The Gypsy Duchess (3 page)

Devon raised a skeptical eyebrow at her dramatic statement. “The man is a peer of the realm and the boy’s nearest relative. He would appear to be the logical choice. In fact, I have to wonder why he was not named in the old duke’s will.”

“My husband had good reason,” she said in a voice devoid of all expression. “Are you acquainted with the viscount?”

“No.”

“I am,” Stamden said.

Surprised by the grave expression on his friend’s face, Devon waited for him to explain his cryptic remark.

Stamden shrugged. “It is well known that Quentin is a habitué of the worst gambling hells in London. Rumor is the ivory turners have picked him clean in the past few months and he is desperate to get his hands on some blunt. That alone should disqualify him as the ideal candidate for the guardianship of a young boy who has inherited immense wealth. But the courts being what they are, one cannot count on their perfect discretion.”

His eyes sought Devon’s in the unspoken warning they’d developed during the years they’d fought side by side on the Peninsula. Every nerve in Devon’s body instantly sprang to life. He couldn’t imagine what Stamden had in mind, but experience had taught him to heed the message his friend was transmitting without question. More than once such silent warnings had saved one or both of their lives when they’d found themselves trapped in a perilous situation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the speculative look on the duchess’s face as she too studied the marquess. The woman was much too quick of wit for comfort.

“What are you suggesting, Peter?” he asked wearily. He had a strong premonition he was not going to like his friend’s answer, but he had trusted his life to the man too often to look askance at his judgment now.

“F
ar be it from me to interfere in your affairs,” Stamden said, his voice so patently bland, Devon knew instantly that what he was trying to convey—or conceal—was of a deadly serious nature. “But it occurs to me you might want to meet the boy before you summarily dismiss the idea of accepting him as your ward.”

The duchess instantly picked up the cue Stamden had dropped. “What a thoughtful suggestion,” she declared, casting him a look of undisguised gratitude.

“I suppose there is a certain logic in that,” Devon agreed reluctantly, wondering where Peter was leading him and why.

“Of course there is.” The duchess studied Devon’s face with anxious eyes. “But if I could beg your indulgence, my lord, Charles is extremely shy; he would not be at his best if he knew he was under scrutiny. Could we arrange a meeting place where you might observe him without his knowing?”

“The earl and I passed a Punch and Judy show near the entrance to Green Park on our way here,” Stamden remarked conversationally. “The boy might enjoy that, and he need never know he is being watch if the earl simply mingles with the crowd as a spectator.”

Devon felt for all the world like a ball being tossed back and forth between the duchess and Stamden. The two of them had apparently established a tacit understanding between them which left him little choice but to agree with whatever scheme they devised. A glimpse of the bemused expression on Elizabeth Kincaid’s face told him that even that most guileless of ladies was aware of the mysterious undercurrents pervading the quiet salon.

“It just so happens the duke is particularly fond of Punch and Judy shows,” the duchess declared, rising to pace restlessly around the room.

Devon grimaced. “Somehow I felt certain he would be.”

She had the grace to blush. Avoiding Devon’s gaze, she looked to Stamden as if for reassurance. “We could be at the park at two o’clock unless another time would be more convenient.”

“Capital! What could be better, Devon, since you mentioned earlier you had nothing in mind for this afternoon?”

Devon glowered at his friend, wondering if the usually levelheaded marquess had become the latest unfortunate male to fall beneath the spell of the beautiful duchess.

“Devil take it, what sort of havey-cavey game are you playing?” he muttered as they took their leave of the two women a few minutes later.

“Wait until we are safely out of earshot,” Peter replied tersely.

Devon climbed into the driver’s seat of the curricle and waited until Peter had settled beside him before taking up the ribbons.

“You were right about one thing,” Stamden remarked as they got under way. “The duchess is probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—and the most eccentric. I wonder what the high sticklers of the
ton
would say if they saw her dressed in widow’s weeds that would look more appropriate on the village blacksmith’s relict than on the widow of one of the wealthiest men in England?”

“They would undoubtedly say she is a hoyden who will go to any length to get her own way—which she is,” Devon said sourly, casting his friend an impatient scowl. “But that is neither here nor there. I take it from the interesting little drama you and the duchess just enacted, there is something more objectionable about Viscount Quentin than the fact the he is sailing the river Tick.”

