The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee
Chapter 1
Hart Street, London, 1824
Townhouse owned by the Order
Julianna Eden hadher ear pressed to the drawing room door, trying to catch a hint of who the prospective new client might be. He was wealthy and powerful. That much she’d heard from Mrs Gunning—the woman paid to keep house and ensure the smooth running of the Order’s business premises. He had a voice as rich as fine wine, that much Julianna had discovered for herself. A voice that stirred the hairs on one’s nape, seduced the senses. A voice a lonely lady should avoid at all costs.
“Mr Daventry will summon you if he agrees to take the case,” Mrs Gunning whispered when she came to see if Julianna was still waiting in the hall.
Mr Daventry was the master of the Order, a group of enquiry agents who helped victims of crimes, those without the funds to fight for justice. The gentleman’s latest project involved hiring ladies who all, for one reason or another, might have ended up in debtors’ prison, the workhouse, or flogging their wares in Covent Garden. Intelligent and insightful women who may be of help on certain cases.
“Won’t you reconsider?” came the deep masculine voice sounding somewhat irate. “I know the men work for the poor and needy, that only your female agents accept wealthy clients, but this is a serious matter. Can you not make allowances for a friend?”
Mrs Gunning patted Julianna’s arm. “Don’t be offended, dear. Mr Daventry’s agents have a reputation for getting the job done. I expect the marquess is embarrassed to find himself in such an awkward position, and notable men don’t want to appear vulnerable in front of a lady.”
“The marquess!” Julianna almost choked on the words.
By her calculation, two dozen peers in England carried the title. Most of them were doddery old men living uneventful lives. The man on the other side of the drawing room door was most definitely young and virile, which narrowed the odds considerably.
“You must have misheard.” Julianna prayed the housekeeper had forgotten to remove the cotton plugs from her ears. “Why would a marquess need to hire an enquiry agent?”
Mrs Gunning clutched her chatelaine to prevent the keys rattling and shuffled closer. “It has something to do with death threats,” returned the sturdy woman in a quiet voice. “That’s what I heard him say before you arrived.”
So, Julianna wasn’t the only one who’d listened at the door.
“Did you manage to hear his name?”
Please don’t let it be Devereaux.
Mrs Gunning shook her head. “He’s handsome, though. Shoulders so broad and strong he could work as a packhorse. And he had that devilish twinkle in his eye one often sees in confident men.”
Julianna breathed a small sigh of relief. Confident men were often immoral. Mr Daventry would not place a female agent with a rakehell. Not without the support of a gentleman agent, and they were all busy leading their own investigations.
“The ladies of the Order are as skilled as the men,” Mr Daventry said bluntly.
It was an exaggeration. Julianna’s skills would hardly inspire faith. She was light on her feet, could disappear from a room unnoticed. She could withstand a barrage of insults and scathing criticism, bear it all with good grace. She could smile, make the world believe she was blissfully happy when inside her heart might be breaking.
“Skilled in combat?” returned the delectable voice. “Because that’s what we’re talking about here. It’s only a matter of time until the devil succeeds, and I’m too bloody angry to make sense of it myself.”
“Why don’t you meet her, decide if she’s suitable? Explain your dilemma. See if she has any logical suggestions as to where she might begin.”
The lord’s deep sigh rang with desperation now. “Women gossip and spin stories. I’ll not have the ton knowing my private business. That’s why I came to you. I’ll not have people think I’m too damn weak to handle my own affairs.”
“The ladies who work for me have experienced hardships. They’re not spoilt and pampered and are above the pettiness one associates with the ton. Trust me, Devereaux. If I’ve picked an agent to work on your case, it’s because I know she’s competent enough to get the job done.”
Devereaux!
Merciful Lord!
Julianna might have felt a flutter of pride upon hearing Mr Daventry’s praise, but her world suddenly shifted on its axis. Shifted to such an alarming degree, her knees buckled. She stumbled backwards, three steps … four … until she hit the wall.
“Goodness. What’s wrong, child?” Mrs Gunning hurried forward and gripped Julianna’s shaky hands. “Are you feeling unwell? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Promise you’ll find me when you’re old enough.
“I should go. There’s been a mistake. Tell Mr Daventry I’m not ready for a case of this magnitude. Tell him I’m sorry, sorry to embarrass him in front of a client, sorry I’m not as strong as he thought.”
Julianna continued with her mumbling apology. She would rather find herself alone and destitute, rather beg outside St Paul’s than have her treasured memories disintegrate to dust.
But Mr Daventry opened the drawing room door and stepped into the hall. The master of the Order was a man of thirty whose commanding presence unnerved most people, yet he looked upon Julianna with sympathetic eyes.
“Lord Devereaux would like to meet you, to decide if you might prove suitable, if you’re the right person to take his case.” Mistaking her shock for fear, he lowered his voice. “Devereaux is a good man beneath the bravado. You will be safe in his employ. Nonetheless, I shall warn him to treat you with the utmost respect.”
