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Four
“What do you mean, you turned him down?” Heather asked that evening. “Are you daft?”
Devon tried to ignore the question, as she gathered up the newspapers and magazines left on their sitting room settee. For the most part she enjoyed sharing a flat with her friend, but the girl could be so slovenly at times.
“For heaven’s sake, why?” Heather persisted.
“He’s too old for me.”
“He’s mature,” Heather corrected her. “He’s also handsome, well-mannered, and he’s certainly not poor. He’s also available. I heard him tell Mrs. S—”
“That his wife is dead. Yes, I know.”
“Well, then?” Heather raised both her brows and grinned. “And the way he speaks makes me want to curl up on a warm bed. Really, what more could you ask?”
Devon picked up a three-day-old copy of the Times, folded it and added it to the stack of things destined for the rubbish bin.
“And judging from the way those dreamy eyes of his follow you,” her roommate persisted, “he’s interested in more than advice on what to order from the menu selection at the Sword and Shield.”
Devon continued to ignore her.
“Okay, so he’s got two daughters,” Heather conceded. “Twins at that. Probably not something you were bargaining for—”
“I’m not bargaining for anything…or anyone.”
“But they’re well enough behaved,” Heather prattled on, ignoring the interruption. “They obviously love their dad, and he as obviously loves them. That counts for a lot.”
Devon gave up with the paper gathering. It was busywork anyway, a diversion from listening to Heather, and wasn’t doing any good. If her friend didn’t say it, Devon was saying it to herself. What’s more, fully half of the litter was hers.
“It’s not the girls,” she protested. “You know why…”
“Charles.”
Devon nodded. Just the sound of his name had her muscles tightening.
“You can’t allow him to dictate—”
“Stay out of it,” she snapped.
“I won’t.” Heather seemed impervious to her friend’s flare of temper. “I care too much about you to let you ruin your life this way. Besides, he hasn’t called in weeks, months.”
“Because I haven’t been out with anyone in months.”
“And who’s the loser there? Keep this up and you’ll be a wizened old crone who’s never experienced living, much less loving. Like it or not, you’re going to have to stand up to him and take control of your destiny.”
“Leave me alone, will you?” Devon implored.
“I shan’t.”
Devon plopped down on the sofa, her arms flung out, her head thrown back against a cushion. She sighed. “I know you’re right, but…”
It had started two years ago when she was still at university. Her brother, Nolan, had introduced her to his friend Charles Robinett. Charles was a duke, several steps higher up in the aristocratic pecking order than a viscount, and from a family of considerable prestige. He was young, only twenty-eight to her twenty-one at the time, a large, physically imposing ex-rugby player. Despite having broken his nose twice, he was a reasonably good-looking chap, if not exactly handsome. He was also reputed to be worth millions.
Immediately after she graduated, he proposed marriage.
For all his pedigree and fine public manners, Charles Robinett was hardly her ideal for a husband. Looks were fine, and wealth certainly made life easier. But looks faded, and she had sufficient means of her own to live a respectable life. She didn’t need a man for security or social position. She certainly didn’t need one who was a tyrant, who demanded unquestioned compliance with his wishes without any consideration of her desires or interests.
When she rejected his offer, he swore he’d do physical violence to any man she showed an interest in. She took it as bluster at the time, the idle petulance of someone who was used to getting his own way without much effort on his part. After all, he was a duke. Then her next two dates were mugged after delivering her home. The first time she could dismiss it as coincidence, but the second established a pattern. The assailants were never apprehended, so there was no way to link the attacks to Charles, but Devon knew he was behind them, especially after he called her to renew his threat. She got the message.
“You know what happens when you give in to a bully,” Heather stated now. “He becomes more demanding.”
Would Brent Preston welcome a chance to play Sir Galahad? Devon wondered.
That was what she’d expected of her brother when she reported Charles’s threat to him. She was sure he’d warn the duke off. Instead Nolan had called her foolish for passing up such a rare opportunity to climb the social ladder. He’d dismissed Charles’s “supposed” threats as a misunderstanding on her part, declaring instead that in his opinion she should take what the man said as a compliment and proof of his devotion to her.
Devon had been at once stunned and furious that her own brother, whom she’d idolized for so many years, would in effect call her a liar and fail to even investigate a situation which potentially put her in harm’s way.
Since then their private relationship had been distant and strained, if not quite crossing the threshold to hostility. In public and in the presence of their mother they played their accustomed roles, even joking the way they had in the past. Devon didn’t know what had come over her brother, but the change in him saddened her greatly.
“I know you’re right,” she told Heather. “But I’m not sure it’s fair to put Mr. Preston in that sort of position.”
“You’re going to have to stand up to Charles sooner or later, you know. Why not with a man who looks like he can take on half of rugby union single-handedly? Besides,” Heather added, “he’s not going to be here very long. This is just an exploratory trip in case he gets that job transfer.”
