Lord Ruin (19 page)

Devon glanced up to meet Ruan’s eyes. Even Ben watched in silence, saying nothing. Well, then. He saw but one way out. He must turn the tables, as it were, and make her fall in love with him first. The solution to his predicament was as simple, and as difficult, as that.

Anne left Cavendish Square quite late. For some reason, she’d expected Cynssyr would appear at Devon’s afternoon rout. But he hadn’t, and then she and Devon had got to talking until long after the last guest took his leave, and the time simply flew away. Just as it had four years ago in Bartley Green. Full dark had fallen by the time she recalled herself and made her excuses. Devon refused to hear her apologies for taking so much of his time. He walked her to her carriage and stood in the pouring rain until the carriage left the drive.

The rain made a lake of the street and soaked everything: her shoes, her cloak and her hat. Poor Henry. He took the rain as a personal affront to her dignity and his. Once in the coach under the flickering light of the interior lamps, she wondered what to do about Emily. The loss of Lord Wilberfoss’s suit hadn’t affected her at all, which relieved Anne no end. But she didn’t seem to care for any of her other suitors. Not even Thrale, to whom she was in fact well-suited. Unless Anne missed her guess, and she didn’t think so, Thrale was half in love with Emily, and without encouragement, either.

Indeed, Anne spent the last hours of Devon’s party watching her youngest sister act as if London’s most eligible and charming men annoyed her by their very existence.

A snarl of vehicles heading for the opera or Vauxhall or one of the dozens of entertainments to be found in town brought the carriage to a stop. The coachman roared at someone to move on. There came an answering shout and they rocked and at last advanced, but no more than the length of the coach. Anne peeked out the window. Raindrops flashed like tiny diamonds past the lamps to dash themselves onto the street. The carriage lurched again and instead of the black mass of another coach, she saw the street and two men at the curb.

While they inched forward, one of the men peered from under an umbrella that served as poor protection against the downpour. His companion remained lost in the edge of shadow. The first darted forward, directly toward her. Her heart leapt and with a cry that stuck in her throat, she let the curtain fall back.

“Duchess!”

She knew the voice. Leaning forward again, she flicked back the curtain. “Mr. Durling?” The massive shape that was Henry jumped from position at the back and took up a rather threatening posture opposite the two men. “It’s all right, Henry. It’s Mr. Durling,” Anne said.

“At your service.” Durling glanced over his shoulder. “May I introduce my friend?” A heavy cape shielded the man from the wet and from scrutiny.

“Yes, of course.”

“Duchess, I present Mr. John Martin.”

“We’ve met,” she said.

At last, Martin came forward to stand under Durling’s umbrella. He bowed and then Durling stepped into the street to avoid being skewered by some passing umbrella. Martin once again stood in the rain. Durling peered in the carriage. “What’s this?” He affected astonishment. “You are alone?”

“My governess has the night off, sir.”

Martin laughed.

“Might we trouble you for a lift, Duchess?” Durling asked. “I’ve not a coin in my pocket, and we don’t fancy walking, Martin and I.” He put a hand in his trousers’ pocket and turned it inside out to demonstrate his lack of funds.

She opened the door. She did not care for Mr. Martin, but Durling amused her, and really the rain might drown them. For the sake of Durling, she supposed she could tolerate Martin. “Come along, then. Where to?”

“Dorset Street.” Raising his voice for the benefit of the coachman, he said, “The home of Mr. Frederick Merryweather. I believe you know the way.” He fell onto the seat across from her, shaking water off his umbrella with a motion low to the ground. Martin joined them soon after. “He’s having a party, and we are sure to get a decent meal and failing that, a decent drink.” He placed his hat on his lap. Martin did the same.

“Besides,” Martin quipped, wiping rain from his forehead. “His servants are always extremely pretty, and I find that ever the mark of a man with excellent taste.”

“Mr. Martin, you’ve made friends quickly for a man who only just arrived in town.” She knew nothing of him, really, except that he had influential friends, a talented tailor, and that Cynssyr did not like him, which meant more to her than his having all the friends in the world.

“Oh, Mr. John Martin,” Durling drawled, “is the sort of amusing young man who gets himself invited to the best parties despite his lack of wealth, inherited or otherwise.”

Martin grinned. “I am never five minutes without a friend, madam.”

“How many minutes ago did you meet Mr. Durling?” she asked.

“Twenty, at least.”

“Martin and I are old friends. We met years back.” Sighing, Durling lovingly stroked the leather seats. “Ah, to have the money to indulge one’s good taste.”

“Nothing but the best for Cynssyr,” Martin said.

“Well.” Durling crossed his legs and clasped his hands behind his head. His mouth turned up at one side. “I shall enjoy the ride, but it’s the view that has me enthralled.”

“Mr. Durling.” She had to move her feet because Martin had stretched out his legs and did not move even when the toes of his boots touched her slippers.

“Julian. Do please call me Julian.” Suddenly, he leaned forward. “A renowned beauty whose name I’ll not repeat has been summarily dismissed from the company of her longtime lover, and I have it on good authority she will be at Dorset Street tonight. All the gentlemen are agog with the news. Who shall next be cradled in her alabaster arms? Tell me, Duchess, shall I aspire to such heights?”

“You’re incorrigible,” Martin said, laughing. By now, Anne’s feet fit smack against her side of the seat. In the semidark, she could just make out his smile and shadowed eyes.

