A Lady's Luck

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.”

Devon smiled. “And it’s my pleasure to be that someone.”

It was a fun meal. Brent, Devon soon discovered, was possessed of a droll sense of humor. He told stories about life in Kentucky that made her wish she were there.

“Is the grass really blue?”

He chuckled. “It’s definitely lush and definitely green, but it’s not even native to America. It grows all over Europe and North Africa.”

She sighed dramatically. “Another myth destroyed.”

Taking a different route back to the hotel after dinner, they came upon a toy shop that featured old-fashioned porcelain dolls. The girls were fascinated by their painted faces and period costumes. They begged their father to bring them back the following day.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he pointed out. “They probably won’t be open.”

Devon could tell he was teasing, but the twins apparently didn’t realize it. Rhea screwed up her mouth with annoyance and Katie stared stoically, her eyes teary.

“I believe they’re open until noon,” Devon informed them.

“Please, can we come back?” Rhea begged. “Please?”

He turned to Devon. “If you’ll join us.”

She hadn’t anticipated that. Or had she subconsciously been angling all along for another excuse to see him?

“If you really want me to.”

“We really want you to,” Brent said quietly. His lips said “we,” but his eyes said “I.” Awareness set off little flutters in her belly.

At the hotel, he invited her up to their suite. Since the inn was nearly empty he’d been able to book their best and biggest accommodations.

She hesitated.

“Will you help tuck us into bed?” Rhea asked eagerly.

It was an unusual request, one she’d not received before, and the intimacy it implied made her slightly uncomfortable. She glanced at Brent. All evening long they had been catching each other’s eye, then looking away. Heather had been right, Devon realized. He was interested.

Were it not for her concern about Charles, she would have accepted the invitation with alacrity. She enjoyed this man’s—and his daughters’—company and would very much like to share more of it.

But Charles—

If she was surrounded by spies for the duke, as she suspected, he would know she’d been in Brent’s company. Not going up to his room wouldn’t make any difference, regardless of his young daughters being with them. Charles had made it clear he didn’t want any other man to enjoy her companionship in public or in private.

Then she took another look at Brent and couldn’t imagine him being intimidated by anyone, even a man like Charles. Besides, in a few days Brent Preston would be on his way back to the United States. Charles wasn’t likely to pick a fight with him across the Atlantic.

“Just for a few minutes,” she said to the girls, then added to Brent, “if that’s all right with you.”

All right? Brent felt his blood racing, long-dormant sensations tingling. Thoughts and desires he’d managed to bury since Marti died were resurfacing with brutal vengeance.

He and Devon had spent the evening like two old friends, exchanging ideas, asking each other questions, sharing laughter. Twice he’d spontaneously reached for her hand, found it and squeezed. Twice she’d willingly returned the casual caresses. More than like friends.

Guilt rampaged through him. If Marti were here, he would never…

But she wasn’t, and the renewed realization that she was gone forever produced an ache so acute it could have brought him to tears. Then he raised his head—till then unaware he’d been staring at the ground—and saw Devon, and a different kind of ache possessed him. For a fate-changing instant he prayed that Marti would understand, and if he was making a mistake, forgive him.

There was such warmth in Devon’s smile that he had to believe that Marti would approve.

They took the stairs up one flight to what the British and Europeans insisted on calling the first floor, as if the ground floor didn’t count. The suite comprised two modest bedrooms, a private bath and a sitting room with a small marble fireplace.

“Change into your jammies,” Brent told the girls, “and brush your teeth, then I’ll come and tuck you in.”

“We want Devon to tuck us in, too,” Rhea reminded him.

“She will. Now, go get ready for bed.”

The twins danced into their bedroom. After a few seconds he and Devon could hear water running in the bathroom.

“I like them, Brent. Very much. They’re wonderful children.”

“I guess I’ll keep them then,” he replied, more aware of her and the effect she was having on him than the lighthearted words tumbling out. “You’ve made quite a hit with them, too.”

“We’re ready,” Rhea called out a minute later.

“Come on,” Brent said, and put his hand on the small of Devon’s back as he guided her toward the girls’ bedroom.

Brent hugged the twins, gave them each a kiss. Devon could remember her father sending her to bed, but she couldn’t recall him ever kissing her good-night, much less tucking her in. How lucky these girls were to have a father who loved them. She expected to simply say good-night and leave, but they insisted on giving her a hug and kiss, as well.

“Pleasant dreams,” she said in a voice choked to a whisper as she watched them snuggle contentedly under the covers.

What a wonderful experience it was to hold the children in her arms and kiss them good-night. She had no siblings other than Nolan, who was so much older that he hardly counted. She had a few cousins, but they, too, were his age, so she had been brought up virtually as an only child and never experienced the kind of intimacies this family, incomplete as it was, engaged in as a matter of routine. She envied them.

