Chapter Six

Stepping out from the shadows where he’d been waiting for his carriage, Daniel stared after the dwindling conveyance bearing away Mr. St. Peters and his daughter. So Lovelace had decided to woo Miss St. Peters, and she to entertain his suit.

Dev would be so pleased. I ought to write tonight and let him know.

Even as the thought occurred, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Lord forgive him for judging his fellow man, but Daniel couldn’t help himself. Lovelace had been a terrible bully as a boy, and according to Dev, he’d never improved. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Dev was no saint, but the things he’d said about Lovelace had made Daniel’s hackles rise. He’d described the man as having no empathy and no conscience whatsoever. Over Christmas, he’d told of learning that Lovelace was a member of an exclusive club that catered to those with unspeakable proclivities.

For a moment, Daniel considered how satisfying it would be to plow his fist into his old enemy’s face for his offenses, both past and present. As a clergyman, however, it wasn’t for him to mete out punishment for another man’s deeds, no matter how egregious. Lovelace would eventually face his Maker, and then there would be a reckoning.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t thwart the man’s ambitions with regards to Miss St. Peters in the here and now.

The chit might be an incorrigible flirt and her affections grossly misplaced, but she didn’t deserve an abusive degenerate for a husband. For all that she was a troublesome baggage, the thought of watching the joy die from her eyes, of seeing her spirit sapped by sadness and regret until she was naught but a husk of the bright soul she was now, made Daniel physically ill.

He couldn’t let it happen. Being no relation to Miss St. Peters, he had no right to defend her from Lovelace’s predations, but there had to be a way to prevent it—without trapping himself.

You mean without trapping your brother. If Dev knew about Lovelace, would he care? Would he try to stop her?

A disbelieving laugh tore from his throat, and his hands, frustrated by lack of a qualified target, pulled at his face. “I must be losing my mind,” he muttered to the night sky.

His carriage pulled up to the gap, and he boarded. Thoughts bombarded him as it lurched into motion.

How was he to manage this? How could he stop her from accepting Lovelace’s suit? At the moment, there was only one way he could think of, and that definitely wasn’t an option. He needed guidance. He needed prayer.

The urge to fall to his knees and supplicate was so strong, but he could hardly do so in this contraption.

Blast it all, I ought to be fast asleep right now, not rumbling through London’s filthy streets in the wee hours! I ought to have nothing more on my mind than my parishioners’ needs and preparations for the next sermon.

But even an hour spent in his bedchamber in prayerful meditation provided no answers. Opening his eyes, he glared bitterly at the offending walls.

It’s this place. He’d had all the risqué paintings and lewd sculptures removed, but the memory of their salacious presence persisted like a bad odor. No matter where he went, he’d be distracted.

Oh, how he longed for the quiet sanctity of his tiny country church! Nothing focused him like going to the House of the Lord. He missed communing with fellow worshipers and praying together as a unified body.

Briefly, he wondered if Dev ever attended services in London. He didn’t think it likely. When his twin had abandoned the idea of becoming a clergyman, it had become a sore point, so he’d never asked, too afraid of driving him further away. He’d learned long ago that it was impossible to force someone into salvation. They had to want it.

And his brother had made it quite clear he didn’t.

Daniel hoped exposure to the good, godly people of Harper’s Grove might positively influence his twin and that pretending to be their shepherd might soften his heart and reawaken his spirit, draw him back into the light. His greatest desire was to see his prodigal brother turn his face back toward the Lord. That Dev had actually agreed to come home for Christmas had instilled such hope within him…

Home.

A sudden yearning for his simple wholesome life struck Daniel, and he again bowed his head beneath the weight of it. He missed the comforting confines of the rectory and the peace of his own bed.

But he had a mission here.

A twofold mission, now… The fire of certainty slowly kindled in his breast. Yes, he’d come here to help Devlin seal a deal, but what if the Lord had another mission for him in this den of iniquity? What if he was meant to save Miss St. Peters from making a terrible mistake with Lovelace?

But how?

Again, he was at a loss. He needed guidance! The benign, smiling face of his friend and mentor, Bishop Reynolds, popped up in his mind. Reynolds, who’d given him so much excellent advice concerning how to deal with womenfolk, would’ve known exactly what to do. But here in London, in his brother’s guise, there was no one he could talk to about it.

None but the Lord. Just like with Anne. In the end, it was the unfailing love and forgiveness of his Lord that had rebuilt him and made him whole again after that experience. Unable to expunge the burden himself, he’d laid it before the cross, and it had finally been lifted from his heart.

Such an act had required trust, a leap of faith. And then the answer had come—he’d felt the call to ministry. Answering that call had required faith, too. It struck him now that this, what was happening with Miss St. Peters, was a test of his faith.