“I’m told women like a man who’s a bit of a challenge,” Durling replied. “Tell me, Duchess, what think you?”

“I’m the very last person to give you advice.”

“Shall I ply her with roses and sweetmeats? Amuse her with my wit? Pen her poems? Well, not poems. Poems fail me most miserably, I fear.”

Anne laughed. “Try them all. One of them is bound to work.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I fear some fellow with more blunt than I will succeed in capturing her affections. I haven’t the funds for extravagant gifts.”

“It’s not extravagance that matters.”

“What them? My inestimable person? It’s all I have to offer.”

“You’re a woman,” Martin said to her. “Tell the poor man how to woo his beauty, for I tell you, I am tired of his complaints.” His grin reappeared. Anne was sure he meant to charm her, but she felt quite the opposite effect. “By the by, I shall take notes as you do, for the advice is bound to come in handy.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no head for romance.”

“What would win your heart?” Martin gave her an arch glance.

Durling leaned forward again, waving a hand to silence his friend. “What if I told you my heart flutters when you are near? Would that persuade you to me?”

“If ever a man said such a thing to me, I should tell him it seems a most serious matter and that he ought to consult a physician for a remedy.”

“I cannot sleep for thinking of you?”

“Warm milk is a cure.”

“A cooing dove is cacophony compared to your dulcet tones?”

The carriage stopped. “Dorset Street,” called the coachman.

Durling put a hand to his chest. “What am I to do, Duchess? My case seems hopeless.”

“It is,” Martin said.

“Surely not, sir.” She touched Durling’s arm. “But I should not mention cacophonous doves, were I you.”

Durling and Martin sat unmoving while they waited for the groom to pull down the step. Martin, apparently thinking she did not notice in the dim interior light, stared hard at her. She did not like his assessing look. She could feel the calculation coming up short. As Martin put on his hat, his coat sleeve bared perhaps an inch of skin above his glove, revealing a poorly healing gash. “I have a balm that might help that,” Anne said.

“It’s nothing. A scratch.” He tugged on his sleeve, covering the wound.

“Let me send you some.”

Martin laughed. “Don’t I know what Cynssyr would say if you did!”

“Cynssyr never condemns a kindness, if that’s what you mean.”

“As you say.” He nodded his assent. “Send what you wish. Durling will see it gets to me.”

“I wish,” Durling said without any of his facile drawl, “that I had met you before Cynssyr married you.” The glimpse of the man he might have been intrigued her. “You might have saved me from myself.” That made Martin guffaw. Durling elbowed him and the sound abruptly stopped.

“How could I save you when I cannot even save myself, Mr. Durling?” Anne said lightly.

The carriage door opened, and the two men stepped down. The rain fell as hard as ever. Martin pulled up his collar again. Durling bowed. “My compliments, Duchess, and my thanks.”

“Good night, Mr. Durling. Mr. Martin.”

Durling stared into the coach, never minding the rain. Martin, however, sunk his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the wet. “It’s true, you know,” Durling said. “He’s given up the most desirable woman in all of England. Well, almost all of England.”

“For another.”

Durling gave her a quizzical look. “Is it possible you’re the only one who doesn’t know for whom?”

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Henry came to close the door. “Home, Madam Duchess?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Home.”

He touched the brim of his hat and closed the door. Home. When, she wondered, had Cywrthorn become home? The moment she walked into the grand foyer, she knew her husband hadn’t yet returned from his day. Something in the air tingled when he was in residence, and she felt nothing now. Upstairs she changed from her damp things and went to the library to fetch a book. A comfortable sofa by the fireplace invited her to sit, which she did, curling up in one corner.

Sometime later, a shiver of awareness sped along her spine, breaking the pleasant concentration of reading. Cynssyr. Without doubt, she knew it was him. Hardly a moment later, in he walked. Hickenson stood behind him, holding a heavy leather case and looking anxious. Anne was beginning to think anxiety was Hickenson’s perpetual state.

“Good evening, Anne.”

“Cynssyr.” The sound of his voice, deep and smooth as silk, sent liquid heat flowing through her veins. Seeing him had much the same effect. “Mr. Hickenson.” The short man bowed.

“Please.” Cynssyr lifted a hand to stop her from rising. “Don’t disturb yourself. Hickenson.” Turning, he addressed his secretary. “We’ll finish up tomorrow.”

“The Livingstone brief, your grace?”

“Put the writ in my study. I’ll read it later tonight.”

Hickenson bowed. “Your grace.”

Once Hickenson made his exit, Cynssyr walked to the sofa where Anne sat. “I’m surprised to see you home. I thought you’d be at Portman Square.” Sighing deeply, he sat beside her.

“I wanted to rest. Something you don’t do often enough.”

“Surely, that’s the truth. This Livingstone matter has everyone all worked up. Quite the legal knot. The hearing is in three days, and I’ve a stack of papers as high as you are tall to digest before then.” She lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Mm.” He bent his neck to give her better access. “The Cabinet is making noises about sending someone to Belgium. Every time Eldon looks at me now, I fear he’ll ask me to go.” Anne gently kneaded up the side of his neck and got a soft groan for her trouble. Even that small sound contained an undercurrent of silk. “Thrale won’t see reason on the pensions bill, I’ve lost Norfolk entirely, and I’ve no support but from Canning on reform, and little enough from that quarter.”