Stamden nodded, his grim expression enhanced by the jagged, purplish-red scar marring his left cheek. “The gambling hells are not the only East End establishments the viscount frequents. He is well known in the more colorful bawdy houses as both a sadist and a deviant addicted to every perversion known to man. In point of fact, all but the most disreputable abbeys have closed their doors to him. The very idea of such a depraved monster gaining financial control over a young boy and his beautiful stepmother makes my blood run cold.”

Devon’s fingers involuntarily tightened on the reins. Stamden’s revelation was bizarre, but not beyond the realm of possibility. The viscount would not be the first member of polite society to, as the saying went, “lead a double life.” He snarled a curse from between taut lips. “If what you say is true, I begin to understand why the duchess is so desperate to persuade me to accept the role of guardian, despite our mutual animosity.”

“Precisely.” Stamden’s matter-of-fact voice belied the murderous look in his eyes. “And I would wager a monkey the lady has already learned firsthand the kind of individual she must deal with if you refuse. An elderly husband in poor health would be little protection for a young wife.”

He studied Devon with an intensity that would have made a lesser man quake in his boots. “Tell me, my friend, can you truly say you despise any woman enough to deliver her, as well as a helpless child, into the hands of such a man?”

It was a few minutes past two o’clock when Devon brought his curricle to a stop outside the entrance to Green Park and handed the reins to his groom. “I am afraid we shall have to walk to where we agreed to meet the duchess,” he said. “The park is too crowded to maneuver a carriage easily.”

In truth, despite the fact that it was still February and a chill lingered in the air, the first sunny day had brought the winter-weary citizens of London flocking outdoors en masse. Every street Devon and the marquess had traversed had been crowded with carriages and pedestrians, and a line of vehicles a block long waited to enter Hyde Park. When they arrived at Green Park they found large numbers of spectators assembled at every hastily erected amusement stand.

Ten minutes later, after a considerably longer walk than he had anticipated, Devon stopped beside the makeshift stage of the middling little Punch and Judy show Stamden had suggested. It had been two years since he’d returned from Spain, but his leg still bothered him whenever he did much walking. At the moment it throbbed like a toothache, and he was reluctant to try pushing his way through the crowd of noisy, catcalling spectators watching a scruffy-looking Punch bludgeon his ragged Judy and toss her from the window of their crude paper house.

“I am sick and tired of dealing with this blasted leg of mine,” he grumbled, leaning heavily on his sturdy walking staff to take the weight off his tortured limb. Then, cursing himself for an insensitive lout, he remembered what Peter must deal with the rest of his life. Luckily, his friend was too engrossed in locating the duchess’s party to register his unfortunate slip of tongue.

“There they are.” Stamden pointed to where the duchess and Elizabeth Kincaid stood in the center of the crowd, a small boy between them. Devon glanced toward the spot indicated and found his gaze locked with that of the duchess. His heart lurched in his chest when he spied the same look of naked fear on her face that he’d seen earlier.

“Something is amiss,” he said, watching the two women and the boy quickly work their way through the assembled spectators toward where Stamden and he waited.

Elizabeth was the first to reach them. “Thank God you have come,” she declared fervently. “When you were late we were afraid…but now that you are here everything will be all right.”

“Of course we are here—exactly as we promised.” Stamden scowled down at the agitated woman standing beside him. “But tell us, ma’am, what has happened to make you tremble so?”

“Her grace is terribly upset. She believes we were followed from the town house.”

Devon instantly snapped to attention. “The devil you say. Did she see who they were?”

“No, I did not.” The duchess stepped up beside her companion. She was deathly pale and she regarded him from eyes which had darkened from their usual vivid blue to a deep, troubled violet.

“Then how do you know you were followed?”

“I felt their evil presence too strongly to be mistaken.”

“You felt
their
evil presence?” Devon echoed skeptically. “You have seen no one, yet you are certain that more than one of these invisible men followed you.”

Moira could see the earl didn’t believe her. More to a point, the look of barely concealed contempt on his face told her he judged her to be nothing more than a troublesome female given to hysterics—or worse yet, one so devious she would manufacture danger where none existed so he would feel obliged to offer the protection she sought for the young duke.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I am certain, my lord. Do not ask me to tell you how I know, for I cannot explain it. But I am certain.”