Eyelids screwed tight, he let go of trying to find the answer on his own. There was no one in London—or indeed anywhere on this earth—that could help him solve this conundrum. But that was all right, because he already had what he needed.

An earthly counselor is unnecessary when one has a heavenly one.

It was settled. He would go to church this Sunday. Somewhere quiet and out of the way, where no one would recognize the face he shared with his twin. He needed to find a place to pray properly—on holy ground within walls untainted by carnal images—and the Lord would provide an answer.

The soft click of a door closing behind him made his heart leap. Turning, he launched himself up off his knees, but it was too late. Already the footsteps on the other side were fading away, their maker doubtless hastening to spread the word that the master of the house, a man known for cheerfully indulging in all manner of vice, had been caught praying.

Devlin is going to kill me.

There was nothing to be done for it. He could hardly hie after whoever it was and force them to keep what they’d seen a secret. He supposed he could bribe them, but secrets had a way of becoming very expensive, and they almost never remained a secret no matter how much one paid. Sooner or later, it would get out.

An inexplicable feeling of peace and acceptance washed over Daniel. He couldn’t stop the rumor spreading, so he must find a way to work with it.

Mr. St. Peters would no doubt be curious to know what had caused this sudden spate of piety in his morally ambiguous business partner. So would everyone else, but they hardly mattered. He had to reassure St. Peters that this had nothing to do with their business venture, that it was something private.

What could account for Devlin Wayward being caught on his knees praying? It had to be something serious in nature, but nothing scandalous enough to draw even more attention to himself. A family matter, perhaps?

Dev had been estranged for many years following his banishment, though only their late brother Drake had shared Father’s opinion concerning him. Yet of all his remaining siblings, Daniel had been the only one Dev had allowed to remain part of his life. That had upset the others quite a bit until he’d counseled them to be patient and give Dev time to get over his shame, to let him come to them, which, eventually, he had done. During his visit, Dev had expressed deep regret over not having made more of an effort to stay connected after their father’s death, and bridges had been mended.

What if they had not? It was a tiny spark of an idea, but it held promise.

It would be nothing to fabricate an ongoing conflict. If Dev had gone home seeking forgiveness only to be rebuffed by some of his siblings, he might have sought counsel…

And who better to seek advice from than a beloved brother who also happens to be a clergyman? A devout clergyman who’d have adjured him to pray about his situation.

It was a solid excuse. Solid enough, anyway. And no one had to know this brother was Dev’s identical image.

Another thought occurred. His previous plan to put off St. Peters’s ardent daughter had been rendered useless by the fainting incident, but this…this could actually work to his benefit in that regard. Having recently seen his baby sister grown and at the age when men like him often preyed upon their naïveté, Dev might be having second thoughts about his own conduct with the ladies.

Daniel smiled, feeling his spirits rise again. Apparently, one need not go to church to receive a heavenly answer to one’s prayers. Yet he would. But instead of sneaking into the back pew of some out-of-the-way place, he’d make certain to be seen. He’d pray in earnest while there, too. If the Lord wasn’t the only one to see him on his knees, well, he could hardly be faulted for whatever they thought.

A chuckle burst free of his throat as he pictured it. Lord Devlin Wayward is, to all appearances at least, about to experience a moral crisis when it comes to women!

…

Head down, Olivia fidgeted, struggling to keep a scowl off her face as she sat through Sunday services beside her father, who, despite supplying London’s upper crust with a venue in which to indulge its gambling vice, was a devout churchgoer.

Of course today’s sermon would be on forthrightness, and of course Lovelace was sitting three rows in front of them. His entrance had caused quite a stir, as he reputedly only attended church when his mother forced him to accompany her—and that lady was notably not with him today.

Olivia knew exactly why he’d come. And so did everyone else, because every time she’d ventured a glance, he’d been half turned in his pew looking at her. Determined to ignore both his presence and her guilty conscience, she’d mostly kept her gaze trained on her hymnal as she ruminated on how to manage the fellow.

He’d only just been granted permission to call on her as of yesterday, yet already the presumptuous peacock was staking a claim on her. She’d wanted to make Devlin jealous, not think she was bloody well engaged!

The soft sound of Angela clearing her throat behind her caught her attention. Holding her kerchief to her nose, she surreptitiously looked back over her shoulder to find her best friend staring at her with saucer-wide eyes, seemingly desperate to communicate something. Something of great import, if the way she kept darting her gaze to the left and tilting her head in that direction was any indication.

Angela’s mother took note of Olivia’s wandering attention and, glaring daggers, bumped an elbow into her daughter’s side, effectively ending the silent conversation.

