“And now that Wrexham has married her older sister, I imagine he will do the pretty and provide a handsome dowry.” Osborne’s mouth curled to a scimitar smile. “If so, I might reconsider my objections to matrimony to get her into my bed. My hunch is that beneath all the delicious beauty and demure smiles, there’s a tantalizing streak of wildness just waiting to be unleashed.”

A sudden surge of fury, all the more powerful for being so unexpected, welled up in Devlin’s chest. For an instant, the music and the rhythmic scuff of shoes on the polished parquet was overwhelmed by the thrumming rush of boiling blood reverberating in his ears.

If his newly purchased pocket pistol had been in his pocket, another hellfire scandal would likely have been branded on his name.

Gritting his teeth, he waited for the pounding of his pulse to subside before he looked around. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Oh? Have designs on the chit yourself?” A laugh. “I doubt the Perfect Hero would let either of us near her. Pistols at dawn, without a doubt. And no woman, however well dowered, is worth the trouble.”

Devlin repressed the urge to shove the supercilious sneer—and several pearly teeth—down the other man’s throat. “A wise philosophy. Especially when one is a notoriously lousy shot.”

Osborne arched a brow. “You seem to have swallowed your usual sense of humor tonight, along with the last of your wine.”

“Bilious stomach,” muttered Devlin. A strangely sour taste had left his throat feeling dry as dust.

“Drinking to excess tends to do that.”

“For a fellow who makes no claim to sainthood, you are doing a bloody awful lot of moralizing this evening.”

“Ye gods, you are in a touchy mood. My comments on excess have to do with curiosity, not morality.”

Devlin scowled a warning.

“I can’t help but wonder something,” went on Osborne. “As I said, I listen carefully when people talk, and from what I have gathered, your losses and winnings at the gaming hells are deceptively even. In fact, the winnings

may hold a slight edge. Yet your debts are quite large. So it raises the question—on what are you spending your money?”

“If you’ll excuse me, my glass is empty.” Turning on his heel, Devlin walked off, ignoring the last murmured question that trailed in his wake.

“What secrets are you hiding, Davenport?”

Chapter Four

Hands lightly touching, Anna followed Lord Andover’s lead through the figures of the country dance. Step-turn, step-turn. She knew the movements by heart so there was little danger in letting her mind wander to more personal concerns.

Had it been a wise decision to agree to the journey north? She was having second thoughts…

“So sorry—how clumsy of me,” murmured Andover as he steadied her stumble.

Anna jerked her gaze away from the figure moving in and out of the shadows cast by the decorative colonnade. “I appreciate your gallantry, sir, but the fault is all mine—as you well know,” she replied.

“You seem…distracted this evening,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” assured Anna, essaying a smile as the music came to an end. “I think I am just a trifle fatigued, is all.”

“The social swirl can be tiring,” agreed Andover, as he escorted her off the dance floor. “Miss Caro mentioned that you will soon be journeying to Scotland, and I have to confess that I’m rather jealous. An interlude of peace and quiet in the country sounds very inviting after the rigors of the Season.”

“The castle is surrounded by wild moors and rugged cliffs overlooking the North Sea, so unless you enjoy shooting birds or watching rain squalls darken the horizon, I daresay you might be bored to flinders.”

“And you? How will you keep yourself occupied in such a remote spot?” asked Andover.

“Books,” said Anna. “One can never be bored with books as company.”

The comment drew a chuckle in response. “I’ve never known a lady so passionate about reading.”

“Yes, well, there are those who love music or watercolors. I happen to find the printed word endlessly inspiring.” Anna fanned her face, using the cover of her kidskin-clad fingers to take another peek at the far end of the room.

The shadows showed no sign of life. Perhaps the Underworld specter was only a figment of her own overwrought imagination.

Tags: Cara Elliott Hellions of High Street Historical
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