Chapter Nineteen

Grayson, the Marquess of Sedgecroft, had decided to give a small masquerade party at his Park Lane home at the urging of his sister Emma. Not that as a rule Grayson required a reason to entertain, or that he typically took the advice of the Dainty Dictator, as Emma was fondly called by the family.

He had become adept at ignoring Emma’s socially enlightened suggestions over the years. Lord knew no one would derive any pleasure from life at all by listening to Emma’s advice. Since the death of their mother, she had assumed the role of Boscastle’s maternal conscience. If not that of the entire world. Where there was a wrong, Emma felt obligated to right it. She meant well, but, by damn, she drove her siblings half-insane with her interfering ways.

Emma had expressed concern, in her perceptive way, over their sister Chloe’s lingering grief that she had miscarried her first child, as well as her own personal observation that the young marriage of Devon and Jocelyn might require a little support to withstand the barrage of rumors that had assailed them in recent days.

A bit of encouragement from the family, Emma suggested, might be all that was needed to make Devon and Jocelyn realize how well suited they were to each other.

Grayson could not argue either point, for his wife, Jane, wiser in such matters than he could ever be, shared the same opinion. Ironically, as it turned out, Jocelyn did not particularly wish to attend the ball, nor from what he could tell, did his brother Devon. This made it rather hard for Grayson to arrange a party in the hope of strengthening their union.

However, no one, family members included, could ever refuse the marquess, and so it was expected that once he issued the invite, it would be accepted.

Jocelyn descended from her husband’s carriage and covertly adjusted her heavy golden silk headdress. Perhaps costuming herself as Cleopatra had not been the most inspired choice for her brother-in-law’s ball, but it was the only costume on hand, and Devon had given her scant notice to make other preparations. He seemed as reluctant to attend the party as she did.

She didn’t understand exactly why she felt so tired or reluctant to go out. Her menses, never entirely predictable, had been delayed this month. This irregularity appeared to contribute to her subtle sense of fatigue. She wondered vaguely whether it also had something to do with the shifting of her moods.

Whenever Devon glanced at her, she was irrationally tempted to burst into tears. And when he did not look at her, she was even more prone to weep.

To make matters worse, he disappeared almost from the moment they entered his brother’s elegant home and were announced at the party. She might have been more offended by his desertion had her sister-in-law Jane not taken her aside to confide that Devon and his brothers had congregated for a private brandy in Grayson’s study as was their habit whenever the family met.

“They call it male discourse,” Jane explained as she led Jocelyn into an antechamber behind the ballroom. “Which means they meet for vulgar jokes and great grunting slaps on the shoulder as if they were bears and not merely brothers. It does make one wonder about the course of human civilization.”

Jocelyn could only envy the ease with which the marchioness accepted the customs and peculiar conduct of her husband. Even more so she envied the warm glances that Jane and Grayson had shared in the reception room while greeting their guests. Marriage had obviously not dimmed the passion between that pair.

“That is a provocative costume,” Jane remarked over her shoulder in reference to Jocelyn’s white Egyptian-style dress. “Cleopatra?”

“Yes.” Jocelyn frowned. “I feel rather bare, but it was all I had on hand.”

“Why did Devon not dress as Marc Antony?” Jane asked. She looked ethereal and lovely herself as a woodland nymph in a diaphanous copper-green silk gown with silken leaves entwined in her hair. Grayson was rather incongruously dressed as a Roman gladiator.

Jocelyn trailed Jane down a long vestibule to the refreshment room. “I did not think to ask.”

“At least he isn’t dressed as a highwayman,” Jane said in amusement.

Jocelyn paused. “Did you know him when—”

Before Jocelyn could complete the question, a cluster of guests spotted Jane and rushed to claim her attention. The marchioness had rapidly become one of London’s most popular hostesses, and it was regarded as a sign of importance to be personally acknowledged at one of her parties.

Jocelyn stood at a loss until she glimpsed her sister-in-law Chloe waving for her to join the rest of the family in the ballroom.

She stepped forward only to feel a hard body brush against hers. Startled, she glanced around. A tall man costumed as a monk inclined his cowl-hooded face to her, his hand clasping the crucifix he wore.

“I beg your pardon, madam.”

“It’s quite all right. I think I walked into you.” From the edge of her eye she spied Grayson’s senior footman, Weed, scrutinizing her down the long slope of his nose. For a mortifying moment she thought she was to be chastised by a footman for her clumsiness. She was accustomed to more informal country affairs where one guest bumped into another more often than not.

