Leslie LaFoy (3 page)

As he neared the table, a moonfaced man with a bulbous red nose looked up from his cards and smiled. “Devon, ol' man! Do pull up a chair and join us!”

A strained smile of civility was the best Devon could muster as he replied, “Perhaps some other time, Jasper. Misfortune's shadowed me all morning, and I'd be a fool to give her another opportunity to aggravate the day.”

“It appears that ill luck clouds the fortunes of both Rivards, then,” Jasper offered, smiling at the stiff young man seated with his back toward Devon. Jasper dabbed
at his brow with a lace handkerchief as he added, “Wyndom's spent the past few hours alternately cursing us and his cards.”

Devon laid his hand on the thin shoulder before him as he addressed the circle of men. “Then perhaps your ears would appreciate a respite. Might I borrow my brother for a short while?”

The other players cast concerned looks at the notes of credit littering the center of the table even as they offered a mumbled chorus of assent. Devon tightened his grip on Wyndom's shoulder and all but pulled his younger brother up from his seat. The chair legs scraped against the wooden floor, setting Devon's teeth on edge. Wyndom offered petulant words of apology to his fellows before following his brother to the far side of the pub.

“My luck was about to turn,” the younger man offered as he stopped before Devon. “I don't suppose that this can wait till eventide, can it?”

“I've just come from Edmund Cantrell's,” Devon responded, barely containing his anger.

Wyndom glanced over his shoulder at the game that continued without him. He licked his lips and asked, “And what did ol' Edmund need that was of such urgency?”

“A matter of an account past due,” Devon answered, struggling with the desire to grab his brother by the lapels of his fashionable frock coat and shake him until either good sense sank in or his head toppled to the floor.

Wyndom shrugged without looking from the game. “You've seen enough duns these past two years to have become accustomed to them. So has Edmund, for that matter. I fail to see what—”

“This debt's particularly large,” Devon growled through clenched teeth, “and it seems Mr. Seaton-Smythe has grown impatient.”

Wyndom turned toward him with such speed that his blond curls fluttered around his temples. His blue-green eyes large and his gaunt cheeks even more hollow than usual, he lifted his frightened gaze to meet Devon's and stammered, “But I… I…”

Devon cocked a brow and acidly observed, “I'm glad to see that you can at least muster some embarrassment over the situation. Is it possible that an explanation might be forthcoming?”

Taking a breath that did nothing to still the quivering of his chin, Wyndom replied, “I had a run of bad luck in Philadelphia, and the gentlemen threatened grievous harm to my person if I didn't pay off the wagers. I attempted to gather the sum, but couldn't. I went to one of Seaton-Smythe's agents because I had no other choice.” He stared at the floor and whispered brokenly, “They were going to crush my knees, Dev. What else could I do?”

The sound of his brother's anguish dissolved Devon's fury into a hollow ache, a familiar ache of weariness and futility. “Nothing,” he said with a long sigh. “Why didn't you say something when you returned to Rosewind? I could have made arrangements to—”

“I intended to pay him back when I recieved the payments for last year's crop. I thought you need never know. You have too many burdens already, Dev. I didn't want to add mine to those you inherited from Father.”

Devon shook his head and fixed his gaze beyond the windows of the shadowy pub, feeling his world once again teetering on the brink of collapse. A cold hand closed around his heart as he remembered how, on the last day of his father's life, Philip Rivard had ordered from London a new coach, a Wedgwood china service for twenty-four, a half dozen dresses for his wife, and a crystal chandelier for the foyer of Rosewind Manor.

His father had lived life in fine style, with blithe disregard for the cost. Philip's world had been fashionable
and elegant and well beyond his means. In death he'd passed to his eldest son the impressive array of his earthly possessions and one of the Tidewater's most neglected estates, including its crumbling manor house and its staggering debt—a debt so enormous that every moment of Devon's life revolved around saving his inheritance from the demands of creditors.

“Devon?”

His brother's plaintive whisper brought Devon's attention back to the present. Pushing aside the dark thoughts, he focused on Wyndom's fearful eyes and darkly offered him the words that had become his credo. “What's done is done and we'll have to make the best of it.”

