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Under the bright afternoon light of a hot Brussels afternoon, Dev’s leg was slowly revealed. In much less time than Dev had thought possible, his limb lay stretched out on the sheets. Vivid red lines slashed across his flesh, interspersed with splotched welts where the skin was healing after being burnt.
‘Not a pretty sight,’ Dev said softly.
‘No worse than many others I’ve seen. You are fortunate that it has healed cleanly and you still have your leg.’
Pippen’s gentle words did nothing to assuage the bitterness knifing through Dev’s gut. Exhaustion smashed into him, and he fell back on the pillows, one arm flung across his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see right now was his deformity.
‘The swelling is almost gone.’
Dev nodded.
‘I think it looks fine,’ Pippen stated.
Dev ignored Pippen’s attempts to gloss over the wound. He didn’t want to talk about his leg. Maybe in a couple days, after he got used to the looks—like he’d got used to the pain and then later the constant ache—he would be interested in talking to Pippen about what the scars would look like after the redness went away. Maybe. Not now.
He said nothing while Pippen bathed the leg.
‘I think we can stop wrapping it,’ Pippen said, his tone thoughtful. ‘The fresh air will be good for it.’
Dev grimaced. Without the bandage he would be able to see the carnage that was his leg. When it was wrapped, he could fool himself that it would return to normal. Even with the discomfort, he had been able to tell himself the leg would be fine when it healed. But seeing it, with the scars and puckered flesh, would be a constant reminder that it would never be normal again.
He stared at the dingy wall, wishing Pippen would go away.
‘Dev?’
‘Go away, Pippen. Go see if you can get a message to Wellington. See if anyone knows what happened to Captain Patrick Shaunessey.’ He managed to keep from saying, Go away and let me wallow in my self-pity.
For long moments, the lad said nothing and Dev could feel his gaze. ‘As you wish, Dev. I shall tell the landlady to bring you something to eat. Stew, if you like, and a big chunk of fresh bread.’
Dev forced himself to smile and meet Pippen’s eyes. ‘That would be more than welcome. Now, please go.’
He heard, rather than saw, the door close. With a grunt of pain, he pulled himself up in bed. His leg lay spread out, immobile and stiff. He looked his fill, willing himself to accept the disfigurement. He bent at the waist and carefully ran one finger along the line of the worst scar. The welt twisted and buckled, the angry red trail ending just above his knee. He barely felt his touch.
Growing braver, he ran his palm along the damaged skin, noting the roughness. Little pricks of pain darted along the length of his leg. At least he could feel something. That had to be good.
Exhaustion ate at him. This was more movement than he had done since regaining consciousness. Yet he gritted his teeth and continued to study his leg.
He had always been active. The army had been the ideal place for him. As the youngest son, many had expected him to join the clergy, but he was too energetic. Knowing he would never be happy in so sedate a position, his father had bought him a commission. Dev had never regretted that decision. Not even now.
He could have crippled himself riding to hounds or in a coaching accident. At least he had gained his wounds by fighting for his country, by protecting something he felt strongly about, by defending England.
Determination clenched his fists and tightened his shoulder muscles. He would heal. He would do everything he always had. He would ride a horse. He would dance the night away. He would bed a woman.
So help him, he would not waste away into the life of a cripple. He would not.
Chapter Three
Deverell’s previous landlord shrugged his ample shoulders, that perennially Gallic motion expressive of great regret. ‘I am sorry for it, but Monsieur St Simon never returned from the battle. I am a businessman. I rented his rooms.’
Pippa felt like crumbling. This was the second piece of bad news today. Just minutes before, she had been denied access to Lord Wellington and anyone else who could have answered Deverell’s questions. The setback would not please Dev.
Now she was being told that Deverell would have to stay in her small, cramped room. He would continue to disturb her in ways she was unaccustomed to. Desperation gnawed at her. ‘Do you have any other rooms available?’
‘Non. The English are coming like the droves of sheep they raise.’ A grin split his thick, wide lips. ‘Very profitable, to be sure.’
Pippa nodded. She had spent all morning preparing herself to move Dev. She had told herself it was for the best. Being the son of the wealthiest duke in Britain, he could easily pay someone to watch him around the clock. She didn’t have to be that person. She had squared her shoulders and girded her loins, so to speak. And now this.
