Page 11 of To Dare the Devil

“I have no doubt you would be an excellent choice, Miss de Beauvoir, but I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

“Liar,” she threw back at him, and he suspected she’d shocked herself with her outburst as much as she’d shocked him by the widening of her stormy grey eyes. He’d seen the clouds gathering there before him as he spoke. It was quite fascinating to watch. “You know it’s a good idea. You just don’t want me around, but… but you owe me this.”

Maxwell recoiled as though she’d slapped him. Well, there it was then. He’d been right all along.

“Why?” he asked, his voice rough. “What did I do?”

She shook her head, waving this away. “It’s of no matter now. But this is.”

“It matters to me,” he said furiously, and then calmed himself. Losing his temper was hardly a way of making amends, even if frustration was snapping at his heels. If she wanted to torment him, he could hardly blame her for it. He deserved to suffer, for so many things. “I beg your pardon, Miss de Beauvoir.”

“There’s no need. I prefer plain speaking, my lord, and I want this job. I’ll do it well. You have my word.”

“And if I agree. Will you forgive me for whatever harm I did to you?”

Her gaze slid away from him, and her eyebrows drew together. A moment later she looked up, her reply firm.

“I do forgive you.”

Well, he could hardly ask for more than that, but…. “And will you tell me what it was I did to hurt you?”

She shook her head. “It was a long time ago. You did not dishonour me, and any hurt you inflicted was not intentional.”

“And yet it has coloured your life,” he said, the burden of that knowledge settling upon him with such weight it was hard to breathe.

She held his gaze, and when she spoke her voice was softer, her forgiveness implied in the words. “You opened my eyes, my lord, that is all. I suspect you did me a great favour, perhaps even saved me from my own foolishness. It simply did not feel that way at the time, but I can see it now, and so I forgive you. And that is that last time we shall speak of it. Do we have an agreement?”

Maxwell looked down at the slender hand she held out to seal the deal. Encased in soft grey kid gloves, her hand looked small and fragile, and he took it carefully, barely squeezing her fingers for fear of doing greater harm.

“We do.”

She let out a breath, which he suspected she’d been holding for some time, and smiled and the force of it nearly knocked him down. Good God, but he’d been kidding himself. She was not merely lovely, she—

His startled brain thrashed about for a word to describe the sensation in his heart, the one that told him he knew her. He knew her heart, her soul, like he knew his own. Except that didn’t make the least bit of sense. Lust, he told himself. That was all it was. He was a disgusting excuse of a man and he wanted her in his bed and that was all there was to it. Well, not this time. This time he would behave like the gentleman his title proclaimed him to be, and that was the end of it.

Chapter 4

Dear Eliza,

You’ll never guess what. I’ve just had the most interesting conversation with The Earl of Vane about the school you are building—

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Kathleen de Beauvoir (daughter of Mrs Minerva and Mr Inigo de Beauvoir) to Lady Elizabeth Demarteau (daughter of Their Graces, Prudence and Robert Adolphus, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin).

12th May 1842, Heart’s Folly, Sussex.

“Thank you for coming, Mr Godwin,” Elton said, taking Barnaby’s hat and gloves from him.

“Well, of course. I came as soon as I read your note. I’ve been worried sick these past weeks, wondering where the devil he’d got to.”

Barnaby hurried after Louis’ valet. He’d known something was amiss when Louis had vanished without a word. He’d thought they were friends. Though he knew well enough that most people only tolerated his company, thinking him a fool, he’d thought Louis was different. Yet he’d not heard a word from him for weeks, and being so thoroughly abandoned had hurt until he’d realised that this was not about him. A fine friend he’d been, licking his own wounds when he ought to have known Louis needed him. Except, by then, he’d not known where to look. He’d been here to Heart’s Folly two weeks ago, only to find the place empty.

“Monsieur has been blue devilled for some time and so had been staying with his brother at Mr Demarteau’s insistence,” Elton said, speaking over his shoulder as they hurried up the stairs. “Except something happened two nights ago. He’d been waiting for something, I think. Information. Whatever it was, I don’t think it was what he wanted to hear. We left Mr Demarteau’s home, though he tried to stop us. I cannot say what happened, but it sent him into a pit of despair so deep, I don’t know how to get him out again. He’ll drink himself to death if he keeps this up and… well, sir, I am at my wits’ end, and that’s a fact. I’m only his valet, but you’re his friend. His only friend, as far as I know.”

Barnaby stared at Elton, a little shaken by that. His only friend? That could not be correct, surely? The Comte de Villen was welcomed everywhere, desired by damn near everyone, and yet… and yet now he thought about it, Barnaby could not name a single person Louis truly counted as a friend.

Elton knocked on Louis’ bedroom door, but all was silent. Barnaby watched as the man steeled himself and turned the handle. Though it was late in the afternoon, the curtains were closed, and the room was dark. A figure lay before the empty fireplace and, for a moment, Barnaby’s heart stopped.

“Louis?” He ran forward, kneeling down and only feeling his heart give a kick of relief in his chest when he discovered the still form warm and breathing, and reeking of brandy. Barnaby looked up. “Coffee, please, Elton. Lots of it, and have a bath prepared.”