Olivia turned back around and tried to figure out what her friend could be on about. Surreptitiously leaning forward as if to shelve her hymnal, she looked left past her father’s head—and froze.

It couldn’t be.

It was.

Across the aisle and one pew up sat Devlin, his dark head humbly bowed. Agog, she watched as his lips moved in perfect time with the communal recitation, as if he actually knew it by heart.

As far as she was aware, the last time Devlin Wayward had set foot in a church was as an infant on the day his parents had him baptized. She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed him, either. Many people—and not just the ladies—were staring at him instead of minding the sermon.

A loud, disgruntled ah-HEM! echoed throughout the sanctuary, and she, along with half the congregation, jumped and jerked her gaze back front and center to see the good reverend scowling down from the pulpit.

Yet even his eyes couldn’t stay off Lord Devlin for very long; he kept squinting as if trying to figure out who this living distraction was.

Small wonder when the man’s presence had caused such a stir! She added this incident to a growing list of oddities Devlin had exhibited since his return. Her informant had told her that upon coming home, he’d only been to his club during the day to conduct necessary business and, contrary to his usual habits, hadn’t gone anywhere in the evenings.

In fact, with the exception of the two events they’d mutually attended and this church service, he’d eschewed London’s entertainments entirely.

The old Devlin would’ve doubtless flung himself back into hedonistic pursuits immediately upon returning from the “intolerable tediousness of the country,” as she’d heard him once describe it to her father. He probably wouldn’t have even stopped at his house before visiting the Garden or, more likely, the Stews.

Whatever had caused this change, she blessed it. Risking another peek, she noticed his head remained bent, his lips still moving even though the recitation was long over. Shock rolled through her. He appeared to be praying.

Dare she flatter herself and think it had something to do with her, or was there something else on his mind that had him petitioning Heaven’s throne?

Just as she was about to look away, his head rose, and what she could see of his face in profile sent a frisson of shock marching down between her shoulder blades, touching each vertebrae one by one with numbing cold. His expression as he gazed up at the cross above the lectern was one of utterly devout, worshipful supplication reminiscent of the look her Catholic nurse had worn when fervently praying her rosary.

It was an expression utterly out of place on the face of a dedicated sinner like Devlin Wayward.

Almost as if he’d heard her thought, he turned his head. Their gazes met and held. Again, shock stroked its fingers down her back.

A displeased grunt issued from her father, and she snapped her attention front and center again, only to see Lovelace still giving his back to the reverend, watching her.

Dread filled her as Lovelace’s gaze slowly slid over to where she’d been looking. On spying the object of her interest, his expression tightened. Without looking back at her, he turned around to face the front of the room.

Unease was a leaden ball in her belly as she suddenly questioned her decision to pit the two men against each other. But one surreptitious glance at those seated nearby told her it was too late for that; several had also marked the exchange.

Feeling faintly nauseous, Olivia again concentrated on her hymnal. All around, speculative gazes settled on her like butterflies on a flower, touching briefly before flitting away, undoubtedly to rest on one of the two men they’d now identified as rivals for her affection.

Could it be true? Nothing would please her more, of course, but how could she discern if Devlin’s feelings for her had shifted toward the romantic? Mind racing, she decided she would find him after the service and try in some circumspect manner to ferret out a confirmation.

It seemed Fate was ill-inclined to favor her, however, for when she arrived at the end of the pew, there stood Lovelace wearing a too-pleasant smile on a face that had only moments ago been dark with enmity. Mirroring his expression, she tried her best to be congenial and not show irritation at his unwitting—or possibly quite deliberate—sabotage.

His words barely registered, so intent was she on following Devlin’s progress toward the door. She jerked on hearing her name and only then noted that her father’s face was tight with disapproval. “Yes, Papa?”

“Lord Lovelace inquired whether you have an escort for the Treadwell ball next week. Do you?”

She didn’t, but she also had no desire to be chained to Lovelace for the bulk of the evening. “Angela and I are attending together,” she said, vowing to strong-arm her best friend into confirming this at the first opportunity. Her father’s eyes narrowed, and she added, “When you informed me you were not planning to attend, I agreed to ride with her. I can hardly leave her without a companion after I arrive.” Looking to Lovelace, whose expression was now unreadable, she smiled sweetly. “But I would be delighted to reserve a dance for you.”

A smile softened his mouth but not, she noted, his eyes. “If I may be so bold as to claim two—your first and last—I shall consider myself compensated for the loss.”

Bold indeed! To claim both the first and last dances would signal to everyone that he was seriously courting her and that she was amenable. She dare not look to her father for a rescue, as he would doubtless only make matters worse by bloody well inviting the man to join them for Sunday dinner.

There was no help for it. With a graceful bow of her head, she acquiesced. “It will be my pleasure to both begin and end the evening’s festivities with you, my lord.”