She felt an inexplicable mixture of emotions. Regret, apprehension…elation. As much as she had known closer proximity to Deverell would not be good for her peace of mind, she found herself glad that he would have to stay with her. At least, for a while longer. This way she would know he got expert care, and she wouldn’t have to worry about someone harming his leg, which was not entirely healed. Why, he couldn’t even use a cane yet, so could not walk.
They were paltry excuses for the real reason she was glad, but she refused to acknowledge any other.
‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘do you still have his things?’
The portly landlord drew himself to his full height, which was several inches shorter than Pippa. ‘But of course. When I let his rooms, I had all his belongings packed away in case someone came to claim them. I have, also, a note. Sent from London,’ he finished, a sly, curious gleam in his dark eyes.
‘From his family, no doubt,’ Pippa said. ‘I would like his possessions, please.’
It was a short matter of time before Pippa’s errand was completed, and she was back in her room. With Dev’s possessions, her meagre space was more cramped than ever. Having been raised on a country estate where all of the public rooms were large enough to train horses in, and the private chambers were not much smaller, Pippa found herself feeling claustrophobic. There was too little space and too many objects in this single room. Not to mention Deverell.
Trying to stow his gear under the bed, she accidentally knocked the mattress. Dev opened his eyes, their usual bright clarity muddy from sleep. His light brown hair lay like thick satin across his broad forehead. He grinned and Pippa thought her knees would fail.
‘You’re back from the hospital early,’ he said, grimacing as he pulled himself up in bed until he lay propped up against the pillows.
‘You should not do that yourself,’ Pippa scolded, rushing to help him get comfortable.
‘I have done this before.’ His gaze darted to her, his knuckles white where he gripped the sheet. ‘Did you find out about Patrick?’
Pippa gulped. He wanted so badly to find out what had happened to Patrick. ‘I know you’re eager for information, but no one I could reach knew anything. I couldn’t get into Wellington or even his aide.’ She sighed and added softly, ‘As usual.’
Dev frowned, but his grip on the sheets eased. ‘Well, no news is good news, or so the saying goes. Patrick is very likely doing better than I am.’
‘I would not be surprised,’ Pippa said, wanting to ease his anxiety about his friend. ‘I understand how it is when you are worried about someone.’
He smiled at her. ‘I know you do, and we’ll do something about that. Wellington will see me. I promise you that.’
She returned his smile, her stomach doing funny things. ‘I know. I wish I could have helped you today.’
‘You helped by trying. How about my rooms?’ He gave her a devilish grin. ‘If I remember right, that was another errand I asked you to do for me.’
Chagrin pulled her mouth down. ‘And again I have no good news. The innkeeper gave your rooms away.’
Dev fell back into the pillows. ‘That is not surprising. I shall just have to find others.’
Pippa shook her head. ‘There are none to be had. Brussels is filled with every Englishman and woman who wanted to travel to the Continent in the past years but could not because of Napoleon.’
‘I should have thought of that,’ Dev said. ‘Oh, well. We will make do.’
‘That we will,’ Pippa said, picking up the concoction of bark and water she had left on the table by the bed and giving him a purposeful look. ‘You were supposed to drink this.’
He returned her gaze complacently. ‘It tastes bitter.’
Without conscious intent, she assumed her position of hands on hips. Exasperation made her voice breathy. ‘You are like a child about this medicine. If you don’t drink this for the pain, you won’t be able to rest. If you don’t rest, you will be longer healing.’
Dev cocked one devilish brow. ‘You fuss like an old woman, and you’re not even old enough to grow a decent beard. And speaking of which…did you get my gear? A shave would be the very thing to make me feel human again.’
Pippa’s heart, which had speeded up at his reference to an old woman, eased as her patient’s thoughts turned to his grooming. ‘I have all your things, and a heavy load it was. Most of it is in your trunk in Madame’s cellar. Only a portmanteau is here. Are you one of those dandies who must dress to perfection for everything? Although you certainly weren’t dressed correctly for the battlefield.’ She shook her head in private amazement at the fact that he had fought in evening dress.