Laying his hands on the younger man's shoulders, Devon went on, saying slowly and clearly so there'd be no mistaking the issuance of a command, “Go to the livery and hire a carriage. While you're waiting for it to be readied, send someone to Rosewind with a message that Mother and Aunt Elsbeth are to prepare a guest room. We should arrive in time for the evening meal.”

“God,” Wyndom choked out, a line of perspiration suddenly beading his upper lip. “It's not Seaton—”

“No. Thank the Lord for small favors,” Devon replied, managing a wry smile. “George Seaton-Smythe remains, as far as I know, in London. His niece will be our guest for an extended time.”

“His niece?” Wyndom's eyes again grew large in his thin, waxen face. “Have you met her, Dev? What's she like? I've heard that the Seaton-Smythe women have bovine tendencies and the dispositions of spoiled lap-dogs.”

An image burst into Devon's mind: a picture of a slim young woman with hair the color of spring honey, flashing violet eyes, creamy skin, cherried cheeks, and a defiant chin. The memory warmed his blood in a way he found particularly irritating. “Yes, I've met her,” he
replied, shaking the vision from his head. “And Mistress Curran is more akin to a barn cat than a lapdog.”

“As you said, thank the Lord for small favors,” Wyndom offered with a relieved sigh and a half-smile. “Although the Lord could have been just a bit more generous. Barn cats aren't known to be too terribly friendly. Hardly the sort of creature to curl up with you on a cold night and purr at your touch.”

“I have absolutely no interest in sharing my bed with Mistress Curran,” Devon snapped, his ire once again rising. “While her presence at Rosewind may be lengthy, it's also decidedly temporary and purely business in nature.”

“A situation I can't wait to hear you explain to Darice Lytton.”

Devon scowled at his brother and snapped, “I have no obligations to Darice.”

His brother lifted both brows in his usual expression of skepticism and smiled. “I'm willing to wager that the good widow thinks quite differently on the matter.”

Through clenched teeth Devon growled in quick retort, “It's your willingness to wager that's mired me in this predicament. You'd do well not to remind me of—”

“What predicament?” Wyndom scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “A houseguest? I fail to see how one additional person at Rosewind will undo your grand scheme of austerity and frugality.”

Leaning forward, Devon spoke low and hard. “That one additional person is to be my wife.”

“Wife?” His brother's voice rose in pitch and broke. “Oh my God! Dev! You can't be serious! For God's sake, why?”

“Seaton-Smythe will cancel the full amount of your debt upon proof of my marriage to his niece. I find myself in a situation similar to yours of a year ago. I have no other choice.” He watched Wyndom cast a glance over his shoulder at the men playing cards, noted his
brother's quickened breathing.
Sweet Jesus and all the saints
, Devon silently cursed.
Will he ever act like the grown man he is?

“What are people going to say, Dev?” his brother whined. “How are you going to explain this? You can't possibly tell them the truth!”

“I'm not going to tell them a damn thing,” Devon replied. “Let them think what they may.”

“You can't!” Wyndom implored, taking a step to close the distance between them. His voice dropped to a mere whisper as he added, “They'll assume the worst. There'll be stories of impropriety and a forced marriage.”

“It
is
a forced marriage.”

“Is she…?” Wyndom asked, slanting a brow and holding his hands before his abdomen.

“I don't know and I don't care,” Devon growled through his teeth. But, by God, it was a terrible possibility. Why hadn't it occurred to him already? He was usually quicker of mind.

“If she's not and it becomes apparent…” Wyndom again looked over his shoulder. His voice dropped another degree. “People will say you married her for money.”

“And what Tidewater gentleman marries for any other reason?” Devon countered.

Wyndom shook his head. “Dev, you can't do this. The debt's mine. Let me marry her. It's only right.”

“Seaton-Smythe set the conditions and—”

“But everyone would expect me to do something so impulsive and ill-considered. It's my nature.” Wyndom laid a pale, slender hand on his brother's forearm. His whisper held a note of panic. “If you marry her under such hasty circumstances, everyone will think our finances are desperate.”

Devon stepped away, drawing his arm from his brother's grasp. Raw anger surged through his veins and
into his words. “They
are
desperate, Wyndom. How many times must I explain that to you? Should Seaton-Smythe choose to do so, he can bring us to absolute ruin. He made the offer to me. What if you were to be substituted as the groom and he were dissatisfied?”

