Devlin stared at the array of letters spread over his desk. He had retrieved them from beneath the mattress in Juliet’s bedchamber intending to reread them. But somehow it did not seem important, and he couldn’t quite rouse the enthusiasm.
The baron’s version of the events surrounding Ambrose’s death rang true. All evidence pointed to Ambrose being attacked with a cudgel by footpads. Even so, Devlin struggled with the fact a man of Ambrose’s intelligence could be so foolish.
But Devlin had come home to restore his brother’s reputation, to punish Miss Bromfield for her wicked lies and tales. The letters gave him the leverage needed to succeed in the task. The Bromfields would pay. But another powerful emotion replaced the vengeance that once burned in Devlin’s veins.
Love.
Every nerve, every fibre of his body thrummed with this new sensation.
He could not keep his hands off his wife. Indeed, when she returned, he would lock the study door and take comfort in her sweet voice, in the potent scent that clung to her skin. He would tell her again what she meant to him, that she had saved a devil of a man from a life in hell. He would make love to her, show her the depth of his passion.
Lord, he was working his way through every room in the house, replacing a miserable memory for one that heated his blood. In the dining room, Juliet made him forget about the raps on the knuckles with the cutlery, the taunts that clumsy boys must learn obedience. In the ballroom, he forgot that a beast looked ugly seated on the bench, that a man his size lacked the skill to compose music. And when he made love to his wife on the desk in the study, he would forget the lecture that said he was too wild and unpredictable to be the master of Blackwater.
Devlin glanced at the mantel clock.
A fire in his chest ignited when he imagined Juliet bursting in through the door, her cheeks rosy, a beaming smile illuminating her face.
He waited. Ten minutes felt like an hour.
Where the hell had she got to?
Another twenty minutes passed.
The clock chimed two.
Frustration itched beneath his skin. Devlin stood, stared out of the window for a time.
An uneasy sense of foreboding overcame him, forced him to wind the bell on the wall behind and ring for Withers.
A light rap on the door signalled the butler. “You rang, sir?”
What was he supposed to say? Where the hell is my wife?
“I want you to check with the stable hands and see if Mrs Drake has returned with Rufus.”
No doubt the hound had taken to his heels again. And Juliet would not return without him. The air outside was glacial. A raw, biting wind meant it was too cold to spend more than an hour outdoors. Was this what his life had come to? Worrying about the wind, the rain, about anything that might see his happiness dragged from underneath him?
“I shall visit the stables at once, sir.” Withers inclined his head, turned in the slow, methodical way that was supposed to instill calm and confidence but in this instance did the opposite.
“Never mind, Withers, I shall go myself.”
The voice in Devlin’s head shouted for him not to overreact. The crippling ache in his heart made him dart through the corridors as if the barn was on fire.
Rufus was not in the stables.
“I saw Mrs Barbary chasing after him some time ago,” a groom shouted. “I expect he ran away from Mrs Drake again.” But Devlin was already racing back to the house.
Devlin found Mrs Barbary in his study, gaping at the letters on the desk. Her face was ashen. Perhaps seeing his grandmother’s name on the missives brought back memories of the past.
“Oh, Mr Drake.” The housekeeper jumped to attention. She seemed unsettled. “I came looking for you. I came to—”
“Yes. I know. Rufus is up to his tricks again and has run away from his mistress.”
Mrs Barbary nodded. “He came bounding across the lawn. I tried to catch him, but the beast is too quick for a woman of my age.”
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“And where is Mrs Drake?” Impatience rang in every word.