Page 13 of Dangerous Illusions (Dangerous #1)

Gideon loved the old house, but since the day he had first left it to go to Eton, he had never expected to be more than a visitor there, even after his father had succeeded unexpectedly to the marquessate; and although his brother’s death had altered many things in his life, he still found it difficult to accept the fact that Deverill Court would one day be his.

Only the marquess seemed to find that fact more difficult to face than he did.

Jervaulx seemed almost resentful of the fact that his primary seat was now a vast estate in Gloucestershire.

Giving his horse into a groom’s keeping, he went inside, greeted the porter cheerfully, then passed through the soaring hall with its elaborate roof supports and vast Tudor open fireplaces to the stair hall, without so much as a glance at the vast collection of arms and armor, pausing only to allow a waiting footman to take his hat and gloves, and to inquire as to his father’s whereabouts.

“Lord Jervaulx is in his book room, my lord.”

Halfway up the stairs, Gideon slowed his pace, and just outside the door of that apartment, catching a glimpse of himself in a pier glass, he paused to straighten his neckcloth and smooth his hair.

Then, drawing a deep breath, he nodded at the footman, who had hurried in his wake, to open the doors, and he went in.

“Good afternoon, Father.” The footman closed the door.

Jervaulx, a hawk-faced gentleman with some fifty-five years in his dish, was seated at the large, leather-topped desk, writing. He did not look up at once but continued to write.

Gideon remained silent, watching him.

At last, with a final flourish of his pen, the marquess put it down, leaned back in his chair, and gave his attention to his son. “So, you have come home.”

“As you see,” Gideon said, wishing, and not for the first time in his life, that he could read his father’s thoughts in his expression.

But Jervaulx rarely made things so easy.

He was never angry, emotional, hurried, or upset.

As a boy, Gideon had been terrified of him, certain that beneath the cool surface lurked potential disaster, but over the years, that fear had eased to a certain, sometimes frustrated, wariness.

“One assumes that Tattersall was grateful for your visit,” Jervaulx said. “The news of Penthorpe’s unfortunate demise had no doubt distressed him.”

“He had not yet learned of it and was beside himself with grief,” Gideon said.

“It was a shock to him to lose the nephew who had taken the place of a son to him, as you might imagine.” He could not resist the rider, being certain that Jervaulx must be grief-stricken over Jack’s death; however, as was the marquess’s custom, he had let nothing show. Nor did he now.

“You have been all this time at Tattersall Green?”

“Yes, sir, until today.” He had not planned to divulge his visit to Tuscombe Park, but having had enough of allowing his baser instincts to rule, he added bluntly, “I’d promised Penthorpe I’d take word of his death to the young woman to whom he was betrothed. I stopped there on my way here.”

“Anyone who reads The West Briton or the Royal Cornwall Gazette knows of that betrothal,” Jervaulx said evenly. “Do you mean to say that you have been to Tuscombe Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No self-respecting Deverill has set foot there in forty years, but no doubt you simply chose to overlook that fact.”

Gideon returned Jervaulx’s look steadily. “I believed my promise to Penthorpe outweighed such personal considerations.”

“A conscientious man would put honor of family above a request made by an outsider, but one supposes that you will go your own road even when your actions provide distasteful grist for the local rumor mills.”

“I am sorry to have displeased you, sir, but I had to do what I thought was right, and frankly, since I last saw you in Gloucestershire, I had not expected you to be here.”

“The winter Assizes begin soon. In order to achieve fairness, one must have spent some few weeks here, particularly now when there will be many cases involving local miners because of the food shortages and the many mines shutting down—including the Mulberry mines, which employ many men in this very district.”

“I am aware that you served as magistrate here for many years, but surely, sir, that is no longer one of your duties.”

“And just who do you suppose is capable enough to assume the position?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but—”

“Precisely,” Jervaulx said. “If that is all for now, there is more correspondence to be dealt with before dinner.”

“Certainly.” Gideon bowed and left the room, telling himself that the sooner he straightened things out at Tuscombe Park, the better it would be.

The last thing he wanted was for Jervaulx to discover that the local tattlemongers were avidly discussing, not the surprising visit of a Deverill to Tuscombe, but that of the deceased Penthorpe.

Thus it was that the very next day he took courage in hand and returned to Tuscombe Park, determined to make a clean breast of the whole even if it meant ruining himself with the beautiful Lady Daintry.

Giving hat, whip, gloves, and cloak to a footman, he was politely informed that Lady St. Merryn was not receiving.

“I will see the Lady Ophelia then,” he said.

“Certainly, my lord. I will take you up directly.”

Following the young man to the drawing room, Gideon saw with relief that Lady Ophelia’s only companion for the moment was Lady Daintry. He waited only until Penthorpe’s name was announced and the footman had gone before drawing breath to speak his piece.

Lady Ophelia said abruptly, “Your charade amused me for a time, sir, but before you make any more pretty speeches, I think you’d better stop this foolish pretense and open the budget to my niece.

You look a great deal like your grandfather, you know, so unless I am much mistaken, you are Deverill, not Penthorpe. ”