She took a deep, calming breath. “Please believe me it is imperative that I get Charles to safety. I would have made a try for my carriage before, but it seemed safer to stay in the crowd until you arrived.”

“A wise decision, your grace,” the marquess agreed politely, but the look he sent the earl plainly said, “Humor the silly creature.”

She could scarcely blame him, or the earl, for thinking her behavior irrational. Nor was it difficult to imagine how these two peers of the realm would react if she told them she had inherited from her gypsy mother the uncanny ability to sense when danger threatened someone she loved—that it was a gift passed down from generation to generation in the women of her family.

No, that was a secret she dared not divulge to any
gaujo
. Not even her friend and protector, the duke, had known of her ties with the Rom. Very early in life, she had learned the painful lesson that anyone tainted with gypsy blood—even that of the proud Spanish
gitanos
—was automatically despised and distrusted by all non-gypsies.

“The marquess and I will see you to your carriage if that is your wish, your grace,” the earl said in the chilly tone of voice she had notice he reserved just for her. “Then I believe we may consider the business between us concluded, at least for the present.”

“Concluded!” Moira stared at him, fear and anger constricting her throat. “Just like that—without even taking the time to become acquainted with the boy?”

“I shall have to reserve that pleasure for a later date,” he said coldly. “I want to meet with my solicitor this afternoon to set the guardianship process in motion. Stamden has relayed certain information concerning Viscount Quentin which leads me to believe it best I waste no time in taking the young duke under my protection.”

Moira’s relief was so great she felt tears spring to her eyes. “Thank you, my lord, with all my heart,” she said, and without thinking, laid a hand on his arm. She removed it instantly when she felt him tense. It was obvious he still despised her for the part she had played in his brother’s death, and only his scrupulous sense of honor made him put his feelings aside for the sake of an innocent child.

She steeled herself against the inexplicable pain ripping through her, when she considered how much greater would be his hatred if he knew the true extent of her deception of poor Blain. Sternly she reminded herself what Devon St. Gwyre thought of her was of no consequence. The important thing to remember was that the Duke of Sheffield’s choice of his son’s protector had been a wise one.

But now that the earl had committed himself, she was more determined than ever that he should know something of the boy who would be named his ward. Glancing down at Charles’s upturned face, she ran loving fingers through his mop of dark curls. “This kind gentleman is the Earl of Langley, sweetheart. He is known as one of the finest horsemen in all of England and I am certain he would enjoy hearing about your pony. Since the earl is too busy to stay and visit with us, why don’t you and he walk together back to the carriage, while Elizabeth and I follow behind with the marquess.”

Devon stared dumbfounded at the duchess and the small boy whose hair she was ruffling so tenderly. Devil take it! What was the fool woman up to now? He had agreed to act as guardian to the duke and he intended to do his best to see the lad’s numerous estates and properties were wisely managed until such time as he reached his majority; that didn’t mean he had the slightest idea how to talk to a seven-year-old. He had never been good with children; Blaine had always been the one the young nieces and nephews had flocked to.

With a final look at the annoying woman who had once again maneuvered him into doing her bidding, he turned to follow the footpath leading to where the carriages were parked. The boy instantly fell into step beside him.

The path they followed wound beneath ancient oaks which in the spring would form a green canopy far above the insignificant mortals who walked beneath them; now their stark, bare branches looked strangely naked and incongruous beneath a sunny, cloudless sky.

Out of the corner of his eye, Devon studied his silent young companion. It occurred to him the duke was an extra ordinarily handsome lad—fair of skin with dark hair and darker eyes ringed with long, black lashes. But far too delicate looking to his way of thinking—probably the product of too much coddling by women.

He cleared his throat self-consciously and launched into what he hoped was an appropriate conversation. “I understand your name is Charles.”

“Yes, my lord, Charles Richard Algernon Handley.”

Devon smiled to himself at so much name for such a dab of a boy. “And you have a pony?”

“Yes, my lord. A Galloway from Scotland.
His
name is Starfire.” He swallowed hard. “My papa gave him to me on my birthday.”

Devon smiled. “As it so happens, my papa gave me a pony on my seventh birthday also, I named him Magic.”