“Why would he object?” Wyndom countered, drawing himself up to his full height. Still, he had to tilt his head back to meet his brother's gaze as he added, “I'm a man of property.”

“You're also a man completely without a sense of responsibility or accountability. What property you hold is at my bequest,” Devon retorted. “And it's mortgaged to the hilt.”

Wyndom continued, undaunted, “I've my own fields and within a few short years I'll be quite able—”

“I won't stand here and repeat an argument we've already pursued to exhaustion,” Devon replied with bare civility. “I have neither the time nor the temperament to deal with your grand illusions today. Now, if you want to preserve your fragile facade of public dignity, you'll get to the livery and fetch a carriage.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I'll do what I must to salvage what I can.”

“What am I to tell Mother in the note? And Aunt Elsbeth?”

Devon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I'd suggest the truth, Wyndom. And try to avoid your usual embellishments. The situation will be difficult enough without having to untie the knots of your convoluted stories.”

Wyndom sighed and brushed imaginary lint from the sleeve of his coat. “Mother won't be pleased when she hears the news.”

“And five minutes later, Mother won't be able to recall a single word of the missive.”

“Aunt Elsbeth won't be pleased either.”

“Elsbeth,” Devon countered, “is our mother's sister
and companion. If she wishes to continue to live at Rosewind, she'll have to be accommodating.”

Tugging at the linen lace that extended just beyond the cuff of his coat, Wyndom sighed. “I suppose that they'll be placated by the thought of planning a wedding. Women do seem to enjoy that sort of thing.”

“The vows are to be exchanged at MacDowell's house at three today.”

Wyndom's fingers froze at their task. A full second passed before his head snapped up and his gaze locked with his brother's. “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “What about publishing the banns? This is scandalous! People will talk! Don't you remember what Father always said? Our reputation is our most valuable possession.' ”

The frayed cord of Devon's patience broke. “I'm sick of living in the shackles of public appearance. Damn them all to hell and back.”

“You
have
taken leave of your senses, Dev. And I won't be a party to this nonsense.”

Devon narrowed his eyes and fixed Wyndom with a piercing look. “Have the carriage at MacDowell's by three or suffer the consequences.” Without another word he brushed past his brother and strode out.

The heavy wooden door shook from the force of his exit. He paused on the wooden walk just long enough to settle the hat on his head and to take a deep breath of the cold, damp air. As a frosty cloud rose and wreathed his head, his anger cooled and his thinking cleared.

Wyndom was right, but only to a limited degree. The world of the Virginia upper class did indeed rest on the careful maintenance of public appearances. To a man, they were indebted beyond sanity, beyond any reasonable hope of ever freeing themselves from economic bondage. And yet, to a man, they pretended their personal situations were secret. No one spoke openly of the vast debts owed to him or of his to others. As a
group, they gambled their futures on uncertain politics, unstable markets, blind faith, and hopeless, pathetic promises.

Devon clenched his teeth, vaulted down the stairs, and yanked the reins of his horse from the iron ring. As he mounted, the cold leather of his saddle creaked in protest. To his way of thinking, the sound epitomized the straining of his world. Squaring his shoulders, he wheeled the white gelding about and set off across the square, his mind filled with the likely consequences of the day.

Speculative discussions of his hasty marriage to Mistress Claire Curran would spread throughout Williamsburg before dusk had descended on the community. Within a week, the news would have been carried as far north as Philadelphia and as far south as Charleston. The situation would be the chief topic of conversation among those of the propertied class for some time to come.

Devon knew the mental habits of his fellows well. There'd be two avenues of discourse regarding his marriage to the niece of a London trader. Some would contend that his financial situation was tenuous in the extreme—that he'd wed to forestall a legal suit against Rosewind. Others would argue that the sudden marriage exhibited his business acumen—that through the exchange of vows he'd acquired a most enviable line of credit.

A sardonic smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he considered the shortsightedness of his brother's fears. Within a fortnight the two separate lines of public speculation would meld into one. He'd be regarded as a quick and daring businessman, a virtual paragon of colonial ingenuity and spirit who had turned a truly desperate situation to his advantage.