Chapter Seven

Devlin poured himself a glass of brandy and sat down on the sofa instead of behind his desk to read an investment report. Conan jumped onto the cushions and sprawled his large body on the sofa, resting his paw and head against one of Devlin’s thighs.

Idly he stroked his back while he read the notations his man of affairs had made on the expected returns. Several minutes later, he lowered the papers with a grunt of irritation. His concentration was disturbed. His body was on edge, yet he was denying himself release. After leaving the ball last night, he had delivered that bounder at his father’s townhouse still trussed up, his cravat tied over his eyes. Devlin had reacted to Fifi’s worry and had kept his identity a secret and his actions very circumspect. No one would know he had a hand in the entire affair. It was not the lesson he’d wanted to impart, yet one could hope the humiliation of being found tied on the ground in that manner by the servants would teach the man a lesson.

He had thought about sending Fifi a note but had refrained after seeing their names linked in the society page of at least three different newssheets. Dancing with Fifi had been interesting. Devlin had anticipated her cutting him dead, yet she had lifted her chin and not looked away from his challenge. Her actions were worthy enough to send the ton in a fit of distemper, yet she had not flinched away from him or their anticipated reaction.

The young girl he remembered had been brave, the woman even braver. His intrigue was stoked to even greater heights. And when they’d danced, he had seen the awakening sensuality in her gaze. Fifi wanted him.

His body…his damn fingertip remembered every place he had touched her.

The door opened, and he slammed it shut on his thoughts. Glancing up, he saw Poppy hobbling inside. He did not rise or make any offer of assistance. Miss Poppy Dobson was fiercely proud and independent and would twist his ear should he dare to treat her as if she were less because she had lost a foot.

“You are home,” she said with a smile, which quickly disappeared when she noted he only read with one lamp.

Using her crutch, she went over to the other lamp and turned up the wick before moving to sit on the sofa facing him. With care, she placed the crutches to her left.

“I hired a new maid today,” she said, patting the cushion to her right.

Conan left his side and bounded over to her. Dog and woman greeted each other in a series of coos and growls.

“Another one?”

This was the third new maid Poppy had hired in the past month. She acted in the capacity of his housekeeper because she stubbornly refused to live on charity. Poppy was like a sister to him, and he felt extremely fortunate to have her present in his household.

“Yes, I… John said when he saw her in the market, she had bruises on her arm and a man chased her.”

John was a young lad who served as a footman.

“She was scared and crying.”

A chill of violence brushed against Devlin’s senses. “Who was this man?”

“John did not say, but thankfully he brought her home.”

Poppy sighed.

The heaviness of it had him tossing the investment papers onto the desk in the far corner. “What is it?”

“The girl, her name is Mary, and she believes she is with child. The rumors will… They will talk about us for hiring a maid who is pregnant.”

“I suspect it was her employer?”

“Yes. A Sir Henry Clarke,” Poppy spat, looking away into the fire.

“You did the right thing. However, I think we should send her to one of my other estates in the country. There she will be safe, and the staff will take care of her. Send instructions to Mrs. Hagley in Dorset to care for her and ensure physicians and midwives attend to her. The girl should be kept on and be given a salary during her confinement.”

Poppy smiled at him, and the radiance of it eased some of the cold tension in his gut. Sir Henry Clarke would be taught there were consequences to preying on those who worked in his household and had little to no power to resist his advances.

“There is something else,” Poppy said. “Mr. Baker came by today with several reports that he marked as urgent. Did you see them?”

Devlin assessed the bright spots on Poppy’s cheek and the nervous way she clasped her hands together.

“Did something happen between you and Noel?”

Her wide eyes swung to his, and she looked ready to collapse. “Why would you say so!”

“You are blushing, Poppy.”

“You wretched man!” she burst out.

Devlin leaned forward with a frown. “If he acted improperly and scared you, I will gut him,” he said, recalling the many times he had caught his man of affairs staring at Poppy. Though the man would also always ask after her, and whenever she entered their presence, he treated her with the utmost care and respect. Poppy, in turn, avoided him as if he were a bug. The situation almost amused Devlin, but if Noel had hurt her in any way, he would painfully regret it.

“No, it isn’t anything like that. He…he…” She looked away, her throat working on a swallow. “He asked me to marry him.”

She said this without looking at Devlin, but he noted how her fingers gripped the skirt of her dark blue bombazine gown.

“Why does that shock you so much?” he murmured.

Her head whipped around to meet his gaze. “Did you hear me, Devlin? Mr. Baker asked me to marry him.”

He smiled at her with amused affection. “I heard you. You are a lovely, intelligent woman. I am only surprised he took this long.”

