Leslie LaFoy (44 page)

“I was on my way downstairs and saw that a breakfast had been left outside your door,” Mother Rivard announced breezily, carrying the laden tray to the table in front of the far window. “It wouldn't do to let it get cold. Not when someone was thoughtful enough to go to the effort of preparing it and bringing it up. Probably that Mary Margaret woman trying to atone for her early days of ineptitude.”

“Good morning, Mother Rivard,” Claire offered, trying to get herself upright, covered, and reasonably composed. Somehow knowing that she had every right to be in Devon's bed didn't make being found there by his mother any less uncomfortable.

“I'm not disturbing your sleep, am I?”

“No,” she lied, summoning good manners. “I've
been fairly well awake since Devon went downstairs to get Darice's carriage ready.”

“Tea?”

It was something to do with her hands besides pleating the bedcovers. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I'm glad to find you in Devon's bed this morning. Given the set of your chin when you left Darice's room last night, I thought there might be a reasonable chance of finding you here. I hope that he had the good sense to fully share it with you.”

Heat suffusing her cheeks, Claire managed a strained smile while her mind stumbled about in search of words. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever considered the likelihood of having this kind of conversation with anyone.

“Wonderful,” Mother Rivard declared, beaming as she handed her the teacup and turned back to the tray. “Then we can forget all the nonsense of an annulment. It would have been so unpleasant. Not to mention embarrassing. Both of you would have borne considerable social stains for having failed to make a go of it. Toast?”

“I'm never hungry first thing in the morning,” Claire said, watching her heap strawberry jam onto a thick slice of well-buttered bread. “But please feel free to have some if you'd like.”

“I do believe I will,” she said, adding yet more jam. “I always wake up famished. I swear, if for some reason I couldn't get out of my room, I'd eat my pillow.”

Claire smiled, lifted her cup from the saucer, and then set it back down as Devon strode through the door, drenched to the skin, but his smile broad and his eyes bright. At the sight of his mother, he stopped in his tracks and grinned.

“Ah, good morning, Devon,” Henrietta said, turning to him and holding out the toast she'd prepared. “Are you hungry?”

“Morning, Mother,” he replied, shaking his head and moving to his armoire. “Darice and Aunt Elsbeth are downstairs in the foyer, and as soon as the driver's finished getting the horses into harness, they'll be gone. If you want to go say your farewells, now's probably the time to do it.”

Mother Rivard stared down at the toast for a long moment, then looked up and put a pleasant smile on her face. “I think I'd prefer to avoid seeing either of them. Under the circumstances, it would be exceptionally awkward, don't you think?”

“I'm sorry, Mother,” Devon said softly, turning to face her, a clean, dry shirt in each hand. “If I'd had even the slightest inkling, I would have done everything I could to have spared you.”

“You've always been very good about trying to shield me, Devon. Such a sweet gesture on your part.” She shrugged and her smile turned bittersweet. “And, for the most part, ineffective.”

Claire watched the emotions play over his features: first surprise, then sadness and then the shock of realization. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard before he asked, “You knew about Elsbeth and Darice?”

“That Darice was her daughter and one of your father's bastards?” Henrietta asked. “For heavens sakes, Devon. Elsbeth had more lovers than your father did. Darice could be the child of any one of at
least
a hundred men. If, for one moment, I had thought that Darice was your half-sister, I would have said something to you the very first time you glared in the direction of Lytton Hall. But I did know that Elsbeth had been one of your father's lovers. It's almost impossible to meet any woman who wasn't.”

The latter assertion he knew to be true; he'd have to accept his mother's word on the former. The tightness that had coiled in the pit of his stomach began to ease, and he crossed to the bed, handing Claire one of the
shirts so that she could cover herself. Appreciation shimmered in her eyes and warmed his heart. He watched her set her tea on the bedside table. God, she was beautiful. The pale light of dawn bathing her bare shoulders, the inviting swells of her breasts … He considered the shirt as she pulled it on, wondering how long it would take him to get rid of it once they were alone.

