Page 5 of The Devil of Drury Lane
Unlike his family, he thought, and gave the sketch another glance.
Bemused, Damien allowed the flood of gratitude to roll through him. Mercy Ainsworth had done more for him that she could possibly realize. She’d witnessed something in a lonely, frightened boy that long-ago summer, enough of a boost to allow Damien to face his father every day after with mettle he hadn’t known he possessed.
He hadn’t seen his once enigmatic neighbor in years—but he’d always meant to thank her when he did.
Knox elbowed his way inside the group, a rumpled bonnet clutched in his fist, their father’s loathsome signet ring glinting in the sconce’s light. “Found it!”
Miss Marlowe rolled her eyes and reluctantly located a quill and pad of paper to record the sale. “I’m sure your latest companion will cherish it, Your Grace.”
A laugh burst from Cort’s lips, sending crumbs flying across the hatmaker’s notepad. “I’m never shopping at another store ever again. Snide witticisms and the best bloody biscuits in England. What more could a man want?”
Damien elbowed Cort in the ribs, wishing they’d taken time to sober up with a spot of tea before attempting the long walk to DeWitt House.
“Delightful,” Miss Marlowe murmured, “you three are simply delightful. Better than the scandal rags described, even.”
“See here, Miss Marlowe. I don’t have a companion.” Knox frowned down at the bonnet he was in the process of spiritlessly purchasing. “Not at this moment. What I mean is—” The duke growled, ending his ridiculous speech with a frustrated breath released through his teeth.
The hatmaker sniffed without looking up.
Dumbfounded, Knox stared, reluctant fascination lodged in his emerald eyes. Finally, he pulled himself together and slapped the bonnet atop the counter, his glower intimating no one as he shifted his attention to Damien. “I didn’t know you cared for theatre, Dame.”
“I don’t,” Damien murmured, “but I feel I’m about to change my mind.”
CHAPTER TWO
WHERE A CALCULATED STRATEGY PAYS OFF
“There’s the one the ton has taken to calling the Devil of Drury Lane.”
Mercy followed Lady Baumbach’s inelegant gesturing, her power of speech slipping away like mist across the moors. Dear heaven, she thought, and took a fortifying gulp of champagne. Across the crowded ballroom stood Damien DeWitt, her once-upon-a-time enthrallment. She’d not seen him since the spring of 1814, riding hellbent across the grazing lands separating their estates.
Mercy peeked around the bower of lush greenery surrounding the sweets table. Light from the chandelier bathed him in glints of gold and silver, flowing over the broad shoulder he’d perched negligently against a column he appeared to be holding up, and doing a pleasing sweep down his body. The daughter of a debauched baron prattled away beside him while he gave her a nonplussed glance Mercy remembered seeing before.
The room dimmed, except for the bright corner Damien inhabited, an artist’s tunnel vision swallowing her whole. Mercy’s fingertips tingled with the urge to seize her charcoal pencil. She took a fast sip of champagne but tasted nothing. “Are you sure it’s the man with the spectacles you’re referring to?”
Because this DeWitt is no devil.
Lady Baumbach’s grin was diabolic. She had a reputation for crafting chaos, such was her mundane existence, married to a marquess who preferred his mistress over his wife. She changed lovers as often as people changed their drawers in a desperate quest for fulfillment. “Quit a specimen, isn’t he? Holds some academic position at Cambridge. As long and lean as a sculpture. When, as a lad, he was rumored to be tetched. Who would have guessed such a quiet snip would grow into that?”
Tetched? Mercy’s temper sparked, heating her belly. He’d been a brilliant, empathetic boy—perhaps above the ridiculousness they were forced to endure to survive in this world.
And he taught at Oxford, not Cambridge.
Lady Baumbach lifted her hand to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully on her kidskin-covered thumb. “The most mysterious of the DeWitt brothers, to my calculation. The other two, the duke and his foolhardy twin, have never kept a secret between them. Everything they think or feel, especially Cortland with his perfect marriage and his perfect wife, spills like paint across cobbles. But this one…” She sighed softly, lost in fantasy. “This one has secrets. His eyes change color with the function, I’ve found. Green one moment, gold the next. A woman would never get bored when granted with such variability. I’ve never had a brilliant man, either. I wonder what that would be like.”
Discomfited to gossip about the boy she’d been besotted with, a man she no longer knew, Mercy glanced away before the devil who wasn’t a devil could catch her staring. What secrets could the intellectual brother of a duke possibly have? A book forever in hand, his mind was likely filled with lyrical sonnets and algebraic formulas.
Now, she, Mercy Amelia Ainsworth, had secrets.
“I can see you don’t believe me,” Lady Baumbach whispered against the rim of her flute. “He frequents Drury so often, even during rehearsals, that the entire cast and crew have taken note. Apparently, he’s not amusing himself with actresses as his brothers have been known to do. I sense he actually likes the productions as he once sat in the pit with a group of tradesman, if you can imagine. It’s said he’s discreetly investing in future plays, which is why I invited him to the Theatrical Fund ball this evening. The capital for gas lighting must come from somewhere.”
Mercy struggled to hold back her mirth. “I didn’t realize the financial well-being of the theatre was close to your heart, my lady.”
Lady Baumbach giggled, her wicked gaze sliding Mercy’s way. “Actually, there’s a personal friend in the upcoming production, a stage technician of some…note. He would look quite dazzling in brighter illumination.”
Mercy dusted her slipper through the chalk spread across the parquet floor, speculating about what Lady Baumbach spent time noting about her stagehand. Everything that lay below his waistband, in all likelihood.
Lady Baumbach tapped her flute against Mercy’s wrist. “I’d offer my diamond brooch to know what’s circling your mind, darling. Your cheeks are as rosy as that horrid ratafia I was forced to offer as refreshment. If you’re to wed, as society whispers you soon will, you’ll have to embrace certain aspects of married life. Men are often very hard to corral. They stray like lost puppies. Being happy, unless one is in this thing for love, means the wife also having… acquaintances.”