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

“It would be an unthinkable disgrace to accept. I am no one; how could he, a promising barrister, wish to marry me?” she demanded with an incredulous laugh.

Devlin hated to see the tears glistening in her eyes. Yet, she was strong enough to not allow them to spill over.

“Poppy—”

“My mother was an orange cart seller. His father is a well-known magistrate in Cornwall. What is he thinking?”

Devlin had met Poppy when he saved her from a lord who thought her less than himself. His back tingled in remembrance of the whip slicing into his skin. A whip that had been meant for a young girl of ten years old. Devlin stared at Poppy, noting her sheer loveliness. Though she was three and twenty, she appeared wiser than her years, a result of knowing the harsh side of living like himself. She owned a buxom beauty, with vibrant golden hair and soft gray eyes, and she loved the scent of fragrance soap. Devlin bought her dozens over the years. He had taught her to read as he learned, how to dance as he learned, and how to fence.

“Noel is thinking that he admires you and wants to make you his wife.”

“We do not belong. We are not from the same world.”

“I am fucking tired of hearing that particular line.”

Poppy gave a small, frustrated exclamation. “Is that why you danced with Lady Ophelia last night? Because you forgot we do not belong to that world or with them?”

He stilled.

“I read the scandal sheets, Devlin,” she said softly, looking at him worriedly. “What are you doing?”

“It’s Fifi,” he muttered gruffly.

Poppy’s eyes widened dramatically. “She…Fifi?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Devlin, she is a marquess’s daughter.”

He found for a moment he had nothing, nothing at all, to retort. Then, “You say it as if it is a tragedy.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

“No. Women of quality bed men like me all the time. The danger of waltzing close to the forbidden,” he said with a sarcastic bite.

“And that is all you want?” Poppy asked tartly. “To bed her?”

“What else could I possibly want?” he asked icily, ignoring that nameless fucking hunger that seemed to rest upon his soul. “You do not ever have to worry about her and me. I am not a fool, Poppy; you know that. My wants are simple, and once they are satiated, I move on.”

“Devlin—”

He leaned forward even more. “Do you love Noel?”

“I would never marry a nob!”

“He’s not a nob. He is one of us.”

“Is he?” she demanded rawly. “He never lived on the streets or in stews.”

“True. Neither is Noel Baker proud, cruel, nor believes himself better than us. He is a second son set to inherit nothing from his father, and he came to London and clawed and fought his way, just like us, Poppy. He is a brilliant man of affairs and will make a formidable barrister.”

Her lips trembled, but that she did not protest gave Devlin hope she might not let fear and prejudice destroy the possibility of a future. One of them deserved to be damn well happy, and that should be Poppy.

“Do you hold any affections for him? Surely there is something to make him ask.”

She flushed a telltale shade of red, and her eyes slid away from his. Devlin thought of all the time Noel spent within this house, in this office without the presence of Devlin. Poppy, as his housekeeper, would have often been present. They would have been alone many times.

“I bring nothing to him,” she said, “I—”

“You have a dowry—”

She gazed at him with dazed eyes. “I beg your pardon.”

“I have always planned that you might want to get married one day,” he said gruffly. “I started putting away for your dowry when I was eighteen. I always meant to tell you when you seemed open to it.”

She glanced down at her missing leg, and when she looked back at him, a lone tear spilled over.

“I have a dowry,” she said again as if she truly did not understand it. “I am your housekeeper. I am not—”

“You are my family, Poppy. You are not just a housekeeper; you know that. You run this house like a general, you help me dictate my letters, and you even help assess my investment reports. You like to keep busy, and whatever you ask of me, I have granted it. Do not believe for a minute I consider you less than either of my sisters.”

She stared at him for a long time before a watery laugh escaped her. “Tell me about this dowry.”

“It is twenty thousand pounds, shares in a mine, and a seven-bedroom cottage in Lincolnshire.”

She set one hand to her bosom as if to still her palpitating heart. “Does Noel know about this?”

“No. Nor do you have to marry for your inheritance to be yours.”

She started to sob. Devlin shifted and went over to her, nudging Conan and taking his place on the sofa. His dog yawned and padded over to sprawl by the fireplace. Devlin became aware of the fact that she was trembling. Without a word, he placed his hand around her shoulder and drew her slowly into his arms.

“I love him, Devlin,” she gasped. “I do love him.”

“Then fuck all the fear you are feeling,” he said with crude gentleness, “and marry him.”

Poppy laughed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Anytime, he thought as he sat there and simply held her.

…

Ophelia did not run away from uncomfortable situations, as they would only chase after her. Of course, it was her papa who had taught her that. Yet she stood outside the drawing room, wishing she could turn around and escape this confrontation with her parents.

