Chapter Two

Three weeks later…

This is the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas. How had he allowed himself to be persuaded into this? London’s streets slipped past the coach’s window as Daniel reflected upon his life and the decisions that had led him to this point.

He’d left his parish and his flock…in the hands of Devlin. The gambler. The black sheep of the family. A groan slipped out of Daniel, and he slid down another inch in the seat. No matter his brother’s assurances, this was very likely to end in utter disaster.

His gut tightened at the thought of the Herculean task he’d agreed to take on. He had to convince a former privateer—a no doubt canny and highly dangerous man, especially when offended—into thinking he was his business partner while at the same time gently disabusing his daughter of any marital notions.

His plan was to affect his brother’s charm, swagger, and confidence—all the qualities that had likely attracted Miss St. Peters in the first place—and then allow them to fall by the wayside when he was with her until he was himself in all but name. A sheep in a wolf’s skin—in other words, boring and unworthy of interest. At which point, the young woman would surely leave off pursuit in favor of some other fellow more suited to her adventurous taste.

He’d memorized an exhaustive list of his brother’s friends, important associates, and enemies, complete with detailed descriptions of appearance and personality and notes concerning their relationship and anything that might come up in conversation should he encounter them. In the event this all went pear-shaped, if he were somehow discovered, he’d also been given damning information that could be used to persuade St. Peters to leave off and, if necessary, put a muzzle on his offspring.

Despite being so well-armed, panic fluttered at the edges of his thoughts. This is madness. Sheer madness!

But it was the only way.

When the coach stopped and he was let out, Daniel stared at his brother’s front door. Dev had hosted countless drunken revels and entertained an endless stream of light-skirts in this place. If he dared to look under the bed he was meant to occupy, he suspected he’d see scorch marks from Hell’s flames. He was about to enter a den of iniquity.

Don’t think about it. He forced his feet to carry him up the steps. Into the lion’s den, Daniel. A smirk twisted his mouth at his own private joke. It was, perhaps, the most appropriate expression he could’ve adopted, given he was playing the part of his jaded sibling. The servant who took his hat and coat certainly didn’t blink at it.

The house was, to put it mildly, ostentatious. His brother had amassed a vast fortune on his own—by what means, Daniel had never cared to know too much about—and he’d obviously spent it on lavish surroundings as well as wine, women, and song.

Expensive furnishings and decor greeted Daniel at every turn, most of it tasteful, but there were some things he could’ve done without. Like the enormous nude hanging above the mantelpiece in the drawing room. The naked woman, doubtless one of his brother’s former lovers, stared down at him from her painted couch with mischievous, mocking eyes.

It was impossible to ignore, and he vowed to have it down in short order. In fact, he would send all of his brother’s risqué art collection straight to the attic tomorrow and give the excuse of an anticipated visit from his stepmother.

Devlin would call him a prude, but Daniel knew better. The human body was marvelous and beautiful, and sex was a wonderful gift from their Creator—a gift he fully intended to enjoy with his bride after their wedding. He wasn’t immune to lust. He’d had his own misspent youth, brief though it was in comparison with Devlin’s prodigality, but he now took great pride in maintaining self-discipline over his body’s baser urgings. A simple lifestyle helped in that respect.

Here, however, he’d have to be on guard against excess.

This was brought home to him as he entered the “small” Turkish bath his brother had recently installed. Even the big, cast-iron tub at Winterbourne, which was considered a great luxury, was dwarfed by this room dedicated to—he hoped—cleanliness. More likely, it was just another of his twin’s concessions to hedonism. It was big enough to comfortably fit four full-grown adults, the very thought of which brought the blood rushing to his face. The sheer amount of water required to fill such a thing was staggering to imagine.

His eyes traveled over a shelf of salts, soaps, and sweet-smelling oils in the corner, as well as an assortment of sponges laid out along the side. A rack loaded with drying sheets sat near a small fireplace dedicated to heating the room. The bath was a luxury fit for royalty. And Dev had told him to avail himself of it as often as he pleased—in fact, he’d be obligated to do so at least every other day, for that was how often Devlin bathed.

This was one vice Daniel admittedly wouldn’t mind indulging, cleanliness being near to godliness and all. He gave a servant an order to have the bath readied and proceeded to his brother’s chambers.

My chambers… He had to act as if he owned this place. Every inch of it, from cellar to attic.

Wincing as he entered—he anticipated more explicit artwork on every wall—he was pleasantly surprised to find the decor in excellent taste. Suitably masculine, sedate, and not a single nude in sight.

