Читать книгу Duke Of Darkness - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 10

Chapter Three

The following morning, Devlin’s booted feet clipped a persistent rhythm on the cobbles as he walked with purpose to the stables, a man on a mission. He’d instructed Reeston to have his most comfortable carriage made ready, his finest team, and a footman to accompany him to Aunt Min’s estate. Two days’ ride was not worthy of his biggest barouche as its cumbersome construction would hamper his travels, but he wished to make the best impression upon his new ward and did not know what baggage the young man might possess. Out of use for a number of years, the barouche appeared worse for the wear. Nevertheless, it would serve his purpose.

London wasn’t known for favourable weather, and the grey haze that filtered sparse rays of sunlight reminding him of the poor sleep he’d suffered the night before. After receiving such distressing news in twofold yesterday afternoon, he should have anticipated he would suffer the tremors. And yet even though he’d taken a late night brandy and retired early, he doubted thirty minutes passed before the episode began.

It was the same every time, although the degree to which the attack gripped him varied on occasion. He inevitably awoke with little remembrance, aside from his sweat-drenched night clothes and knotted bed linens. Reeston interceded when possible, his butler ever alert since Devlin suffered his worst episode a number of years ago.

On that evening he’d awoken the entire household with his nightmarish sounds, his thrashing causing the water pitcher and vase of flowers on the nightstand to crash to the floor. Unfortunately the episode occurred during a house party at the country estate of a friend. The details of his experience whipped through the servants like wildfire to extend to every guest in attendance and perpetuate the rumours of his madness.

And while there was no way to prevent an episode, Devlin surmised the tremors were prone to thrive when his underlying thoughts, more than his most immediate worries, were at unrest. Perhaps whenever he faced an unpleasant situation or butted nose to nose with a problem he could not solve. The few doctors whom he’d bothered to consult offered little advice. Instead, the episodes enabled him to become more comfortable within the life he’d established on his estate and supplied another reason to rarely leave home.

As he neared the stable, the barouche pulled forward, the Wharncliffe crest lacklustre in the mocking morning haze, a shadowy echo of his disposition. Orion, his horse, led the team. He was a prime example of a stallion and not just a fast ride, but a significant investment. When put to stud, the stallion would produce a stable full of excellent horseflesh.

Devlin reached up with his left hand to offer Orion’s nose an affectionate rub, as his right worked to check the bridle. Then he climbed the extended steps and settled inside just as the coachman fastened his case. With a sharp whistle, they lurched forward.

The ride proved uneventful through most of the first day with only his muddied thoughts for consideration. Saddened by the reason necessitating the journey to The Willows, he was curious of the lad he’d meet upon arrival and more than a bit plagued by his neglect.

How inexcusable that he’d practised such selfish complacency in his familial duties. His aunt deserved better; and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t had the time to spare. Often hours, days, blended together in monotonous routine with only an occasional chess game with Reeston or late dinner conversation spent in the kitchen with Cook to separate one week from another. Yet he had no ready answer aside from his desire to remain withdrawn within the sanctity of his dim existence.

Now, not far from his destination, the view from the barouche window appeared ominous. Black clouds obliterated any attempt at sunlight and the wind threatened a storm. Perhaps if he ordered the coachman to push the team harder, they would outrun the oncoming weather.

And then the worst happened. A sudden boom of thunder startled the horses and they reared, forcing the clumsy barouche to sway heavily to the right, a resounding crack was heard soon after. It was unmistakable to anyone familiar with vehicles. The carriage wheel had splintered and broken. The coachman jumped down into the steady rhythm of rain to make quick work of assessing the damage, only to report they could proceed no further.

Damn it all to Hades. Devlin scowled at no one in particular, and welcomed the foulest of moods. Determined to make it to The Willows before nightfall, he disconnected Orion from the team and barked directions to the coachman. Then donning his greatcoat and beaver hat, he galloped through the wind gusts like a man bent for hell. He travelled for more than an hour when he discerned his aunt’s estate perched on a small hill north of where the road turned. It appeared much as he remembered, a shadowy memory of the proper tutor house he knew as a child. He urged Orion through the pelting rain, aware the horse needed rest and anxious, too, to be out of his sodden clothes. His black hair whipped about his head as a strong burst of wind stole his hat and he tightened his jaw with determination, his clothes drenched for no help of the greatcoat that hung like a heavy burden across his shoulders.

Were anyone to view the rider who rode like a demon towards the little manor on the hill, they might experience an intense premonition of dread. They would wonder at his intentions, as lightning flashed brilliant and jagged through the sky, and thunder vibrated through the earth with tremulous anger, and they would label him insane for pursuing his journey in such miserable weather, but Devlin was not to be stopped. He leapt free before Orion slowed, and paused only long enough to lead the animal to shelter near the side of the estate, as no one came out to greet him. Then he moved with sure steps to the front door of the manor house, and dropped the knocker twice, eager to be out of the elements.

Grimley opened the door with haste and Devlin stepped inside. The wind followed on his heels to unsettle a few calling cards that remained on a salver near the entryway.

“Your Grace, we were not expecting you in such weather. You are drenched to the bone. You will catch the ague.”

Devlin’s lips twisted with a wry grin. Aunt Min’s butler was somewhat of a worry wart. Some things never changed.

“Grimley.” He nodded his head, a few stray droplets of water falling to the parquet floor tiles.

“Come in, Your Grace. Shall I order you a bath? And your valise?” Grimley stepped away as a footman stooped low to clear the water seeping from Devlin’s greatcoat. Was it not such a sombre situation, they might have shared a laugh at the puddle beginning to form.

