The Devil Earl

“Without a commission?”

James glanced away. “Or the navy.”

“Without a sponsor?”

James cleared his throat. “I thought it would be best to start over, try and make my own way…”

“In His Majesty’s forces?” Sebastian’s infamous slanted brows rose swiftly. “Do you really think you are up to it, whelp?” he asked with barely suppressed fury. “And just how did you intend to settle the bills from your old life on a soldier’s pay?” The question hung in the air, unanswerable, until Sebastian spoke again.

“Although you have never evidenced the slightest interest in such matters, I might as well inform you right now that I am not so wealthy that I can pay your debts without taking a loss. The army, good God!” Sebastian’s contempt was palpable. “And I suppose I have the little blond creature to thank for your reprieve?”

James leapt to his feet. “Now, just wait a minute, Sebastian-”

“Have you got a bastard between her legs, that I must pay her off, too, or—”

Such slander against his sweet, innocent Phoebe was the straw that finally broke his back, and James felt a lifetime of small resentments toward his titled brother gather and coalesce, until he was filled with an indignant rage that he had never known before. His inbred caution, so recently eroded by London, and his innate respect for his sibling, flew to the winds as James threw himself at his elder.

Although Sebastian, not James, had been the recipient of many a boxing lesson at Gentleman Jackson’s rooms, the attack caught the more experienced man off guard, and James managed to bloody his brother’s lip. They were sprawled across the desk, both of them a little stunned by the encounter, when the housekeeper entered, gasping loudly at the sight of the two of them brawling like schoolboys.

“Sirs! My lord, pardon me!” she babbled, rattling a tray as if she were in danger of dropping it. James did not doubt that Sebastian could placate Mrs. Worth, but he did not wait around to see it. Sliding to his feet, he rushed past the startled woman, into the hallway and through the front door, into a raging storm that seemed as naught compared to his own turbulent emotions.

Prudence was so engrossed in her work that she did not hear either the approach of a carriage or the arrival of a visitor. Only the urgency in Phoebe’s voice forced her attention away from her writing and into the present.

“Prudence! Prudence, do hurry. Mrs. Bates is here, and she looks nigh to bursting.” With a sigh of annoyance, Prudence turned toward her sister and knew an urge to hide. Her book was coming along so well now that she was loath to interrupt it for the dubious honor of Mrs. Bates’s company. Perhaps it was not too late to pretend that she was out or resting?

Prudence looked hopefully at Phoebe, but her sister knew her too well; apparently Phoebe was already guessing at her thoughts and would have none of them. Folding her arms across her bosom in an implacable pose, Phoebe shook her head, sending her golden curls bobbing about her face.

“No doubt Mrs. Bates has already heard of your bold foray to the abbey yesterday and is planning to give you a scold. And I refuse to take responsibility for what was all your doing, Prudence!”

With another sigh of regret for the novel that she must abandon, however briefly, Prudence put her pen aside and stood. Phoebe was right, of course. It would be unfair to expect her sister to suffer the brunt of Mrs. Bates’s displeasure. Although Prudence did not spare a moment’s worry over the upcoming reprimand, nonetheless, she hoped that the visit would be quickly concluded.

“And just look at you, with ink all over your face!” Phoebe chided, dabbing at Prudence with a handkerchief. “You have been chewing on your pen again,” she said accusingly. “And you know how Mrs. Bates feels about your writing. You really should wash your hands, too.”

“Nonsense,” Prudence said briskly. “If Mrs. Bates wishes to see me, she will see me as I am, ink and all.” Patting the small cap that covered her hair, she headed toward the hall, barely registering Phoebe’s sigh behind her.

Mrs. Bates did seem extremely agitated, Prudence noticed at once. The matron was red-faced, and her bosom heaved as she gasped for breath. Although the day was not particularly warm, she fanned herself rapidly, making Prudence wonder how anyone could work herself up over something so trifling as a small social indiscretion.

“My dear girls! Oh, my dear girls!” Mrs. Bates said, in a high voice that revealed the degree of her disturbance. Prudence eyed the matron with new interest, for she could not believe that her simple walk to the abbey could have caused such a stir.

