Devil's Daughter

“Henry wanted us to be together.”

“Edward, even before I knew about Ruth Parris and the loan money, I had already decided—”

“You must overlook her,” he interrupted desperately, “just as I will overlook any indiscretions on your part. It can all be forgotten. I’ll perform any penance you ask, but we will put this behind us. I’ll have the boy sent abroad and raised there. We’ll never see him. He’ll be better off that way, and so will we.”

“No, Edward. No one would be better off. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Neither are you,” he retorted.

Perhaps he was right: thoughts were colliding in her head. She didn’t know whether to believe him about Henry. She had known Henry so well, his sweetness and forbearing, his concern for others. But he had also been a man of his class, raised to respect the boundaries between high and low, with a full understanding of the consequences should the order of things be disrupted. Had Henry really given his blessing to a future union between his cousin and wife, in full knowledge of poor Ruth Parris and her chance-born child?

Then, almost magically, the turmoil and distress subsided, and everything became clear.

She had loved and respected her husband and had always heeded his opinions. But from now on, she would trust her own sense of right and wrong. The sin was not love, but the lack of it. The thing to fear was not scandal, but the betrayal of one’s own morality.

“You are I are not going to marry, Edward,” she said, actually feeling a bit sorry for him, when he was so obviously making ruinous choices for himself. “There will be much for us discuss in the coming days, including a tangle of legal matters. I want you to resign the executorship of the will, and step aside as trustee of the estate—and I beg you not to make the process difficult. For now, I would like you to leave.”

He seemed aghast. “You’re being irrational. You’re going against what Henry wanted. I will take no action until you’ve calmed down.”

“I’m perfectly calm. Do as you see fit. I’m going to seek the counsel of solicitors.” She softened as she saw how distraught he was. “I’ll always be fond of you, Edward. Nothing will erase all the kindness you’ve shown me in the past. I would never vindictive, but I want any legal association between us terminated.”

“I can’t lose you,” he said desperately. “My God, what is happening? Why can’t you see reason?” He stared at her as if she were a stranger. “Were you intimate with Ravenel? Did he seduce you? Force you?”

Phoebe let out a short sigh of exasperation and left the settee, striding rapidly to the threshold. “Please leave, Edward.”

“Something has happened to you. You’re not yourself.”

“Do you think so?” she asked. “Then you’ve never known me at all. I am wholly myself—and I will never marry a man who would want me to be any less than I am.”

Chapter 32

“Good God, Ravenel,” Tom Severin commented as West entered his carriage and took the seat opposite him, “I’ve seen better groomed whorehouse rats.”

West responded with a surly glance. In the week since he’d left the Clare Estate, primping and self-grooming had not been a high priority. He had shaved recently—a day or two ago—maybe three—and he was more or less clean, and his clothes were good quality even if they hadn’t been pressed or starched. His shoes could use some polishing, and yes, his breath was a bit rank, as one would expect after days of drinking too much and eating too little. Admittedly, he wasn’t a fashion plate.

West had been staying at the terrace apartment he’d maintained even after having taken up residence in Hampshire. Although he could have made use of Ravenel House, the family’s London home, he’d always preferred to maintain his privacy. A cookmaid came once or twice a week to clean. She had been there yesterday, wrinkling her nose as she’d gone from room to room, picking up empty bottles and dirty glasses. She’d refused to leave until West had eaten part of a sandwich and some pickled carrot slices in front of her, and she had scowled when he’d insisted on washing it down with some fettled porter.

“You’ve a thirsty soul, Mr. Ravenel,” she’d said darkly. He could have sworn she’d poured out the rest of the porter before she’d left—surely he couldn’t have downed all of it in one afternoon. But maybe he had. It all felt wretchedly familiar, this churning in his gut, this endless poisonous craving that nothing would satisfy. As if he could drown in a lake of gin and still want more.

He’d been in reasonably good condition, that morning he’d left the Clare Estate. He’d breakfasted with Phoebe and the children, smiling at the sight of Stephen’s small hands grasping bits of fried bacon and mashing buttered toast into shapeless wads. Justin had asked more than once when he would return, and West had found himself responding the way he’d always hated in childhood when adults would say, “Someday,” or “We’ll see,” or “When the time is right.” Which everyone, even a child, knew meant “No.”