“Later, thank you. I came as soon as possible. How is the staff holding up? I know Aunt Min regarded you as family. Her passing must be felt dearly throughout the household.” The uncomfortable subject sent his eyes downward once again. It would seem his dripping had ceased.

“My condolences to you, Your Grace. I know you have suffered the greatest loss.” The two men shared an awkward moment of silence before Devlin removed his coat and handed it to a servant.

“I have also come to enquire of my new ward. I am concerned about the effects of my aunt’s death upon Alex.” At odds with the question on the tip of his tongue, Devlin swept his gaze from left to right, the interior of his aunt’s home sparking memories buried long ago, yet alive despite his best attempt to suffocate them. He shook off the uncomfortable awareness and focused on how little had changed. Yellow chintz pillows angled atop velvet upholstered elbow chairs, an umbrella stand shaped like an owl between them. As a child, he’d hidden numerous treasures in its porcelain base. Again the past reached for a stronghold and he whipped his eyes to Grimley. “Where might I find my charge?”

Grimley studied him for a long moment, although his soft grey eyes gave nothing away. “Alex is at the stable house. One of the mares is having a difficult time with her delivery. The stable boys rely on Alex for help. There is a certain innate ability there to ease the animals when they are ill-tempered or suffering with pain.”

Devlin found his first smile of the day. Good news. His ward held a talent with horses. Perhaps his trepidation was for naught. They would get along fine. And surely the lad must possess considerable years to be called on to help with the birth of a colt. The only troublesome measure was the condition of the weather outside. The storm hadn’t lessened and Devlin reasoned only a lackwit would venture out in it, whether himself or his charge.

“My coat again, then. I will ride down to the stable house and see if I can be of assistance.” When the butler hesitated, Devlin continued. “I am already soaked through.”

“I will have a hot bath ready for your return, and a hot meal.” Grimley handed him the offending garment and assisted as he slid it on.

Outside, Devlin led Orion down the steep embankment and towards the stables. He scanned the sky for any sign the storm might cease. A quick flash of lightning and the deep rumble of thunder obliterated the optimistic thought. The barn held the telltale glow of candlelight and he tied Orion within the first stall and walked quietly to the rear of the building. A labouring mare’s heavy pants, interrupted by an occasional weak whinny, could be heard. Several stable hands huddled near a wall on the right, but other than animal sounds, the barn was as silent as a vacant church.

One of the young lads near the wooden partition glanced over his shoulder, muttered a “milord” and hopped out of the way, his boots hitting the earth to disturb the familiar scent of leather, soap and perspiration. Devlin peered down into the straw-lined booth. A handsome mare lay on her side, swollen with the oncoming birth, her long nose beaded with sweat, her eyes wildly dilated with the effort. No one seemed to notice him, so intent was everyone on the suffering animal.

A slight lad kneeled near the horse’s head. Devlin could only view him from the back, but even though the boy wore a coat, his clothing set him apart from any other hand in the stable and he knew at once he’d found his charge. His mouth quirked with a quick twitch of the lips as relief coursed through him. This lad was easily manageable, and all fear that a younger child might present a challenge evaporated. Alex appeared to be at least eighteen, maybe older. The harsh lighting of the dim lanterns offered few clues.

He studied the boy, his lean frame crouched tight to speak to the mare in whispers, while one hand rubbed the long nuzzle of the mother horse in comfort. Intense labour began and the animal nickered as the sharp pains rippled through her. Alex’s hands soothed the horse’s neck in a methodical motion meant to comfort. As Devlin watched, he became transfixed. By damn, if it wasn’t relaxing him as much as the horse on the stall floor. He tightened his focus on the motion. His ward had small hands for a lad. Perhaps the boy was not as old as he’d originally perceived.

The horse released a loud whinny and with a mighty push the colt emerged, as the true birthing began. Alex left his position at the head of the mare and rounded the opposite corner. Devlin could see his face now, although the lantern light burned shallow at best. For a boy, he certainly had fine features. Smooth skin, a graceful nose and very determined eyes. But he was young. Not a whisker to be seen on the slope of his chin. He wore a brown leather cap that concealed most of his hair, but if the telltale strands escaping the sides were proof, it was the same colour as the straw that lined the pen.

For some reason, his ward chose that instant to glance upward and their eyes held for several moments. Pale brown eyebrows arched over the most intense blue eyes Devlin had ever seen and his heartbeat hitched, as if he experienced the same piercing contraction as the mare struggling on the stable floor. A strange frisson passed through the air, as strong and fleeting as the lightning that ruined the night sky, and he inhaled a sharp breath, anxious to destroy the unsettling reaction.

“Alex, she’s delivering.”

The stable hand’s exclamation drew them apart and all eyes turned to view the labouring horse. Alex rounded the rear of the animal and grasped the exposed colt in a firm grip, timing a mighty pull with the next contraction. A breath later they all stared at the newborn foal. Devlin sighed with deep resonance.

Wobbly and wet, the healthy horse fell twice before it managed to right itself on the barn floor, while the mare puffed and snorted with satisfaction. A few of the stable boys whooped with joy. It was a memorable moment, considering the course of action that had brought him to The Willows in the first place. And then relief turned into celebration, many of the stable hands talking at once. Devlin stepped forward. As he approached, he watched Alex wash and dry his hands in a nearby bucket. Then the lad removed his coat, apparently just having the opportunity. Next off came his cap, letting loose a cascade of blond hair the colour of summer sunshine all the way down to the small of his back.

Very little affected surprise in Devlin’s near thirty years. Any of his friends would wager nothing could unsettle the Mad Duke of Kenley Manor, but he must have appeared stark with shock because the excited volume of the stable fell to utter quiet in less than a heartbeat.