later, the Marchioness came through the door.
‘Devlin, you kept your promise. How good to see you.’ She reached out her hands to him.
He clasped them warmly and kissed her cheek. ‘Serena, you are in excellent looks, as usual.’ His brother’s wife had the cool beauty of the fine china figurines gracing the mantelpiece, disguising her warm-hearted nature. Her reserve and unceasing correctness could so easily be mistaken for coldness.
She coloured slightly. ‘Do sit with me and tell me how you go on. I’ve already rung for tea.’
He joined her on the couch. ‘I am well, Serena.’
She peered at him worriedly. ‘Are you sure? You look a little pale. Do your wounds still pain you?’
He laughed. ‘I am quite well. Thoroughly recovered and there is no need to fuss over me. Where is Ned?’
‘Attending to some business.’ Her brows knit together. ‘Are you in trouble, Devlin?’
‘Good God, no, Serena.’ Her solicitude rivalled his brother’s. ‘I have something to discuss. Nothing to signify.’
The tea arrived and she poured with precision. He sipped the liquid, brewed to perfection, and thought how different this cup was from the strong, leaf-filled concoction Madeleine had made the day before.
Serena spoke. ‘It was pleasant seeing you yesterday.’
‘Indeed.’
‘That young lady—Miss England, I believe—was lovely. Who is she, Devlin?’
He should have expected this question. He gave Serena a direct look. ‘An acquaintance.’
Her eyebrows raised.
He held her gaze.
Serena glanced down demurely. ‘Does she interest you?’
Did Madeleine interest him? Keeping her safe interested him. Making love to her interested him, but he would not explain that to Serena. At least Serena must not suspect Madeleine to be anything but a well-bred young lady, unchaperoned though she had been. She would not have mentioned Madeleine at all if she had thought her to be Haymarket-ware, as Madeleine called herself.
‘She is an acquaintance, Serena,’ he repeated in a mild voice.
She tilted her head sceptically, but was much too well bred to press any further.
They sat in awkward silence.
‘I should tell you I have moved, Serena.’
She peered at him. ‘Moved? For what reason?’
Devlin paused. ‘No reason.’
‘Some difficulty with the rent?’
‘No.’ Devlin hid his impatience with a small laugh. ‘Why do you suppose I should have difficulty with the rent? You and Ned. I cannot say who is the worse. I am not in difficulty. I am well able to take care of myself. At six and twenty I should know how to go on. I survived Napoleon’s army, if you recall.’
Serena looked stricken. ‘But you were so badly injured. We feared you would not live. You do not realise how close a thing it was.’ She fished a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘And you have been gambling so. Ned was concerned because no one has seen you for days.’
‘Ned can go to the dev—’ This was too much. ‘Good God, what does he do, scour the town for news of me?’
Serena’s eyes glittered with tears. ‘I believe he hears word of you at White’s,’ she replied in all seriousness.
Devlin burst into laughter. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her, squeezing affectionately. ‘Dear sister, I beg your pardon. I do not mean to upset you. I know you and my brother mean well, but you forget I’m out of leading strings.’
She blushed and straightened her posture. ‘I am sure we do not.’
‘Tell me how you and Ned go on? Is my brother still managing the family affairs to perfection?’
Serena lifted her chin protectively. ‘Ned has much on his shoulders.’
Devlin gave her a kind smile. ‘Indeed he does. He is a man to admire, Serena. I mean that.’
‘I have heard from your sisters and brother. They are excellent correspondents.’
Unlike himself who wrote little and visited less.
‘Indeed? What is the family news?’
Serena, with a wistfulness in her voice, chattered on about the trifling activities of his nephews and nieces. Percy’s son, Jeffrey, the eldest, at Eton. Rebecca, Helen’s daughter, learning the pianoforte. All the little ones merging into a blur. He listened with as interested an expression as he could muster. Serena doted on all the children. By far she was their favourite aunt. And he, the Waterloo Dragoon, was their hero uncle, even though he had difficulty keeping their names straight.
What a pity Serena had not had a child. Fate had no notion of fair play. She would make a perfect mother, and a loving one, as well. He suspected her disappointment in that quarter was immense.
‘And you, Serena? How do you go on?’
‘I am well.’ A sad look came over her face.
Devlin gave her another hug. She would not wish to speak of her disappointment at not presenting the Marquess with an heir.
‘Dear sister,’ he murmured.
She recovered herself. ‘Ned will be here directly. Will you wait for him?’
He had little choice. ‘Serena,’ he said, surmising a change of conversation was in order, ‘do you suppose Ned would mind if I borrowed a pair of horses some morning? I’ve a notion to ride.’
‘You will ride again?’ she said brightly. He had not been on a horse since charging the French, east of the Brussels road. ‘Indeed he will not mind. He will be glad of it, and I will personally ask Barclay to instruct the stable to provide any horse you wish.’
‘Any two horses. I…I wish to have Bart join me.’
‘Two horses it is.’ She smiled.
The parlour door opened and the Marquess strode in at a quicker pace than was his custom. Devlin stood to greet him.
‘Devlin, how good to see you.’ Equally uncharacteristic of him, he embraced Devlin heartily.
This idol of his childhood, his oldest brother Ned, usually did not betray emotion. Ned always could be counted on to remain unflappable when his youngest brother came begging for his help out of the latest scrape. Because of those days, Devlin always felt in awe of that tall, ramrod-straight figure. He always expected to crane his neck to look at Ned. It never failed to be a shock when he found himself half a head taller and his brother going grey at the temples.
‘What
