Devil's Daughter

West went to the nearest chair and sat heavily. The upholstery was soft and velvety. It was so quiet up here—how could it be this quiet with the clamor of nighttime London just outside the window, and a damned club downstairs?

Wordlessly Niall brought him a glass of water, which West didn’t want at first. After he took a sip, however, a voracious thirst overcame him, and he gulped it down without stopping. Niall took the glass, went to refill it, and came back with a small powder packet. “Bicarbonate compound, sir?”

“Why not?” West muttered. He unfolded the packet, tilted his head back to dump the powder on the back of his tongue, and washed it down.

As he lifted his head, he saw a painting on the wall, in a carved and gilded frame. It was a luminous portrait of the Duchess with her children when they were still young. The group was arranged on the settee, with Ivo, still an infant, on his mother’s lap. Gabriel, Raphael and Seraphina were seated on either side of her, while Phoebe leaned over the back of the settee. Her face was close to her mother’s, her expression tender and slightly mischievous, as if she were about to tell her a secret or make her laugh. He had seen that look on her face, with her own children. And with him.

The longer West stared at the painting, the worse he felt inside, inner demons jabbing at his heart with spears. He wanted to leave, yet he was no more capable of exiting that chair than if he’d been chained to it.

The duke’s lean form came to the doorway, and he regarded West speculatively.

“Why was Larson here?” West asked hoarsely. “How is Phoebe?”

That caused Kingston’s face to soften with something that resembled sympathy. “My daughter is well. Larson took it upon himself to come here in a panic and try to enlist my support in persuading Phoebe to marry him. He tried to present his situation in the best possible light, presuming I would be willing to overlook his relationship with Miss Parris because of my own profligate past. Needless to say, he was disappointed by my reaction.”

“You’ll be able to help Phoebe remove him as trustee?”

“Oh, without question. Breach of fiduciary duty by a trustee is a serious offense. I’ve never liked Larson’s involvement in Phoebe’s personal life or financial affairs, but I’ve held back to avoid accusations of meddling. Now that there’s an opportunity, I’ll meddle as much as possible before I’m put back on the leash.”

West smiled slightly, his haunted gaze returning to Phoebe’s figure in the portrait. “I don’t deserve her,” he mumbled, without intending to.

“Of course you don’t. Neither do I deserve my wife. It’s an unfair fact of life that the worst men end up with the best women.” Taking in the sight of West’s drawn face and slouched figure, the duke seemed to come to a decision. “Nothing I say to you is going to sink in tonight. I won’t send you out in this condition—there’s no telling what trouble you’d find yourself in. You’ll stay the night in this guest room, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“No. I’m going back to my own apartment.”

“Splendid. What, may I ask, is waiting for you there?”

“My clothes. A bottle of brandy. Half a jar of pickled carrots.”

Kingston smiled. “I’d say you’re sufficiently pickled already. Stay the night, Ravenel. I’ll send Niall and my valet to draw a bath and set out some amenities for you—including a large quantity of soap.”

West awakened the next day with only blurry recollections of the night before. He lifted his head from a soft goose down pillow and blinked at his luxurious surroundings in bewilderment. He was in a plush, remarkably comfortable bed with soft white linen sheets and fluffy blankets topped by a silk counterpane. Dimly he recalled the bath last night and staggering to bed with the help of Niall and the elderly valet.

After a good long stretch, he sat up and looked around the room for his clothes. All he could find was a gentleman’s robe, draped over a nearby chair. He felt more rested than he had in a week, which was not to say that he felt well, or anything close to happy. But everything didn’t look quite so gray. He put on the robe and went to ring the service bell, and the valet appeared with startling promptness.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ravenel.”

“Afternoon?

“Yes, sir. It’s three o’clock.”

West was astounded. “I slept until three o’clock in the afternoon?”

“You were somewhat the worse for wear, sir.”

“Apparently so.” Rubbing his face with both hands, West asked, “Would you bring my clothes? And coffee?”

