Devil's Daughter Read online

  “Henry’s father thought it would toughen him,” Phoebe said. “And his mother has all the kindness of a baited badger, which is why she agreed to send him back for a second year of hell. But the blame isn’t all theirs. West Ravenel is a brute who was never held to account for his actions.”

  “What I’m trying to explain is that a boarding-school environment is Darwinian. Everyone bullies or is bullied, until the hierarchy is sorted out.”

  “Did you bully anyone when you were at Harrow?” she asked pointedly.

  “Of course not. But my situation was different. I was raised in a loving family. We lived in a house by the sea with our own private sand beach. We each had our own pony, for God’s sake. It was an embarrassingly perfect childhood, especially in contrast to the Ravenel brothers, who were the poor relations of their family. They were orphaned at a young age and sent to boarding school because no one wanted them.”

  “Because they were mean little ruffians?” she suggested darkly.

  “They had no parents, no family, no home, no money or possessions . . . what would you expect of boys in their situation?”

  “I don’t care what caused Mr. Ravenel’s behavior. All that matters is that he hurt Henry.”

  Gabriel frowned thoughtfully. “Unless there’s something I missed in those letters, Ravenel did nothing particularly vicious. Never bloodied Henry’s nose or thrashed him. It was more pranks and name-calling than anything else, wasn’t it?”

  “Fear and humiliation can inflict far worse damage than fists.” Phoebe’s eyes stung, and a hard lump formed in her throat. “Why are you standing up for Mr. Ravenel and not my husband?”

  “Redbird,” Gabriel said, his tone gentling. It was the pet name only he and their father used for her. “You know I loved Henry. Come here.”

  She went to him, sniffling, and his arms closed around her in a comforting embrace.

  In their youth, Henry, Gabriel, Raphael, and their friends had spent many a sunny afternoon at the Challon estate in Heron’s Point, sailing little skiffs in the private cove or rambling through the nearby woodland. No one had ever dared bully or tease Henry, knowing the Challon brothers would thrash them for it.

  At the end of Henry’s life, when he’d been too weak to go anywhere on his own, Gabriel had taken him fishing one last time, carrying him to the bank of his favorite trout stream and setting him on a triangular camp stool. With endless patience, Gabriel had baited the pitches and helped Henry reel the line in, until they had returned with a creel full of trout. That had been Henry’s last day outside.

  Gabriel patted her back and briefly laid his cheek against her hair. “This situation must be damned difficult for you. Why didn’t you mention it before? At least half the Ravenel family stayed with us at Heron’s Point for a week, and you didn’t say a word.”

  “I didn’t want to cause trouble while you and Pandora were trying to decide if you liked each other well enough to marry. And also . . . well, most of the time I feel like a rain cloud, glooming up the atmosphere everywhere I go. I’m trying not to do that anymore.” Stepping back, Phoebe wiped the wet corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “It’s not right for me to dredge up past grievances that no one else remembers, especially at such a happy time. I’m sorry I mentioned it at all. But the prospect of being in Mr. Ravenel’s company fills me with dread.”

  “Are you going to say something to him about it? Or would you like me to?”

  “No, please don’t. It would serve no purpose. I don’t think he even remembers it. Promise you’ll say nothing.”

  “I promise,” Gabriel said reluctantly. “Although it seems only fair to give him a chance to apologize.”

  “It’s too late for apologies,” she muttered. “And I doubt he would anyway.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He seems to have grown up into a decent fellow.”

  Phoebe gave him a dour look. “Oh? Did you come to that conclusion before or after he lectured me as if I were some feudal overlord who’d just been trampling the peasants?”

  Gabriel fought to suppress a grin. “You handled that well,” he said. “You took it with good grace when you could have sliced him to ribbons with a few words.”

  “I was tempted,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t help remembering something Mother once said.”

  It had been on a long-ago morning in her childhood, when she and Gabriel had still needed books stacked on their chairs whenever they sat at the breakfast table. Their father had been reading a freshly ironed newspaper, while their mother, Evangeline, or Evie, as family and friends called her, fed spoonfuls of sweetened porridge to baby Raphael in his high chair.

