Innocence in Regency Society. Diane Gaston
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a wan smile. ‘Sophie will not wish to leave Madeleine, I expect, and I doubt you will wish to leave Sophie. Am I correct?’
Bart did not answer, but neither did his craggy brows move from their stern expression.
‘I can only do this if I know they remain safe.’ Devlin’s voice became low and insistent. ‘I must depend on you to look out for them. I will not be able to see to it myself.’
Bart stared at him as the hack neared St James’s Street. ‘I will do as you say.’
That afternoon, Madeleine was alone in the house. Linette napped. Sophie, who had insisted herself fully recovered, went to return her sewing to Madame Emeraude and get another batch. Bart accompanied her, so she need not carry the basket.
Devlin left to see the Marquess, to announce his decision to seek a wife so as to release his allowance.
Madeleine hated this solitude. Busy all morning, she had given herself no time to think of Devlin searching for a wife. And leaving her.
Now there were no distractions.
The only fantasy she could muster was of Devlin in a church with a beautiful lady like the Marchioness at his side, saying his vows. If she shook off that unwanted reverie, she saw him facing the same lady in his bed.
She grabbed her sewing and settled herself in the parlour’s window seat. The day was clear, the kind of day she once might have spent on horseback, galloping over the hills near her home. Those days felt as unreal to her as her fantasies about Devlin. She frowned over her stitches. Sophie had helped her design an apron to protect her dresses during the day. They had found an old bedsheet to make it with. Stitching was laborious, but she was determined to finish the garment when she was not needed helping Sophie with the dresses.
Sewing simply did not occupy enough of her mind, and this morning of all mornings she did not wish to think. Devlin would marry and she would be sent away.
She supposed she should be grateful that he intended to take care of her and Linette. It was a good fortune, a perfect solution to all their problems. Perhaps Devlin would visit after he wed. Lots of men kept mistresses, she knew. Several had offered her a carte blanche, but Farley inevitably found out and they never offered again.
She refused to rank Devlin the same as those odious creatures who used to drool over her. He was not like them. Being with him was so different than being with other men. So wonderful. Devlin was a man like no other.
She turned back to her stitches. Perhaps if she became truly skilled at sewing, she and Sophie could earn enough for a little place to stay, enough to feed and clothe themselves and Linette.
Devlin would be free.
Madeleine concentrated on speeding up her sewing, necessary for a seamstress. She tried very hard to keep the stitches the same size and close together. Sometimes she would forget to use the thimble and push on the needle with her bare finger. More often, she poked herself with the needle’s point instead of moving her fingers away.
For a few moments, the effort consumed her mind, but a noise in the street distracted her. A shiny barouche with a splendid pair of matched bays pulled up in front of the house. The horses were as fine as any she had ever seen. What stable had bred them? she wondered. They were identical in size, their markings so similar one would suppose they had been twins. She wished she had seen them in motion.
The knocker of the door sounded, and she jumped. She peeked out the glass to see who knocked. An unknown man stood there. The driver of the elegant equipage?
She opened the door.
The man who stood before her was more refined than any she had ever seen. His buckskins and driving coat were so finely tailored they looked moulded to his well-formed frame. His eyes, regarding her with a startled expression, seemed familiar, as did the set of his chin.
‘I was given this as Lord Devlin Steele’s direction.’ He eyed her as men usually did, but without the typical prurient gleam.
‘Lord Devlin is not presently at home,’ she said.
He stepped past her, across the threshold, though she had not given him leave to do so. Her heart beat in alarm and she was acutely aware of being alone in the house.
She straightened her posture. ‘Perhaps you would wish to leave your card.’
He removed his hat. ‘I wish to wait.’
She bit her lip. She dare not betray being alone. His eyes still carefully assessed her.
‘Who are you?’ His question was more like a command.
She bristled. Smiling with bravado through her nervousness, she said, ‘Forgive me for not introducing myself. I had thought it proper for visitors to announce themselves first.’
His eyes flashed at her insolence. She supposed he was not one accustomed to having his behaviour questioned. She smiled again and cocked her head as if waiting.
‘The Marquess of Heronvale,’ he said impatiently.
Her smile vanished. Devlin’s brother.
‘You are?’ he commanded again.
She waved her hand as if his question was foolish, but curtsied politely. ‘Miss England at your service, my lord. I am the…the housekeeper.’
‘Indeed?’ His eyebrows lifted in a top-lofty expression and his eyes flicked up and down her person once more.
She took a breath. ‘Lord Devlin intended to visit you this afternoon, my lord. Perhaps you might find him at your residence.’
He made no move to leave. ‘I will wait for him.’
She took his hat and showed him into the parlour, where he stood continuing to watch her. She scooped up her sewing from the window seat and twisted the material in her hand, wishing she had finished the garment so it could cover her pale yellow muslin dress.
‘I shall bring tea.’ It sounded like what a housekeeper might do. He still stood, watching her.
As she moved to leave, his voice stopped her, sounding less imperious. ‘Tell me, Miss England. My brother…is he well?’
An odd question. ‘Yes, he is. Very well, my lord.’ She curtsied again and hurried out the door.
The Marquess watched the retreating figure, wondering what to make of this surprise in his brother’s household. Housekeeper, indeed. The young woman—lord, she looked more like a girl—was a breathtaking beauty with startlingly blue eyes and dark unruly hair. Where had Devlin found her? He had heard no rumours of his brother forming a liaison.
He strolled around the room, intrigued, as well, with the genteel furnishings. The place must have commanded a respectable rent. With this ‘housekeeper’, it was easy to see why Devlin wished to move. And he could see why his little brother had overspent his due. A woman of Miss England’s face and figure would not come cheap, as her tasteful new attire could attest.
He’d not reckoned on his brother living with a mistress, had not conceived the notion even when Serena reported seeing Devlin with a woman. Devlin had introduced Serena to her as if she were respectable. Devlin should have told him about her.
He should not be surprised Devlin had not. Ned wandered over to the window. He would have disapproved. He would have given Devlin a list of cogent reasons why keeping a mistress was irresponsible and he would have reminded Devlin of his duty.
Ned had often thought about keeping a mistress himself. There were times when his masculine urges raged in a manner he could not inflict upon his delicate wife, and a willing woman would have easily slaked his desires.
But he had not.
In any event, Devlin had no business keeping a woman. He had no fortune of his own to command. Ned stood again and peered out the window. He had planned merely to assure himself Devlin was not ill and be on his way. He pulled on the bell cord.
Miss