“I fear that I have bad news. Ill tidings. Oh, that this should occur here, right in our own small, comfortable corner of the world! It is too dreadful, my dears. My dear girls…”

Instantly, Prudence recognized that real distress was mixed in with the titillation evident in Mrs. Bates’s voice. Obviously, some misfortune had occurred, but the depth of the tragedy had not dampened the woman’s enthusiasm for gossip.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked, leaning forward anxiously in her seat.

“Oh, poor, dear Phoebe, that I must be the one to tell you…” Mrs. Bates lifted a handkerchief to the corner of her eye in a theatrical gesture.

Prudence’s patience had run its course. “Mrs. Bates, your manner is upsetting Phoebe. Perhaps you had better tell us your news right now.”

The older woman shot Prudence a quelling glance, which had no effect upon her. Apparently realizing that she could not drag out the dramatic moment any longer, Mrs. Bates heaved a great sigh. “Well,” she said. “It is young Penhurst.”

Phoebe gasped and clutched at her throat. “What?”

Gazing worriedly at her sister, Prudence prodded their guest to explain further. “Well?”

Mrs. Bates, in no hurry to give up her news, dabbed at her eyes again, prolonging the silence until Prudence felt a bizarre urge to strike the woman. Something of her thoughts must have shown upon her face, for Mrs. Bates suddenly scowled at her and spoke.

“He is gone,” she said.

“Gone?”

“Last night. I had it from my maid, who got it from the cook, who is a cousin to Mrs. Worth, the housekeeper up there,” Mrs. Bates said. She glanced out the window at Wolfinger and shuddered before leaning forward in conspiratorial pose.

“She saw the whole thing, mind you. The earl came sweeping in like a fiend upon the wings of the storm. He had but entered the ghastly old place when the two of them started fighting, battling like demons! Then Ravenscar chased his brother outside.” Mrs. Bates paused significantly, her mouth set tightly in disapproval, her eyes wide. “And only he came back.”

The words held a grim finality that made Phoebe gasp in horror. Hearing the distress in her voice, Prudence rose and went to Phoebe’s side, taking the younger girl’s hand. “What are you saying?” Prudence asked Mrs. Bates sternly. “That young Penhurst was lost in the storm? That he ran off?”

“I am saying,” Mrs. Bates replied, in a clear voice intended to put Prudence in her place, “that the Ravenscar blood runs true. Just as the old Devil Earl was murdered by his own wife, so the evil doings continue up at that monstrous place.”

The matron eyed Prudence smugly, as if determined to overset the older girl as she had young Phoebe. “I am saying,” she continued, “that the earl of Ravenscar killed his brother on the cliffs last night and tossed the body into the sea.”

Phoebe fell back against the chair in a faint, and Prudence frantically snatched their guest’s fan in an effort to bring her back to awareness.

“There now, ma’am, I hope you are well pleased with the results of your gossip,” Prudence said as she tried to rouse her sister.

“Well!” Mrs. Bates huffed and puffed as if she were a swelling toad. “I cannot help it if the gel is not strong enough to withstand ill news, and I cannot like your rude speech, either. One can easily tell that you have not had the benefit of a guiding hand, Miss Prudence Lancaster!”

Ignoring her, Prudence laid her palm against Phoebe’s cold cheek. “Phoebe! Wake up, darling!” She was rewarded by the flicker of her sister’s long yellow lashes.

“Oh! Prudence, say it isn’t so! Mr. Penhurst…”

“No doubt it is not so,” Prudence assured her sister. “I suspect that Mr. Penhurst has simply gone to cool off for a while, and shall soon return.”

“Humph!” Mrs. Bates made a noise that resembled nothing so much as a porcine snort. “And what do you know of it, Prudence, I might ask?”

Prudence was surprised to find herself more than mildly annoyed with the matron. Not given to fits of temper, she quelled her irritation and gazed at the woman calmly. “I am sure that the earl of Ravenscar is not quite so dull-witted as to murder his brother in front of the housekeeper and then hurry out into a raging storm to scramble along the slippery cliffs in an effort to toss him off.”

Mrs. Bates frowned and sniffed. “Wits have nothing to do with it, miss. It is the bad blood of the Ravenscars, running true.” She sent a swift, sour glance toward Phoebe. “For your information, young Penhurst had but recently been sent down from Oxford and was deeply in debt, which, no doubt, precipitated the argument.”