  After Phoebe had recounted some injustice done to her by a playmate, saying she wouldn’t accept the girl’s apology, her mother had persuaded her to reconsider for the sake of kindness.

  “But she’s a bad, selfish girl,” Phoebe had said indignantly.

  Evie’s reply was gentle but matter-of-fact. “Kindness counts the most when it’s given to people who don’t deserve it.”

  “Does Gabriel have to be kind to everyone too?” Phoebe had demanded.

  “Yes, darling.”

  “Does Father?”

  “No, Redbird,” her father had replied, his mouth twitching at the corners. “That’s why I married your mother—she’s kind enough for two people.”

  “Mother,” Gabriel had asked hopefully, “could you be kind enough for three people?”

  At that, their father had taken a sudden intense interest in his newspaper, lifting it in front of his face. A quiet wheeze emerged from behind it.

  “I’m afraid not, dear,” Evie had said gently, her eyes sparkling. “But I’m sure you and your sister can find a great deal of kindness in your own hearts.”

  Returning her thoughts to the present, Phoebe said, “Mother told us to be kind even to people who don’t deserve it. Which includes Mr. Ravenel, although I suspect he would have liked to deliver a dressing-down to me right there in the entrance hall.”

  Gabriel’s tone was cinder dry. “I suspect his thoughts had less to do with dressing-down than undressing.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Oh, come,” her brother chided, amused. “You had to notice the way his eyes were waving about on stalks like a lobster about to be boiled. Has it been so long that you can’t tell when a man is attracted to you?”

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms. One of her hands crept up to her midriff, trying to calm a storm of butterflies.

  As a matter of fact, it had been that long. She could read the signs of other people’s attractions, but not, apparently, when any of it applied to her. This was unknown territory. Her relationship with Henry had always been safely tempered by a sense of the familiar.

  This was the first time Phoebe had ever felt so drawn to a stranger, and for it to be a man who was all brawn and boorishness was a cruel joke. There couldn’t be a greater contrast to Henry. But as Mr. Ravenel had stood there, radiating virility, his gaze shocking her with its directness, she had felt her knees wilt and her blood race. It was mortifying.

  Even worse, she felt as if she were betraying Edward Larson, with whom she had an understanding of sorts. He hadn’t proposed yet, but they both knew he would someday, and she would probably accept.

  “If Mr. Ravenel has any interest in me,” Phoebe said shortly, “it’s because he’s a fortune hunter. Most second sons are.”

  Gabriel’s eyes twinkled with affectionate mockery. “Thank God you know what labels to affix to people. It would be so inconvenient to have to judge them individually.”

  “As always, ‘annoying lunkhead’ is perfect for you.”

  “I think you secretly liked the way Ravenel talked to you,” Gabriel said. “People are always telling us what they think we want to hear. Raw honesty is a refreshing change, isn’t it?”

  “Refreshing for you, perhaps,” Phoebe said with a reluctant smile. “Well, you’ll certainly get that from Pandora. She�
�s incapable of being awed by anyone.”

  “It’s one of the reasons I love her,” her brother admitted. “I also love her wit, her zest for life, and the fact that she needs me to keep her from walking in circles.”

  “I’m glad you found each other,” Phoebe said sincerely. “Pandora’s a dear girl, and you both deserve to be happy.”

  “So do you.”

  “I don’t expect ever to find the kind of happiness I had with Henry.”

  “Why not?”

  “A love like that can only happen once in a lifetime.”

  Gabriel pondered that. “I certainly don’t understand everything about love,” he said almost humbly. “But I don’t think it works like that.”

  Phoebe shrugged and tried to sound brisk. “There’s no point in worrying over my future—it will happen as it wants to. All I can do is try to carry on in a way that will honor my husband’s memory. What I know for certain is that as much as Henry hated Mr. Ravenel, he wouldn’t have wanted me to be spiteful or vindictive.”

  Her brother’s warm gaze searched every nuance of her expression. “Don’t be afraid,” he surprised her by saying.