Phoebe, damn her, had behaved in the cruelest way possible, by being calm and gentle and understanding. It would have been so much easier for him if she’d pouted or been spiteful.

She’d kissed him goodbye at the front door before he’d gone to the train station . . . clasping one side of his face with a slender hand, her soft mouth brushing his cheek, her fragrance sweet in his nostrils. He’d closed his eyes, feeling as if he were surrounded by flower petals.

And then she’d let him go.

It was at the train station that the bad feeling had overcome him, a mixture of grayness, exhaustion, and powerful thirst. He’d planned to buy a ticket for Eversby Priory, and had instead found himself asking for Waterloo Station, with the vague intention of stopping in London for a night. That stop-over had turned into two days, then three, and then somehow he’d lost the wherewithal to make any decisions about anything. Something was wrong with him. He didn’t want to go back to Hampshire. He didn’t want to be anywhere.

It was as if he’d been taken over by some outside force that now controlled everything he did. Like demonic possession—he’d read about the condition in which one or more evil spirits would enter a man’s body and take away his will. But in his case, there was no speaking in tongues, lunatic ravings, or doing violence to himself or others. If he was unwittingly hosting demons, they were very sad, lethargic ones who wanted him to take long naps.

Of all the people he knew in London, the only one West found himself reaching out to for companionship was Tom Severin. He hadn’t wanted to be alone this evening, but he hadn’t wanted to spend time with someone like Winterborne or Ransom, who would ask questions and offer unwanted opinions, and try to push him into doing something he didn’t want to do. He wanted to keep company with a friend who didn’t care about him or his problems. Conveniently, that was exactly what Severin wanted, and so they had agreed to meet for an evening of drinking and carousing in London.

“Let’s stop off at my house first,” Severin suggested, eyeing his scuffed shoes with disfavor, “and my valet can do something to spruce you up.”

“I look well enough for our usual haunts,” West said, staring at the passing scenery as the carriage lurched and rolled through the streets. “If you’re too fastidious for me, let me out at the next corner.”

“No, never mind. But we’re not going to the usual places tonight. We’re going to Jenner’s.”

West jerked at the name and stared at him incredulously. The very last place in London he wanted to go was the gentlemen’s club owned by Phoebe’s father. “The hell you say. Stop the bloody carriage, I’m getting out.”

“What do you care where you do your drinking, so long as someone keeps pouring? Come, Ravenel, I don’t want to go alone.”

“Why do you assume they’ll let you past the front door?”

“That’s just it: I’ve been on the membership waiting list for five years, and last week I was finally allowed in. I thought I was going to have to have someone killed to clear a space, but thankfully some old codger passed away and spared me the trouble.”

“Congratulations,” West said acidly. “But I can’t go in there. I don’t want to risk crossing paths with Kingston. He visits now and then to keep his thumb on the business, and it would be my bloody luck for him to be there tonight.”

Severin’s eyes were bright with interest. “Why do you want to avoid him? What did you do?”

“It’s nothing I’d care to discuss while sober.”

“Onward, then. We’ll find a quiet corner and I’ll purchase the best liquor in the house—it will be worth it for a good story.”

“In light of past experience,” West said sourly, “I know better than to confide anything personal to you.”

“You will anyway. People always tell me things, even knowing they shouldn’t. I’m sure I don’t know why.”

To West’s chagrin, Severin was right. Once they were settled in one of the club rooms at Jenner’s, he found himself telling Severin far more than he’d intended. He blamed the surroundings. These rooms had been designed for comfort, with deep leather, button-back Chesterfield couches and chairs, tables laden with crystal decanters and glasses, crisply ironed newspapers and bronze cigar stands. The low, box-paneled ceilings and the thick Persian carpeting served to muffle noise and encourage private conversation. The main hall and the hazard room were more obviously extravagant, almost theatrical, with enough gold ornamentation to make a baroque church blush. They were places to socialize, gamble, and amuse oneself. In these rooms, however, powerful men conducted business and politics, sometimes altering the course of the Empire in ways the public would never know.