Surrender The Night (21 page)

Devon’s inscrutable gaze returned to Wendover. All eyes followed.

Wendover blustered, “Do you imply that I cheat, Cavanaugh?”

“No, I say it quite plainly.” When Wendover leaped to his feet, Devon said wearily, ‘ ‘Oh, spare me the histrionics. I can prove it. Harley, let me see the backs of the next two cards.” After Harley had set them out, Devon tapped the fourth eye on one and the tenth on the other. ‘ ‘See this eye? If you look at it closely, it’s a darker blue than the others. Counting over, the first card is a four, the next a ten.”

Harley flipped each card. The king of spades. A four. A ten. A collective gasp went through the room, then chatter burst out as the observers stared aghast at Wendover. Wendover’s mouth worked in fury, but his hands stayed at his sides.

Devon smiled sardonically. It was one of the few times his reputation had worked in his favor. It would be tiresome to have to duel Wendover, not to mention ridiculous. Not a man in the ton would act as Wendover’s second under the circum
stances.

Devon held out his hand. “Farnsworth’s deed, if you please.”

“But I won it fairly!”

“Whether the cards were marked or not, you took advantage of the lad.” Devon turned an inquiring look on the others. “Don’t you chaps agree?”

“Assuredly.”

“By Jove he did.”

“Besides, according to the rules by which you played, I won it. The last hand was to me, was it not?”

Wendover snatc
hed the deed from his pocket and flung it at Devon’s head. Devon caught it neatly. “Have a pleasant evening, Wendover,” he purred as the marquess whirled and stomped off. Devon saw the manager of White’s pull him aside and knew that Wendover would probably be barred. He fervently hoped that the Cornwall mine had made a large part of the marquess’s income, though he doubted it.

Harley clapped him on the shoulder. “Capital show! I’ve always suspected Wendover cheated, and I’d grown tired of seeing him prey on every green sprig who came to White’s. You put him to the roundabout handily, Devon.”

Harley’s eyes were warmer than Devon had ever seen them. Since their Oxford days, they’d circled society in different sets. Harley had always frowned on Devon’s antics and, since his marriage three years ago, had become even stodgier. So why, Devon wondered, did he suddenly feel envious of this heavy- set, ordinary-looking man he’d only tolerated in the past? “How is Ann, Harley?”

Harley beamed. “Right as rain. She’s in confinement now at my estate. Our second, you know. Probably another handsome little boy, according to the midwife.”

Devon almost winced at Harley’s obvious happiness. Some of his own glow at besting Wendover faded. “Wish you both a healthy heir.” He waved carelessly before walking off to call for his carriage.

He entered his town house just as the sun burst over the horizon. He yawned and stretched his aching neck.
He must be getting old. Gaming the night through had never tired him so in his salad days. A voice arrested his weary climb up the stairs.

“Devvie lad, I’ve got the newest report, if ye want to see it.” Billy came out of the study with a paper in his hand.

Devon turned eagerly and leaped down the three steps in a bound. “Yes? Have they found her?”

Billy raised a hand, palm outward. “Whoa there, lad. I said naught o’ that. In truth the news is not good. But ye said ye wanted to always see the monthly reports soon as they come in. . . .” Billy trailed off as Devon, his energy evaporating as quickly as it had formed, took the paper.

His arm brushed against his jacket, and a rustling made him pause. He drew Farnsworth’s deed from his pocket and handed it to Billy. “Send this along to young Farnsworth, but hire a messenger. I don’t want my livery seen. No message goes with it.” Then he trudged into the study.

Ten minutes later he crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. Resting his head against the chair back, he closed his eyes. Two years. Nothing in two years of looking. He and Billy had searched, at first. They must have questioned every hansom- cab driver in London.

None recalled a fare such as they described. A doctor? Where would a doctor take an ill girl? They’d questioned other physicians, visited asylums. Finally, no other choice remaining, they’d turned their attention to bawdy houses. Perhaps this “doctor” was no more than a quack who’d kidnapped Katrina to sell her to a higher bidder.