Dev smiled, a rakish baring of perfect teeth. Memories of enjoyable times sparkled in his eyes. ‘I dare say I wasn’t the only one out of uniform. A group of us went directly from the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball. And I’d do it again.’
Pippa left him to his memories while she pulled his portmanteau from under the bed and rummaged through it, looking for his shaving equipment. She found his razor, a small mirror, a lathering brush and finally a tin in which she found his soap. The exotic scent of bergamot, an ingredient for perfumes distilled from the rind of certain oranges, surrounded her. It was a very distinctive smell, and Pippa found herself entranced by it.
‘Is this what you use to shave?’ she asked, holding the soap out to Deverell.
Dev’s attention came back to the present. ‘Yes,’ he said, the bergamot bringing back memories.
He had first worn the scent the night he met Sam. She had seemed like a goddess on the stage, all aflame with the passion of her role. Losing her to his oldest brother, Jonathan, Marquis of Langston, had been the hardest thing in his life. Until now.
He sighed and forced his thoughts back to the present. A good cleaning would make him feel better.
‘Help me sit up higher, Pippen, and then bring a tray with hot water and towels.’
Pippen gazed at him, doing nothing. ‘I’ll help you sit straighter, but you cannot shave yourself.’
This boy to whom he owed his life had a very definite way about him. Any minute now he would spread his feet and plant his fists on his hips, a stance he took when he was determined to have his way.
‘I can shave myself very well, thank you,’ Dev said in his chilliest tone. ‘You cannot do it.’ He gave the youth a once-over that made the boy blush. ‘You have probably never wielded a razor in your life. And you aren’t about to start on me.’
The lad drew himself up and assumed the pose. ‘What if you slit your own throat? You are still weak and shaving is a very precise art.’
Dev felt his lips twitch. ‘Are you a valet when you’re not healing? If so, tell me and I will let you clean me up.’
Dull red spread over Pippen’s unfashionably tanned skin. The boy was in the sun too much. ‘No, but I have done the service for…for Earl LeClaire. Upon occasion.’
Much as he was inclined to argue, Dev found that his small store of energy was fast depleting. ‘Show me how you sharpen the razor.’
With methodical motions, Pippen stropped the razor over the sharpening strap. He had a grace of wrist that Dev could not remember seeing in any man other than his middle brother’s valet. But then Alastair was a Corinthian and well thought of in the ton, so his man was the best to be had.
When the razor glistened in the bright sunshine pouring through the single window, Pippen gave him a ‘what now?’ look. Dev sighed.
‘Proceed as you would with Earl LeClaire and if you falter, I will stop you immediately…if I am not mortally injured.’
The words were as autocratic as he could bring himself to be with the boy. Pippen looked too vulnerable for his own good, and when his chin trembled like a child caught with his hand in the toffee, it made Dev wonder how the lad had got to Brussels on his own, let alone how he had been so successful as a healer for Wellington’s victorious army.
Then there were the boy’s soft looks. Dev very nearly shook his head in wonder before catching himself. Pippen had taken off the hot towels, which had been wrapped around Dev’s face to soften his beard, and lathered his cheeks, jaw and upper neck. Now he was applying the razor to Dev’s skin with a look of complete concentration.
Yes, his saviour looked almost like a madonna. The boy’s hair was pitch black and too long for fashion, with curls that sprang in all directions. Some lady of Quality would want Pippen for ulterior motives. But some man of questionable virtue would want the youth for even more nefarious schemes.
Pippen’s long, slim fingers firmly guided the razor up Dev’s neck in one smooth motion. A slight line drew Pippen’s ebony brows together and accentuated the pure green of his eyes. They were the colour of the emeralds Dev’s mother had set aside as a wedding gift for his bride. The jewels would suit Pippen.
The thought was a leveller.
Dev closed his eyes. What was he thinking? He had never been a lover of boys. His last love had been Samantha, who was decidedly female and several years his senior. Since losing her, he had flirted with every eligible girl in Brussels and shared less acceptable activities with the ineligible ones.
No, these wayward thoughts were due to exhaustion and the fact that Pippen was too feminine and delicate. A state no man should enjoy being. He would do his saviour a favour by telling him to toughen up and get to Gentleman Jackson’s for some bouts with the great man. Perhaps, when he was recovered, he would take Pippen there and introduce him. He might even stand as a mentor to the youth during the Season and get the lad some town bronze. He owed Pippen much.
