The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 7

  He thought her shoulders graceful? She almost melted at the compliment before she mentally shook herself. He was just trying to distract her. “If Brock shot at you—”

  “And missed,” Rayne pointed out, although considering his present misery, a ball in a vital spot might have been the very thing he dearly wished. “Whoever is responsible, he and his companions were cloaked by the night. My injuries are the result of losing my grip and falling from the moving coach.”

  “Dear Lord, you must be scraped raw! You are lucky not to have been trampled by the horses.” Her hand came up to her lips. “If you had not escaped, they would have—” She could not say the words aloud. If the mysterious men had caught him, he would have been murdered.

  “They didn’t. Although they will wish they had if I learn the names of those responsible.”

  Brock. Devona closed her eyes, thinking how there could not be a pleasing ending if either man had his way. This was all her fault. She accepted it, even if Rayne was too kind to admit it. Taking up the cup of physic, she made him take a few more sips.

  “I was thinking of your plan.” She purposely spoke lightly, pretending that he wasn’t lying injured in his bed because he had dared to help her. “It was a sound plan, and might have worked. However, we have so little time, and now with you bedridden, I think we should make some adjustments.”

  His eyes narrowed to pewter slits. “I don’t shake off that easily, Devona.”

  Rayne was angry now, but later he would appreciate the gesture. The knowledge gave her the courage to end their friendship. “You are useless to me. Forgive me for saying so.” She set the cup down. Noticing a few drops of liquid on his lips, she pulled out the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve. He grabbed her wrist when she moved to blot the moisture.

  “You came to me, first. Intruded on my privacy.”

  Why was he making this so difficult? She gave him her best patronizing smirk. “My mistake, Lord Tipton. I accept it, and know when to move on. Doran needs my help.” Devona shrugged out the knots in her shoulders. “There are other surgeons.” She had no intention of asking anyone to help her, since she had learned firsthand the results.

  Rayne crushed her wrist. Ignoring her wince, he raged in his dry, raspy voice, “What are you planning to do, Devona? Hound and break into every surgeon’s residence until you find the right man to help you?”

  “If I have to.”

  The explosion she saw in his expression should have rocked the town house on its foundation. “You go too far. Even for you, Miss Reckless Bedegrayne. Take up with another man? The devil you will! And I’m just the man to see to it.”

  Finally, frightened, Devona jerked her wrist out of his grip and took two steps back. Despite his illness, she could see why men considered him a formidable adversary. “I think not. Do not bother to call when you have recovered. I will not be home to you.” There, she ended it. She should be feeling relief. She had never felt worse.

  “Devona. Damn you. Come back here. This is far from finished. Devona!”

  The desperateness and loss she heard when he shouted out her name almost made her turn around and run back into the safety of his arms. Almost. The tears she had held back slipped freely down her face. She raced out of the town house without looking back.

  * * *

  “Where did you go this afternoon?”

  Devona glanced at Wynne and then returned her attention back to the small orchestra. They were playing a piece from Handel’s Water Music, one of her particular favorites. There was such joy on the musicians’ faces, the music coming from something deeper than just their hands and breath bringing their instruments to life. She let the music sink into her, hoping it would soothe the soreness in her heart.

  “Devona?”

  “Sorry. I have not been attentive. Her Grace outdid herself this evening, I think. Did you want to play cards?”

  Wynne watched her closely, the protective mother, searching for signs of illness. “This is not you, Sister. What brought on the mulligrubs? Did you go see Doran again?” The question held no censure.

  “No. I did, however, attend an interesting lecture on phrenology this afternoon. The lecturer, Mr. Christian Wohlman, is an esteemed disciple of Mr. Johann Spurzheim. I was most fortunate to locate a seat.”

  “So what happened? Did you have the lumps on your hard head analyzed and discover something frightening? That you are stubborn? An odd ridge that shows you will likely drive the ones you love to madness?” Wynne touched her heart at Devona’s suspicious sniffle. “Here now, I was but jesting. We have known for some time of your stubbornness and that the Bedegraynes are a mad lot, even without your help.”