Her papa was shouting. Her mother’s more modulated tone would not soothe his ire. There was a third voice, softer than her mother’s, one Ophelia could not discern.

“She danced with that man!”

“It is nonsensical to be this upset about the matter when you are still recovering, my darling. And do recall your account is from the scandal sheets. We must wait to speak with our daughter before making any assumptions.”

Ophelia closed her eyes. Yes, I danced with him, Papa. In sight of everyone, and then again, alone in the dark. And it was there she learned how much she desperately wanted him.

She knocked on the door and entered with a smile that faltered when she saw her cousin Effie standing by the window with a cup of tea in her hands.

“Effie!”

Her cousin smiled brightly, her beauty lighting up the room as if the sun had decided to appear from beneath the unexpectedly overcast clouds.

“Whatever are you doing here, Effie? I had not thought to see you until Christmas. I thought you were off to Bath until then?”

Her cousin flicked a quick, discreet glance to her parents, and suddenly Ophelia understood.

“You’ve asked Cousin Effie to chaperone me?” she asked, incredulity rife in her tone. “Mama, I am four and twenty and, according to many scandals rags, a spinster.”

Ophelia had been afforded many liberties this past year, and it was because of her age and the trust her parents afforded her. Of course, when she went shopping with her friends, she would take her lady maid and footmen along, but she had to forgo any chaperone at society events this season. She stiffened as an understanding dawned. Ophelia and her parents had a tacit agreement. Since she was a little girl, they’d allowed her the freedom to be herself, with the understanding that all those freedoms must be private. Last night, she had broken that agreement.

Despite her love for them, for the first time in her life, she wondered how long she could live with such a restraint. Her future could not be living with her parents and dancing to attend to their expectations. There was so much more. Love and laughter and children.

Oh God, am I being silly to wait for love? What if she never found it—what then?

Shaking away the alarming questions rousing in her heart, she asked, “Cousin Effie and I are practically the same age, Mama.”

“Cousin Effie is nine and twenty and a widow,” her mother said gently. “And you must think of her more as a companion, not a chaperone.”

“Mama—”

“After last night, what did you believe would happen?” her father demanded, a scowl darkening his features.

“I merely danced with a gentleman at a ball. It does not warrant any security or speculations,” she said, walking to sit on the sofa.

“A gentleman, you say,” Papa thundered. “Devlin Byrne is not a gentleman, and he is not from our society! It is ill-judged to think a man can crawl from the gutter and strive to sit above his natural place.”

Ophelia swallowed down the sick feeling that entered her stomach. “And where is Mr. Byrne’s natural place?”

“Not at a ball, and most certainly not dancing with my daughter,” he spat, “casting shade on her reputation to be associated with the likes of him. This man is unequal to you in every respect and very much unqualified to so much as hold a conversation with you. What would he even dare speak to you about? You are more educated than he is.”

Ophelia felt a ripple of guilt, for she knew these words were not enough to keep her away from Devlin. She did not ascribe to her parents’ prejudicial nature, nor did she believe being born into a blue-blood family made her better. Ophelia was certainly not better, and her father should know this. From the little she had been able to learn, Sally Martin had been a poor country girl, only with great beauty and wit. Was her father forgetting that she was not fully blue-blooded?

“Formally, I might be,” she said softly. “However, given that Mr. Byrne has wealth that is rumored to rival most peers and can pen such political letters that inflame society, I daresay he is a man of equal wits and intelligence, Papa, and it astounds me you would ignore such accomplishments.”

“Your defense of this man is unacceptable,” her father snapped.

Cousin Effie sent her a sympathetic smile. They did not argue often, or at all, and Ophelia did not like the awful feelings stirring low in her belly. Most profound was disappointment. “You taught me to be kind to others, Papa, but you are now angry that I did not cut Mr. Byrne directly?”

“Kindness must be rendered to others who are deserving,” he coldly said.

“And what has Mr. Byrne done to make him undeserving? He was born poor but worked diligently to shape himself into the wealthy industrialist he is today. Is the natural order that he should remain poor for his life? Is that why most of the bills that support education and workhouse reforms for the poorer class are never passed? Lords of your elevated standards cannot bear to share their wealth and knowledge?”

Her father stared at her as if she were a creature dropped from the ceiling. “You dare?” he said in a low, angry tone.

“Come, my dear,” her mother said, standing and placing a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “Do not be angry. Recall the doctor said you are not to display any excessive emotions. It is not good for your heart.”

Immediately, the hurt digging its claw deeper inside Ophelia eased, and concern rushed through her. She stood and hurried over to his side. “I do not mean to aggravate your heart, Papa.”

