Devil's Daughter

As they talked, West reflected privately that he knew exactly why people confided in Tom Severin, who never muddled an issue with moralizing or judgments, and never tried to change your opinions or talk you out of wanting something. Severin was never shocked by anything. And although he could be frequently disloyal or dishonorable, he was never dishonest.

“I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Severin eventually said. “It’s feelings.”

West paused with a crystal glass of brandy close to his lips. “Do you mean that unlike you, I have them?”

“I have feelings too, but I never let them turn into obstacles. If I were in your situation, for example, I would marry the woman I wanted and not worry about what was best for her. And if the children you raise turn out badly, that’s their business, isn’t it? They’ll decide for themselves whether or not they want to be good. Personally, I’ve always seen more advantage in being bad. Everyone knows the meek won’t really inherit the earth. That’s why I don’t hire meek people.”

“I hope you’re never going to be a father,” West said sincerely.

“Oh, I will,” Severin said. “I have to leave my fortune to someone, after all. I’d rather it be my own offspring—it’s the next best thing to leaving it to myself.”

As Severin spoke, West noticed out of the periphery of his vision that someone walking through the club rooms had paused to stare in his direction. The man approached the table slowly. Setting down his glass, West gave him a cool, appraising glance.

A stranger. Young, well-dressed, pale and visibly sweaty, as if he’d endured some great shock and needed a drink. West would have been tempted to pour him one, if not for the fact that he’d just pulled a small revolver from his pocket and was pointing it in his direction. The nose of the short barrel was shaking.

Commotion erupted all around them as patrons became aware of the drawn pistol. Tables and chairs were vacated, and shouts could be heard among the growing uproar.

“You self-serving bastard,” the stranger said unsteadily.

“That could be either of us,” Severin remarked with a slight frown, setting down his drink. “Which one of us do you want to shoot?”

The man didn’t seem to hear the question, his attention focused only on West. “You turned her against me, you lying, manipulative snake.”

“It’s you, apparently,” Severin said to West. “Who is he? Did you sleep with his wife?”

“I don’t know,” West said sullenly, knowing he should be frightened of an unhinged man aiming a pistol at him. But it took too much energy to care. “You forgot to cock the hammer,” he told the man, who immediately pulled it back.

“Don’t encourage him, Ravenel,” Severin said. “We don’t know how good a shot he is. He might hit me by mistake.” He left his chair and began to approach the man, who stood a few feet away. “Who are you?” he asked. When there was no reply, he persisted, “Pardon? Your name, please?”

“Edward Larson,” the young man snapped. “Stay back. If I’m to be hanged for shooting one of you, I’ll have nothing to lose by shooting both of you.”

West stared at him intently. The devil knew how Larson had found him there, but clearly he was in a state. Probably in worse condition than anyone in the club except for West. He was clean-cut, boyishly handsome, and looked like he was probably very nice when he wasn’t half-crazed. There could be no doubt as to what had made him so wretched—he knew his wrongdoings had been exposed, and that he’d lost any hope of a future with Phoebe. Poor bastard.

Picking up his glass, West muttered, “Go on and shoot.”

Severin continued speaking to the distraught man. “My good fellow, no one could blame you for wanting to shoot Ravenel. Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.”

“You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.”

“However,” Severin continued, his gaze trained on Larson’s gleaming face, “the momentary satisfaction of killing a Ravenel—although considerable—wouldn’t be worth prison and public hanging. It’s far better to let him live and watch him suffer. Look how miserable he is right now. Doesn’t that make you feel better about your own circumstances? I know it does me.”

“Stop talking,” Larson snapped.

As Severin had intended, Larson was distracted long enough for another man to come up behind him unnoticed. In a deft and well-practiced move, the man smoothly hooked an arm around Larson’s neck, grasped his wrist, and pushed the hand with the gun toward the floor.

Even before West had a good look at the newcomer’s face, he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself. “Finger off the trigger, Larson. Now.”

It was Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston . . . Phoebe’s father.

West lowered his forehead to the table and rested it there, while his inner demons all hastened to inform him they really would have preferred the bullet.

Chapter 33

West remained seated as night porters, table waiters and club members milled around the table. He felt trapped, and surrounded, and very alone. Severin, who liked nothing better than to be in a place where interesting things were happening, was having a grand time. He regarded Kingston with a touch of awe, which was understandable. The duke looked thoroughly at home in this legendary place, even a bit godlike, with that inhumanly perfect face and beautifully tailored clothes and that stunning self-possession.

Keeping hold of Larson as if he were a disobedient puppy, Kingston berated him quietly. “After the hours I just spent with you, providing excellent advice, this is the result? You decide to start shooting guests in my club? You, my boy, have been a dismal waste of an evening. Now you’re going to cool your heels in a jail cell, and I’ll decide in the morning what’s to be done with you.” He released Larson to the care of one of the hulking night porters, who ushered him away expediently. Turning to West, the duke surveyed him with a quicksilver glance, and shook his head. “You look as though you’d been pulled backward through a hedgerow. Have you no standards, coming to my club dressed like that? For the wrinkles in your coat alone, I ought to have you thrown into a cell next to Larson’s.”

“I tried to have him spruced up,” Severin volunteered, “but he wouldn’t.”

“A bit late for sprucing,” Kingston commented, still looking at West. “At this point I would recommend fumigation.” He turned to another night porter. “Escort Mr. Ravenel up to my private apartments, where it seems I’ll be giving counsel to yet another of my daughter’s tormented suitors. This must be a penance for my misspent youth.”`

“I don’t want your counsel,” West snapped.

“Then you should have gone to someone else’s club.”

West sent an accusing glare at Severin, who shrugged slightly.

Struggling up from his chair, West growled, “I’m leaving. And if anyone tries to stop me, I’ll knock them flat.”

Kingston seemed rather less than impressed. “Ravenel, I’m sure when you’re sober, well-rested and well-nourished, you can give a good account of yourself. At the moment, however, you are none of those things. I have a dozen night porters working here tonight, all of whom have been trained in how to manage unruly patrons. Go upstairs, my lad. You could do worse than to spend a few minutes basking in the sunshine of my accumulated wisdom.” Stepping closer to the porter, the duke gave him a number of quiet instructions, one of them sounding suspiciously like, “Make sure he’s clean before he’s allowed on the furniture.”

West decided to go with the porter, who identified himself as Niall. There wasn’t really a choice, and he couldn’t come up with an alternate plan. He felt slightly weak and foggy, and his head was filled with an on-and-off rushing noise, like the blasts of air that swept a train platform when a train was hurtling past. God, he was tired. He wouldn’t mind listening to a long lecture from the duke, or anyone, as long as he could do it while sitting.

As they all began to leave the club room, Severin appeared somewhat forlorn. “What about me?” he asked. “Is everyone just going to leave me here?”

The duke turned to him, arching a brow. “It would seem so. Is there anything you need?”

Severin pondered the question with a frown. “No,” he finally said, and heaved a sigh. “I have everything in the world.”

West lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell and followed Niall. The porter was dressed in a uniform, some kind of rich matte cloth in a shade of blue so dark it looked black. No gilt or fancy trim, save for a thin black braided trim on the lapels of the coat, and on the collar and cuffs of the white shirt. Very discreet and simple, tailored for ease of movement. It looked like a uniform for killing people.

They went through an inconspicuous doorway and up a narrow, dark staircase. Niall opened a door at the top, and they went through some ornately decorated vestibule with a ceiling of painted angels and clouds. Another door opened into a set of beautiful serene rooms, gold and white, with pale blue water-silk paper on the walls, and carpets in soft, subdued colors.