Nightingale. Part 32

It was not unusual for Jessica to visit the stables, but she felt unusually restless that afternoon. When, eventually, she saw Bear, she invited him to walk.

"Lattimore suggests there are people who want him to be the duke rather than Devlin."

"Yes, mum."

"Have you heard the same?" He had her full attention.

"Yes, mum."

"Has Lattie spoken with you, too?"

"No, mum."

She poked his upper arm with her fingers as if nudging him might release information. "You must tell me what you know, Bear, or I shall go out of my mind with worry."

"Yes, mum, and I will, just as soon as ye leave off talking."

She waited what seemed like a dozen heartbeats before Bear met her searching gaze. "I talked wi' young master Hardwick's groom." He took a long breath. She remained silent. "It was Mr. Fry hired the men who attacked Devlin on the highway."

"And Lattimore?"

"Knew nothing of it."

"Is Hardwick's groom reliable?"

"Yes, mum."

"What did Fry have to gain?"

Bear waved a hand indicating she should listen, not speak. "It was Fry who hired John Lout fer the job."

"Oh."

"It was Lout that stopped that n.o.bleman from finishing 'im."

"That sounds like one of John's boasts. Did he tell you that?"

"No, mum, it came from Hardwick's groom who was on the road hisself."

"Was Hardwick in on it, too?"

"Nay. The groom was returning from carrying a message to Hardwick's country place. Happened into 'em at the tavern. Tarried for a drink, then rode alongside 'em thinking it was better to be in company than by hisself on that stretch at night. There'd been stories of riders alone being robbed. As it happened, he was riding with the very ones he'd been warned against."

Jessica sighed. "I still don't know why Fry would want Devlin gone and Lattimore to inherit?"

"I s'pose fer the markers."

"The eight hundred pounds?"

"That's right. I'm fair certain Fry thinks like you, that eight hundred pounds is a pile of money. I've seen the old duke's sons lose that and more in one night a' gaming. The lad has no sense of money. Fry probably thinks to hold the markers over Lattie's head supposing to make 'im follow orders."

"Is that not possible?"

Bear snorted his disbelief. "No."

"Eight hundred pounds?"

"Nor eight thousand. If Lattie knew Fry's scheme, he would stop it."

Jessica spun and started back toward the stable, intending to go straight to Lattimore, but Bear caught her.

"This is men's business, Jessica Blair. Not for you."

"But something needs to be done. We must get this whole connivance out in the open."

"Maybe not, miss. Maybe we'll let Mr. Fry play his cards and catch 'im in the deed."

"Another attempt on Devlin's life?" She shivered at the prospect.

"Or yers."

She looked into his face. "Mine?"

"Ye'r said to influence everyone in the family. It's a wide-held opinion."

"So someone might try to murder me on the chance anyone listens to me? That's crazy. I'm not worth it."

"I'm studying on it, keeping my eyes and my ears open. You begged me to tell ya and I did. Thought I could trust ye to hold steady."

She enjoyed the warmth of Bear's good opinion reflected in his words. He had made the sons of this family into men by allowing them some difficulties. Perhaps Devlin's strong character was a result of Bear's not making his road too easy. Should she trust his judgment now? She did not want to risk losing his regard just as she had discovered it.

"All right." Her voice sounded thin.

He grunted approval and remained at the stable as she whirled and walked stiffly back to the house. It would take her best efforts not to reveal what she had learned.

"Lattimore said you refused his suit."

Early that evening, the others absent, Jessica and Devlin sat together in his study. As he spoke, he did not look up from the ledger where he wrote numbers. His comment broke her concentration and she lost count of the row of knit and purl.

Handwork annoyed Jessica. Even the simplest pattern required her undivided attention. "Yes," she said without looking up, trying to determine the duke's mood by his tone and, at the same time, recount st.i.tches. How much had Lattie told him of their conversation?

"He said you are too ambitious to settle for the second son, that you want a t.i.tled husband."

"Of course he did." She glowered at the handwork thinking her displeasure might make the yarn more cooperative and free her gnarled thoughts as well, but something in Devlin's sudden sharp attention pulled her glance his way. The blue of his eyes darkened when he was angry. At that moment, they became sapphire as he stared at her, as if he expected her expression to verify or disprove his statement.

"Drat and d.a.m.n." She dropped the needles to her lap. "I can fashion coops from barrel staves and sc.r.a.ps of rope, but I lack the ability to knit the simplest shawl."

"What did you mean 'Of course he did?'" Devlin asked, the vee between his disapproving brows growing more p.r.o.nounced.

"I meant that of course Lattimore would absolve himself of blame for a woman's lack of interest."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Simply put, Lattimore and I do not share his generous regard for himself. Neither do we value people's strengths or weaknesses the same."

Devlin closed his ledger on a finger to mark his place and set his attention on Jessica. The intensity of his gaze unnerved her a little, yet she remembered his regard for honesty and waited for him to speak.

When he did, the duke sounded defensive. "Lattie comes from a good family and has wealth of his own. He doesn't need a t.i.tle to insure his place in society."