Some of the sights they’d seen still made Devon’s stomach chum. If Katrina were imprisoned in one of those asylums where patients were treated like dogs, or one of the meaner bawdy houses where youth was soon made old, then the Katrina he’d known was probably already lost to him. She couldn’t survive two years of hell and emerge intact.

The thought that he’d himself sporadically visited such places made him sick. He’d always assumed  whores had chosen the gay life. Thorough knowledge of houses of ill repute, the people who ran them, and how they operated had since disabused him of that comfort. Thank God the Satyr Society had disbanded under the public outcry. If it hadn’t, he would have somehow put a stop to it. He owed Katrina that much.

As to what had happened to her at Madame Lusette’s . . . His thoughts shied away. Sutterfield, apparently, had not gotten much satisfaction from her, so perhaps none other had either. If she became ill shortly after her arrival . . . But that way lay madness, too. What if she contracted the pox and was still ill when she left instead of well as the madam believed? Devon ground his teeth together in denial.

She wasn’t dead. Somewhere she was healthy and cared for. He had to believe that. Something deep in the soul he too often denied knew he would see her one day. But how was he to bear these interminable, dreary hours until that day arrived?

Katrina. Kat. Without a glimpse of her for two years, or a whiff of her fresh scent, she was more appealing to him than the women who now sought his favor. At first, in his hurt fury, he’d availed himself of their charms even as he’d tried to drown his sorrow in wine. Both tactics had been self-defeating. Neither women nor wine could solace him. Katrina had touched more than his body. He’d not been able to face that knowledge before she left, but losing her had brought the truth brutally home to him: She was the only woman who could satisfy this need.

He remembered her laughing when besting him at chess, he remembered her crying as she told him of her fears, he remembered her reluctant but ardent responses to his embraces. He moaned and rubbed his burning eye sockets. “Damn you,” he gritted aloud. As had been more and more the case of late, his feelings seesawed between anguish and anger. He was beginning to suspect she wasn’t in London at all. And if he had the breadth of England to search, he’d probably never find her.

He had friends in the Foreign Office who were used to investigating and spying. They’d given him the names of retired officers who were, at a price, available to seek missing persons. Unable to find Katrina on his own, Devon had, six months ago, turned to two of them for help. However, they’d been no more successful. They’d expanded the search to the posting houses outside London and had thus far covered the eastern and northern roads. They still had the western inns to question, but Devon was not optimistic.

Surely, with all the hours and money spent looking, they should have found some trace of her by now. Besides, foolish it might be, but he felt that some gut instinct would warn him if she were dead or truly in danger. The conclusion was unavoidable: She didn’t want to be found.

The pain that gripped him at the thought made him clutch his stomach as if he’d been punched. God, how could she do this to him? Perhaps he’d been hard on her, but surely even her puritan instincts should not sentence him to two years of hell in penance for one month of stolen pleasure. None of his old habits appealed to him. Today was the first time he’d truly enjoyed himself in months. Perhaps he should consider buying his colors. . . .

In his misery he didn’t hear Billy knock and then enter. “This just come for ye, lad.” Billy dropped a document into Devon’s lap and flung himself into the chair opposite.

Devon spread the papers open. His bleary eyes cleared a bit as he read. When he was finished, he tapped the sheaf thoughtfully against one knee. Finally he looked at Billy.

“What do you say to a visit to Cornwall, Billy?”

“Cornwall? I thought ye were hell-bent and determined to find the lass?”

Devon’s lip curled. “She’s probably safe as some man’s mistress, gladly giving him nightly what I had to fight for.”

“Ye don’t really believe that, lad.”

“I don’t know what I believe any longer, Billy.” Devon flung the papers on his desk and sprang to his feet. “But this I know: I’ve had enough of London for a while. I’ve always wanted to visit Cornwall, and since I’ve just won lands and a mine there, what better time? I’ve also got an old friend there whom I haven’t seen since my Oxford days who’s been urging me to visit. I’ll have the reports sent on to me.” Devon turned, saying over his shoulder, “Pack for a lengthy stay.” And he was even heard to whistle as he climbed the stairs two at a time.