  “Of Mr. Ravenel? Never.”

  “I meant don’t be afraid of liking him.”

  That startled a laugh from Phoebe. “There’s no danger of that. But even if there were, I would never betray Henry by making friends with his enemy.”

  “Don’t betray yourself, either.”

  “In what way—how do you think I—Gabriel, wait!” But he had gone to the door and opened it.

  “Time to go back, Redbird. You’ll sort it all out eventually.”

  Chapter 5

  To Phoebe’s relief, Mr. Ravenel was nowhere in sight when they returned to the entrance hall. Guests milled about and chatted as old friends were reacquainted and new ones were introduced. A battalion of footmen and maids carried trunks, traveling cases, hatboxes and all manner of luggage toward the back stairs.

  “Phoebe,” came a light, sweet voice, and she turned to find Devon’s wife at her side. Kathleen, Lady Trenear, was a petite woman with red hair, tip-tilted eyes and high cheekbones. Phoebe had come to like her very much during the week the Ravenels had stayed at Heron’s Point. Kathleen was cheerful and engaging, albeit a bit horse mad, since both her parents had been in the business of breeding and training Arabians. Phoebe liked horses, but she didn’t know nearly enough about them to carry on a detailed conversation. Fortunately, Kathleen was the mother of an infant son who was close to Stephen’s age, and that had provided ample ground for conversation.

  “I’m so delighted to have you here,” Kathleen said, taking Phoebe’s hands in her small ones. “How was the journey?”

  “Splendid,” Phoebe said. “Justin found the train ride very exciting, and the baby seemed to enjoy the swaying.”

  “If you like, I’ll show your nanny and the children up to the nursery. Perhaps you’ll want to have a look?”

  “Yes, but must you leave all your guests? We could have a housemaid show us the way.”

  “They can do without me for a few minutes. I’ll explain the layout of the house as we go. It’s a labyrinth. Everyone gets lost the first day or two. We have to send out search expeditions every few hours to collect the stragglers.”

  In most grand households, children, nursemaids and nannies were usually relegated to the servants’ stairs in the back, but Kathleen insisted they use the central staircase during their stay. “The nursery is much easier to reach this way,” she said as they ascended.

  Phoebe carried Stephen, while Justin held Nanny’s hand and pulled her along like a small, determined tugboat towing a freighter. At each landing, Phoebe caught glimpses of rooms through wide-open doorways, some with fireplaces large enough to stand in.

  For all its size, the house had a friendly, cozy feeling. The walls were covered with antique French and Italian tapestry hangings, and oil paintings in heavy gilded frames. She saw signs of the manor’s venerable age: exposed joists sagging a little here or there, scarred places on the oak floors, thin patches on the Aubusson carpeting. But there were notes of luxury everywhere: jewel-toned Venetian-glass lampshades, Chinese porcelain vases and tea jars, sideboards holding heavy silver trays of liquor in glittering decanters. The air smelled like old books, fresh flowers, and the agreeable whiff of furniture polish.

  When they reached the nursery, Phoebe saw that a footman had already conveyed her children’s carriage box of clothes and supplies upstairs. The spacious room was filled with charming child-sized furniture, including a table and chairs and an upholstered settee. Two children napped on small cots, while Kathleen’s son, Matthew, slept soundly in his crib. A pair of white-aproned nursemaids came forward to meet Nanny Bracegirdle, smiling and whispering as they introduced themselves.

  Kathleen showed Phoebe to an empty crib lined with soft embroidered bedding. “This is for Stephen,” she whispered.

  “It’s perfect. If I were just a bit smaller, I might try to curl up in there myself.”

  Kathleen smiled. “Why don’t I show you to your room, and you can nap in a proper bed?”

