Innocence in Regency Society: The Mysterious Miss M / Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston

      ‘Likely,’ Devlin agreed. ‘She has a crony in town, I believe.’

      ‘And meddling proclivities.’

      For a moment the ease between them returned and Devlin could almost forget that his revered brother had unwittingly placed a young woman and her innocent daughter in jeopardy. Ned would disapprove if he knew of Madeleine, but would he be less tight-fisted? Pride prevented Devlin from revisiting his monetary request on his brother. He was less sure why he did not confide about Madeleine.

      ‘How is Serena?’ he asked instead, seeking neutral ground.

      The Marquess’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well.’

      Serena was not neutral ground, then. Had Ned’s anger something to do with Serena? Devlin studied him. The Marquess’s bland expression had a hard edge.

      ‘Good God, Ned. Is there some trouble between you and Serena?’ The sudden thought burst into words.

      Ned’s face turned to chiselled granite. ‘Mind your loose tongue. Your voice will carry.’

      ‘I am sorry,’ Devlin mumbled. Deuce, he had managed to blunder into more disfavour. If others had heard his ill-conceived words, the rumour-mill would carry the tale throughout the ton. He glanced around the room, but no one seemed to have given them the least heed. He hoped.

      Ned had not looked around, but maintained his damnable composure. What a soldier he would have made, thought Devlin. He would bet Ned could face down a battalion single-handed without flinching. But would he be able to muster enough emotion to strike? A soldier eventually had to tap into rage. Until their fisticuffs of a fortnight ago, Devlin would not have believed Ned capable of rage.

      Devlin felt light-headed. He ought not to have imagined battle. Images, sounds, and smells enveloped him. The thud of horses’ hooves, the cry of battle, the smoke and smell of musket fire. Men screamed. Horses squealed. Metal clanged against metal before thrusting into flesh. Blood sprayed and the stench of death grew stronger.

      Devlin pressed his fingers to his temple.

      ‘Are you unwell?’ Ned’s voice held genuine concern.

      Beads of perspiration dampened his forehead, as if the day had not been cool. The incessant thunder of French cannon echoed through his brain and his vision blurred into smoke-filled chaos. He could see the men, the shapes of their noses, the yellowed colour of their teeth, the stunned expressions as his own sabre sliced their throats.

      ‘Dev, you are white as death. Let me summon a doctor.’

      At his brother’s voice, the images dissolved as suddenly as they had come, leaving his emotions in tattered pieces. Devlin suppressed an urge to laugh. As in childhood, his brother had rescued him, this time from his own personal demons.

      ‘No doctor.’ Devlin’s voice was not quite steady. ‘I was woolgathering for a moment.’ He stood. All notions of grovelling for employment fled. ‘Would you excuse me, Ned? I must leave.’

      The brow of the Marquess wrinkled slightly. ‘Are you sure you are not ill?’

      Devlin’s mouth lifted at the corner. ‘Poor, perhaps, but not ill. You needn’t worry.’

      ‘I have my barouche. I will take you home.’

      ‘Not necessary, brother. The walk will do me good.’ His heart still pounded and his hands trembled. All Devlin wished to do was flee. He touched Ned on the shoulder and hurried away.

      A light rainfall greeted him on the street and he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the cool droplets pattering on his upturned face.

      ‘Good day, Steele. Been at White’s, I see.’

      Devlin opened his eyes and met the affable grin of Lord Farley. He merely nodded and made to continue on his way.

      Farley put a hand on his arm. ‘Pray, what is your hurry? Come with me to my establishment. I shall buy you a drink.’

      ‘I think not.’ Again Devlin tried to leave.

      ‘Come. You may give me news of Madeleine,’ he persisted.

      Devlin shrugged off the man’s hand. ‘I think not.’

      Anger flashed through Farley’s eyes for a moment before the amiable expression reappeared. ‘How does she go on? I hope she still pleases you, but perhaps you have tired of her.’

      Devlin’s emotions were ragged enough to plant his fist squarely in the centre of Farley’s face. He pushed past.

      The man fell in step with him. ‘I say, Steele, I hear you are seeking employment. Consider working for me. I could use a skilled gamester, and, I promise you, I would compensate you generously. I am again flush in the pockets, you see.’

      Devlin stopped, his fingers still curled into fists. He’d heard the tale of Farley’s change in fortune. ‘Tell me, would my employment include fleecing green boys—like young Boscomb? He put a pistol to his head after a visit to your tables, did he not?’

      Farley’s eyes narrowed but his grin remained. ‘An unfortunate incident.’

      Devlin attempted to walk on, but Farley kept pace. ‘Perhaps, if you are in need of funds, you would return Madeleine to me. In return for the money you won from me, of course.’

      Devlin’s fists tightened. If he’d had his sword in his hand, he would relish the sound of its steel plunging into Farley’s gut. Devlin gritted his teeth. ‘Do not speak of her.’

      ‘Oh?’ Farley remarked casually. ‘She has become troublesome to you, perhaps? She has a habit of doing so. I assure you, I know precisely how to deal with her.’

      Devlin spun toward Farley and, with the strength of both arms, shoved him away. Better that than attacking and killing him. Farley fell, splashing into a puddle on the pavement.

      Farley struggled to rise. ‘You have ruined my coat.’

      Devlin leaned over him. ‘I’ll ruin more than your coat if you dare speak to me again, Farley.’

      He turned his back and crossed the street, not heeding the stares of others walking by.

      Madeleine stood in the hall, pushing the broom here and there, wondering how one contrived to get all the dust into one spot so that one could use the dustpan. She decided to experiment on a little pile of dust, but couldn’t work out how to hold the broom and the dustpan at the same time. Linette sat in the corner galloping her wooden horse back and forth, while her doll sat abandoned on a parlour chair.

      Bart had accompanied Sophie to the dress shop. How could any of them have guessed that little Sophie would be the only one to find paying work? Bart searched each day for labour, coming home talking of scores of veterans like himself lining up for one job. And Devlin. More lines of worry etched his face each day.

      When Madeleine and Sophie took some of her new dresses to the dressmaker in the hope that they might return them, Sophie came home with a large package of piecework, Madeleine with the dresses she had sought to sell.

      She struggled with the sweeping. She was determined to do her part. While Sophie sewed and Bart and Devlin searched for work, she would care for the house.

      Madeleine tried a different way to hold the broom, sticking it under her arm and levering it against her hip. She pretended to be a simple country housewife. She cleaned the house and tended the child while her husband—Devlin, of course—tilled the earth. Their lives were a quiet routine of hard work, peaceful evenings in front of the fireplace, and nights filled with loving. Madeleine leaned on the broom and sighed. How wonderful it would be.

      She should not waste time in fancy. This silly habit of hers did not do her credit. She needed to solve her problems such as they really were. She needed work. Employment as a housemaid would not be the means, she supposed, although housework had never seemed difficult for the housemaids she once knew. They sped through chores with no apparent