The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 8

  Devona screamed.

  She struggled against the captive embrace, but strong arms had her effectively caged.

  “Dear me! Devona, what is going on here?”

  Wynne’s shocked voice cut through Devona’s hysteria. Her reserves spent, she sagged against the warm chest seizing the offering comfort. Wynne was here. She was safe. Devona tilted her head back, half-expecting to see the dashing Lord Nevin.

  Surprised, she all but gasped. The man holding her was just as appealing, maybe more so. The lines of tension in his face were cut deep by the shadows and he gleamed with sweat. He was also furious. Tipton. She never was so pleased to see him.

  * * *

  “Oh my, you all must think I am a real rattlepate for carrying on so,” Devona said, another variation of the apologies she had been issuing to anyone listening in the last thirty minutes. She held a cooling cup of tea her harried hostess had insisted she drink to settle her nerves. Rayne thought a good dosing of brandy would have been better.

  “Those statues have resided in their places for years, and nary an incident,” the duchess fretted. “Are you certain you are well? Maybe we should call for a doctor?”

  “Lord Tipton has seen to me, and says I am fit. Is that not correct, my lord?” Devona could not quite meet his gaze.

  Rayne knew she was trying to assure everyone, including herself, that she was fine. Every bit the lady, she sat primly, her spine Spanish steel, ignoring the fact that her dress was torn and dirty. Or that her hands trembled when she tried to smooth her disheveled hair. There were scratches on her face, hand, and knees. The latter was shown to him only under dire threat. She had taken the brunt of her fall on the right knee. The wound had still been seeping blood when he had smeared it with basilicum ointment and bound it.

  “It was all a terrible accident. No one is to blame.”

  He doubted she believed a single word of it. He sure as hell didn’t.

  “Please, I feel badly that I have taken you from your guests, Your Grace. I have my sister to see me home.”

  “If you are certain?” The woman was torn by concern and the obligation to her other guests.

  “Very. Thank you for inviting me.” She smiled, encouraging the woman to leave. With a nod to all, the duchess departed for the library, closing the door behind her.

  He would have laughed if he had not noticed Devona meant every word. The woman had just been stalked by some unknown assailant but would not allow such a trifle like almost dying to put aside her manners. Typical. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. At least his fever had broken.

  “Shall I ring for our coach?” Wynne asked, interrupting the silence.

  “Might as well. I do not feel like dancing tonight.” Devona touched her sister’s arm when she turned away to hide her tears. “You are not to blame.”

  A sob broke over her breath. “I was a fool to send you out here. I thought if I dealt with Lord Nevin, he would leave you alone.”

  Rayne’s interest perked up at the mention of the earl’s name. “What’s this about Nevin hounding Devona?” Rayne would call the man out tomorrow if he had anything to do with this.

  She gave Rayne a weary glance. “Old news, my lord. Wynne knew I was not in the mood to handle Lord Nevin’s flirtation, so she volunteered to distract him. No one could have predicted this would have been the outcome.”

  “Who else knew you were out here?”

  “I—I do not know. I never spoke to anyone directly, but if someone had been watching me…”

  Watching and waiting for a chance to hurt her. Rayne did not want to add to her misery, so he did not say the words aloud.

  “I will go summon our coach.” Wynne’s gaze met Rayne’s in silent understanding. “Keep her safe.” After a quick, reassuring glance at her, Wynne left.

  “You should not be out of bed.”

  He almost grinned at the chastising tone. Devona was definitely feeling better if she was in the mood to skin him alive for his own careless behavior. “I thought I had a good reason.”

  Her brow arched inquisitively. “Pray tell. I am quite interested in this reason.”

  “You left me, Devona.”

  The succinct reason rendered her speechless, a rare state for a Bedegrayne. Seeing that she was improving made him feel better himself. “Did you really think I would allow you to walk out of my life so easily?”

  She looked away. “I had hopes.”

  “Never, Devona,” he vowed ardently.

  “Brock—”

  “Is not an issue. I sought him out this evening.” Rayne did not bother to add where he had found him. After all, she was his sister.