His mother's hard sigh pulled his attention back to her. She was staring down at the toast in her hand again, and when she finally spoke, her voice came as though from a great distance. “You've asked me many a time why I've tolerated Elsbeth's abrasive manner. She hated your father for throwing her away like he did all the others, Devon. And she was my voice. She would say the things that I lacked the courage to say for myself. Having her under this roof and sharing our table made your father acutely uncomfortable, and it pleased me that he could be made to pay some small price for his actions. I never let on that I knew of their past relationship, of course. It was my private vengeance and made all the sweeter for it being a secret.”

God, he'd never even considered the possibilities. His mind clicked back through time, counting the years. Fifteen. Elsbeth had lived with them for the last fifteen years. Two since his father had died, thirteen before that. To have been so completely blind for so long… What else had he missed seeing? What else didn't he understand? “But she stayed even after Father died. Why?”

She looked up at him with a patient smile. “I'd used her for years, Devon. Was I supposed to toss her out simply because I no longer had a practical need for her? That wouldn't have been very nice of me. Actually, it would have been very much in the vein of your father's treatment of her. And I'm a better person than your father was.”

His heart said that it was a difference of small degrees, and ached with the loss of what tiny illusions had
always comforted him. “Why didn't you ever stand up to him on your own?”

“I truly didn't care that he slept with other women,” she replied with a dismissive shrug. “It was a relief to be spared having to render the service myself. But the public whispering behind my back… The only thing about my life that I didn't like was the embarrassment I suffered because of his lack of discretion. Everyone knew what he was doing, with whom, when, and where. But, as you've no doubt noticed, I'm a shallow woman, Devon. I wasn't willing to risk all my pretty things in a protest over his infidelities. So I endured.”

She smiled tightly and absently took a bite of the toast. With a grimace, she chewed, swallowed, then said, “With Elsbeth's unwitting but enthusiastic help, of course.” Wrinkling her nose, she cleared her throat and set the toast back onto the breakfast tray, saying, “Lady Claire, when you see Mary Margaret, please tell her that the jam has gone sour. I'd be horrified if it were to be served to a guest.”

Jam. The expectations of hospitality. The thin facade of civility that hid all the tangled, dark realities of life at Rosewind, that made honest exchanges an aberration and trusting relationships an impossibility. Devon closed his eyes as anger warred with compassion, as he told himself that his mother had lived too long with the facade to abandon it at his command, that putting the torch to Rosewind today wouldn't undo all of its yesterdays.

“I heard voices. Are we having a family meeting?”

Wyndom. Devon stifled a groan and opened his eyes. His brother stood in the doorway, his arm in the sling and his weight leaning heavily on the cane. When he buttoned his frock coat, he'd be suitably attired for sharing breakfast with the likes of the Royal Governor.

“We have good news, Wyndom,” his mother said. “There won't be an annulment. Devon and—”

Devon whirled about. His mother stood as still and stiff as a statue, her eyes rolled back into their sockets, her lips blue.

“Mother!”

Claire watched in horror as the woman toppled into Devon's arms. Flinging the covers aside, she scrambled over the bed toward them, hearing Wyndom call her name above the pounding of her heart. She glanced in his direction and froze, her heart seizing with fearful realization as she stared down the muzzle of a flintlock pistol.

She blinked hard. Wyndom's arm was out of the sling. The cane lay on the floor at his feet. Her gaze snapped up to meet his, searching his eyes in the desperate hope that she was wrong.

“You were supposed to eat the toast and jam,” he said calmly. “The rat poison was for you. Not Mother.”

No. No, she wasn't hearing this. This wasn't happening. Frantic, she looked to Devon for reassurance and found him kneeling on the floor, holding his mother's contorted form tight in his arms, looking down at her, his face twisted with sadness, disbelief, and rage.

“Oh God, Wyndom,” Claire groaned. “Why?”

He shrugged and sighed. “Your uncle wants you dead so that you can't testify against him. I happened to have been in the position of owing either another large sum of money or a very big favor to your uncle. His men in James City were very blunt about it all, and when it came down to it, the only choice I had was between your life and mine. I chose mine, of course.”

She stared at him, stunned by the dispassion in his voice. The muzzle of the pistol remained level and pointed at her heart, his hand as steady as his manner. Claire anxiously looked over at Devon, at Henrietta, not
knowing what to do for herself or anyone else, not knowing how to make the nightmare end.

