
one might expect from a naughty child but not a grown man of
forty-four.
If
that was Deverell's age. No one seemed to know for sure, not
even Mr. Chalke. He did have a scattering of silver sprigs about
his temple and a few weathered lines scored into his face, but
nothing else seemed to fit a man of his purported age. This morning
he had shaved, adding to the inappropriately youthful
appearance.

When he used his riding crop to
scratch down inside one boot, Olivia didn't know where to look. The
casual impropriety of the gesture seemed quite unconscious on his
part, as if no one had ever troubled him with what was, or was not,
the "done thing".

"I've seen you before somewhere,
woman," he muttered suddenly.

"Yes."

"Where on earth would I have seen you?
I don't usually forget a face."

"Well, it
was
a long time ago. And
to be frank, I don't believe you saw my face. I didn't see yours
either."

At once his gaze re-established that
playful twinkle. "Now, I am intrigued. What parts of me did you
see?"

She felt the urge to laugh, but held
it strictly down. "Mostly your big feet. When I was eighteen, I
often assisted at my father's office. You tripped over me there one
day when you had an appointment with Mr. Chalke."

"I did?"

"You trampled some important papers,
stepped over me, and never apologized."

"Ah. How much do you want?" He reached
into his desk as if to hand over some bank notes or gold sovereigns
there and then.

"What can you mean, sir?"

"I know how women hold bloody grudges.
I suppose you've let that fester away for years and now you came
here to make me pay. So how much does a lady charge for the
inconvenience of being stepped over?"

She couldn't tell whether he was
serious, or merely teasing her again.

"I don't do well with apologies," he
added. "So I'd take the money, if I was you."

"Sir, I had entirely forgotten the
incident until now."

Just after three o'clock
in the afternoon, Tuesday, March 12th, in the year 1832.

He wore a long, midnight
blue coat, beautifully made; buff colored gloves, grimy at the
finger tips; and top boots of very rich looking leather. He had
smelled of tobacco, brandy and spice. Of adventure, and daring, and
everything forbidden. For those few moments her heart, like an
over-wound pocket watch, had stopped...

Olivia bit her lip, turned away and
stared out of the nearest window. A pointless exercise since there
was nothing to see but that colorless cloud of fog. And, of course,
his reflection. She was unable to escape the man. Again, Olivia
thought of last night in the kitchen, when he let her mistake him
for the handyman Jameson, and she had been struck by the
overwhelming strength of his presence. Like the first time they
collided with each other, she felt a connection, which was quite
ridiculous in light of who he was.

She wished it
had
been possible to
forget their first encounter, but now fate— in the bent and wizened
shape of Mr. Chalke— had brought them together a second time. It
was a jolly good thing Great Aunt Jane was no longer
alive.