Bit by bit, Pippa slid the razor over Dev’s bergamot-scented skin. Some patches were difficult because of the length of his beard. She had shaved him with a borrowed razor early in his illness when he had been too weak to know what she was doing and then a couple weeks later before he regained consciousness. Now she was unbearably aware of him and did as little grooming of him as possible.
The exotic smell of bergamot seemed lodged in her senses and locked in the tiny space of the room they shared. It was an unusual scent. Her brother used sandalwood or, when he tired of that, lemon. Even as she toweled away the remains of the soap, Pippa knew that every time she came into contact with bergamot she would remember these moments and Deverell St Simon.
To divert herself from this dangerous track, she said, ‘There was a missive for you at the inn. I forgot until just now.’
She dug into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew the cream-coloured sheet of paper that had been folded into a screw and handed it to Dev. He took it eagerly and read it while she put away his shaving gear.
‘What day is it?’
‘The twenty-ninth of July. Why?’
‘My mother is here in Brussels. Her note says she expected to arrive the first week of the month.’ His voice was full of joy and lightness. Genuine pleasure eased the lines around his mouth that were threatening to become permanent. ‘She gives her direction and orders me to come to her when I get her letter.’ He smiled. ‘That is just like her, assuming that, no matter what the carnage of Waterloo, I would survive.’
‘She is an optimist.’ Pippa wished she had the Duchess’s unfailing faith. In a way she did. Everyone thought her brother dead, but she would not believe it. That was very like the Duchess’s determination that her son would live through hell.
‘Very much so. Do you have paper and ink? I need to send her news.’
‘Madame will have something, although not as grand as that your mother used.’
‘Mother won’t mind. She is not a snob.’
Pippa fetched the writing materials and tried not to watch Dev as he jotted down the note. Such joy lit his features that seeing it made her glad. He had come to mean so much to her. It was disturbing.
When he was done, she took it herself. ‘I will go straight away and deliver this.’
‘Thank you. Stay for a message,’ Dev ordered, grinning like a boy about to take his first pony ride. ‘And don’t be surprised if my mother sees you herself and then instantly orders her coach brought around. She is very impulsive.’
Pippa nodded. Her grandfather and brother often accused her of jumping before she looked. There was the time a labourer’s small daughter had dropped her puppy into the trout stream. Pippa had plunged into the icy water without a thought for her own safety. The mountain snows had melted, and the stream had been nearly a river. The current had caught Pippa’s skirts and dragged her hundreds of feet until she had managed to grab an overhanging tree branch. Later she had caught an inflammation of the lungs, but she had saved the puppy. That more than compensated for a week in bed with the sniffles and a fever.
If Dev’s mother was equally rash, she could deal very well with her ladyship.
Dev was not far off the mark, Pippa found out thirty minutes later. The butler had barely shown her into the salon when a petite, vivacious woman burst through the door.
‘Where is Deverell? Is he all right? Why did he not come with you?’
Alicia, Duchess of Rundell, was strikingly beautiful. Shorter than Pippa, she was willowy thin. Her thick black hair was cropped fashionably short in front. The glossy waves shone blue in the late afternoon sun that poured through the large double windows. Her irises were the clear grey of polished silver and ringed by ebony lashes that were so abundant as to make her eyelids appear heavy. Her full, red lips were parted in a welcoming smile as she came to Pippa and grasped her hands.
Taking a step back and studying Pippa, the Duchess said, ‘Why, you are nothing more than a child. What is Dev doing to rob the cradle for his minions?’
Pippa squelched her first impulse to curtsy and instead did the best bow she was capable of with the Duchess still grasping her fingers. ‘Your Grace, I am all of four and twenty.’ The Duchess gave her a quizzical look and Pippa realized her mistake. ‘That is, I am a late bloomer. My entire family matures slowly. That is—’
‘I understand perfectly,’ the Duchess said, releasing Pippa’s now clammy hands. ‘You don’t want anyone to know how young you really are.’ She patted Pippa’s arm. ‘I will keep your secret, child. Now tell me where my son is and how he is doing.’