  “The room was too crowded to gain an introduction to Mr. Wohlman. Oz was there,” she added absently.

  “All this drama, for a moment of sulking. Really, Devona, there will be other lectures.”

  “I was not sulking about the lecture.” She spotted Lord Nevin in the distance. Devastatingly handsome enough to make any woman gape, he moved with catlike grace through the throng, toward the card room. He did not look her way. She was grateful, since she was not in the mood to put up with his flirtation.

  Wynne noticed his presence as well. Her lips tightened, and for a moment she appeared quite fierce, the ice queen a few of the vanquished suitors for her hand had dubbed her. “Do you hope to gain that man’s attention?”

  The coldness in Wynne’s tone snapped Devona’s attention back to her sister’s face. “I have it. The problem is what to do with it.”

  Wynne flushed; an uncertainty uncharacteristic to her nature had her carefully choosing her next words. “He is too old for you.”

  “He is eight-and-twenty.”

  “Too worldly, then. Heed me when I say that he is not for you.”

  For the first time, Devona noticed the high color in her sister’s cheeks and the nervousness in each gesture. Was it possible? She had never guessed. “Who is he for, Wynne?”

  “What? No one. A satyr is not a fit husband for any lady.” Wynne dismissed the earl and the subject with a sharp nod. “Stick with the Mr. Lockwoods and Lord Tiptons of this world. They will be kinder to your heart.”

  “Lord Tipton? I thought you did not approve of him.”

  “Odd. Of the two men, he is the first you acknowledge.”

  “Wynne.”

  Relenting, she admitted, “Disregarding his reputation, I like him well enough. More so since he kept my favorite sister safe.”

  “I saw him today. Before the lecture.”

  “Ah, the true reason for your melancholy. I need not point out to you that visiting him openly casts a certain speculation on your friendship.” With the flick of her fan she discouraged an approaching suitor. Wynne softened the rebuttal with her siren smile.

  “He has been injured, bedridden with fever. I think—I suspect Brock had a hand in this.” It was a miserable confession, and the horrified expression on Wynne’s delicate features conveyed acute denial.

  “Brock? I cannot believe—”

  “Well, I do. I tried to find him. I would have challenged him to deny it, but he was not to be found. Still, the evidence is damning. He would not give up the idea for revenge, even after Papa had forbidden it. I think he and his cronies saw an advantage to appease their thirst and took it.”

  “Does Lord Tipton agree?”

  Devona lowered her gaze to the closed fan in her lap. “I think so. He was so weak with fever. The notion that Brock had tried to kill him—” The helplessness almost overwhelmed her. “I told him to stay away from me. I would not welcome his attentions.”

  A flicker of amusement twinkled in her sister’s eyes. “You think to protect Le Cadavre Raffiné? I’ll wager his response was quite spectacular, and very male.”

  Devona pressed her fingers to her head; the headache brewing was not to be ignored. “Stop calling him that ridiculous name. He is not a corpse, and from our brief encounters I am not even certain I would consider him refined.
” Before Wynne could open her mouth Devona snapped, “Regardless, he is nothing to me!”

  “If Brock is responsible, keeping away from Lord Tipton will not prevent our brother from exacting family justice, nor will it deter your feelings for the man.”

  As Devona prepared to deny her sister’s perceptiveness a movement caught her eye. “Oh, rot. He’s coming our way.”

  Wynne saw the source of Devona’s dismay. Lord Nevin. “Have you toured the conservatory? Her Grace possesses a collection of exotics that must not be missed.” She stood, a blond warrior queen readying herself for battle. “I will deal with the satyr.”

  SIX

  “Tipton.” Brock sneered, the cards in his hand forgotten. “You look the very devil. If I had known you were in need of Hell’s Gate, I would have reserved you a seat.” The men around him snickered.

  The seedy gaming hell off Drury Lane lured all types of young bloods and criminals, daring to wager their fortunes and their lives at the turn of the cards. Tired whores postured around the room, hoping to earn their night fees once lightened purses and drunken senses pushed the men from the tables and into their beds.