  “What did you do? What did he say? Please tell me you have not agreed to duel!” She was gripping her ivory fan so tightly he expected the delicate blades to snap.

  Noticing that the ribbons on her slipper had loosened, he sat on his haunches in front of her and patiently began to retie them. “We haven’t scheduled a duel on your behalf. Although I might have given him a reason or two to call me out on his own.”

  “I do not see the humor in this, Lord Tipton! I forbid you to meet my brother.”

  Rayne smiled, resisting the urge to stroke her calf. He doubted she would appreciate his observations of her fine legs. “Still fiery, even when you’re spooked, eh, Devona? Don’t worry about it. I have no desire to face your brother. Even if he deserves it.”

  “Oh. Well, good.” His compliance had taken the steam out of her scathing reprimand. “I assume he admitted to the attack then.”

  Wishing he could linger and admire her legs, he regretfully pulled her dress back into place. “No. Not specifically. He seemed surprised that there was a line of enemies just waiting to hasten my demise. He prays for their success.”

  “Brock did not mean it.”

  “Oh, I am most certain he did.” He was not particularly disturbed by the fact. “His feelings will in no manner disrupt our plans.”

  Her shoulders sagged, along with her lagging spirit. “Rayne, I have not changed my mind.”

  “Nor have I, beloved. You are stuck with me.”

  The doors opened, and a burst of laughter and music floated on the air as Wynne entered. “Here, I borrowed this blanket from Her Grace. I thought you might want to cover your dress.”

  Rayne took the blanket, wrapping it around Devona’s shoulders.

  “That was thoughtful, thank you.” Devona stood, wincing when she straightened her knees. “No more adventures for me. At least for a few days.”

  Rayne scooped her into his arms. Devona squeaked at his bold handling, but her arms went around his neck without hesitation. He looked pointedly at Wynne, expecting her to argue. Instead she reached for her sister’s forgotten reticule and fan, then walked to the doors. He almost missed the hint of a smile Wynne kept hidden as she sailed through the doors.

  It did not go unnoticed that Le Cadavre Raffiné had Miss Devona Bedegrayne in his clutches again. With her mussed hair and torn dress, he was almost certain the ton would twist the scene and by morning word would be out that Lord Tipton had ravished Miss Bedegrayne in the Duchess of Lonsinger’s conservatory.

  He expected he would have the entire group of Bedegrayne males pounding on his door, demanding their chance to put a bullet in him. These demands for his death were starting to get tedious. Devona, too, would be quite upset by the turn of events. In typical fashion, she would set the blame on her shoulders. What she did not understand was that he never did anything without a purpose. Having her in his arms for the polite world to behold only quickened his plans. No, this could have not worked out any better, he mused.

  They made their way through the crowd. Devona pressed her face into Rayne’s neck, trying to pretend that the entire world was not watching her scandalous departure.

  “I will be calling on your father on the morrow. Tell him to expect me.” His deep voice rumbled in his throat, tickling her nose.

  “I will do no such thing, my lord.�
��

  A woman from the crowd stepped forward. “Miss Bedegrayne, I shall call upon you when you are well!” she called out to the departing couple.

  “Meddlesome woman,” Devona mumbled. “She wants to be first in line to gossip.”

  Eyes straight ahead, he cleaved his way cleanly through the guests. “Gossip is the least of your worries.”

  Oz Lockwood came forward, then kept pace with Rayne’s stride, since he was not in the mood to stop and chat. “Devona, I heard what happened. Are you hurt badly?”

  “Nothing serious, Oz. I will be fit in a week, I swear.”

  Oz nodded absently, then glared at Rayne for doing his best to lose him in the wake of guests. His frown becoming more pronounced, he grudgingly inquired, “Tipton, anything I can do to assist?”

  “Yes, get out of my way.”

  “Ooph!” Devona stared back at Oz, who had given up. She mouthed an apology. He shrugged and turned away. “That was beyond rude, Lord Tipton!”

  “The man irritates me.”

