Nightingale. Part 34

"Do not come here again." The duke's flas.h.i.+ng eyes conveyed clear warning indicating argument might lead to bloodshed.

"See here, Miracle, the girl likes me."

"She doesn't know you, Touchstone. Before supper tonight, she will. Do not return, and do not let me hear you have spoken her name in any company. Is that clear?"

The visitor glanced at Patterson stationed by the front doors. The butler kept his eyes averted, although he had heard Devlin's warning.

Touchstone slapped his gloves against his open palm, perhaps hinting, appraising his challenger.

The duke's eyes narrowed. "Do not forget with whom you are dealing, Touchstone."

The other man jutted his chin a moment, then bowed, conceding the point.

Making no effort to hurry, Touchstone donned his gloves. When he delayed his departure, Devlin made a growling noise in his throat, as if he were clearing it.

Touchstone's eyes rounded, he wheeled and walked briskly to the door, which Patterson opened with uncharacteristic haste.

Devlin felt better satisfied by the way both Touchstone and Patterson responded to his anger, but as he turned, he came face to face with someone who did not: Jessica.

"You are never to do that again." Her voice rasped with raw emotion.

"Do what?" Devlin asked, pretending innocence.

"Intimidate a caller of mine."

He tried to realign his features to a more docile expression as he moved closer, his arms opening to embrace her. "Now, now, Nightingale. Darling."

She turned a shoulder to him, pivoting to return to the salon. "Do not try to gull me changing faces like that. I have seen your entire repertoire, chameleon. Neither dissembling nor disguise will work on me."

Posting himself between Jessica and the door to the salon, where his mother remained seated, Devlin touched the girl's shoulder.

"Jessica, there is no reason to carry on. Not one man calling here today is worth the snap of your fingers." He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. "Certainly not one of them deserves the dowry I've put behind you."

She rubbed her hands together as she whirled to face him. "d.a.m.n you, Devlin Miracle, my regard cannot be reduced to a sum of money, nor am I a horse to be auctioned to the highest bidder. I am a woman, with a heart and a soul."

The unfairness of her statement offended him. "Your welfare is my only interest, dear heart." He looked toward the salon as if conjuring images of the men who had paraded in and out through the morning.

"Which of those do you consider whole cloth from which you might tailor a suitable husband? Enlighten me, for I cannot venture a guess. I guarantee you one thing: if you name at this moment one you deem acceptable, I will have you married to the man before the year is out. Tell me now, which one has won your heart, or even your fancy?"

She looked ready to explode, but something in his face calmed her. She stared at him a long moment. When she spoke, her tone was soft.

"Is your plan to scuttle the interest of any man who finds value in me? Are you determined to protect them from the callous scullery maid you mistakenly took into your home?" She withdrew as he advanced a step toward her. "Do you fear I will corrupt their t.i.tles or sacred bloodlines or disturb lives of humdrum tedium, absent any depth of genuine meaning?"

He cleared his throat in an attempt to interrupt, but she was not to be thwarted. "I'll grant I have little knowledge of how society functions, but I have depths neither you nor your kind can plumb."

His face twisted with unbelief. "You cannot be serious. You cannot suppose for a moment that I consider you unworthy of any of these lapdogs. Darling ... "

"Don't address me with those empty endearments you use with your friends in that sneering way. I have seen you and your ilk. I understand your contempt for acquaintances you address that way. Do not reduce our ... our friends.h.i.+p to that."

"What do you mean my ilk?" His voice contained a warning. Closing the scant distance between them, Devlin caught her arms. Steadying her, his expression softened. He ran his hands to her shoulders and back to her elbows before s.h.i.+fting them to her waist.

"Our friends.h.i.+p? My precious little hen wit, what I feel for you is much more than friends.h.i.+p. You know I adore you. Admit that much, at least."

She struggled in a halfhearted attempt to free herself, but he held her fast.

"Jessica, have you no feminine instincts?" He scanned her face before his gaze settled on her full, pouting mouth. His entire body tensed in remarkable ways - in remarkable places. Surprised, he nearly retreated, but consciously commanded his hands to maintain their hold on her. He tried to rein in his emotions, pa.s.sion, which, until that moment, he had been only vaguely aware existed.

Reeling, he tried to control his facial expression and his hold on her and, at the same time, examine the reason for his sudden, inexplicable, emotional instability.