"No, he doesn't. Nor could a t.i.tle repair the flaw in his character that stifles my interest in him as a husband." She shot him a quick look. "That is, if I were looking for a husband, which I am not. I happen to have one potential husband too many already, if you recall."

"Are you telling me Lattie falls short of criteria set by the exalted John Lout?"

"Do not pretend to be dull witted. You know my situation perfectly well."

Devlin's visage was hard to read, but as she watched, his anger appeared to dissipate. "To what character flaw are you referring?" His gaze held steady on her face.

She wanted to be cautious, at the same time, forthright. She would not lie, even to maintain their camaraderie.

"Lattimore cavorts through life like a willful child. He is not inclined to duty nor to serious endeavors, nor does he consider the consequences of his behavior on the lives of others." When Devlin did not speak, she continued. "He disclaims responsibility for his own actions or words or the mischief they may inspire."

"And you consider yourself an authority on men who avoid responsibility?"

She straightened in her chair, clamped her fists about the knitting needles and fought the familiar rise of temper. "I do have knowledge of that particular shortcoming. My own father was similarly disposed. He married above himself and happily fathered the three of us, yet my mother carried the full responsibility for supporting our household.

"My mother's father was an earl who earned his rank and acquired his wealth on battlefields. Mother had brothers to inherit from him. After my grandfather died and his estates were divided, nothing came to his only daughter except the occasional charity handed down by her brothers, neither of whom was inclined to be generous.

"My father was a handsome man, and charming - like Lattimore, I'm afraid - not inclined to physical labor. Indulging his intelligence, Father read. He was a virtual storehouse of information. Unlike most peddlers, a learned man can demand only small wages for providing knowledge carried about in his head."

She paused to find Devlin gazing as her as if absorbed in her rhetoric. When he didn't attempt to talk, she continued.

"His learning, attractive appearance, and charm drew the interest of other men's wives who, though they enjoyed the benefits of wealth, were often bored by their rich but unlearned and sometimes negligent husbands. Father became an acceptable solution.

"While he basked in the reflected light of his knowledge and the attentions of wealthy wives and daughters, Mother tutored and gave piano and voice lessons to children of the gentry."

Realizing her hands were perspiring on the wool, Jessica set her knitting aside, stood, and rubbed her hands together as she walked to the window. A fine mist had taken over the evening.

"Eventually, Mother did mending for the families of her students. That evolved to doing their washing and ironing." She turned a hard look on Devlin. "This was a woman who spoke three languages and could conjugate any Latin verb in a blink."

Devlin's mouth puckered. "How did your father react to his learned wife becoming a laundress?"

"He read more devoutly and pretended not to notice or take responsibility for the deterioration."

"Of course, he taught you and your brother and sister to read and write and do your sums."

She softened. "Yes, and he provided us a genuine love of literature." The frown returned. "Right up until the day he left."

"Left? I thought he was deceased."

"He is now, but that came after he abandoned us. I was devastated. Brandon and Elizabeth scarcely seemed to notice his defection."

"What about your mother?"

"At first she pretended indifference. There was, after all, one less mouth to feed from her meager earnings. Her lack of concern lasted until we learned he would not be returning.

"Word reached us that he had run away with one of Mother's piano students, a rather plain, dull-witted girl of nineteen, the only daughter of a wealthy merchant, someone who could afford Father's continuing pursuit of wisdom.

"Mother did not speak of him from that day on, neither ill nor good. She worked harder, taking on more students and laundry and drudged along one day after another. Three years after he left, we received word that Father had died, alone, in a pauper's flat in Paris.

"Mother took to her bed. By then, my sister was married to a curate in the church." Jessica looked at Devlin, but could not read his expression. "My brother tries to emulate our father. He pretends to be intelligent, but his conversation reflects his own, often baseless, opinions rather than those of wiser men. Brandon is handsome and spends every shilling he earns on clothing. He entertains women who are willing to support a man who makes a good appearance. I learned an important lesson. A woman must not marry a man she loves. She must marry a man who loves her, preferably to distraction."

Devlin's frown deepened. "You think Lattimore is like your father and brother?"

She turned from the window feeling the weight of unresolved anger and frustration. "I don't know, but I have no desire to research the subject. Lattimore is handsome enough, but he lacks depth. I will not shackle myself to a man who may have those all-too-familiar flaws."

"Would it help if I guaranteed to support you during your life together?" Devlin asked the question gently.

"No." The word carried more venom than she intended. "I can support myself, thank you."

"And John Lout?"

She gave him a bittersweet smile. "John is ... manageable."

"What does that mean?"

"While John may have little ambition, he has energy and character. He knows I'll not bear any man's children only to have them abandoned. He vows that if I produce, he will support our offspring."

Devlin cleared his throat with a cough. "By highway robbery?"

"I did not specify how he provide, only that he do so."

"So you are not interested in a t.i.tled man, either?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I did not say that."

Their gazes met and locked. "Then you would entertain an offer from a t.i.tled gentleman?"

"Only if he were a man of unquestionable character ... and loved me beyond anything."

"In that case, what of your agreement with John Lout?"

"I would explain the situation in terms he would understand."

"You would offer him money."