  They were almost to the front hall. “I consider him a friend. All he wanted to do was help.” She saw Lord Nevin when she and Rayne passed one of the open side rooms being used for cards. If Nevin was surprised to see her in Rayne’s arms, his expression never revealed it. He lifted a hand in farewell.

  “This is too embarrassing, by far.”

  “I will remedy it, when I call on your father tomorrow.”

  “Listen to me, you high-handed tyrant. I—” Her argument for the moment was forgotten when her attention fell on an older woman dressed in various hues of brown. Rayne had halted their progress so Wynne could collect their outer garments. Perplexed, Devona watched the woman. The woman looked somewhat familiar. A friend of her mother’s perhaps?

  “Let’s not fuss about donning the cloaks. I would rather we just leave,” she heard Wynne state.

  “Allow me to follow you home.”

  “Thank you, Lord Tipton. An extra measure of security would be welcomed,” Wynne warmly said. They were moving again, almost out the door. The woman in brown turned, giving Devona an opportunity to see her face.

  Good Lord, it was Lady Claeg!

  * * *

  “Truly, Devona. Lady Claeg, an assassin? Do you spend time pondering these insane thoughts or do they just pop into your head?”

  Wynne pulled the drapes open. The morning sun filled the room. Dust whirled and danced on the incoming beams of light. Soon it would take the edge off the morning chill. “I thought after a night’s repose, you would view the incident differently. I should have known better.”

  Devona kicked the blanket covering her down to the foot of her bed. This was not the first time they had had this discussion. She had mentioned it once in the carriage ride home last evening, again when a maid and Wynne had helped her undress and tucked her into bed, and now this morning. Her sister was no closer to believing her than she was last evening.

  “The woman hates me, Wynne. She thinks I have somehow corrupted Doran. Perhaps she was the woman I heard in the balcony. When she saw me below, she could not resist.” She tried to sit up, but Wynne pushed her back into the pillows.

  Wynne chuckled. “So while she was rendezvousing with her latest lover, she decided to complete the evening with a murder attempt. You are a strange woman, Sister.”

  A mutinous expression clouded her face. “She is strong enough to have pushed one of those statues over.”

  “And has a face like a horse, too. Who would ever steal her away and kiss her in dark corners? Give it up, Sister. I cannot fathom Lady Claeg is guilty of either charge.”

  “Lord Tipton seemed to consider the idea.”

  “Well, Lord Tipton would seriously consider anything that you tell him. His position is too tenuous not to.”

  Devona fought her way back into a sitting position. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning Tipton is more clever than the other males that have come sniffing around you only to be rejected. Or do you think his sole purpose for speaking to Papa is to discuss politics?”

  Her nose wrinkled as she waved the question away. “Oh, that. Do not concern yourself that I shall be leg shackled before you. It is only a ruse to help Doran.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Panic churned in her empty stomach. “’Tis part of his plan. He needs me to— Oh, Wynne, do you think he actually means it?”

  She gave her sister a pitying glance. “You may have been the one to shoulder your way into his life, but he is making plans to keep you there.”

  * * *

  Entering the Bedegrayne household had felt a bit like entering the lair of a dragon. One half-expected to get blasted by a wall of fire or stomped to death. The fact that neither occurred put Rayne on alert. Sir Thomas Bedegrayne, he was informed, would see him forthwith. Keeping his relief concealed beneath a façade of indifference, he followed the butler through a tight maze of halls.

  The small chamber was pleasant enough, the intricately designed glass windows positioned to capture and reflect the sunlight. Rayne had not been left alone. Wynne and a woman introduced to him as Aunt Moll had sat quietly working on their needlepoint.

  His hand casually fingered the note in his coat pocket. Brogden’s sudden return to England was curious, since he had once sworn that nothing could lure him back. A half smile played across Rayne’s lips as he looked forward to visiting one of the very few men he considered a friend again. Still, a man had priorities. Rayne was certain the fact that Devona was his made the lady a very nervous woman.

  The ensuing silence prompted him to ask, “Where is your sister, Miss Bedegrayne? I trust she has recovered from last evening?” Her absence concerned him, but it would not deter him from his purpose.