Soft footfalls alerted him to the approach of Devlin’s valet. “Your correspondence, sir,” said the man, setting a silver salver laden with messages on one of the small tables. “Your bath will be ready shortly. Have you any special requests, or will your usual scent suffice?”

Good lord, my brother is a spoiled dandy! “The usual is fine. Thank you.” The other man’s face registered mild surprise, and Daniel remembered that his brother likely didn’t thank his servants at every turn.

“Very good, sir,” said the valet after a moment of awkward silence. “Shall I tell Cook to prepare the meal for eight o’clock, or will you be dining at your club this evening?”

Suddenly, it dawned on Daniel that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. As if on cue, his stomach growled softly. Blast. I ought to have eaten before ordering that bath! It was on the tip of his tongue to have the kitchen send up whatever was immediately available even if it was just cold meats and bread, but that’s not what Dev would do.

It’s only two hours… He pitched his voice a little lower and gave his speech a slightly harder edge to sound more like his twin. “Eight is fine,” he said, dismissing the man with a wave.

Left to his own devices, Daniel eyed the tray full of letters. Two were from Dev’s solicitor. A few were from business associates he remembered his brother mentioning. He shouldn’t have been shocked at how many were from women, but there were no less than twenty-three.

If this was what his brother had waiting for him after only a few weeks’ absence, the next two months would doubtless prove even more socially harrowing than he’d imagined. Sighing, Daniel took up the first of the ladies’ letters and broke the seal, determined to judge neither its sender nor its intended recipient.

Only a few lines in, however, and he began to wonder if he had the fortitude to get through it, let alone the rest of the pile. That a lady, especially a highborn married one, would throw herself at his brother in such a shameless manner was difficult to even believe. Yet there it was, written in flowing script his appalled eyes couldn’t deny.

It spoke to how deeply mired in wickedness Devlin really was.

I have truly stepped into the lions’ den, he thought with dismay. At the same time, it struck him that Devlin had stepped out. And that was something his brother would never have done of his own volition; therefore, him being stuck in Harper’s Grove for the next two months must be looked upon as an act of divine intervention.

Everything in him knew it for a certainty. Dropping to his knees, he prayed for the fortitude to endure whatever came so that his brother might have his eyes opened and extricate his immortal soul from this, the adversary’s web of temptation.

His resolve was bolstered by the thought. Through no fault of his own, he was facing a trial, a test of his faith and of the strength of his morality. Only now he saw it not as a punishment, but an opportunity. He’d seal the business deal on Devlin’s behalf—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a few alterations to his brother’s society.

Beginning with—he looked at the name on the letter still clutched in his hand—Lady Annabeth Waldrop.

…

It was with great difficulty that Olivia maintained serene deportment as she entered the drawing room wearing the pink horror gown. It was even harder when she saw the satisfyingly dumbstruck expression on her father’s face at the sight of her. The color in his cheeks went from a healthy tinge of pink to bright crimson as she calmly walked over to the chessboard by the window.

They’d played like this for as long as she could remember, him making a move just before retiring each night, and her countering it at some point the following day.

She saw he’d taken her pawn at B2 with his bishop, as she’d intended, to keep her from taking his rook and crowning another queen. She picked up her black knight from C6. Take D5 away from the white queen and threaten his king—he’ll be prevented from moving to F2 by the bishop on C5.

“Knight to E7,” she announced, setting the piece down with a decisive click of onyx on ebony. Pecking his cheek as she passed, she plucked a biscuit off the tea tray and sat opposite him to meekly nibble it in silence, as though nothing in the world were amiss.

For a moment, she thought he would surely give way and tell her to go change. But her stubborn Papa held his peace, apparently resigned to drive his point home even if it meant suffering the embarrassment along with her.

If that’s the way he wants it, then so be it. She’d hold her head high, regardless. After all, nobody important—to her, at least—would be at Lambeth’s party. According to her latest report, Lord Devlin had still not accepted the invitation though the pair were on friendly terms.

The carriage ride to the event was spent keeping her gaze trained on the scenery beyond her window in an effort to refrain from grinning at each sullen mumble and discontented grunt that issued forth from her father. He was clearly having even more difficulty digesting the fruit of his machinations than she was—and it was, quite simply, divine.

Hoisted by thine own petard, father-mine! Yes, people would judge her by her manner of dress, but they’d also judge him. Everyone knew he was hunting the perfect husband for his only child and heir, and yet he would parade her about Town looking for all the world like a giant cake decorated in the worst possible taste.

“…ghastly thing…” broke loudly enough for her to distinguish above the rumble of the carriage’s wheels, and it took all her willpower to suppress the bubble of laughter that lodged in her throat.