Phoebe moaned softly, but Prudence ignored it, turning instead to face their guest in a pensive pose. “But killing the boy would not solve anything. It makes no sense,” she argued. Pausing momentarily in consideration, she added firmly, “I simply do not believe it.”

“It is not supposed to make sense, gel! It is—” Mrs. Bates hesitated before rushing on. “Passion—plain and simple!”

Prudence blinked at the bold speech, Phoebe made a strangled sound, and even Mrs. Bates looked as if she thought she might have said too much. With a gravelly noise, she lifted her bulk from the chair.

“Well, I have lingered long enough. I must be about,” she said. Waving away Prudence’s gesture of help, she headed toward the door that Mary hastened to open for her. She stopped on the threshold, however, to catch her breath and to have the final say in the matter.

“Mark my words, Ravenscar will not get away with it,” she said, brandishing a lacy handkerchief. “The days of the Devil Earl are past. When the boy’s body washes up, as it must eventually, he’ll pay for his crimes. And it will be a payment long overdue.”

With that Gothic pronouncement, the matron took her leave in a swish of dark skirts, leaving Prudence to stare after her, still clutching the borrowed fan. “Well,” she said, half to herself, “Mrs. Bates must be in a hurry to spread the story throughout the parish. It is not every day that she has such a juicy bit of gossip.”

A soft sound from Phoebe made Prudence pat her sister’s hand in a comforting gesture. “There, there,” she whispered, although she was inclined to believe that her tenderhearted sister was reacting to the news with an excessive display of distress.

It seemed to Prudence as if the day were destined to be a disaster. First, she had been forced to listen to Mrs. Bates, and then she had spent precious hours caring for Phoebe, who was taking Mr. Penhurst’s disappearance more grievously than Prudence thought warranted. And now, when she was finally fully immersed in her work, Mary was harrying her again.

With a sigh, Prudence laid down her pen and turned away from her writing desk, where her new villain was wreaking havoc among her pages of foolscap. “Yes, what is it, Mary?” she asked.

The young maid’s eyes were as wide as saucers, reminding Prudence instantly of one of her put-upon heroines. In fact, Mary looked as if she had seen a specter herself and could hardly bear to describe it, for her mouth trembled and she stumbled over her words.

“That…that…Oh, miss, he is here. At the door…in the parlor…wanting to see Miss Phoebe,” Mary said, wringing her sturdy hands in front of her and peering over her shoulder, for all the world as if the devil himself were behind her.

“Well, whoever it is, simply tell him that Miss Phoebe is unwell. I put her to bed, and I do not think she should be disturbed,” Prudence answered. She would have turned back to her work, were it not for the alarm evidenced on the maid’s plain features.

“Oh, but, miss, he will not take no for answer, and I… Come, miss, you talk to him, for I cannot bear to!” she wailed.

Mary had all her attention now. “Who the dickens is it?” Prudence asked, intrigued.

“It is…it is him, miss,” Mary said in a hushed tone. Looking about her furtively, she leaned close to whisper, “The one what murdered his brother.”

For a moment, Prudence could only stare in astonishment. Then she spoke the revered name in a rush. “Ravenscar! Are you telling me that the earl is here…in our parlor?” Prudence asked, with no little amazement. At Mary’s nod, she nearly clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, but this is wonderful!” she said, rising from her chair.

“If you say so, miss,” Mary replied skeptically. And with that she disappeared hastily into the kitchen, while Prudence stood, straightened her gown as best she could, and hurried off to meet the man of her dreams.

He was standing with his back to her, staring out the window, and Prudence took advantage of the opportunity to study him. She noted again how tall he was, well above six feet, and lean, but broad-shouldered. No need for padding in his coats or his hose, she decided, as her gaze traveled down well-muscled thighs encased in doeskin to the tops of his shining Hessians. He wore a coat as simple and black as the straight hair that trailed along his collar. No dandy, this one, she mused with approval.

Just as her gaze moved up his body, Ravenscar turned his head to pin her with a cold gray stare so intense that Prudence nearly took a step back. Her blood, already stirred by the mere sight of him, roused further to flow through her with alarming speed. Here was a man to reckon with, she thought giddily. Here was a man.

“Where is she?” he asked suddenly. And Prudence, for the first time in her life, felt strangely stupid.

