When her wits reconnected with reality, Honoria discovered herself fully dressed, leaning against the daybed's back. Before her, Devil stood before the mirror, tying his cravat. She watched his fingers deftly crease and knot the wide folds, and smiled.
In the mirror, Devil's eyes met hers. Her smile widened; he raised a brow.
"I just realized," she said, leaning more heavily against the daybed, "why you don't have a valet. Being a rake necessarily means you can't rely on the services of a servant to turn you out in trim."
Settling the ends of his cravat, Devil cast her a jaundiced glance. "Precisely." He turned. "And if you've returned to the living enough to think that through, we'd better get back to the ballroom."
He stooped to snatch his coat from the floor; Honoria opened her lips to inform him that she had, indeed, made up her mind, then thought better of it. They'd been away from the ball for too long as it was-this was no longer the time and place. Tomorrow morning would do.
She felt like she was floating, in some strange way sundered from reality. She watched Devil shrug into his coat. As he settled the lapels, something caught her eye. Turning, she peered between the orange trees.
"What is it?" Devil followed her gaze.
"I thought I saw someone, but it must have been a shifting shadow."
Devil took her hand. "Come-the gossipmongers will have enough to talk about as it is."
They walked swiftly through the orange grove; a moment later, the latch clicked and all was still. The moon continued to lay its gentle beams in wide swaths across the flagged floor.
A shadow broke the pattern.
The outline of a man was thrown across the grove, distorted to menacing proportions. Then the figure slipped away, around the corner of the orangery, and the shadow was no more.
Moonlight bathed the scene in soft white light, illuminating the orange trees, the wickerwork basket, and the daybed with its rumpled cushions.
Chapter 15
"Thank you, Emmy." Standing, arms folded, before her sitting-room window, Honoria watched the tweeny tidy her luncheon tray. "Has His Grace returned to the house?"
"I don't believe so, miss." Emmy straightened, hefting her burden. "I could ask Webster, if you like?"
"No-thank you, Emmy." Honoria fabricated a smile. "It was merely an idle question."
Very idle. Turning back to the window, Honoria wondered how much more idleness she could take. They'd returned from Berkeley Square well after three o'clock; sleep, deep and dreamless, had claimed her. Devil's pleasure had obviously agreed with her; on waking, she'd determined to waste no time claiming more. Gowned in one of Celestine's most fetching creations, she'd headed downstairs.
Only to disco
ver the breakfast room empty. Devoid of wolves. Webster informed her that His Grace had broken his fast early and departed for a long drive. After breakfasting in solitary splendor-the Dowager had, the night before, declared her intention of not rising until the afternoon-she'd retreated to her sitting room. To wait. Impatiently.
How dare he demand a declaration from her and then go for a drive? She set her teeth and heard the front door slam. The sound of raised voices reached her. Frowning, she went to the door, opened it, and recognized Webster's voice raised in exclamation.
Webster shaken from his habitual imperturbability? Honoria headed for the stairs. Surely nothing short of catastrophe-
Her breath caught; eyes widening, she picked up her skirts and ran.
Reaching the gallery, she leaned over the rail. The sight that met her eyes was the opposite of reassuring. In the hall below, footmen milled about a ragged figure, supporting, exclaiming. It was Sligo, pale, shaken, one arm in a makeshift sling, cuts and abrasions all over his face.
Her heart in her mouth, Honoria started down the stairs-and heard Devil's voice, deep, strong, a forcefully coherent rumble. Relief hit her so strongly she had to lean on the balustrade to let the giddiness pass. Drawing a steadying breath, she continued down.
Devil strode out of the library; Honoria clutched the banister again. His coat was ripped in countless places, in jagged little tears. His buckskin breeches, usually immaculate, were scraped and dusty, as were his boots. Disheveled black locks framed his frowning face; an angry scratch ran along his jaw. "Get the sawbones in for Sligo-that shoulder needs setting."
"But what about you, m'lord?" Webster, following on his heels, raised his hands, as if tempted to seize hold of his master.
Devil swung about-and saw Honoria on the stairs. His gaze locked on hers. "There's nothing wrong with me bar a few scratches." After a moment, he glanced to his left, frowning at Webster. "Stop fussing-Cynsters are invincible, remember?" With that, he set his boot on the first stair. "Just send up some hot water-that's all I need."
"I'll bring it up directly, Your Grace." With injured dignity, Webster headed for the kitchens.
Devil climbed the stairs; Honoria waited. There were slivers of wood, some painted, caught in the tears in his coat. Her chest felt so tight it hurt. "What happened?"