Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“And do they cheat at cards?”

“To the best of my knowledge, no.”

“Then men must admire them as well?”

“There is no need to go that far. Now, let us say hello to Corrie, see if perhaps she wishes to throw up behind one of Lady Marksbury’s prize rosebushes.”

Sophie and Devlin Monroe, hat back on his head, his umbrella tucked under his arm, walked out into the gardens overflowing with laughter, endless gossip, extravagant jewels, and champagne goblets in every beringed hand. Devlin eyed his mother across the wide Marksbury lawn, saw she was well pleased with Viscount Earswick’s ponderous attention, and that was what counted. He hadn’t realized his mother found crop rotation so invigorating. She looked very impressive today in her purple satin gown with sleeves the width of a tree trunk. As for his sire, the duke was probably down at the Marksbury stables, eyeing Lord Markham’s new bay gelding he himself had wished to buy. Mayhap he would drop a warning in Lord Markham’s ear, since he knew his father was perfectly capable of having the gelding stolen right out of the stables.

Devlin wanted to speak to Julian but didn’t see him. He’d said he might show himself if he couldn’t find anything more amusing to do with his Saturday afternoon, which he probably had. Then Julian had asked Devlin about Miss Wilkie, an eyebrow raised. “The chit pleases you, Dev?”

“Like Corrie Sherbrooke, she is an original. I fancy to give her some attention, at least for a while. No need to pour it on, however.”

“She seems a good sort of girl, so perhaps you should consider pouring it on in liberal amounts. Your father is right. You are now twenty-seven, time to wed and produce an heir for the succession. Life is terribly fragile, Devlin. A man can die in a moment.”

Devlin looked at his half-uncle closely. “You are morose today. What are you thinking? Has something happened?”

And Julian told him about his smuggling run and how he knew that there’d been another there, observing them bringing in the gin and tobacco. No more shipments until Julian found another landing site, a pity, for this one had served well before he’d left three years earlier. He imagined Harlan would have suggestions.

Devlin Monroe smiled now at Sophie. “Miss Wilkie, I fear my mother has seen you. Yes, she is dismissing the aged roué who was doubtless encouraging her to rotate her barley crop more frequently. She still does not know whether to despise you or nab your fat purse.”

“Even if I were an heiress, I think she would still despise me, since my mother was best friends with her own stepmama,” Sophie said. “How odd that sounds when Corinne is younger than your mother. I am not, you know—an heiress, that is. My father is a vicar, the younger nephew of Viscount Denby.”

“Yes, I know exactly who you are. My mother had only to ask me, but she never does. I cannot imagine why she wants an heiress in the family. Well, every parent wants their offspring to fatten the coffers. But the truth is I have no need to wed an heiress, since the ducal boat sails nowhere near the River Styx. Even the thought of marrying an heiress—no, I thank you. They tend to be unpleasant, from my experience, full of conceit and their own worth, and double chins abound.”

She said, “Roxanne is an heiress.”

“Ah, well, that settles it, then,” he said.

“Settles what?”

He gave her a flick of the finger against her cheek, simply couldn’t help himself, and walked away from her, raising his black umbrella over his head. Sophie watched him meet his half-uncle, who had appeared around the corner of the house. The two men fell into close conversation. What were they talking about? They seemed so serious. Was something wrong? Had something happened? How to get Devlin to row her on the Thames?

Sophie grinned and walked to where Corrie stood, staring with intense concentration at Lady Marksbury’s rosebushes.

As for Devlin, he and Julian had moved to stand at the top of the grassy slope of the Thames embankment, watching several small pleasure boats move smoothly through the calm water, rowed by young men eager to impress. Devlin said, “I know you’re worried about the Blue Star. Have you any word of her?”

“It’s not only the Blue Star. And no, I haven’t heard a word.”

“Then what is it?”

Julian eyed his half-nephew. He said, “I remember not long ago when you believed what your mother told you: I was naught but an interloper, an adventurer out to destroy your legitimate family—in short, an unwanted disgrace, your grandfather’s most striking mistake in an otherwise long life of uprightness and common sense.”

Devlin laughed. “You’re right, Julian. All my life, my mother dinned in my ears that you were a bastard in everything but name. My father never said a word against his own father or against you. Then I finally met you when I went up to Oxford at eighteen. Perhaps it would have taken longer to appreciate you if I had not been desperate. Even if you were everything my mother said, you were there, and you appeared quite competent.”

Julian laughed. “I’d wanted to meet you for some time, and here was my unknown half-nephew, who’d gotten himself into a proper mess. I remember I was proud of you, even though you should have run rather than face down three bullyboys bent on breaking your head.”

“You know what really won me over? Your teaching me how to fight dirty. It is a fine thing, Julian. Did I tell you a cutpurse tried to bring me down two years ago on Boxing Day? I was no more than a dozen steps away from my own town house when he leaped out from an alley, knife slashing.” Devlin paused, smiled big. “I, myself, dragged him to the watch after I’d given him a good pounding. Now, you have distracted me. What is it, Julian?”

12

Julian debated with himself, then said, “Richard Langworth was at the ball last night, looking at me like he wanted to stick a knife in my gullet.”

Devlin nodded. “I saw him, too. However, he made no move toward you or your mother, as least that I saw. Is he still of the same opinion as he was when Lily died?”

“He evidently is, given the death look in his eyes last night. I had hoped he would recall he’d known me to my heels—but apparently any recollections on his part didn’t change anything. He obviously still blames me. I also saw him looking at you as well, and there was an expression on his face I well recognized.

“I believe he might hurt you to get to me. Stay away from him, Devlin.” Julian saw immediately that this was the wrong approach. Never tell a man to keep away from danger; he will always do the opposite. “What I meant to say—”