She was jarred by the feel of rough, unfamiliar fingers grasping her wrist. She turned in alarm, trying to pull free.

“How many miles to Babylon?” the monk asked her before he released her hand and melted back into the group of other guests.

How many miles to Babylon? What nonsense was this? And that voice. Those hard glistening eyes. Did she know him? If so, it could not have been a pleasant association.

“May I be of service in any way, my lady?” another voice inquired behind her.

She glanced back reluctantly. The stone-faced senior footman bowed before her, although his shrewd gaze was following the monk’s rapid progress across the room.

Coloring, she wondered perchance whether Weed had read the scandal sheets and judged her unworthy of the family he served. Or perhaps her social awkwardness was obvious to even the footmen.

“I am on my way to the ballroom.”

“May I escort you?” he inquired in an expressionless voice.

“That is not necessary.”

“As you wish, madam,” he murmured with a wooden bow.

         

Devon had just exited Grayson’s study with his brother Drake when he recognized the footman Weed escorting a tall, curly-haired man through a private passageway. He stopped in astonishment.

“Bloody hell.”

“This gentleman asked to see you, my lord,” Weed said. “I took the liberty of admitting him. He insisted he talk to you tonight.”

“Mr. Griffin,” Devon said in an undertone. “If you are here to discuss what happened between us today, then let me speak first on the matter. I was entirely in the wrong to assume that you—”

“We can apologize to each other later,” the young man said in a manner that Devon might have interpreted as brash had he not perceived the sense of panic beneath it. “I have come here about your wife, my lord.”

“My wife? What about her?” he asked tightly, not appreciating the fact that Drake was listening with obvious relish to this discussion.

“Pray,” the Latin master said in earnest appeal, “do not believe that I in any manner encouraged what I am about to show you.” He reached into his vest pocket. “Nor do I believe for one instant that your wife wrote this.”

Devon drew a breath. He could feel Drake at his back watching, as with a trembling hand, Mr. Griffin pulled out a folded note and handed it to him. He opened it and read.

         

Know that my heart is yours, even as I pay for the regrettable mistake of my marriage. You have spoken of the wild beauty of Wales with such passion that I yearn to escape there with you. Will you challenge my husband for our freedom?

Your Cleopatra

J

         

“I swear to you upon my soul,” the young man said in an earnest voice, “I did not encourage—”

Devon looked up with a flash of emotion, realizing that the fellow was afraid he would be accused of adultery. Well, no wonder, the way Devon had behaved toward him today. Still, even if he had been misled once by a forgery, he knew Jocelyn’s handwriting now and he would not be deceived again. “My wife did not write this. Do you think for a moment I would be so easily deceived?”

Mr. Griffin practically collapsed with relief. “Who would conspire thus against such a good-hearted lady? Who would want to destroy innocent people?”

Silence fell. Devon stared distractedly out the window into the street as a bell-ringing zealot paused outside Grayson’s mansion to mutter a warning to the Hell-bound guests within. Religious disciples had been targeting the Boscastle family ever since he could remember, generally to no avail. And it had not escaped his attention that the Latin instructor had remarked upon Jocelyn’s good heart, but not that of her husband. Well, it was an omission well-deserved.

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!” the zealot outside cried up at the house. “How art thou—”

The cloaked figure had barely resumed his sermon before two liveried Boscastle footmen hoisted him up under the armpits and unceremoniously bore him off into the night. “I am a messenger of God….”

“Well, brother of Lucifer,” Drake said amusedly to Devon after a long moment passed, “it seems you have an enemy, indeed.”

Devon looked away from the window. Messenger of God. The words echoed; a recollection stirred.

“I don’t have any enemies,” he said, shaking his head. “I only have friends. You said it yourself.”

“Who?” Drake asked quietly. “Think hard. Review each moment in your memory for the answer.”

“A messenger of God,” Devon said slowly. “ ‘Wives and concubines.’ That is what the gossip paper said of our family, and I do not think it is an original phrase.”

“It is from the Bible, my lord,” Mr. Griffin said. “The Book of Daniel, as I recall. Could this malefactor have connections to the church?”

“Most of Devon’s acquaintances attend church only when eulogized after an early death,” Drake remarked.