Two weeks later Katrina cast uneasy glances over her shoulder as she hurried her steps. She’d always enjoyed storms in Kent, thinking whimsically that they were manifestations of nature’s temper. Here, on the moors, with no trees to shield the  peninsula from the violent channel winds, she had discovered that Kent’s storms were mere outbursts compared with Cornwall’s maniacal rages. She had no desire to play rag doll to nature’s tantrums.

Early that morning Rachel had warned her against going all the way to Gwennap. “There’s a storm comen’, and you’d not want to be caught en et.”

‘ ‘But with Will busy at the mine after the cave-in, who else is there to go? Birthing a baby is not so hard. I’ve assisted Will before.”

“Et’s Moll’s fourth bairn, and her eldest girl can help.”

“No, I’d never forgive myself if something happened.” Katrina looked away from Rachel’s puzzled eyes, drew her shawl over her shoulders, and hurried out. She couldn’t explain to Rachel how compelled she felt to assist Moll. Had her own circumstances been different, she hoped someone would have been there when her time came. What if mother or child died because she’d been too afraid to risk a storm? She’d lost one innocent life out of cowardice and selfishness, and though she could never recompense either God or her own conscience for that shame, she could vicariously experience the miracle of life.

Now, ten hours later, Katrina was relieved that she’d gone despite the storm. The birthing had indeed been difficult, and Moll’s daughter had panicked at her mother’s pain. With Katrina’s steady encouragement, however, Moll had found the last strength she needed to push the lusty baby boy, face wrong side up, out. Moll’s maternal pride at holding her first son had brought tears to Katrina’s eyes.

After she’d cleaned and diapered the small scrap of humanity, Katrina had planted a kiss on the downy little head and held him close. Then she’d swallowed her tears and given him to Moll to feed. When Moll drifted off to sleep after her own sponge bath and the baby was safe in his cradle, Katrina began the long walk home.

Rain had battered the cozy cottage during Moll’s labor, and she’d hoped that the storm had spent itself. However, while she was still a mile from home, a gale began to blow. Katrina tied her shawl under her chin and bent her head into the wind. It seemed she progressed by inches rather than steps, and her legs began to feel like lead. Dusk was upon her, and unless she hurried, she’d have to grope in the darkness for the turnoff to the cottage.

Windblown bits of grass and earth stung her face as she at last spied the turnoff. She sighed her relief and pulled her shawl down over her face to shield it. She needed only to follow her feet on the track to the cottage. Thus she was unprepared for the rough grip that hauled her to a stop.

She bit back a scream and twisted at her arm, flinging her shawl back. At first she saw only a shadow towering above her, but then lightning flashed. She beheld bold, craggy features, handsome in a rough way, capped by thick black hair. She quit pulling at her arm and went still.

“What do you want, Hennessy?” she asked. Her heart rate slowed, but not by much. On her town outings, and at fairs and social events, she’d not been able to avoid the young men of the area. However, most of them accepted her gentle, but firm rebuffs. Not so Jack Hennessy. Katrina had always wondered if he pestered her because he knew she’d advised Ellie to give him up.

For whatever reason, his looks and innuendos were depressingly familiar and precisely what she’d come to Cornwall to avoid. She was tired, hungry, and a little scared, but her demeanor was calm. For one other thing she knew of Jack Hennessy: He was like a wild animal; if he scented blood, he went for the jugular.

“Only a word wi’ ye, lass.” But he leered down at her dress, where the wind and fine mist had made it cling to her legs. “Ye’ve done a pretty job o’ avoidin’ me, but now I’ll say ma piece.”

“Yes?” Her face didn’t show her revulsion as his big, rough hand began to caress her bare forearm.

“I wants ye ta step out wi’ me. P’raps we can even go inta Truro and dine at an inn.” His chest puffed out as if he were proud of himself for being so generous.

“That’s very kind of you
Jack, but I could never hurt Ellie so.”

“Ellie, bosh! She ain’t got no hold on me. She sent me off, remember?”