Devon finally laughed. “Perhaps I ought to sell tickets.”
Heather slouched onto the sofa beside her and grinned. “I’ll buy one.”
Brent and the girls ate dinner—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was their current favorite—at the hotel that evening after walking around Oxford and seeing a few of the more famous landmarks of the university town. He soon realized, however, that eight-year-old girls weren’t interested in or impressed by ancient seats of scholarship.
To his own chagrin he found himself a bit bored by it all, as well, without adult companionship. He kept thinking of Devon Hunter. She undoubtedly knew all about the things he was seeing and could show him more. In his mind he pictured her eyes lighting up, her lips smiling, as she recited a concise history of the courts of learning, including ancient tales of duels and chivalry.
It was foolish really. He’d met Devon only briefly, and she’d turned down his dinner invitation. He also had to remind himself he wasn’t here for the sightseeing or to pursue the opposite sex. The world might see him as unattached, but he still thought of himself as a married man. At least he had until meeting Devon Hunter.
To his relief, after dinner he found a movie on television that the twins were actually able to agree on. The true sign of their tiredness, however, was that they didn’t put up much of a fuss when he told them it was time to go to bed. They’d been on the go for several days and the pace was finally taking its toll. Within five minutes of their heads hitting the pillows, they were sound asleep.
He, too, was weary, but he was even more restless. He got out his laptop and continued his search of the Internet for information about the Hunter family. Nolan, he discovered, was the sixth Viscount Kestler. His father, Nigel, had left him the title eight years earlier, when he died at the age of fifty-two of kidney failure, according to one report. Another version alluded to the condition being the result of chronic alcoholism. His wife, Sarah Morningfield Hunter, the mother of Nolan and Devon, apparently came from the landed gentry rather than the aristocracy. The current Kestler estate, Morningfield Manor, was from the distaff side of the family. Brent couldn’t find much about Sarah Hunter, except one article which noted that she was two years older than her late husband and that she was in frail health because of a heart condition.
By the time Brent turned off the computer and prepared for bed, he didn’t know much more than he had before, nothing, at any rate, that shed light on his investigation into the mystery of Leopold’s Legacy’s DNA.
The entire evening would have been far more pleasurable, and perhaps more productive, he decided, as he slipped in between the sheets, if Devon had agreed to spend it with them.
He shouldn’t be thinking about a beautiful young woman while he was lying in bed, and in particular he shouldn’t be thinking about Devon Hunter. His research had disclosed her age, twenty-three, a dozen years his junior. Quite a gap. Yet, when he was in her company, she seemed his match in maturity. He didn’t feel more than a decade older. If anything, she had the opposite effect. She made him feel ten years younger.
From her remarks, it appeared unlikely she had anything to do with her brother’s fraudulent activities, or that she was even aware of them, assuming her statement that she rarely had contact with him was true. Her expression seemed to have clouded over when she’d spoken about him. Protectiveness or duplicity? Why would Nolan need protection? As for duplicity, could she be aware that her brother was engaged in some sort of fraudulent dealings and simply didn’t know the details or didn’t want to?
In any event, she wouldn’t be pleased when she discovered Brent suspected him of criminal behavior. Under the circumstances, entertaining notions of a closer relationship with her was a foolish distraction and a waste of time. Unfortunately, some reactions weren’t subject to reason.
The next morning the girls were wide-awake before he was and doubly full of life. A good night’s sleep had invigorated them. To his relief and amazement, their enthusiasm for going to school hadn’t diminished overnight, which meant he would have an opportunity to see Devon again when he dropped them off and once more when he picked them up.
They ate another hearty English breakfast and set off for the academy.
By arrangement the previous afternoon, he delivered them directly to Devon’s classroom. Along the way the girls kept babbling on about how nice Miss Hunter was, how all the girls in the class liked her, that she wasn’t mean like some of the teachers back home—a charge he couldn’t remember hearing before—and how much they were looking forward to spending the day in her classroom. Apparently, Brent reflected, Devon was casting a spell on his children, as well.
She greeted him with a smile and told the girls where to sit. Wisely she didn’t keep them together but paired them off with different partners.
“You may collect them at three o’clock. If they’re not downstairs, they’ll be up here with me. How are you planning to occupy your time alone?” she asked casually, then, as pink rose to her cheeks, excused herself. “That was impertinent of me. I beg your pardon.”
His response was mixed. He found her discomfort amusing, even encouraging. On the other hand, complete honesty on his part would be unwise.
“I have business research I need to do, so this time off works out nicely. What time do you quit today?”
She gazed at him in a way that made him wonder if it was with interest or dismay. He preferred to think it might be the former. “It’s Friday,” he reminded her. “I thought we might stay here another night, if you’ll agree to join us. Our attempt at playing tourist yesterday wasn’t very successful. We ended up watching television.”