  Rayne thought Brock appeared too well acquainted with the hazy atmosphere. All a man needed here was a good hand, a tankard never empty, and a warm, friendly doxy cooing in his lap. Rayne could recall such times when he and his friend Dr. Sir Wallace Brogden had sailed around the world on the Griffin’s Claw. Years ago, such idle decadence seemed satisfying. Now, Rayne considered it a waste of a keen mind.

  Despite the rumpled clothes and red-rimmed eyes, Brock was probably drowning in boredom. Rayne recognized all the signs of the waiting heir with nothing to do or prove in his life. Except Brock was not exactly looking bored at the moment.

  “I thought you’d like to see firsthand that your efforts to kill me failed.” Ten hours had passed since Devona had run from his town house. Bed and physic had improved his health. The fever was gone, replaced by a weakness that sank right into his bones. Rayne ignored it. Anger and a few other emotions he cared not to analyze kept him on his feet. He tightened his grip on his walking stick, trying not to show the group before him that he needed it.

  Brock noted the slight sway in Rayne’s stance. “You’re drunk,” he said, dismissing him.

  His reply was to hook the front leg of Brock’s chair and tip him on his snotty ass. Several of the men jumped to their feet, prepared to fight. Rayne held them in place with a glare. “This is between me and him. Let him be a man for once.”

  “If I didn’t have reason to kill you before, by God, I do now!” Brock tried to roll over to gain his footing again.

  Rayne held him in place with the sharp point of his stick. Sweat beaded on his forehead, an affirmation of the toll of his actions. “You tried. And failed.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “A pity. Let me help you with your memory. When your own father would not support your desire to challenge me, you took it upon yourself to arrange a little accident. Pinning me in the coach would have worked if you had had a few more pistols. Lucky for me, besides being a coward, you lack brains as well.”

  Stunned, the younger man just stared at him, then loudly exhaled. “You think I am responsible?”

  Brock’s outrage was palpable. Rayne felt the first seeds of doubt. “You have voiced more than once your desire for my death.”

  “A duel, sir. For my honor and my sister’s. I could maim you and be satisfied. Killing you would only inconvenience me.”

  Rayne removed the stick he had pressed into Brock’s throat. The man rolled over, pulling himself to his feet. “You might discover that trying to maim me is equally inconvenient,” Rayne promised silkily. He indulged in a slight smile when Brock acknowledged the threat with a shaky nod of the head. “Where is Devona?”

  Pride still strong, the younger man snorted. “If I knew, you would be the last I’d tell.”

  “Then think on this. She was beside me at the garden when that carriage tried to drive us underground.”

  “And it was you who was shot at later on. It sounds like someone is trying to kill you, Tipton. If he succeeds, he has my thanks.” Brock spat on the floor between them.

  “Your sister has her own enemies. She might share that danger, Bedegrayne. Whether you can stomach the notion or not, I shall be close. Very close,” he said, giving in to the temptation to provoke the man.

  Brock did not disappoint him. “You are the fucking devil’s own, aren’t you?”

  “You know what they say, Bedegrayne. When you trifle at Hell’s Gate, you are embracing all sorts of demons.”

  * * *

  The conservatory was almost vacant when Devona arrived. Most of the guests had moved toward the front of the house, choosing dancing and cards to entertain them. She took her time, her kid slippers barely making a sound on the tiled floor as she admired the impressive conservatory.

  It was a large structure. Glass and metal-framed walls with plaster columns holding up the ornate ceiling. Awed with the workmanship, she gazed up at the painted ceiling of a celestial battle of good and evil. The duchess obviously had an indulgent husband. Above the entrance there was a balcony, opening into the second story. Tangled vines draped the brick balcony like an old woman’s comfortable shawl. Devona tilted her head back and stood on her toes to identify the statues. Fat cherubs. Very lovely. This was a marvelous sanctuary.

