Nightingale. Part 22

He felt guilty about the ruse, but each time he started to confess, he stalled, thinking one more day might be enough for Jessica to realize she had changed. Like a caterpillar metamorphoses into a b.u.t.terfly, Jessica had transformed, from peasant girl to n.o.blewomen, a fit companion for a peer of the realm.

In the next several days, the three of them - Jessica, Devlin, and the dowager - took open carriage rides in the park. Jessica drove the matched pair of grays, so the trio dispensed with a driver.

Shyly at first, Jessica responded to the waves or called h.e.l.loes of other members of the ton as "the Miracles" became a familiar sight on the riding circuit. Occasionally Devlin or his mother introduced Jessica as a distant cousin from the west, near Shiller's Green.

One afternoon, Lady Anne pleaded a headache and declined to go, though Jessica argued the fresh air might ease her pain. Vindicator and Dancer had been brought to town. When his mother begged to stay behind, he suggested he and Jessica ride mounts rather than drive the buggy. Their riding unchaperoned did not raise an eyebrow.

The girl had a place in his family. He liked his household the way it had evolved. In spite of his occasional rants to the contrary, Devlin liked the way she made fun of him when he became what she termed, "overly majestic."

One evening when he had been particularly obnoxious, as Jessica prepared to go up to bed, she said, "Sleep well, Your Pomposity."

"What did you call me," he asked, looking toward her.

"Your Pomposity. It seems an apt t.i.tle when you behave as you have this evening."

"The t.i.tle I carry was bestowed on my ancestor over two hundred years ago by a grateful king. Historically such a t.i.tle commands respect." Devlin was trying to maintain control of his temper and impress Jessica with the importance of his background.

"You were born into a t.i.tled family."

Swelling to sit more erectly, he gave her a regal nod.

"Just as I was born to a scholar."

His lordly posture relaxed. "Well, yes, I suppose."

"Do I brag that I can read and write when those abilities are rare among villagers?"

He held hard to his anger. "It is not the same."

"How is it different? We were each born from a mother's womb. Does any babe receive credit for a feat that everybody who breathes achieves? No," she answered without allowing him to speak. "We who survive share a common achievement that is neither to our credit nor our blame. We arrive without so much as swaddling, blessed only with our individual gifts. Will you argue with that?"

He rose and began walking toward her voice. If only his eyesight might return at that moment, his anger might propel him to do more - to take the waif across his knee and school her in the proper regard for the difference in their stations.

She wasn't, however, through antagonizing him. "You were born a second son who could antic.i.p.ate living on the generosity of an elder brother or the hope your father might purchase you a commission in the military. Isn't that correct?"

d.a.m.n her eyes and that quick little mind. Why didn't the snip stand still? He continued to slide his feet in what he hoped were unnoticeable steps. If he got his hands on her, she would learn a valuable lesson regarding his sensitivity and his position, aspects she determinedly ignored.

He heard her gown rustle as she attempted retreat. Was she frightened or merely moving on instinct? He did not imagine her afraid.

He moved toward the rustling. "But my older brother died and I fell heir to the t.i.tle and its inherent responsibilities."

"A t.i.tle earned by a long-ago ancestor who did murder or thievery or some other scandalous act to earn his liege's pleasure," she taunted. "What have you done to deserve the homage you demand?"

"Demand? My staff here and at my estates, the villagers and the overseers in the manors to Welter and beyond, have sworn their fealty to me."

"To you? Do people even know you? Would they recognize you if you walked into a pub in Welter without your ducal crest announcing your ident.i.ty?" She hesitated a moment. "Or, perhaps, you are recognized. Perhaps they did know who you were that night on the highway, riding a grand horse, clothed in finery. Perhaps they resented that you had so much and they so little and they attempted to beat you, or perhaps take your life."

He bristled. "The brigands who attacked me were after my purse, not my life. Had they known it was I, they might have offered a.s.sistance."

"Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely."

His tone exploded in a shout. "You will not use that common language in my presence."

"Have I offended your sensibilities again, Your Grace? I have overheard you swear using words that fairly scorched my tender ears.

"Furthermore," she continued, not allowing him time or s.p.a.ce to respond as she continued dodging his grasp, "your t.i.tle is only what you make of it. No one honors a word, which is all 'duke' is. People subject themselves as they choose. If your subjects choose to hold you in high esteem, they are exercising their G.o.d-given free will, not the dictates of some puffed-up prig who, by accident of birth, is heir to a t.i.tle."