And, as though Henrietta Rivard had heard her plea, the woman stiffened, made another deep gurgling sound, and then slowly went limp and silent. Claire choked back a sob and met Devon's gaze. Cold, hard, unflinching. A silent promise of deliverance and ruthless retribution. Her heart skittered, but she knew there wasn't any other course. Forcing herself to swallow, she lifted her chin, just as silently promising Devon whatever he needed of her.

He reverently laid his mother's body on the floor and deliberately gained his feet as Wyndom blithely went on, “It was a well-considered plan, you know. Put into motion some months ago. Devon was forced to marry you so that it'd be easier for me to eliminate you. I must admit to being pleased to see him so neatly boxed against his will. And then, when I threw the brandy on your flaming skirts…”

Wyndom glanced briefly over at his brother and smiled. “Devon acted the gallant knight, you were the appreciative maiden, and I saw the possibility for a little retribution of my own. I figured that if I bided my time, I stood a fairly good chance of watching my dear brother weep genuine tears over your grave and then die quickly thereafter of heartbreak.

“Unfortunately,” he added with a little shake of his head, “the gentlemen in James City couldn't appreciate my own goals in the matter needing to be done and insisted that I come back and get on with it in earnest. I didn't have any choice but to comply with their wishes.”

“Yes, you did,” Devon said quietly, flexing his hands at his sides. “You could have told me. I would have protected you.”

“In your infinitely condescending way,” Wyndom countered, the heat of anger suddenly flooding his voice. “I hate you, you know. The always perfect Devon.”

He paused, visibly struggling to control his breathing, to steady his suddenly trembling hand. After a moment he smiled and went on, “It occurred to me—after I'd pushed the storeroom shelves over on Claire—that I was being a bit too narrow in my thinking and passing up a wonderful opportunity to… well, to use the old expression… to kill two birds with one stone. It's a considerable understatement to say that I was terribly distressed last night to discover that neither of you had succumbed to the smoke.”

With his free hand, he motioned toward the breakfast tray. “Hence this morning's impromptu attempt with the poisoned toast and jam.”

“Which,” Devon drawled, “you managed with your typical degree of competence.”

“See?” Wyndom snarled. “That's what I'm talking about. Always condescending, always critical.”

“That's because you're always an idiot,” Devon replied, unruffled. “Right now, you're standing there with a pistol in your hand, no doubt feeling smug and superior. You have two of us to kill, Wyndom, and one shot. Which of us will you choose?”

Wyndom frowned and Devon smiled in grim satisfaction. Before his brother could gather his scattered wits, he said, “Let me tell you what's going to happen, Wyndom. There are two loaded pistols in the top drawer of my bureau. If you shoot me, Claire's going to open it up, take one out, and shoot you dead before you can blink or run. If you're stupid enough to decide to shoot her, know that I'm going to choke the life out of you with my bare hands. Very slowly.”

He saw Claire's gaze dart to the drawer and then to Wyndom. He inched forward, forcing Wyndom's attention back to him.

“Well, given the options,” his brother said with a quick sigh, “I can clearly see that my best chance lies in killing you.” The muzzle moved quickly and chaos
erupted. A scream, a flash, a cloud of smoke, and then there was nothing beyond a searing, thundering impact ripping through his shoulder and knocking him off his feet.

“Devon!”

Claire was beside him and he vaguely heard his shirt being ripped open. There was nothing vague about the pain it caused, though. It took everything he had to catch his breath, to clear the red haze from his vision and lift his head.

“He was gone before you hit the floor,” she said, pushing him back down before he could see for himself. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

If she touched him, he'd scream. Or pass out. Neither of which he had the time for. “It's just a flesh wound. I'll live,” he assured her, rolling over, willing himself onto his knees. “The bastard never could shoot worth a damn,” he added through gritted teeth, painfully gaining his feet.

The world spun around him but he plowed through it anyway, doggedly heading for the bureau and his pistols. He almost lost his balance pulling open the drawer, but he pitched himself forward, driving his hand into the space and wrapping it around the familiar, smooth wooden butt of the weapon.