  Laughter from above had her stepping out of view. She peered up, at a rustling sound; only the vines and a lifted leg of one of the marble cherubs were visible. Confident she would not be seen, Devona sat on the wooden bench next to her.

  “No, no, you mustn’t,” a woman from somewhere nearby moaned. “Even here, there are too many eyes and ears, my darling.”

  Devona covered her mouth with her hand to prevent them from hearing her laugh. She doubted the woman would be pleased to know how accurate her statement was. The man’s murmur was indiscernible, yet Devona was enough of a romantic to guess he was trying to convince the woman to remain. Under the reflective glow of the four chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, this would be a wonderful place to be kissed by a beloved.

  A couple appeared from the back of the conservatory, the lady struggling to put her curls back in place. Devona smiled at them as they passed. They entered the library and she was alone again. Well, she amended, except for the heavy breathers on the balcony.

  She had been kissed a few times, not even counting the devastating kiss Rayne had pressed onto her lips. She enjoyed the balls for the dancing, the crush of people, and the gaiety. It had never occurred to her to drag one of her dancing companions into the secluded flora and be kissed senseless. Devona eyed the room with a new appreciation. She would have to ask Wynne if she had ever enjoyed such a tryst.

  There was a scraping noise overhead, confirming Devona’s amorous companions were still around. She felt trapped. If she continued her stroll, the couple in the balcony would know that she had been eavesdropping. To return to the ball would place her directly in the path of Lord Nevin, ruining all of Wynne’s efforts. Indecisive, Devona bit her lower lip.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the pins holding her hair in place drop to the floor. Pretty glass beads were attached to the numerous pins in her hair, giving the effect of diamonds cast in a sea of cinnamon. Or at least that was the idea, she thought with a self-effacing grin. She leaned forward to retrieve the pin.

  The collapsing bench propelled her forward. She shrieked, landing in an embarrassing sprawl. A shower of stinging bits of rock and dust covered her. It took her a moment to move, her mind trying to form a coherent thought.

  Her head turned to the broken bench. It made no sense until she saw the broken head of a cherub grinning mischievously at her. Awkwardly, she stood. Her dress was ruined. Dirt marred the front, and there was a horrendous tear where her knees had struck the tile. Thinking of her knees made them start to burn. She took a few steps forward so she could
see the balcony.

  “Anyone there?”

  The upper story was silent. She also noted the vacant corner where the cherub had once set. An accident. Just a terrible accident. Fine tremors shook her slender frame. How did a piece of heavy statuary suddenly fall from its perch with such deadly accuracy?

  A noise to her left had her moving backward, deeper into the conservatory. Did she call this place a sanctuary? Feeling giddy with hysteria, she skirted several enormous pots packed with geraniums. Devona ducked behind the iron trellis, which created a living wall of ivy and flowering vines. She heard the shuffle of footsteps. No one called out or commented on the smashed wood and marble as one might expect.

  A horrible thought struck her. What if someone had helped the cherub over the side? If it had been an accident, wouldn’t they have called out a warning? Maybe it wasn’t an accident, after all. Footsteps moving closer had her crouching and pressing deeper into the foliage. She held her breath. Why was it so cold in here all of a sudden? She couldn’t stop shaking.

  A man came into view. Or rather, his arm and part of his back. He stood, stock-still, listening. It would have been so easy to jump up and startle the man. She could have babbled on about playing a game with her companions, then hurried out of the conservatory toward the rooms holding light and laughter. She did nothing. Something about the way he held himself made her remain hidden in the shadows.

  Minutes ticked by and neither moved. Devona slowly let out the breath she had been holding, and just as carefully inhaled. Voices. Voices in the distance. Sudden laughter. Someone else was approaching. The man moved his arm, and then was gone from her line of vision. What the devil had just happened? She had the wildest urge to giggle.

  There were more footsteps; this time pleasant conversation flowed with them. This time she did not care who saw her. The clawing need to run from this room and the house was overwhelming. Springing from her hiding place, she bumped against the wall of vines and straight into the arms of a man.