She spun away from him as he grabbed close, and continued her verbal attack.

"A parent, a man, even a duke, must earn the regard of his children or friends, not demand it. Neither your name nor your t.i.tle are enough to make one uneducated villager pay homage."

Suddenly her bombardment ceased. There was no sound in the room at all, except that of their heavy breathing. He stood still, stung by her words. Was what she said true? Had his father and grandfather, all the men in his background, received the t.i.tle, and then set about earning obeisance?

He did not know about prior generations, but his father had prided himself on dealing fairly with the people who worked his lands. Lady Anne still drew shouts of praise - villagers threw flower petals occasionally - when she pa.s.sed. Her answering smiles and waves reflected her regard for them. The d.u.c.h.ess had risked her health in the past to take poultices and elixirs to treat the ill or injured. She sent beef and vegetables from estate stores to help in times of famine or poor harvests.

The people responded in kind. They grieved as if they shared the family's loss when Roth and then Devlin's father, the old duke, died. Their sympathy was heartfelt as they showered the new widow and her remaining sons with bouquets, food and gifts.

Perhaps Jessica had a point. Perhaps there was more to a t.i.tle than accepting admiration. The t.i.tle did not bring allegiance. The holder of the t.i.tle needed to demonstrate an answering regard.

He had not forgotten Jessica as he digested this new aspect of his authority. Feeling chastised, he grumbled. "Furthermore, I do not swagger, and I resent your saying I do."

Her lilting giggle washed the anger from his soul as a gla.s.s of wine might clear his thoughts. His self-effacing laugh joined her heady one. Humor often soothed harsh words between them.

Unschooled as she was in the ways of court, Jessica knew how to plow into his soul, wring his heart, and tickle his fancy with a gesture, a musical laugh, or an aptly worded argument.

Over time, she had interceded between him and staff members in both residences, softened his edicts by volunteering an occasional explanation, or clarified a servant's reasons for why something was done differently than he prescribed.

He found her too sympathetic with the staff, an att.i.tude he considered inappropriate. She made the effort to be as understanding with them as she was with him and his mother. Yet, although she had neither t.i.tle nor authority, people within and without the walls at Gull's Way and here in town adored her.

She had captivated Patterson and Odessa from the beginning. Sophie, and even Bear, no longer complained about her. She had a surprising rapport with everyone, from the stablemen to the villagers, to the peddlers outside the gates. And with his own mother.

What of Devlin himself? Wasn't he, too, one of her devotees?

What other explanation for the stirring he felt as he awoke each morning, pleased at the prospect of seeing her? She had stimulated him when she sat before him on Vindicator's back that first night - her willowy body warm, her hands cool and comforting when he burned with fever the following day in his own chambers.

He was surprised that she bore no grudge toward Nan, the upstairs maid who had been officious with her in his rooms that first day. He harbored more resentment toward the haughty chambermaid than Jessica did.

Such thoughts mellowed him. "Come here, Nightingale. Let me see you."

He heard the familiar rustle and sensed her before him. He lifted his arm and she curled under it, putting her back to him in antic.i.p.ation of leading. He swept his hand across her back from one thin shoulder to the other before he clamped that hand upon her neck. She allowed herself to be pulled snugly to him.

Her face against his shoulder, her warm, sweet breath on his neck, he wrapped her tightly in both arms and smiled when her sigh preceded his own. Smoothing over an argument with her was like the early morning calm after a night of storms. He rocked, aligning her body with his. This was perfect contentment. Ease spread through him, bringing to mind the look on his father's face when the old duke held his d.u.c.h.ess close and watched their young sons romp. Devlin experienced such tranquility.

As he and Jessica stood silently locked together, light filtered through Devlin's unseeing eyes. He blinked. It was nearly twilight. Since the accident, he had not seen a single sunset. Here it was. He looked around, unwilling to disturb the woman snuggled against him.

The gilt mirrors reflected chandelier candles so bright he had to squint. The pattern in the wall covering was distinct. He had never properly appreciated the beauty of glorious, everyday things taken for granted.

He bent his head to Jessica's hair, able to see that dark ma.s.s, candles reflected in its highlights. She tilted her face. Her eyes met his and she started, almost pulling out of his arms. He tightened his hold. "Stay, Nightingale."