He grunted something beneath his breath, but she caught “spoiled rotten,” “willful,” and “locked in her room without food.”

Ophelia chuckled, peeking up at him. “Papa, you would never lock me in my room without food. Who would obey? Certainly not the staff. They adore me.”

He spluttered, and she brushed a kiss across his cheek. He froze, and it was then she realized her actions. Her throat tightened with emotions. Since he had shattered the faith she had in his honor, Ophelia had not been this affectionate with her father. Hope kindled in the gaze that stared at her, and to her mortification, she felt tears prick behind her lids.

Forgiving him was inevitable, for she loved him. But not now—not when he remained closed and refused to tell her of Sally Martin even though he must know it lay heavily on her heart.

Drawing back, she said a bit hoarsely, “I promised Fanny we would visit Hatchards today.”

“I’d ordered a few books. Be a dear and collect them for me,” her mother said with a small encouraging smile. “And do ensure you take Cousin Effie with you.”

She shared a glance with her cousin, who seemed to be holding back her laugh. Ophelia smiled and said, “Yes, Mama.”

She walked away, not liking the gamut of emotions running through her heart.

“Ophelia?”

She faltered at the steel lacing her mother’s tone.

“Yes, Mama,” she said without turning around. She would hate for them to see the vulnerability she felt in her heart evident in her expression.

“Should this Devlin Byrne approach you publicly again, for any reason, we expect you to act according to your position in this family and within society. That man must not be entertained in any manner, for he is not… He is not of our set, my dear, and simply not acceptable. You must take care not to be callous with our reputations or do anything that will put yourself quite beyond the pale.”

Another stretch of silence passed, barely endurable. Ice congealed in her chest, then exploded. But the shards burned.

Whirling around, she said, “Devlin Byrne is the boy… He is the little boy who saved me from drowning years ago. The one who carried me on his back for miles without rest. The boy who hunted in unfamiliar woods and fed me. The boy who told me stories of his home when I was sad and frightened. The boy who took me home to you. Should I repay his kindness by pretending I am better than he is?”

Her mother swayed, and her face had paled. Uttering an incredulous laugh, she glanced up at her husband. “That child… He is Devlin Byrne?”

“Yes,” Ophelia said.

“That is why you danced with him? To repay a kindness?”

“That is a part of it,” she answered truthfully. “I believe he wants to be acceptable to the ton, and Mama, all it takes is the sponsorship of someone noteworthy. I had hope that dancing with him would signal to the ton he is not some elusive monster come to steal their peace but merely a shrewd, respectable businessman.”

If she had expected that knowledge to soften their prejudicial stance, Ophelia was corrected when her father’s mien grew even more austere.

“Then it is evident what game of his is afoot, and it will not be countenanced. And by whatever silly means you find this hard to understand, you are better than that unknown mongrel.”

“Papa, I do not—”

“He wants to marry you,” he said, interrupting her protest.

“Marry me?” Now it was her turn to laugh, and she did so without tempering herself. “Papa, I am most certain you have mistaken the matter. Mr. Byrne simply asked for a dance.” And a song. And I have accepted thousands of pounds from him.

Dear God. If her parents knew it was his money she was secretly using to save their estates and to pay the wages of their servants…

“That was the last thing that boy said to me, young lady. That he would marry you.”

She sighed exasperatedly. “Well, marriage takes two. And Papa, that was over fifteen years ago. I assure you that very naive promise we made to each other is long forgotten.”

Her mother stood shoulder to shoulder with her father in support and said firmly, “You have repaid Mr. Byrne’s kindness by dancing with him once. That was an acceptable nod, and it must be enough. Consider the matter now finished.”

Dipping into a quick, respectful curtsy, she bid them adieu and escaped the drawing room with Cousin Effie on her heels.

“Allow me to retrieve my pelisse,” Effie said, touching her shoulders gently. Effie held her gaze for a long moment as if reading her innermost thoughts. “I gather you need someone to speak with now.”

Ophelia shook her head. “I would prefer to not speak about Mr. Byrne.”

Worried brown eyes skipped over her features. “Are you certain? Even I was alarmed when I saw the mentions in the newssheet.”

“There is no need for any concern. It was but a dance and mild discourse.” And the very beginning of my fall from the tedium of life and into the fires of temptation. Ophelia winced. “I will await you in the carriage.”

The fingers that set the hat atop her head at a rakish tilt shook fiercely.

As she walked down the hallway and allowed the butler to help her slip on her pelisse, Ophelia couldn’t help noting that her heart once again danced a wild, impossible rhythm that felt like a song of dreams in her head.