Family dynamics in her life had been keeping track of how much her father was drinking, and if necessary, avoiding him. Her mother, who had been over forty when Devon was born—an unplanned, if not unwanted child—had been frail for as long as Devon could remember, owing to a wonky ticker, as her father had invariably phrased it. At one stage Devon had wondered if Sarah Hunter wasn’t faking feebleness to gain attention, but entertaining such a doubt had only made her feel guilty.

The warmth of this encounter with the Prestons, father and daughters, filled her with a longing she’d never felt before. If this was what it was like to have a normal family, she decided, she wanted it. She’d thought of family before, many times, but somehow the image had never included moments like this.

Brent stood behind her in the doorway to say their final good-night, his body’s warmth enveloping her, as his arm reached around her and pulled the door closed.

“They’ll be sound asleep in no time,” he assured her with a smile, and the love she saw in his eyes made her all but cry out with the pain of her own loneliness. “They run at top speed all day, then it’s like turning off a light switch, and they sleep the sleep of the dead.”

She didn’t like the metaphor, but she smiled nonetheless and shivered a little.

“You’re cold.” As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he wrapped an arm across her shoulders.

The tremor that flowed through her now had nothing to do with the room’s chill but everything to do with the heat his touch generated. His body was solid, his contact firm and reassuring, and she wanted to burrow into it.

She tried to tell herself she was reacting like an adolescent. In truth, his embrace reinforced her awareness of the two years she’d spent alone, untouched, a woman apart.

“Let me light the fire,” he said, “then I’ll pour us a glass of something.”

She wanted to cry out “no,” when he released her. Instead she stood where she was and watched him bend down and reach for the propane starter to ignite the gas log.

He stood up, smiling at her, then walked over to the drinks table in the corner. “Let’s see. Scotch, of course. Brandy. Cream sherry. There’s red wine. What can I get you?”

Another hug, please, she wanted to say. “Sherry, I think.”

“Sherry, it is. I’ll have Scotch. I’m a Bourbon man at home.”

“Kentucky is famous for its Bourbon whisky, isn’t it?”

“We make the best. I’ve heard Tennessee produces some passable stuff, too, but I’m partial to the home spirits.”

“Naturally.”

He caught the humor in her voice, looked over and grinned.

“I have to thank you for a wonderful day,” he said, pouring a couple of ounces of sherry into a wineglass.

“Your girls are enchanting.” What she really felt like saying was that she didn’t want the day to end. “You must be very proud of them.”

“I am.” He decanted even less whisky into a short tumbler for himself. “You have to understand, though, they’ve been on their best behavior the last couple of days, for which I’m enormously grateful. But they can also be holy terrors, I assure you.”

She smiled as he handed her the sweet wine.

“Thanks for inspiring them,” he said.

“It’s I who should be thanking you for today,” she replied, standing in front of the fire. “You’ve given me a special gift, sharing your family and allowing me to see the world ’round me with fresh eyes. I shan’t forget that.”

He loved listening to her speak, the crisp accent that was so clear and precise, the unaccustomed words. Meeting her eyes, he held up his glass. “To special gifts.”

She raised hers, never breaking eye contact. The intimacy of the moment lingered even after they’d sipped their drinks.

Taking her hand, he led her over to the love seat in front of the fireplace. Yellow and blue flames licked around the simulated logs. The fire wasn’t giving off much heat yet, but that wasn’t important. There was already enough between them.

“You must be tired,” she said softly. “This has been a long day for you, too.”

“All I feel right now is contentment. It’s been a wonderful two days,” he murmured. “I met you.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his. He brought his lips down to hers, and suddenly the heat of the fireplace was nothing compared to the heat between them.

It was all happening so fast, she thought, yet not quickly enough. She closed her eyes, let her senses float. A furor of needs and desires raged inside her. Was it this man who was setting her free? Or would any man touching her have provoked the same response?

She sensed, too, the desperation in the kiss. Were they no more than two lonely people starved for contact?

They broke off. He didn’t look at her but bowed his head. Had she disappointed him? Did he feel regret?

Another long moment elapsed before she was aware of a sound coming from the other room, a muffled sob.

Six

He was on his feet so quickly she almost fell into the void he left. She regained her balance and stood up as he darted to his daughters’ bedroom and shot inside. Devon went as far as the door but didn’t enter.

Rhea was sleeping soundly, her face turned away from the light coming in through the open doorway. It was Katie who was crying.

Brent sat at her side and ran his hand gently along her hair and down her neck.

“What’s the matter, pumpkin? Having a bad dream?”

“I miss Mommy.”

He gathered her in his arms. “I know, honey. I do, too. But you know she’s here with you. You just can’t see her.”