Innocence in Regency Society: The Mysterious Miss M / Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I relieve you of your bundle?’
She shrank from him. ‘If you could take the portmanteau from Sophie, sir, I would be most grateful.’
‘Indeed. Sophie, allow me to carry that for you.’
The maid hesitated, backing away as if it were a precious burden unsafe to hand over. He nearly had to wrestle it from her grasp. The portmanteau weighed a ton. Surprising she had strength to lift it off the ground.
‘Where is your carriage, sir?’ Miss England asked.
Devlin laughed. ‘You mistake me for my brother, the Marquess. Perhaps we can find a hack hereabouts.’
‘Please, let us remove ourselves.’
He led the way, and the women fell in step behind him, like sari-clad females of India, keeping a respectful distance.
Perhaps he should have cast his lot with the East India Company. There were fortunes to be made, to be sure, but he had no wish for foreign shores. Not after Spain and Belgium—truth was, he had no idea what to do with his life.
Devlin glanced behind him, checking on his two shadows. The memory of his Miss England’s soft lips and bold tongue drifted into his mind.
A hack ambled to a stop at the end of the street, and Devlin quickened his step to arrange its hire. He assisted the women into the conveyance, and the driver stowed the portmanteau.
Devlin sat opposite his cloaked companions. ‘Where shall I instruct the driver to deliver you?’
The little maid huddled against Miss England’s shoulder. Miss England faced him, but he could barely make out her features. ‘We have nowhere to go,’ she murmured.
He rubbed his hands. ‘Is there no relation who might be persuaded to take you in?’ The coil he’d gotten himself into had just developed more tangles.
‘There is no one.’ She turned her head, but held it erect. ‘Leave us where you wish.’
Indeed, drop them into the street? They would be gobbled up in a trice. How long could he afford to put them up at some inn?
At that moment, the bundle in Miss England’s arms emitted a squeak. Two small arms poked out of the wrapping and wound themselves around her neck.
‘Deuce,’ Devlin said.
The cloak opened to reveal an equally small head with a mop of hair as dark as her own. The child cuddled against her chest, fast asleep.
‘This is my daughter, Lieutenant.’ Miss England faced him again and spoke in a trembling voice, both wary and defiant. ‘Linette…England.’
‘Good God.’
Miss England spoke again. ‘I do wish you would order the hackney somewhere away from this place. I care not where.’ She grasped the child more firmly. ‘Lord Farley might have a change of mind.’
Devlin instructed the driver to take them to his address. Where else could he take two women and a child when his brain was foggy with brandy and fatigue?
The passengers lapsed into silence. Miss England pointedly avoided conversation, and Devlin, angry at himself for his rash behaviour, clamped his mouth shut.
The thin light of dawn seeped through the London mist as the hack pulled up to a plain, unadorned building near St James’s Street. His rooms were at the edge of the unfashionable district where the rent was cheaper. It was an area best known for housing Cyprians of the ton and, therefore, acceptable for a gentleman.
His entourage spilled out into the street, the little maid grabbing the portmanteau before Devlin could reach it. He began to chuckle. To anyone passing by at this hour, the women would appear as two more fancy pieces under protection. As long as the bundle in Miss England’s arms remained covered, that is.
Devlin walked to his entrance halfway round to the back.
Wait until Bart saw what he had won at cards. The sergeant’s face when they came in the door would make this whole escapade worthwhile.
Devlin had once saved Bart’s life on the battlefield. Ever since, the older man made it his mission to take care of him. Primary among Bart’s self-imposed duties was tempering Devlin’s rash, impulsive nature—a task at which he was doomed to fail.
Live for the moment. As a creed, it was as good as any.
Hmmph, more like a curse, Devlin thought. That particular creed had gotten him sent down from a school or two, but, from the time his late father had purchased his colours, it had meant survival. Now, however, it meant he had the charge of two women and a child.
He glanced over his shoulder. The women were not following. They stood on the spot where the hackney had left them, looking as lost as waifs.
Devlin cursed himself. They presumed he would abandon them. When had he ever passed by a creature in need? In his youth, one of his impulsive habits had been collecting stray animals which he’d then had to conceal from his father.
He walked back to the women. Three more strays to add to his collection.
‘This way, if you please.’ He wrested the portmanteau from the maid again. ‘My abode is humble, to be sure, but will have to do.’
Miss England stood her ground. ‘You need not trouble yourself, Lieutenant.’
‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘We shall contrive something. The streets are too dangerous for you.’
With halting steps she followed him through the narrow alley. Her maid crept close behind. The sky had brightened, showing signs of becoming a magnificent day.
Devlin knocked on the door and only a moment passed before it opened. ‘Good morning, Bart,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘I trust you have not been up all night waiting for me.’
‘Half the night is all, then I consigned you to Jericho and took to—’ Pale brown eyes in a weathered face widened.
‘I’ve brought guests.’ Devlin smiled as he dragged in the portmanteau. Bart’s astonished expression was as rewarding as he could have wished. ‘Not guests, really. Charges, you might say.’ He stepped aside to let the women enter. ‘Bart, may I present my charges.’ He swept his arm in a graceful gesture. ‘Miss England and Sophie.’
The little maid stepped forward cautiously and curtsied.
Devlin tossed Bart an amused glance as he shrugged off his coat. ‘Where are your manners, Bart? Take the lady’s cloak.’
Bart, mouth open, did as he was bid.
Devlin turned to Miss England. ‘Allow me to assist you.’ He stepped behind her and unclasped the fastening under her chin, removing the garment.
As the cloak fell away, the child in Miss England’s arms whimpered in her sleep.
‘My God,’ exclaimed Bart.
Devlin laughed. ‘This is Miss England’s daughter…um…’
‘Linette.’ Miss England turned to face Devlin, and he had his first good look at her.
His memory had not failed him. Her face was almost regal in its loveliness. Her skin shone like fine porcelain, except for finger-shaped splotches of blue. Her lips were the identical colour to a rose that had grown in his mother’s garden. Her lush mahogany-coloured hair cascaded down her shoulders, the perfect frame for a perfect face. She met his appreciation with a bold gaze, her intelligent blue eyes reflecting both youthful innocence and knowledge far beyond her years.
Devlin’s breath left his lungs.
‘I…I do not know your true name…’ he managed, feeling his throat tighten at the vision of so much beauty.
She paused, her eyes searching his face. ‘My name is Madeleine.’ She added a faint smile. ‘Madeleine England.’
He remembered