  Wynne glanced up. “Consider yourself fortunate we forced her to keep to her bed for a day. All around, it should make your visit here much more amiable.”

  Rayne never was given the chance to probe the subtle warning. The butler had returned. Sir Thomas Bedegrayne was waiting to meet him.

  * * *

  He supposed he had imagined Devona’s father to be an older version of Brock, shrunken and thin boned by the ravages of age. The giant who held out a fleshy hand held no resemblance to the young man who desired his death.

  Sir Thomas Bedegrayne was large, over six feet. Broad-shouldered and sporting a salt-and-peppered beard to match the unfashionable length of hair on top, he looked like the type of man more comfortable with a broadsword and a siege before him than with playing the social games of polite society. Meeting the older man’s gaze, Rayne saw at once where Devona had acquired her intriguing blue-green eyes. The older version skewered him as much as they assessed him. He could feel their sharp points all the way down his gullet.

  “So you are the lad Brock says is up to every rig and row with our Devona. Thinks he should call you out,” Sir Thomas’s voice boomed in the quiet room.

  Rayne could not recall the last time anyone had referred to him as a lad, nor when he had felt like one. “I appreciate your understanding in the matter. I meant no insult to Devona or her family.”

  There was a speculative gleam in those flinty eyes. “Such flummery. I expect as much from the crop of fops that preen for my lovely gels. If the rumors are true about your circumstances, I am surprised that you found the time to attain the polish.”

  Acknowledgment either way was an insult. Rayne knew it; so did the shrewd old man. If Sir Thomas expected him to respectfully back down, then he would be disappointed. “If you know something of my life, then you know what I have today was born of sweat and sheer will.”

  “Stubborn, I give you that.”

  “Useful to the man who has been denied all gentle things because of a freakish twist of fate,” he softly countered.

  Sir Thomas ignored the blatant opening. He leaned back in his chair. “So you are old enough to understand the advantages of the softer comforts. Is this how you view my daughter Devona?”

  “No offense, sir, I
find little about your daughter that is soft or convenient.”

  “You arrogant pup!” The older man’s blue-green eyes flashed outrage. “You telling me something is wrong with my gel?”

  Rayne blinked. He suspected whatever position he chose, the older man would argue it to his advantage. “She is somewhat forward.”

  The oversized globe Sir Thomas had been lightly stroking was sent into a reeling spin. “You calling my Devona fast, Tipton?” he asked; the edge to his tone was as keen as the look in his eyes.

  “She pushed her way into my household at midnight to meet me. You cannot call her slow.”

  “It sounds like you need to hire sharper staff,” Bedegrayne snapped.

  Rayne placed his hands on the desk in front of him and leaned forward, his stance intimidating. “My staff isn’t your concern. Devona is. The woman is quick off the mark and you, nor any other member in this household, has an inkling about how to handle her.”

  “Do you dare presume to tell me how to look after my gel?”

  “I do.” He paused, awaiting the explosion of temper. When none came, he continued. “Locking her in her room isn’t going to correct something that is born of spirit. She needs someone who can appreciate her reckless tendencies, yet can channel them so the consequences are benign.”

  “By God, Tipton. Are you asking for her hand?”

  Rayne found the older man’s disbelief insulting. Shrugging, he said, “We deal very well with each other. She could do no worse.”

  “The question is: could she do better?” Satisfied with the insult, he moved on, not waiting for a response. “Why should I accept you? You are an outcast to your family, to society. You are a surgeon!” He said the last as if it were something quite vile. “I’ll not have my Devona scouring the graveyards to satiate your need for dissecting corpses.”

  Rayne’s left eyelid twitched. He rubbed his thumb across the fragile skin to quiet the spasm. His lid twitched again. Trying to reason with a Bedegrayne was like reasoning with a corpse. Maybe he should reconsider his proposal. Marrying into this family could result in his commitment into an insane asylum.

  “Sir, if you believe the role of a surgeon’s wife is to play at being a resurrection man, then you know nothing of me or my chosen profession.”