Devon frowned at him. “Yet I think Mr. Griffin is right. And I also think I know who the malefactor is. ‘What say you we bring down Babylon?’ ”

Someone gave a loud cough behind them. Devon glanced around distractedly to see Gabriel dressed in the flowing royal-blue robes of a medieval wizard. “If Babylon has fallen,” Gabriel said, obviously not grasping the gist of the conversation, “I will probably be blamed for it even though I have not been in London the past few days. I don’t suppose anyone missed me while I was gone?”

Drake laughed. “I thought the town seemed rather quiet lately. What have you been up to, or shouldn’t I inquire?”

Devon stepped forward to seize Gabriel by the arm. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” Gabriel demanded in mock alarm.

“Because you’re coming with me.”

“Am I?” Gabriel asked in surprise, lowering his twisted willow wand. “Let me make sure I understand this. Are you asking for my help?”

Drake’s angular face darkened. “The hell he is. If anyone is going to help him, it’s me.”

“I need you to stay here and keep an eye on my wife, Drake.” Devon nudged Gabriel toward the door.

Drake stared at him in astonishment. “What?”

“Don’t take offense,” Devon said. “You’re a happily married man, and I don’t trust Gabriel alone with my wife for a single moment.”

Gabriel smiled mildly. “I wouldn’t trust myself with her, either.”

         

They drove southeast in Gabriel’s carriage from Grayson’s home to St. James’s Street, Gabriel not asking unnecessary questions, yet willing to offer his support. Devon thought fleetingly that he did not know much about Gabriel’s background, except for the fact that his cousin had apparently known some rough years. Gabriel never talked about himself, or his past.

“I appreciate your willingness to help me,” he said as the carriage rolled to a halt over the cobbles. “I can’t think of another person I could ask to help me—and who would agree without asking why.”

“Better the devil you know?”

“From one devil to another,” Devon conceded.

Gabriel nodded in good humor. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my character. I don’t receive many these days.”

“May I assume that you’ll be my accomplice if I commit murder?”

Gabriel shrugged beneath his costume. “You ask that as if it were my first time.”

Devon shook his head.

“Who are we hunting tonight, by the way?” Gabriel inquired.

Devon’s lips curled into a sneer. “Captain Matthew Thurlew.”

“The pastor’s eldest son?” Gabriel asked after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Well, damn me. Wasn’t his brother Daniel your accomplice in that botched highway robbery not long ago?”

Devon gave a snort of self-disgust. “I’d rather you didn’t remind me. But, yes. You’re right.”

“Did you know his brother had taken to robbing coaches for a living until he was caught three months ago?” Gabriel asked almost conversationally. “I’d heard he killed a banker’s clerk on Crawley Downs. Word is the damned idiot is due for an execution.”

Devon shook his head again. “That I didn’t know.” But now that he knew, he supposed that Matthew Thurlew might blame him for leading his younger brother astray, although Daniel had never displayed much of a social conscience to begin with. He’d been an amusing if amoral young vandal when Devon had met him. They would not have remained friends for long under any circumstances.

“In my opinion,” Gabriel remarked as they walked toward the entrance of the club, “there’s nothing worse than hiding one’s sins behind the shield of religion.”

“I would venture to say that you and I have not bothered overmuch to hide our sins at all,” Devon said.

“Perhaps if you and I had put our heads together,” Gabriel continued, “we might have realized that Thurlew was trying to destroy you all along. I might even have helped you.”

Devon grunted. “You helped yourself to Lily Cranleigh, didn’t you?”

“I really didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I didn’t.” He paused, scowling. “But my wife is another matter.”

“Thurlew must have put those rumors in the scandal sheets.”

“I expect so,” Devon muttered.

“And the invitations to the tower.”

Devon nodded grimly. “Yes.”

Gabriel glanced at him. “It was Thurlew who planted the coffin at Fernshaw’s party.”

Devon nodded again, stone-faced, and started to walk toward the club. “Let’s put an end to his pranks once and for all.”

But to his frustration Captain Thurlew had not been seen at the club in the last two days, according to the waiters, one of whom informed Devon in private that the captain had moved his lodgings recently to a more decent Downing Street address.

“I remember he complained of the riffraff in his old neighborhood, my lord. Said it offended his morals.”

“Morals,” Gabriel mused under his voice as he and Devon exited the club and stood once again on the sidewalk. He glanced at his cousin. “Are you in love with your wife?”

“What business is it of yours if I am?” Devon asked indignantly, the question taking him completely off guard.

Gabriel gave a deep chuckle. “I thought you were.”

“Sod off, would you?”