"You're looking at me." Her words rang with amazement, accusation and reverence. "You can see!"

"Yes. Your face is the first thing I have seen clearly in long weeks of darkness."

She wriggled out of his arms to stare into his face and he into hers.

"Is this a miracle?" Her smile was tentative. "I have prayed for this moment, Your Grace."

He stared, unable to draw his gaze from her enchanting face, her perfect features, the intelligence - and something more - shining in her gray, fathomless eyes. In her innocence, she awaited his answer, expecting the truth.

"I have had glimpses in recent mornings." He caught her hand as she pivoted. "But, no, I have not been able to see detail until this moment."

Tears glistened in her eyes as she bowed her head, hiding her face from him. "Have you told your mother of these glimpses?"

"No."

She blinked, keeping her face turned, but trying to peer at him from the corners of her eyes. "You've told no one? Why not?"

"I did not want to raise false hope." True as far as it went.

She caught one of his hands in both of hers. "I am so glad ... for you." Her voice broke. "I honestly am, Your Grace. I have prayed diligently ... for your sight to return." Her shoulders shuddered. She gave a m.u.f.fled sob, dropped his hand, whirled and darted away, stammering. "I shall pack my things and ... and prepare to leave at once." Without looking back, she launched herself through the doorway and disappeared.

His world dimmed, this darkness bleaker than before. His sight likely would return, but what joy if it cost him his Nightingale? She must not leave, yet he could not hold her against her will. What inducement could he use? What promise could he make?

That night Devlin lay wrestling with his conscience into the wee hours. He was groggy when a commotion arose at sunrise, and several of the staff scurried into the small dining room. They escorted Jessica in the tide. Each one seemed eager to be first to notify the duke that his brother Lattimore had arrived and was in the front hallway, he and two traveling companions being welcomed by Patterson.

As he heard the excited reports, Devlin's smile was forced, and Jessica's senses, already on edge, sharpened. Watching his face, she realized, first, that his erratic eyesight was gone again, and secondly, that for some reason he was not overjoyed at the news of visitors. The duke's younger brother might require watching, maybe as closely as the mischievous child who had played nasty little tricks on a blind man when they received visitors at Gull's Way.

Bracing, renewing her resolve to protect Devlin, Jessica was hardly prepared as Lattimore Miracle and two other strapping young gallants, dressed in evening attire, strode through the dining room door.

She knew immediately which of the three was Devlin's brother. In spite of a marked difference in coloring, their square jaws, straight noses, and animated brows were remarkable.

The baby of his family, Lattimore, at twenty-five, was still seven years Jessica's senior. She thought him handsome, his hair dark, rather than straw colored like the duke's or the dowager's.

Like Devlin, Lattimore wore a stylishly thin beard and mustache that circled and emphasized a generous mouth as he smiled, revealing large, even teeth, strikingly like his brother's. He had dark, playful eyes with a familiar twinkle when he turned them on her as Devlin made introductions.

Lattimore stepped close and collected both of Jessica's hands in his. "So you are the wench wreaking havoc in my family and its households."

He was shorter and more st.u.r.dily made than his brother. The crown of Lattimore's regal head came only to Devlin's chin as the two men stood side by side.

Lattimore's voice had a teasing, singsong quality to match his movements, his tone higher than Devlin's. "I have come, my dove, to bring gaiety into your dismal little life."

Disregarding his companions, who were appraising her, awaiting their own introductions, Lattimore turned to Devlin. "If I had had any idea, brother, that the reports were true, I would have sped to your sickbed. The servants in every house buzz with stories of our cousin." His eyes stayed on Jessica. "I will also claim kinship with this winsome creature to a.s.sume my place as escort and chaperone."

Devlin's expression dissolved from pleasant to displeased at Lattimore's teasing. "Jessica is no concern of yours, little brother."

"Surely, you will not keep her tethered here? She is too young, too beautiful, too alive, to be buried in this mausoleum with you and Mama when there are parties and plays and historical sites to enjoy."

Jessica stiffened. "I am in this house, your lordship, to a.s.sist, not to be entertained."

Lattimore turned a stare on her. "You are one of those cheeky, educated girls, full of sa.s.s, are you?" He laughed as if his words rang with exceptional wit. "How utterly delightful."