“Yes, sir. May I also bring hot water and shaving supplies?”

“No, I don’t have time for a shave. I have to go to . . . a place. To do things. Quite soon.”

To West’s dismay, Kingston came to the doorway just in time to overhear that last part. “Trying to dash off?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m afraid that jar of pickled carrots will have to wait, Ravenel. I intend to have a chat with you.” He smiled at the elderly valet. “Bring the shaving supplies, Culpepper, and see to it that Mr. Ravenel has a hot meal. Send for me when he’s fed and presentable.”

For the next hour and a half, West submitted to a barrage of scrubbing, filing, trimming and clipping. On top of that, he was in enough of a fatalistic and dismal mood to actually let Culpeper shave him. Fine, let the old cheeser slit his throat, he didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t a pleasant process—his stomach was clenched, and he was twitchy with nerves the entire time. But the knotty, loose-skinned hands were amazingly steady, the strokes of the razor light and skillful. By the time Culpepper had finished, the shave was even closer than the one Phoebe had given him. Although in a contest between the two, the view down Phoebe’s chemise still put her far ahead.

His clothes had been miraculously washed, dried and pressed, and his shoes cleaned and shined. After dressing, West sat down at a small table in an adjoining room, where he was served coffee with heavy cream, and a plate of coddled eggs and the thin, tender undercut of beef sirloin that had been fried on a gridiron and dressed with salt and chopped parsley. At first the very idea of chewing and swallowing revolted him. But he took a bite, and another, and then his digestive system began to hum in gratitude, and he consumed it all with indecent haste.

Near the end of the meal, Kingston came to join him. Coffee was set at his place, and West’s cup was replenished.

“Still not back to form,” the duke said, looking over him critically, “but better.”

“Sir,” West began, and had to stop as the muscles of his throat tightened. Damn it. He couldn’t talk with this man about anything personal. He would break. He was as fragile as a blown glass bubble. He cleared his throat twice before he could continue. “I think I know what you want to discuss, and I can’t.”

“Excellent. I’d already planned to do most of the talking. I’ll go to the point: I give my blessing to a marriage between you and my daughter. Now, you will undoubtedly wish to point out that you haven’t asked for it, which will prompt me to ask why. Then you’ll relate a few stories from your unsavory past and go through some tedious self-flagellation to make me aware of your unworthiness as a potential husband and father.” The duke took a sip of coffee before adding, “I will not be impressed.”

“You won’t?” West asked warily.

“I’ve done worse things than you could imagine, and no, I’m not going to share any of my secrets as a sop to your conscience. However, I’ll assure you from personal experience that a ruined reputation can be regilded, and gaseous society gossips will eventually seek new material with which to inflate themselves.”

“That’s not my worst concern.” West rubbed the pad of his thumb across the dull edge of a butter knife, back and forth. He forced himself to go on. “I’ll always have to wonder when my inner demons might lash out and drag anyone who loves me down to whatever circle happens to be propping up hell.”

“Most men have inner demons,” Kingston replied quietly. “God knows I do. And so does a friend who’s the finest and most genuinely moral man I’ve ever known.”

“How do you get rid of them?”

“You don’t. You learn to manage them.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Let’s not go in circles, Ravenel. You’re not perfect—we’re both in agreement on that. But I’ve seen and heard enough to be assured you’ll provide the kind of companionship my daughter wants and needs. You won’t seclude her from the outer world. She and Henry lived in that damned Greek Temple on a hill like deities on Mount Olympus, breathing only rarefied air. You’ll be the kind of father those boys need. You’ll prepare them for a changing world and teach them empathy for the people who live on their land.” His intent gaze met West’s. “I understand you, Ravenel. I’ve been in your shoes. You’re afraid, but you’re not a coward. Stand up to this. Stop running. Go take up this matter with my daughter. If the two of you can’t come to some satisfactory conclusion on your own, I’m sure you don’t deserve to marry.”