Page 92

T he thought numbed Leona. Fragments of questions and suspicions raced through her mind, but complete thoughts remained elusive. For a heartbeat lasting an eternity, she simply stared at him.

She was innocent!

How could he suspect her? Easily. But if she bristled, he’d likely call that proof.

Far better, she decided, to understand him superficially, to avoid the treacherous undercurrents and navigate down the center of the channel.

Unfortunately, her rational mind did not hold sway.

It was falling before stampeding emotion.

Never had she felt so condemned. Near hysterical laughter welled up in her throat.

She would not let it overwhelm her! Ruthlessly she clamped down on the rising emotional tide.

Questions. Commonplaces. They could pull her away from treacherous waters.

She looked up at him brightly, smiling like a Bedlamite as she pulled her scattered senses together, searching through the emotional rocks for a safe harbor.

“Did you by any chance bring clothes for Chrissy? I’m afraid the sack-like dress she is wearing was the best we could find for her on short notice.

Unfortunately, we have no shoes that would fit her.

Did you bring any shoes? If not, I suppose I could ask Mrs. Thrailwithe.

Her daughter Dorinda is only two or three years older than Chrissy. She may have shoes or boots to fit.”

Now she was babbling, running on like a fiddlestick! With chagrin, Leona bit down on her lower lip.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Leonard. I have a portmanteau strapped to my horse. Mother insisted I cool my heels for fifteen minutes while she packed it.”

A faint smile turned up his lips to compliment his deliberate attempt at humor.

“I have every confidence it will contain more than Chrissy requires. Furthermore, my friend Mr. Fitzhugh follows me to Crawfords Dean in our carriage. It will meet us at the Golden Goose. I have faith it, too, will be loaded with needless amenities.”

Again that tantalizing ghost of a smile.

Chrissy squirmed around in his lap to face him. “David’s coming?”

Mr. Deveraux looked down at his niece, smiling. This smile broadened until it lit his eyes, changing them from hard-cut gems to the softness of bluebells—the change unnerved Leona.

“Could you doubt it, poppet? I vow that if you were ten years older, it would be you he’d marry rather than Lucy.”

Chrissy giggled. “That’s silly. He’s too old.”

He tickled her ribs. “Old! He’s thirty! I’ll have you remember, minx, that he and I are of the same age,” he growled playfully.

Leona was surprised to discover his age to be thirty. He had looked far older when he entered the cottage; but now, seeing him play with his niece and seeing some of the tension leave his face, the years visibly fell away revealing a boyish charm.

“Excuse me.”

“Maria!” Leona said with a hint of embarrassed exasperation at the sight of her companion standing at the entrance to the parlor holding a tray in her hands like a serving maid.

“I do realize it is early, but I thought Mr. Deveraux could do with a nice glass of port to warm him after his long ride.” She came into the room carrying their best silver tray on which rested a decanter of port, a cut crystal wineglass, and the chocolate pot to refill Chrissy’s cup.

“Let me help,” begged Chrissy, sliding off her uncle’s lap. She cleared a space on a nearby table, retrieved her cup from the floor by the hearth, and handed it to Maria to refill.

Nigel Deveraux rose to greet Maria as Leona made the formal introduction.

“Mr. Deveraux, this is my companion, Miss Sprockett.”

If her tone was not as gracious as customary, no one noticed.

“Delighted, Miss Sprockett.” He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

Maria blushed rosily and bobbed a curtsey.

Leona felt annoyed to see her friend in a flutter. It was apparent she was taken with the gentleman.

He nodded solemnly. “You’re very considerate, Miss Sprockett.

I should be happy for a glass of port. First, let me fetch Chrissy’s portmanteau.

And do you have a barn or shelter where I can stable my horse?

I changed mounts at the inn so this horse is not heated, but I hate to leave him standing out in this weather.

” There was a hint of warmth in his voice when he addressed Maria that was lacking when he had spoken to Leona.

It was as if he addressed her from a position atop the castle curtain wall while she stood on the ground on the other side of a moat, far below him. The imagery made her squirm.

“Of course, Mr. Deveraux,” Maria tittered.

Leona rolled her eyes.