  “That sounds like heaven.” Phoebe kissed and nuzzled Stephen’s warm, silky head before giving him to the nanny. She went to Justin, who was investigating a set of shelves filled with toys and books. He had taken interest in a toy theater with changeable backdrops and a box of painted cutout characters. “Will you like staying here, darling?” she asked softly, kneeling beside him.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Nanny will be here with you. Tell her or one of the nursemaids if you want me, and I’ll come.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Since he didn’t like giving kisses in front of strangers, Justin surreptitiously pressed his lips to the tip of his forefinger and held it out. Phoebe did the same and touched her fingertip to his. They exchanged a smile after the secret ritual. For an instant, the crescent shapes of his eyes and the little crinkle of his nose reminded her of Henry. But the wisp of memory didn’t come with the expected twinge of pain, only a trace of wistful fondness.

  Phoebe left the nursery with Kathleen, and they went back down to the second floor.

  “I remember how it felt to come out of mourning after losing my first husband,” Kathleen said. “For me, it was like leaving a dark room and going into the glare of daylight. Everything seemed too loud and fast.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly how it feels.”

  “Do whatever you like here, just as you would at home. You mustn’t feel obliged to take part in any activities that don’t appeal to you. We want very much for you to be comfortable and happy.”

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  They went down a second-floor hallway and reached a bedroom where Ernestine, her lady’s maid, was in the process of unpacking her trunks and boxes.

  “I hope this room will do,” Katherine said. “It’s small, but it has its own dressing room and washroom, and a view of the formal gardens.”

  “It’s lovely.” Phoebe looked over the room with pleasure. The walls were covered in French paper featuring a delicate vine pattern, with a fresh coat of white paint covering the trim and panel work.

  “I’ll leave you, then, while you settle things to your liking. At six o’clock, we meet in the drawing room for sherry. Dinner is at eight. Formal dress, but after the newlyweds leave tomorrow, we’ll be easy and casual.”

  After Kathleen had left, Phoebe watched Ernestine unearthing stacks of carefully folded linens and neat little parcels from an open trunk. Every pair of shoes had its own little plain-woven drawstring bag, and every pair of gloves had been tucked into a narrow pasteboard box.

  “Ernestine,” she said, “you’re a marvel of organization.”

  “Thank you, milady. It’s been so long since we’ve gone away from Heron’s Point, I’d almost forgotten how to pack.” Still kneeling by the trunk, the slim, dark-haired young woman looked up at her with a box of trimmings in hand, which had been removed from hats and caps to prev
ent them from being crushed. “Shall I air out your ecru dress while you nap?”

  “Ecru?” Phoebe echoed with a slight frown.

  “The silk one with flower trim.”

  “Gracious, did you bring that one?” Phoebe had only a vague memory of the formal gown, which she’d had made and fitted in London before Henry had gone into his final decline. “I think I would feel more comfortable in my silver gray. I’m not quite ready for colors yet.”

  “Ma’am, it’s ecru. No one would call that a color.”

  “But the trimmings . . . aren’t they too bright?”

  For answer, Ernestine pulled a garland of silk flowers from the box of trimmings and held them up for display. The silk peony and rose blossoms were tinted in delicate pastel shades.

  “I suppose that will be all right, then,” Phoebe said, amused by the lady’s maid’s sardonic expression. Ernestine had made no secret of her wish for her mistress to be done with the subdued grays and lavenders of half mourning.

  “It has been two years, milady,” the young woman pointed out. “All the books say that’s long enough.”

  Phoebe removed her hat and set it on the nearby satinwood vanity table. “Do help me out of this travel dress, Ernestine. If I’m to make it through tonight without collapsing, I’ll need to lie down for a few minutes.”

  “Aren’t you looking forward to the dinner?” the young woman dared to ask as she took Phoebe’s traveling jacket. “Many of your old friends will be there.”

  “Yes and no. I want to see them, but I’m nervous. I’m afraid they’ll expect me to be the person I was.”

  Ernestine paused in the midst of unfastening the buttons on the back of her dress. “Pardon, ma’am . . . but aren’t you still the same person?”

  “I’m afraid not. My old self is gone.” A humorless smile tugged at her lips. “And the new one hasn’t turned up yet.”

  Six o’clock.

  Time to go down to the drawing room. A glass of sherry would be a welcome start to the evening, Phoebe thought, fiddling with the artfully draped folds of her dress. She needed something to steady her nerves.