Betrayal. Georgina Devon

objects in this single room. Not to mention Deverell.

      Trying to stow his gear under the bed, she accidentally knocked the mattress. Dev opened his eyes, their usual bright clarity muddy from sleep. His light brown hair lay like thick satin across his broad forehead. He grinned and Pippa thought her knees would fail.

      ‘You’re back from the hospital early,’ he said, grimacing as he pulled himself up in bed until he lay propped up against the pillows.

      ‘You should not do that yourself,’ Pippa scolded, rushing to help him get comfortable.

      ‘I have done this before.’ His gaze darted to her, his knuckles white where he gripped the sheet. ‘Did you find out about Patrick?’

      Pippa gulped. He wanted so badly to find out what had happened to Patrick. ‘I know you’re eager for information, but no one I could reach knew anything. I couldn’t get into Wellington or even his aide.’ She sighed and added softly, ‘As usual.’

      Dev frowned, but his grip on the sheets eased. ‘Well, no news is good news, or so the saying goes. Patrick is very likely doing better than I am.’

      ‘I would not be surprised,’ Pippa said, wanting to ease his anxiety about his friend. ‘I understand how it is when you are worried about someone.’

      He smiled at her. ‘I know you do, and we’ll do something about that. Wellington will see me. I promise you that.’

      She returned his smile, her stomach doing funny things. ‘I know. I wish I could have helped you today.’

      ‘You helped by trying. How about my rooms?’ He gave her a devilish grin. ‘If I remember right, that was another errand I asked you to do for me.’

      Chagrin pulled her mouth down. ‘And again I have no good news. The innkeeper gave your rooms away.’

      Dev fell back into the pillows. ‘That is not surprising. I shall just have to find others.’

      Pippa shook her head. ‘There are none to be had. Brussels is filled with every Englishman and woman who wanted to travel to the Continent in the past years but could not because of Napoleon.’

      ‘I should have thought of that,’ Dev said. ‘Oh, well. We will make do.’

      ‘That we will,’ Pippa said, picking up the concoction of bark and water she had left on the table by the bed and giving him a purposeful look. ‘You were supposed to drink this.’

      He returned her gaze complacently. ‘It tastes bitter.’

      Without conscious intent, she assumed her position of hands on hips. Exasperation made her voice breathy. ‘You are like a child about this medicine. If you don’t drink this for the pain, you won’t be able to rest. If you don’t rest, you will be longer healing.’

      Dev cocked one devilish brow. ‘You fuss like an old woman, and you’re not even old enough to grow a decent beard. And speaking of which…did you get my gear? A shave would be the very thing to make me feel human again.’

      Pippa’s heart, which had speeded up at his reference to an old woman, eased as her patient’s thoughts turned to his grooming. ‘I have all your things, and a heavy load it was. Most of it is in your trunk in Madame’s cellar. Only a portmanteau is here. Are you one of those dandies who must dress to perfection for everything? Although you certainly weren’t dressed correctly for the battlefield.’ She shook her head in private amazement at the fact that he had fought in evening dress.

      Dev smiled, a rakish baring of perfect teeth. Memories of enjoyable times sparkled in his eyes. ‘I dare say I wasn’t the only one out of uniform. A group of us went directly from the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball. And I’d do it again.’

      Pippa left him to his memories while she pulled his portmanteau from under the bed and rummaged through it, looking for his shaving equipment. She found his razor, a small mirror, a lathering brush and finally a tin in which she found his soap. The exotic scent of bergamot, an ingredient for perfumes distilled from the rind of certain oranges, surrounded her. It was a very distinctive smell, and Pippa found herself entranced by it.

      ‘Is this what you use to shave?’ she asked, holding the soap out to Deverell.

      Dev’s attention came back to the present. ‘Yes,’ he said, the bergamot bringing back memories.

      He had first worn the scent the night he met Sam. She had seemed like a goddess on the stage, all aflame with the passion of her role. Losing her to his oldest brother, Jonathan, Marquis of Langston, had been the hardest thing in his life. Until now.

      He sighed and forced his thoughts back to the present. A good cleaning would make him feel better.

      ‘Help me sit up higher, Pippen, and then bring a tray with hot water and towels.’

      Pippen gazed at him, doing nothing. ‘I’ll help you sit straighter, but you cannot shave yourself.’

      This boy to whom he owed his life had a very definite way about him. Any minute now he would spread his feet and plant his fists on his hips, a stance he took when he was determined to have his way.

      ‘I can shave myself very well, thank you,’ Dev said in his chilliest tone. ‘You cannot do it.’ He gave the youth a once-over that made the boy blush. ‘You have probably never wielded a razor in your life. And you aren’t about to start on me.’

      The lad drew himself up and assumed the pose. ‘What if you slit your own throat? You are still weak and shaving is a very precise art.’

      Dev felt his lips twitch. ‘Are you a valet when you’re not healing? If so, tell me and I will let you clean me up.’

      Dull red spread over Pippen’s unfashionably tanned skin. The boy was in the sun too much. ‘No, but I have done the service for…for Earl LeClaire. Upon occasion.’

      Much as he was inclined to argue, Dev found that his small store of energy was fast depleting. ‘Show me how you sharpen the razor.’

      With methodical motions, Pippen stropped the razor over the sharpening strap. He had a grace of wrist that Dev could not remember seeing in any man other than his middle brother’s valet. But then Alastair was a Corinthian and well thought of in the ton, so his man was the best to be had.

      When the razor glistened in the bright sunshine pouring through the single window, Pippen gave him a ‘what now?’ look. Dev sighed.

      ‘Proceed as you would with Earl LeClaire and if you falter, I will stop you immediately…if I am not mortally injured.’

      The words were as autocratic as he could bring himself to be with the boy. Pippen looked too vulnerable for his own good, and when his chin trembled like a child caught with his hand in the toffee, it made Dev wonder how the lad had got to Brussels on his own, let alone how he had been so successful as a healer for Wellington’s victorious army.

      Then there were the boy’s soft looks. Dev very nearly shook his head in wonder before catching himself. Pippen had taken off the hot towels, which had been wrapped around Dev’s face to soften his beard, and lathered his cheeks, jaw and upper neck. Now he was applying the razor to Dev’s skin with a look of complete concentration.

      Yes, his saviour looked almost like a madonna. The boy’s hair was pitch black and too long for fashion, with curls that sprang in all directions. Some lady of Quality would want Pippen for ulterior motives. But some man of questionable virtue would want the youth for even more nefarious schemes.

      Pippen’s long, slim fingers firmly guided the razor up Dev’s neck in one smooth motion. A slight line drew Pippen’s ebony brows together and accentuated the pure green of his eyes. They were the colour of the emeralds Dev’s mother had set aside as a wedding gift for his bride. The jewels would suit Pippen.

      The thought was a leveller.

      Dev closed his eyes. What was he thinking? He had never been a lover of boys. His last love had been Samantha, who was decidedly female and several