said to set Ned off. They had disagreed reasonably for a short time. How had he ended up punching Ned in the nose, for deuce’s sake?
Worse than bloodying the nose of the Marquess of Heronvale was jeopardising Madeleine’s future and that of her child. How would he care for them now?
What a damned coil. What a fool and idiot.
He set a slow pace in the direction of St James’s Street.
He ought to have conserved his money, not rented the bigger apartment, not purchased as many lengths of fabric for Sophie, as many toys for Linette. He should not have purchased an entire wardrobe for Madeleine when she argued for only two or three dresses. Most of all, he should not have lost his temper with his brother. He should have remained calm. He should have rehearsed several cogent arguments why his brother should advance him the money. Instead, he’d allowed Ned to goad him until they came to blows.
He might laugh at rousing emotion in his brother, if only the result had not been the halving of his funds. Ned’s calm, dispassionate control, so comforting to him as a child, irritated him as a man. To think he used to shake with fear when Ned and Percy pummelled each other with their fists, Ned as out of control as Devlin so often was. It had been like watching the foundations at Heronvale crack and crumble.
This time it was his own would-be estate that crumbled—Edgeworth, twenty miles from Heronvale and ten from Percy’s estate. His father had aimed to keep them close, tied to the land that he’d purchased from neighbours who let their property slip through their fingers.
‘Land, my boy.’ Devlin could hear his father’s firm voice, his fist pounding the dinner table. ‘If a man has land, he has a future.’ His father would gesture to Devlin’s plate. ‘Land gives you good food and drink to fill your belly. Mind, you have never been hungry in my house.’
True, but Devlin had known hunger on the Peninsula where supplies were often low, and he had known thirst when wounded at Waterloo, waiting twelve hours in the mud to be found.
Devlin was ready for the land his father bequeathed him. Ready for work. He longed for hard physical labour. He yearned to work next to the men in the fields, as he had fought beside their brothers. Wouldn’t that give Ned apoplexy!
Devlin stopped in the middle of the pavement and rubbed his brow. What good did it do to think of Edgeworth? He needed to think of Madeleine.
It would not be at all difficult to find positions for Bart and Sophie somewhere in the family. Percy, especially, had a kind heart for a person in need. Indeed, anyone would be fortunate to hire Bart. And, if he knew Bart, the man would care well for Sophie. As for himself, he could plague Ned by visiting one sister after another, never complying with the Heronvale dictates. What prime sport that would be.
But what about Madeleine and Linette? He would go to the devil and drag Ned with him before he’d allow Madeleine to return to the only profession she knew and her daughter with her. Damn, he needed money to save her from that fate. Enough money for her to live comfortably and to rear Linette.
Devlin’s mind spun round and round. The only thing he knew with a certainty was that he was a damned fool and had failed the people who depended upon him.
Failed Madeleine.
Too soon he neared the lodgings. With a heavy heart, he turned the knob of the front door.
Madeleine stole a surreptitious glance at Devlin during dinner later that evening. He was unduly quiet. Something troubled him, and she did not know what. Did she even have the right to inquire?
If he were like other men, she would not care what problems he had. But he was not like other men. Would another man be so kind to her daughter? When it had been time for Linette to go to bed, it had to be Devlin to carry her up and tuck her in. For a moment she worried about leaving Linette to a man’s care, but that was foolish. Devlin would not harm her.
Indeed, he should not be so kind. It made her feel she could depend on him. It was dangerous to depend upon anyone. They fooled you, then tricked you into doing what they willed.
She cast her gaze on Devlin again, and made an attempt at conversation. ‘Did you have a pleasant visit with your brother?’
He glanced up and paused so long she thought he would not answer. ‘I spent an agreeable interval with my sister-in-law.’
What did that mean?
‘Scrapped with your brother, did you?’ Bart snorted. ‘That explains your black looks.’
Devlin did not banter back at Bart as was usual. Instead, he rubbed his forehead and stared down at his plate. Madeleine frowned. Bart should leave off scolding this time. Something was indeed wrong.
Sophie, her usual wary expression on her face, popped up to gather the dirty dishes. She had a cat’s sense for danger.
Little had been eaten from Devlin’s plate. ‘Leave the dishes a bit, Sophie. I wish to speak to all of you.’
Madeleine’s pulse accelerated. No good news could be forthcoming.
‘Let us clear the dishes first,’ Madeleine suggested. ‘It will be more comfortable.’ And it would delay the inevitable.
Devlin released a breath. ‘Very well, remove the dishes, but return promptly, if you please.’
‘I will help.’ Madeleine picked up her own plate and Devlin’s.
‘I can do it, Maddy,’ Sophie said.
‘I want to help,’ Madeleine countered. She was able to clear dishes, at least. No special skill needed for that. Besides, it helped quiet her nerves to be busy.
Madeleine returned to her seat next to Devlin. He had poured small glasses of port for all of them and his eyes held such a pained expression, the fear rose in her once more.
What other kind of bad news could there be, except she, Linette and Sophie would have to leave? She clenched her hands together in her lap.
Devlin toyed with his glass of port. He cleared his throat. ‘I visited my brother to request an advance of the money due me in two months’ time. We have wound up a little short—’
‘Because of my dresses.’ Madeleine moaned, misery and guilt swirling inside her.
He held the glass still. ‘Not only your dresses, Maddy. My mismanagement is primarily the blame.’
‘Now, lad…’ Bart began, an uncharacteristic soothing tone in his voice.
Devlin cleared his throat. ‘You see, I had decided the way out of our difficulties was to make the request of my brother. Unfortunately, I had not counted on the Marquess refusing.’
‘The man refused?’ Bart’s thick eyebrows shot up.
‘I fear so.’
‘No worry, Dev. We shall manage.’ Bart nodded his head as if convincing himself as well as the others. ‘We can practise some economy. We shall do nicely.’
Devlin gave a dry laugh. ‘You have not yet heard the worst of it, my friend. Not only did my brother refuse an advance, he cut my allowance in half. I