Jessica glanced at Devlin to see his face darken with an expression she had not seen. If the duke were concerned with her throwing in with his younger brother, he a.s.sumed wrongly. She had some experience with too-handsome brothers who thought of their own wishes first, last and always, and who had little regard for the needs of others, including ailing relatives.

In brief seconds, she considered battle lines drawn. She would remain at Devlin's side, whatever the cost, and would not admire Lattimore except as was necessary.

She was hardening her resolve when the dowager swept into the room.

The rakish expression on Lattimore's face lifted in boyish glee as he hurried forward, threw both arms around the dowager d.u.c.h.ess and lifted, twirling her round causing her skirts to billow in an undignified way. Rather than upsetting the Lady Anne, his antics set her giggling like a maiden.

Jessica couldn't help smiling at the dowager's happy response. Perhaps she had been premature in her harsh appraisal of Lattimore Miracle. His genuine fondness for his mother counted much to his credit.

She glanced at Devlin to find his expression, too, changed to pleasure. A family together. A wonderfully handsome threesome. At its head a man who obviously had the good sense and intelligence to bear the mantle of authority. Could the old duke possibly have been any more stately? Or the elder brother, Rothchild? She could not imagine men better qualified in looks or disposition to a.s.sume the t.i.tle's responsibilities.

After Lattimore set his mother back on her feet, Lady Anne's voice carried over the company. "Let's go into the solarium. Patterson, please bring us some refreshment."

Arm in arm, Lattimore and his mother led the company into the room bright with morning light filtering through leaded windows.

When Patterson returned, however, he looked grim. He stepped close to Devlin and whispered. The duke sobered. He whispered a question or two, and responded. Patterson retreated crisply to the hallway.

"What is it, brother?" Lattimore asked, having released their mother to allow her to welcome with kisses on their jaws the two young men in his company, ones she apparently knew well.

Devlin turned, giving no indication that his vision was impaired. "Are there more in your party than the three of you?"

"At this hour?" Lattimore laughed. "It's early, brother. Only impudent family or brazen friends come calling this time of day. Why?"

"A boy reported three men followed you here. They seem interested in our garden walls, as if looking for a breach. Odd, wouldn't you say?"

Lattimore's two friends sobered as quickly as Devlin had, but his younger brother chuckled. "Devlin, we are not at Gull's Way. Thieves and villains do not frequent this neighborhood. You are under siege only by these three present, a civilized mob that includes your own, sometimes ill-mannered brother." His smile faded. "What measures would you take if we were about to be set upon?"

"Bear has been notified." Devlin's expression lightened.

Laugh lines appeared again at Lattimore's mouth and eyes, mirroring his brother's. "Then we are indeed fortified. I have not seen Bear in years. Does he still have his teeth?"

Devlin's grin broadened. "Yes, in spite of his advancing age. Years toughen the man's hide, sharpen his eyes and wits, and improve his skills."

Obviously the brothers shared regard for the giant they both affectionately called "Bear." He was another of the enigmas in Devlin's life that Jessica did not understand. For people like Bear and Lattimore, she supposed she would trust Devlin's instincts.

"Nightingale," Devlin said, summoning her with a hand, "come here and greet my brother. He often does not think before he speaks, or consider how his words might be perceived. Don't stand back, child. Step up here and curtsy."

Jessica glared suspiciously as Lattimore cut his eyes, arched his brows, and gave her a look a hungry man might give a meat pie.

She dropped a curtsy, tried to smile, and inclined her head, exhibiting all the hospitality she could muster. She gave similar acknowledgments to the other gentlemen when they were introduced, Peter Fry and Marcus Hardwick. There was something familiar about Fry, an overly tall, clumsy man who offered a silly grin. He reminded her of a friendly, overgrown dog. Jessica couldn't think where she had seen him before, but his buffoon's behavior did not fit that memory. Certainly he had not worn this ridiculously decorated military uniform. He and Hardwick both, for that matter, appeared to be in costume.

After introductions, Jessica excused herself, saying she needed to return to her duties. In truth, she had no tasks, except packing, of course, but she wanted to allow the family and friends to converse in private. Also, she did not care for Lattimore or his friends whose eyes made sly lascivious sweeps as if visualizing her form beneath her clothing.

When she made her excuse, neither the dowager nor Devlin urged her to stay.