“Go around the cottage to the left. It’s just beyond the kitchen wing,” Maria said.

“What a handsome man your uncle is,” Maria told Chrissy after he left.

The child enthusiastically nodded. “He’s the best,” she said, as she swung her legs back and forth.

“He does seem to be,” agreed Maria.

Leona resisted a frown. She knew Chrissy would be naturally biased in favor of her uncle, and Maria admired any single male over the age of twenty. Worse, Maria insisted on evaluating all single males as potential husbands for her friend and employer. It served no purpose to tell Maria otherwise.

For all her sweet, wistful nature, she could be like a horse with the bit between its teeth.

Over the years, Leona discovered it safer to ignore her friend’s actions than to take umbrage.

She just hoped Maria did not say or do anything of a matchmaking tenor in front of Mr. Deveraux.

That could prove a further condemnation.

Maria was right about one thing. There are times when duty does stand in the way of wisdom. She should have stayed abed today with the covers pulled up over her head!

Sniffing and blowing her nose again, she settled back against the cushions of the sofa.

Oh, if she could only get rid of the pounding in her head!

She was glad there were no mirrors in the parlor.

She would hate to catch a glimpse of herself, for she could well imagine what she would see: watery eyes, flushed face, red nose.

Not at all the image of a gallant rescuer or heroine.

Perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered that Mr. Deveraux should suspect the worst. She sighed and took another sip of tepid tea.

Mr. Deveraux returned moments later, stamping the ice from his boots. This time he removed his greatcoat and allowed Maria to hang it on a hook by the door.

He held out the portmanteau to his niece. “Here you are, poppet.”

“I’ll go help her, Mr. Deveraux, and make sure she has everything she needs while you warm yourself by the fire and have your port.”

“Thank you, Miss Sprockett. I appreciate that” He watched the two of them mount the stairs. When they were out of sight, he turned toward Leona and casually strolled into the parlor.

Wary, Leona watched him, unaware when she pugnaciously thrust her chin forward.

His eyelids drooped, obscuring but not hiding the icy aquamarine glitter in his eyes. “Well, Miss Leonard,” he drawled, “now we may get down to the truth. How much do you desire?”

“I beg your pardon?” Though stunned by his directness, she managed to retain a reasonable semblance of aloof calmness.

He sat down across from her, crossing one booted leg over the other.

He reached for his port glass and took a sip.

He stared broodingly at the dark liquid.

“How much do you desire for the return of my niece?” He looked up at her, a faint jeering smile on his lips. “In the nature of a reward, of course.”

“Mr. Deveraux—” she began repressively, then paused, raising her handkerchief to her nose as she fought back a sneeze, her eyes watering with the effort.

This was not the time to show weakness! The threat passed, and she blinked to clear her eyes.

“Mr. Deveraux, I do not desire, nor will I accept, a reward for what was only my duty,” she said, her naturally throaty voice husky with her illness.

“Duty, Miss Leonard?” His dark, rumbling voice was arrogantly mocking.

“Yes, duty!” she seethed, then composed herself again.

She studied the shape of her fingernails.

“I have been managing Lion’s Gate since the ah—untimely death of my eldest brother, Edmund, three years ago.

The estate is now the property of my brother Charles; unfortunately, he has not assumed control of his inheritance, for he is doing his duty to his country. He is in the army.”

He watched her narrowly. So she was Captain Charles Leonard’s sister. He was mildly annoyed he’d not put the connection together sooner. “I know Captain Leonard,” he said dryly, reaching for the decanter of port that Maria had left on the table.

Leona’s head flew up to look at him. “You do?”

He smiled thinly. “Yes, and that explains many things.” He refilled his glass, set the decanter back on the table, and then leaned back in his chair to observe her objectively.

Her coloring was the same as Charlie Leonard’s, but she lacked the female equivalent of his pretty-boy looks.

Her coloring was more dramatic, her features more vital.

It was her eyes, though, that truly set her apart from her brother.

Charlie Leonard’s were the soft brown that women claimed to die for.

Her eyes were a mélange of green, brown, and gold.

They reminded Nigel of the forest floor in autumn.