“Who?” she whispered.

His scowl was positively ferocious, and she could see a small muscle working in his jaw. Unleashed fury, she realized, was held in check within that composed exterior, though why he should be angry at her, Prudence had no idea.

“Your…sister,” Ravenscar said, investing the word with both derision and skepticism.

“Phoebe?” Prudence asked. Her brain was still working sluggishly, though the rest of her insides seemed to be moving at a remarkable pace.

“That is the name the maid gave me,” Ravenscar said, his face a dark mask of disdain.

Prudence quelled a tiny shiver of excitement at his unyielding manner. She wondered where he had gotten the scar under his eye. A duel, perhaps? He overwhelmed the room with a personal presence far stronger than anything she had ever seen before, and for an instant, she felt as though she were one of her own heroines, struggling against the compelling force of a mysterious villain.

Rather reluctantly, Prudence gave herself a shake and returned to reality. She was, after all, not Millicent, and the man before her, whatever his reputation, was no fiend, but an earl, and she had yet to greet him properly.

“Please, sit down, my lord,” she said evenly. “I had sent Phoebe off to rest, but if you wish to see her, then I shall, of course, summon her at once.”

To her disappointment, he nodded curtly, his lips moving into a cold, contemptuous smile that in no way reached those startling eyes of his. They, more than anything else, proclaimed him a dangerous man, hinting at untold depths and experiences that Prudence could not pretend to comprehend.

More than the starkly handsome cast of his features or the lean appeal of his tall form, they drew her to him, and Prudence ignored his blatantly threatening stance to stare at him once more. He looked, she decided, as if he had stepped right out of her pages and into the parlor.

What the dickens did he want with Phoebe?

Chapter Four

Why was she staring at him like a simpleton? Sebastian glared at her more fiercely. He was accustomed to a certain sort of response from people, and this was not it. Finally, as if she could hardly bear to tear herself away from his presence, she turned to call for the maid, and Sebastian felt a measure of relief.

At last! By all means, summon the girl from her “rest” for me, he thought with a malicious smile. Now he was finally getting somewhere, and the strange female was starting to make sense.

Looking around him, Sebastian had to admit that the small, tidy and slightly worn cottage did not look like any fancy house he had ever seen, but perhaps business was poor along this isolated coastline and appearances of propriety were maintained. His gaze traveled to the straight back of the slender, bespectacled creature who appeared to run the place, and he decided he had never seen a less likely looking abbess in his life.

Surely she did no personal business with the customers! He could hardly imagine any young bucks, or even a desperate old member of the local gentry, slavering over that one. And yet she was somehow attractive, in a rather sterile way. Perhaps that was her appeal, Sebastian decided. A man could peel her like an orange, layer by layer of stuffy clothing disappearing to reveal the choice center of the fruit.

Surprised by the tenor of his own thoughts, Sebastian turned away to look out the window again, where Wolfinger rose from a curling mist, a dark wonder in cool stone. He had forgotten the sheer beauty of the place. But he had been a young man when he last saw it, and then only briefly. Raised at his family’s modest estate in Yorkshire, he had done little enough traveling until his uncle, the previous earl, took an interest in him. And, certainly, Otho had no love for the abbey, preferring the hells and bawdy houses of London to these lonely, windswept shores.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as his thoughts were brought forcibly back to the matter at hand. Apparently, despite all his best efforts, the Ravenscar blood was running true. James had inhented the family’s penchant for wine, women and cards. And debts.

“Here she is, my lord, my sister, Phoebe. Phoebe, you remember Lord Ravenscar, of course.”

Of course, Sebastian thought, pivoting on his heels to fasten his gaze on the girl. In the light she looked even younger, a frothy bit of fluff of the sort that could be had a hundred times over in town. She had a good figure, he would give her that, but she was too tiny and blond and bland-looking for his taste. He could see, however, how she had captured young James’s attention. No doubt she gazed at him in adoration with those bright blue eyes and nodded eagerly, bouncing her pretty little curls like a mindless doll at whatever he might say.

“Where is he?” Sebastian asked, without preamble.

The girl cringed, obviously frightened, and stepped back against the older one. Miss Prudence, the maid called her, which Sebastian thought as absurd a name for a Cyprian as he had ever heard.