There wasn’t a man in London who would cross Lucius Daventry.
An immense sense of gratitude surfaced. He had rescued her from the steps of the Servants’ Registry, given her a chance to earn a decent living, provided a home with three other female agents, all under the care and supervision of Miss Trimble. Unlike her mother, Julianna did not sneer at the hand affording every basic comfort. She should offer an explanation. Tell him that working for the Marquess Devereaux would be like tearing open an old wound.
But then Bennet Devereaux appeared, filling the doorway with his impressive shoulders, the sleeves of his fashionable black coat clinging to his muscular arms. She tried to look beyond his manly physique for the boy she remembered. Yes. Daylight caught the golden flecks in his brown hair. His amber eyes still seduced the senses with their rich, autumnal hue.
“Ah, Devereaux.” Mr Daventry turned to his friend, who stood openmouthed and rooted to the spot. “This is the agent I mentioned. Allow me to introduce—”
“Miss de Lacy. I know.”
“Mrs Eden,” Mr Daventry corrected.
“Mrs Eden!” The marquess flinched. “You’re married?”
“Widowed,” she said but did not sound at all like herself.
Mr Daventry frowned. “You know one another?”
The marquess gripped the door jamb. “We were good friends.”
Bennet had been her only friend until she’d joined the Order.
“Childhood friends,” she managed to say. “But that was a long time ago. Indeed, I’m surprised you recognised me.”
His gaze seemed to drink in every inch of her all at once. “I would know those wild red curls anywhere.”
She coughed to halt the onset of tears. The boy she’d held in her heart was no more. In his place stood this attractive man with an aura of arrogance. This stranger had consumed the mind and body of the only person she had ever truly loved.
Julianna straightened. She would grieve for Bennet in her own time, as she had done before, when she was old enough to know he was not about to appear like a knight errant on his trusty steed and save her from a living hell.
“Under the circumstances, my lord, perhaps you might prefer to work with another agent.” She glanced at Mr Daventry, hoping he could read her silent plea. “Perhaps Miss Gambit might prove a suitable replacement.”
Mr Daventry rubbed his sculpted jaw while considering her suggestion. “Mrs Eden is interested in history and archaeology. I thought you could say you’ve hired her to write a book about the ruins of Witherdeen Abbey.”
Julianna sucked in a sharp breath. “The position means moving to Witherdeen?”
Lord Devereaux nodded. “Hopefully, your explorations will take you further afield than the understairs cupboard.” He sounded amused, but his eyes were like those of the ladies in the paintings lining Witherdeen’s walls—downcast and doleful.
Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should take tea in the drawing room, Mrs Eden. Discuss the matter at length, decide if you are the best person to help Lord Devereaux with his pressing affair.”
Her heart screamed for her to run. The damaged organ would not withstand the torment, the pain. But Bennet Devereaux’s allure was as strong now as it was then, and she longed to see Witherdeen again.
“I would be interested to hear of his lordship’s dilemma.”
“Excellent.” Mr Daventry invited her to step into the drawing room, one as elegant as any in Mayfair, though in Hart Street they spoke of theft and murder, not of ribbons and lace.
Mrs Gunning hurried to the kitchen to make tea.
Awkwardness descended like a dense fog, so palpable it took effort to breathe. Lord Devereaux lingered. He seemed unable to decide if he should wait for her to sit, if he should treat her as an old acquaintance or a woman soon to be in his employ.
Julianna sat in the chair while the gentlemen settled on a sofa positioned around the low table. Mr Daventry opened a leather portfolio, removed a handbill and placed it down in full view. It was not a printed notice. The words had been cut from a broadsheet, arranged neatly and stuck onto the paper.
“Devereaux, you may speak in the strictest confidence. Mrs Eden is sworn to secrecy and will discuss the case with no one but her colleagues.”
“Confidentiality is of paramount importance.”
Julianna swallowed down her nerves. “You may have faith in my integrity, my lord.”
She saw the challenge in his eyes, alluding to the promise made and broken. She might have hurled her own accusations. Why had he not looked for her? Why had he not written? It would not have been difficult. Everyone knew of Giselle de Lacy’s conquests, knew she had died of a laudanum overdose in a flea-infested pit in Paris.
Mr Daventry pushed the handbill towards her. “Study this for a moment.”
Julianna retrieved the fabricated notice, though performing the simple task took effort when done under the weight of Bennet Devereaux’s stare.
The bold heading leapt from the page—The Reckoning.
It sounded like the name of a novel or play—a story of vengeance and retribution. A victim’s tale. She raised her gaze and considered the marquess. Had the kind boy grown into a heartless devil? Had his father beaten the goodness from his soul and left this insensible peer in his place?
Bennet Devereaux watched her intently as she read his obituary. Assembled on the single sheet of paper was an ugly collage of words, an account of the terrible accident that had occurred at Witherdeen, a tragic and abrupt end for the young Marquess Devereaux.