All mirth died, however, the moment she set foot in Lambeth’s house and eyes began to widen. Despite her determination to remain proud and stand tall, the urge to look at her toes and hide her flushing face was awfully powerful.

Anger stiffened her spine.

I am no coward, and damned if I’m going to be made a laughingstock! Defiant, she lifted her chin and made sure to meet each and every gaze, holding it until it slid away. That’s right. Dare to mock me, and see if I don’t make you regret it!

After the initial shock wore off, most seemed content to go on about their business. A few quiet titters were heard after she passed, but she didn’t dignify them with an acknowledgment. Those who laughed were beneath her notice or too young for her to care about their opinion.

“Olivia?”

Relief flooded her as she turned to greet Angela Wright, her dearest friend, with an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek. “Thank the Lord you’re finally here!” she whispered at her ear. “Now at least it will be bearable.”

Angela’s mouth twitched with barely suppressed amusement as she pulled back to survey her. “I suppose you must be referring to your, ah…gown?”

There was no way to prevent a grimace from taking over her face. “Papa thought to teach me a lesson,” she muttered, resentment spiking now that she had a sympathetic ear. “I had to teach him not to come between a lady and her dressmaker. He did not think I would deign to wear this awful thing, but one ill turn deserves another. If I have to suffer, so must he.”

Angela’s muffled giggle was followed by a rueful expression. “I know I ought not to laugh, but it really is hideous. I believe I would have ‘accidentally’ spilled an entire pot of ink on it before wearing it in public.”

Olivia’s face relaxed into a genuine, if impudent smile. “I considered such a course, but this is better. After this, he’ll never again attempt to manipulate me thusly.” She sighed and picked at one of the truly huge bows marching in a row down her front. “At least no one of import—yourself excluded, of course—is here to witness my shame.”

At these words, there was a marked shift in Angela’s expression that didn’t bode well.

Her stomach tensed. “What is it?”

“He only just arrived after we did, so it’s unlikely he’s seen you yet…”

Oh, sweet Lord… One heartbeat ran into the next until they all seemed to pile atop one another. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t due to attend any events for three more days!

Panic threatened to overwhelm her. “Are you telling me Lord Devlin is here?” she hissed.

Her friend’s jerky little nod sent her out-of-control heart plummeting to her toes. “I must leave at once, and you must come with me.” Alone, she’d never be allowed to escape. Casting about, she spied Papa across the room talking to Angela’s father. “Good, they are together! Come, and we’ll ask to be excused.”

“But I’d hoped to be introduced to Lord Lambeth’s son, Lord Torrington, and—”

“Please, Angie?” she begged, not caring one whit if it was demeaning. Better to humble herself before Angela than be humiliated in front of Lord Devlin! “I cannot be seen like this by him. Please…?”

Angela’s longing gaze flicked between her and the object of her desire, who was standing not too far away, and she bit her lip. “I…well…oh, all right, I supp—”

“Thank you! I swear I’ll repay you for this—I’ll introduce you to him myself at the first opportunity.” Grabbing Angela’s hand, she all but dragged her over to their parents, careful to avoid any man that looked even remotely like Lord Devlin. It was like navigating a field set with snares. He could be anywhere.

It wasn’t at all hard to fake an ill expression as she tapped her father’s arm, because it wasn’t far from the truth; she was fairly quaking with nerves. “Papa?”

Turning, he regarded her with a deepening frown as he took in her doubtless pale cheeks and rapid breathing. “What is it, my dear?”

“I fear I’m feeling rather unwell, but I don’t wish to rob you of your enjoyment here. Would you and Mr. Wright mind if Angela and I…” Dread settled in her gut as her father’s gaze drifted up to her right and sharpened in recognition. Maybe it’s someone else…please be someone else, anyone else! Desperate, she rushed on despite his distraction. “If we returned to the house so that I might recov—”

“Lord Devlin!” exclaimed her father genially, a self-satisfied smirk forming on his lips as, unbidden, her own mouth dropped open in horror. “I thought you too busy with resettling after your trip to join us today?”

The voice that replied caused gooseflesh to break out all over her. “I managed to address the most immediate concerns,” it drawled in a bored tone. “The rest can wait.”

An awkward silence fell, and her father’s eyes, full of triumph, narrowed slightly as they moved back to her. “Olivia, you remember the Lord Devlin Wayward?”

Ice touched her extremities, and the numbness spread rapidly inward until it gripped her innards in a vice. Gritting her teeth, she forced stiff lips into what she hoped was a pleasant smile, turned, and did as manners—and her apparently merciless father—required.

“Lord Devlin,” she managed, her voice cracking and quavering in spite of every effort to control it, “what a pleasure to see you again.”