Without further ado, his mission apparently accomplished, Lovelace bowed and excused himself.

“Well, he certainly has taken a fancy to you,” said her papa in a smug tone.

Yes, and rather too quickly for a man who knows nothing of me besides who my father is! “It would appear so,” she conceded, trying to sound pleased. Taking his arm, she all but dragged him up the aisle and out into the thin January sunlight—only to see Devlin’s carriage departing.

Damn. Crestfallen, she let Papa lead her around while he greeted his friends and associates.

Small, gloved hands bracketed her shoulders, and Angela whispered from behind, “You should see the way Lovelace is staring at you.”

Excusing herself from her father’s group, she linked arms with her best friend, and they made for a quieter corner of the yard. “I regret ever thinking he was a good idea,” she muttered as soon as they were out of earshot.

Angela’s laughter did nothing to improve her mood. “Perhaps not, but it appears you’re stuck with him now.”

“You will come to the Treadwell ball with me, won’t you?” she asked, suddenly very afraid she wouldn’t. “You must! You’re my only hope of escaping that man’s determined pursuit.”

Eyeing her sidelong, Angela let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I must, as I have not yet been asked by anyone else,” she said pointedly.

“Torrington?”

“I thought we made a lovely start—we danced twice, and he seemed to like me awfully well—but I have not heard from him since you introduced us.”

“The man is an absolute idiot if he does not snap you up,” she replied, tightening her hold on Angela’s arm and bringing her in closer. “He would be better served by making you his countess over any of those bloodhounds I saw sniffing around his heels at the ball.”

“I feel the same about you and Lord Devlin,” said her friend with sympathy. “You could do much better than him, you know, but if he is the one you want, then I want you to have him and be happy.”

“What think you of him showing up here today?”

“Considering what I overheard last night, I think it either a very good sign or a terribly bad omen,” her friend said with a sly look.

Stopping, Olivia regarded her with narrowed eyes and arms akimbo. “When one has gossip to share about a friend’s potential husband, one should always lead with that rather than making small talk,” she groused before leaning closer to breathe excitedly. “What have you heard?”

The joy of being the first to dish up a juicy bit of news sparkled in her friend’s eyes. “Mama and her friend, Mrs. Higgins—you know how she adores a good scandal—were talking, and your gentleman’s name came up. Mama sent me from the room, of course,” she said with a momentary scowl that at once melted back into a mischievous grin, “but, knowing that whatever they might say about him would be of interest to you, I slipped back down the hall and listened.”

“And?”

Angela leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, barely audible, “Mrs. Higgins heard from her new lady’s maid that one of Lord Devlin’s maids said that almost immediately upon returning from holiday, he ordered all paintings of his former amours, portraits I understand to be quite risqué, removed from sight. In addition, she claimed he has thus far declined several of those ladies’ invitations to, ah, revisit their association.”

It was too good to be true! But Angela seemed to be perfectly serious. “Go on,” she urged, sensing there was more.

“Well,” said Angela, warming further to her subject, “apparently, this same maid discovered Lord Devlin praying on his knees when she came to turn down his bed two nights ago. The girl claimed to have left, afraid to disturb her master in such a state, only to return half an hour later to find him still praying! According to Mrs. Higgins, the girl said the man stayed like that for over an hour.”

If Devlin hadn’t been there in that pew this very morning, looking for all the world like he was about to take vows, Olivia would not have believed it. She still wasn’t sure she believed it.

“Well?” prompted Angela eagerly.

“I honestly don’t know what to make of it,” she said, letting her bewilderment show.

“Don’t you see?” hissed her friend. “He’s either on the straight and narrow or he’s going mad.”

Carefully, she considered both suppositions. “I don’t think he’s going mad,” she at last replied. “But something is different about him. I’ve marked it since his return from holiday, myself. Do you really think he might have, as they say, ‘found religion’?”

It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, but it would be odd. For a man like him to be so overtaken by religious fervor as to pray on his knees for a solid hour, something in the way of a miracle would have to have occurred.

“If it increases your chances of bagging him, what does it matter?” said Angela. “And I would make haste in that regard, if I were you,” she added, flicking a jaundiced glance at a nearby group of ladies huddled together with bent heads. “They’ll have his scent now.”

Olivia thought about that as they walked on and were greeted by the kindly reverend. If Devlin didn’t already know her too well to believe it, she might try to appear less bold. But that pigeon had already long since flown. She required a different approach.

One thing the newly reformed loved more than just about anything else was the idea of helping their fellow man—or woman—set foot on the path to salvation alongside them. Misery loves company, so they say…

If he was indeed now on the straight and narrow, perhaps she ought to express an interest in traveling that path herself?