“Who?” the so-called Prudence asked, eyeing him with a level gaze that he was forced to admire. Obviously, she was the sharp one. Very sharp. He wondered how long it would be before she would mention money…

Sebastian stalked across the room toward them, stopping just short of the small one. He towered over her, and she shrank back against her elder. “My brother,” he said, in a softly threatening tone that had the girl fairly trembling.

“Your brother?” Far from being intimidated, Prudence stepped toward him, so quickly that the girl leaning against her nearly fell upon the floor. Catching herself, the child took the opportunity to hide behind the elder’s skirts like an infant, disgusting him further. How the devil could James find such a creature pleasing?

The tall one, on the other hand…Sebastian paused to peruse her. She had enough of the look of the other to pass for a sister, but her beauty was of a far different, starker nature. What he could see of her hair was darker, with streaks of gold that disappeared under a silly, spinsterish cap. Her eyes, hidden by the ridiculous glasses, were not an insipid blue, but a lovely hazel that gleamed like her hair. Looking closer, he thought he saw just the barest hint of green…

“Why should Phoebe know anything of your brother?” she asked him, interest blazing behind those ridiculous spectacles. Sebastian had the distinct impression that her eyes would window her soul, if only he could remove what shielded them. He fought a nagging desire to do so.

The rest of her face, Sebastian decided, was as fine and distinctive as a rare wine. She had high cheekbones and clear skin and a wide mouth that was infinitely more intriguing than the dainty Cupid’s bow her sister sported, and he found his interest lingering on it. He forced himself to look away.

“Why, indeed?” he asked her. Her eyes appeared unafraid, and so guileless that for a moment Sebastian thought he must surely be mistaken about her. His lips tightened into a grim line. “Perhaps because James had made use of her…services…recently.”

“Services?” She gazed up at him with such puzzlement that he almost believed her to be innocent.

“Must I make it more plain, Miss…Prudence?” Sebastian asked, circling around her like a cat stalking its prey. In the corner of his vision, he saw Miss Phoebe sink into a chair with a strangled moan, but Prudence only turned, gracefully, to meet his stare.

She was fearless, Sebastian confirmed, for he had spent years cultivating his own special brand of intimidation. It had served him in the fight for his title and position, as well as in the less-than-savory places in which he had often found himself. In all his long memory, he could never recall meeting a woman who could withstand the full force of his enmity for long. Yet this one, instead of cowering or fleeing or making a gallant retreat, was returning his gaze calmly, her back straight, her eyes openly curious.

He would have thought her wholly unaffected, but for the rapid rise and fall of her small but shapely bosom, which gave the lie to her seeming composure. The girl felt something, Sebastian thought with an odd sort of triumph. He gave her a sly smile, but she only appeared more confused.

“Perhaps you should speak more plainly, for I fear I am failing to follow you,” she said finally.

Sebastian whirled away, so that he could watch them both react. “Very well. I am speaking of James paying for the privilege of climbing under your…sister’s skirts.”

The stunned looks on both their faces took him aback. Surely, these two must be the most accomplished of actresses, wasting their talents away here in Cornwall, or. Sebastian narrowed his eyes, unwilling to consider the alternatives. Just as he began to feel an eerie sense of dismay that he had not known since his youth, he heard laughter, clear and golden as a sultry summer afternoon

He knew who it was immediately, of course. James’s dainty damsel would not be capable of such a robust sound; she would undoubtedly giggle annoyingly, if amused. Prudence, on the other hand…Prudence was laughing gaily, while Phoebe, her face red, was clutching her throat as if she might expire momentarily upon the worn cushion of her seat.

“Oh, my!” Prudence said. Obviously she thought his erroneous assumption sincerely funny, for she put a slender hand to her mouth and gulped for air in an unladylike fashion that struck a chord deep within him. Suddenly Sebastian felt as if he had been run down by a coach and four. His breath caught, his vitals tightened and his head spun; the reaction was so unlike his usual bored detachment that it left him incredulous.

And she was the c .use of it.

A lock of shiny hair escaped her silly cap, and her spectacles slipped down her straight nose, making Sebastian battle an urge to remove them entirely. He watched her long, slim fingers in fascination as they moved the glasses back into place. Were those ink stains on her hand? How could he ever have thought her a doxy?