“Oh, my.” Her brown eyes sparkled with exaggerated dismay. “That bad?”
“And the offer of dinner is still open.”
She grew more serious, but the humor didn’t completely fade, and that gave him hope.
“Please join us,” he repeated.
Whilst changing clothes in her flat late that afternoon, Devon debated with herself and Heather about the wisdom of spending the evening with Brent Preston.
“Charles has spies everywhere,” she reminded her friend. “So many people in Oxford know me. Word is bound to get back to him that I was in the company of a good-looking American gentleman….”
“And his two kids,” Heather pointed out.
“That won’t make any difference.”
Charles was jealous and vindictive, and his threatening telephone calls since their breakup had made it clear he didn’t want her seeing other men and would take vengeance on any man who shared her company.
“He has no bloody right laying claim to you like that,” Heather countered angrily. “He asked you to marry him and you said no. That should be the end of it. You can’t spend the rest of your life cowering in fear of a man whose designs on you border on the criminal and perhaps even the psychotic.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already told myself,” Devon murmured as she slipped out of the dress she’d worn at school and went to the lavatory. For the past two years she’d been alone and lonely. She could change that if she’d cease being such a coward and a victim. She used to be popular, outgoing.
Her determination to disregard Charles’s threats was intractable until she thought about Brent’s children. Surely Charles wasn’t so depraved, so obsessed with her, that he’d do them harm. The girls had already lost their mother. If something were to happen to their father, something that resulted from her association with him, she’d never be able to live with herself.
Wearing only bra and panties, she weighed the pros and cons of the situation as she scrubbed her face. She emerged a minute later in her dressing gown, sat at her vanity and brushed out her shoulder-length hair. While she was applying a dusting of makeup, Heather inventoried the small collection of perfumes on the dressing table and selected one.
Devon couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed it behind her ears. It had been so long since she’d been out with a man, the prospect sent little shivers tripping along her skin and in her belly.
“What are you wearing?” Heather asked. “Something simple, I should think. Casual but elegant, of course.”
Devon laughed. “I was considering the dark green trousers and the silver-gray blouse.”
“And your rust-colored cable-knit pullover. Perfect. Oh, wait.”
Heather rummaged in the side drawer of Devon’s dressing table and brought out a necklace of polished black-, green-and wine-colored stones and a matching bracelet.
“Here. Where’s your good watch?”
If Devon weren’t already keyed up about her date, her friend’s enthusiasm would have made her excited. She pointed to the little drawer under the mirror. Heather extracted the stylish gold timepiece with its tiny diamond chips for numbers.
Ten minutes later Devon spun around in front of the mirror that ran the length of her wardrobe. She was feeling giddy, like a girl let loose after a long confinement.
Pleased with the results thus far, she now considered her footwear.
“The black boots,” Heather insisted.
Devon agreed. Finally she put on her tan Burberry and grabbed a multihued green silk scarf.
“Wish me luck,” she said as she went to the door.
“I wish you more than that. I’ll want a full accounting when you get back—” Heather smiled “—whenever that may be.”
Devon left the flat laughing.
Five
The ornately carved grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby was striking six when Devon walked into the old Tudor inn. At this time of year the sun had long set.
Brent and the girls were waiting for her on the settee in front of the fireplace, in which a lively fire burned. Unlike so many Americans who dressed casually for nearly every occasion, he was wearing a perfectly tailored chestnut tweed jacket, a fawn shirt and olive-green tie. His darker sepia slacks were sharply creased and he had on comfortably worn polished brown loafers.
He was even handsomer in this more informal attire, she decided, than in the proper suit he’d had on earlier in the day. But it was the man and not the clothes that caught her attention—and her imagination.
He was powerfully built. She wondered what sports he played, convinced that whatever they were, he played them well. Brent Preston didn’t strike her as a man who did things by half measures.
“My,” she said, making an effort to focus her attention on the twins instead of him, “aren’t you the smart duo?” They were dressed in matching pink frocks and mid-calf boots.
The girls jumped up and ran to her, clearly pleased to see her. As delighted as she was with their greeting, it was their father’s appraisal that warmed her insides.
“Where do you suggest we eat?” Brent asked.
“There are several places in the area,” she said. “The Stag and Steer, a short walk from here, is quite good. Their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding are excellent—”
“Yay, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Rhea sang out.
“I want something else,” Katie complained. “I’m tired of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”
“Well—” Devon put a finger to her chin “—they have steak pie, mutton chops, their trout is quite good and—”
“Steak pie,” Katie repeated. “I want steak pie.”
Brent smiled. “I guess it’s the Stag and Steer then. Trout, you say…”
They donned their coats.
“Thank you for joining us,” Brent said as they walked through narrow streets to the restaurant. “It’s always more fun to have someone local show us around.”