Defying his will, one of his hands crept up her arm to her shoulder where it lingered a moment before it rose further to clamp her warm, firm throat.

As if not wanting to challenge his movements, she turned her head and directed her dark, tempestuous gaze to the floor.

Devlin thumbed the point of her pert little chin. Proportionately, it was too short for her face, a face with enormous eyes, the fickle color of which was concealed at the moment by lashes that lay softly on flushed cheeks.

His thoughts darted here and there like a mouse staying beyond the claws of the scullery cat. Of the men pursuing Jessica, Lattimore probably was most promising. In all fairness, however, Devlin wanted to respect Jessica's opinion and she did not favor Lattie. Feeling vaguely satisfied at that random thought, Devlin released a deep, shuddering sigh. Neither he nor Jessica spoke.

His mother opposed Jessica's betrothal to John Lout. That, of course, was a joke. John Lout did not now, nor had he ever, qualified as a mate for their beloved Nightingale.

Then who? Devlin felt genuinely perplexed as he gradually and thoughtfully released her. Dolefully, he watched as she withdrew and fluttered silently up the stairs.

The dining table was set for one when Devlin went down for supper Sat.u.r.day evening.

"Where are the ladies?" he asked. Each day he looked forward to meals with his two companions. Lattie was there as often as not.

Patterson presented his usual inscrutable face, but there seemed an unusual twinkle in his eyes. "The lady Jessica requested a tray be brought to her rooms."

"I see." Devlin nodded. "She is sulking, I suppose, angry that I would not allow her to attend Benoits tonight."

Patterson stiffened slightly. "I suppose you are correct, Your Grace."

"What of my mother?"

"She, too, asked for a tray."

"She's not ill, is she?"

Patterson's smile escaped before he could pull it back under control. "No, Your Grace. In fact, she seems in particularly high spirits."

"Then why is she not dining here? With me?"

"She was involved in something and didn't want to set it aside. She even asked that the tray be delayed."

Pacing, Devlin locked his hands behind his back and strolled the length of the room before he finally sat in his lone place at the table that could accommodate as many as thirty.

He did not have much appet.i.te, dawdled over his food, and replayed in his mind his declaration about not allowing Jessica to attend Benoits.

He would make it up to her. Only yesterday he had found a nice, dapple gray gelding to draw the jaunty black cabriolet he had purchased as a surprise for her. Jessica often took his mother out and about - with a driver, of course - in the afternoons on social excursions. He smiled, visualizing Jessica driving them in their airy little conveyance.

Jessica would never have asked for a rig of her own, but he had seen her eying the young matrons who enjoyed the independence of driving themselves, a practice that was the latest rage.

Another thought: Margolin owned a well-behaved black filly that Jessica would enjoy, tall enough to accommodate her long legs, and black, like Sweetness. They would make a handsome, pair, stallion and filly, taking the afternoon air. Devlin scowled, before he allowed a smile of surrender. Jessica had him thinking of Vindicator as Sweetness.

Grinning, he thought of the many differences the girl had brought since she exploded into their staid, well-ordered lives. He had not, of course, realized his life was dull. Now he did not know how they had managed without her.

How might they fare when she was gone? He sobered.

There was no need for her ever to be gone from them again, at least not permanently. Unless she married someone who took her far away ... or she chose to return to Welter.

Those random thoughts startled him. How would they get on without her? Without her joy? When he no longer heard the staff laughing and her musical giggling in the far reaches of this house or the keep at Gull's Way?

At first those sounds had been foreign, even annoying. Later on, however, when his study grew too quiet, he would prowl about until he found their little interloper doing those many unexpected - even menial - tasks she enjoyed.

She might be in the stables admiring a new arrival or currying a horse, or digging in a garden of roses or weeding a patch of radishes, ever alert to the occasional fis.h.i.+ng worm for a stableman or someone's child. Once he found her wading barefooted at the edge of a pond, squis.h.i.+ng mud through her toes. Late one afternoon at Gull's Way, when a prolonged search did not produce his prey, he sought advice from a footman.

She had taken a crude wooden wagon and driven to the home of a cook's a.s.sistant to deliver a poultice. It seemed the woman's husband had cut off the tip of his finger while cleaning game.

The footman stammered as he explained that neither he nor the men in the stable felt they had the authority to prevent her going.