She looked up and frowned. “It says you were killed by falling masonry.”
“A grotesque gargoyle, to be exact.”
“Days after receiving the handbill, Devereaux found a stone gargoyle smashed to pieces on his front steps,” Mr Daventry explained. “His steward inspected the building and found no damage. Someone staged the scene to unnerve him.”
Julianna studied the page. “The fact it’s entitled The Reckoning says we’re looking for someone you’ve wronged, my lord. A mistress perhaps?”
He shifted in the seat. “Perhaps.”
“We’ll come to suspects in a moment.” Mr Daventry removed another handbill from the leather portfolio and handed it to her. “Again, read the obituary.”
The report carried the same title and stated that the marquess had died of syphilis in the Lock Hospital on Hyde Park Corner. That he was to be buried amid the abbey ruins at Witherdeen.
“Someone erected a gravestone during the night,” the lord informed her, “though my death is recorded as being March 1824, two months hence. It’s clearly a threat. Now you understand my urgency in finding the devil responsible.”
“The woman responsible,” she corrected. “Only a woman would act with such malicious intent.” Giselle de Lacy had resorted to devious tactics to hurt her lovers. “Based on my experience, it should not take long to find her, though you will need to share details of your personal affairs. The names of the women you’ve bedded this last year. A list of those you elevated to the role of mistress.”
Lord Devereaux gulped. A brief look of embarrassment passed over his handsome features. “Perhaps there are men who would like to see me suffer. Men my father wronged. It would be unwise to assume this amounts to nothing more than an ex-lover’s spite.”
And what of the men Bennet had wronged?
“Devereaux has made it known he’s in want of a wife,” Mr Daventry said calmly, though the news hit Julianna like a vicious blow to the stomach. “As you can imagine, many powerful men would like to align with the house of Devereaux, so we could be looking for a jealous debutante, a disgruntled father or jilted suitor.”
“Is there a particular reason you’ve decided to marry now, my lord?” Julianna fought to maintain a professional air amid a flurry of odd emotions. “It may not be a coincidence.”
“I have a duty to wed, Mrs Eden.” He spoke bluntly, the last two words carrying a hint of contempt. “As daunting as that may be.”
“A duty to your father?”
“To king and country. A duty to raise sons with the strength to carry us forward into a new, modern age. An age of scientific advancement.”
Her snort echoed her disapproval. “I pray you’ve not told your prospective brides that’s the reason you wish to wed. Some ladies like to imagine a marriage based on love.”
“My father insisted romantic love was for the lower classes.”
“I must disagree,” Mr Daventry interjected. “Despite being the son of a duke, albeit an illegitimate one, I am deeply in love with my wife.”
“Then you’re one of the fortunate few, Daventry.” Bennet turned to her, those brandy pools for eyes taking in her wild red curls and simple green day dress. “Am I to understand you were deeply in love with your husband, Mrs Eden?”
The question caught her off guard. “My personal affairs are not open to scrutiny, my lord.” She refused to discuss her marriage with anyone. Ever.
Mr Daventry’s curious gaze shifted between them. “We’re digressing and should return to the matter at hand. Do you have an idea where you might begin, Mrs Eden?”
Yes, she might begin by gathering her skirts and bolting for the hills.
“I would compile a list of suspects, observe those who work at Witherdeen, interview the keepers of every coaching inn within a five-mile radius. Then I would return to town and work through his lordship’s list of conquests. As the daughter of a woman who wangled her way into every lord’s bed, it shouldn’t be difficult to gain his mistress’ trust.” She paused for breath. “Shall I go on?”
“No, that seems sufficient.” Mr Daventry turned to the marquess. “Well, will you hire Mrs Eden to uncover the identity of the person who sent the handbills?”
Hire? The thought left a nasty taste in Julianna’s mouth. Giselle de Lacy had been nothing more than a body for rent. The fact Bennet Devereaux would pay for her services roused a deep unease. But Mr Daventry intended to use the funds to help other impoverished women, so she could not forgo her fee.
“And we would say you’re at Witherdeen to study the abbey?” the marquess asked, but did not wait for an answer. “There’s an empty cottage near the ruins that you could use for the duration of your stay. I wouldn’t expect you to sleep in the servants’ quarters. And if I grant you a chamber in the house, everyone will assume we’re lovers.”
Lovers!
The word dripped off his tongue so smoothly heat flooded her cheeks. Despite the fact she was not remotely interested in this man, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him in some inexplicable way.
Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “Mrs Eden will visit Witherdeen in a professional capacity. I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect.”
The marquess’ gaze softened. “As children, we formed a bond, helped each other through a difficult time. Regardless of what Mrs Eden may think of me when she delves into my affairs, I would never do anything to hurt her.”
And yet, just by sitting there—a magnificent specimen of masculinity—he had unwittingly cut out her heart and destroyed every cherished memory.