"I don't expect you to stop her when she decides to go off like this," Devlin said, scarcely able to control the tumult boiling in his stomach at the thought of her driving a team and rickety wagon on roads that were often little more than footpaths. He didn't finish his thought, uncertain about what he did expect them to do.

He heard chagrin in the man's voice. He himself had dealt with Jessica and not fared any better than the footman. His anger mellowed as the man tried again to explain. "You were not about, Yer Grace, to ask yer leave to abandon our regular duties."

"Yes, well, from this day on, you have my permission to escort young Jessica wherever and whenever she goes. I do not want her traipsing about the countryside alone. Heaven knows what harebrained scheme might take her wandering into trouble." He hesitated. "You must, perhaps, express it as your personal concern for her welfare. It might be better not to tell her you accompany her on my orders."

"Pardon, Yer Grace, but ye're the duke."

Devlin well remembered that his shoulders had slumped at the reminder. "Yes, I am ... the duke."

"Every man of us moves at your command."

Devlin offered the footman a sheepish smile. "You know, I don't believe I properly appreciated willing compliance before Miss Blair arrived." Committing the man's voice to memory, he changed the subject. "I don't believe I know your name."

"Dolan, Yer Grace. Michael Dolan."

"How long have you been employed here, Dolan?"

"Goin' on eleven years, Yer Grace."

Devlin nodded. "Does Lady Jessica know your name, Dolan?"

"Aye, she does. She calls me Mike."

"For how long?"

"Pardon?"

"When did she begin calling you by your Christian name?"

Still at that time sightless, the duke had heard a grin in the man's tone. "The second day she was here, Yer Grace." The lightness of his manner dropped to a groan as if the man had been brought up short by something he saw in the duke's expression.

"Oh, it ain't just me. She calls everyone on the place by their given name, from the boys mucking out the barns, to the scullery gels in the kitchen. She knows little things about ever' one of us, just like she knew about Mr. f.a.gin's finger yesterday, not an hour after it happened." At the duke's glowering silence, Dolan continued. "The one he cut off which was the reason she decided he had need of the poultice."

"I see." The duke made an effort to relax his pinched expression.

Dolan's voice lifted as he seemed to develop sudden insight. "What ye'r asking, Yer Grace, is that we treat her gentle like without telling her ye'r the one ordered it done?"

"I believe that would be best, Dolan. Yes."

"That may not always be easy to do, Yer Grace."

On that day, Devlin had walked away muttering to himself. "An observation worthy of an Oxford man schooled in the humanities."

Distracted by his own thoughts at the otherwise empty dining table, Devlin rose before he finished his second course and went upstairs to dress. Now that he had regained his sight, he could spend the evening, as he did before, at his club. He felt oddly indifferent at the prospect.

By her absence, was Jessica punis.h.i.+ng him for forbidding her attendance at Benoits? He didn't consider her a vindictive woman. Pondering that, he hoped in his soul that she was not.

Why had his mother taken her meal in her room as well? Certainly she was not vindictive. Sometimes, however, she tried to enlighten him by making a point with her behavior.

He consoled himself with the thought that the ladies would remain in residence this night, thus, though his method might seem harsh, he had succeeded in foiling the attempt to kidnap his Nightingale.

Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, received a warm welcome at Dracks that evening. Many of those greeting him with rare enthusiasm quickly managed to guide the topic of conversation to the matter of his ward.

Had he received many offers for her? Had he narrowed the field? When did he think he might announce her betrothal?

He found their eagerness disconcerting and took sanctuary at a table of whist until Marcus Hardwick, Lattie's friend, strolled in shortly after ten.

"Avoiding the tables, Miracle?" Hardwick asked, his tone taunting.

"I find whist more relaxing."

"I am glad your brother has a more adventurous nature, of which I am a regular beneficiary."

Devlin smiled as the game concluded and his partner tallied the score. "Do you and Lattie gamble seriously?"

"Whimsically, Your Grace. On everything, from roaches racing the floor at Malloy's Pub, to which latecomer will order brandy."

"How does he fare?"

"Not well. He pays off regularly. Fry, on the other hand, prefers to acc.u.mulate Lattie's vouchers. He holds nearly one thousand pounds of Lattie's markers."

Devlin's light mood darkened. "Why has Fry not demanded payment?"

"He likes having Lattie obligated to him. Here, now, will you join me at the bar? I'll buy you a drink and we can discuss my friend's foibles in greater detail."