Duke Of Darkness. Anabelle Bryant

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СКАЧАТЬ knew without a doubt his aunt had cared deeply for him, as if he were her son, and yet to entrust him with this responsibility jarred his brain. Nothing in the letter indicated the age of the child, the moniker Alex, the only clue.

      Still the idea was not completely undesirable. He liked children well enough. That is, as long as they went home after an hour or so. Years ago, a few of his acquaintances succumbed to the parson’s mousetrap and found marital bliss. Their children littered his lawn during summer picnics and romped through the gardens. Their antics could almost be considered charming. Of course, he’d never contemplated having one of the little creatures himself. In fact, he’d taken every measure to ensure it never happened.

      How bad could it be? He would teach the lad to play chess and fence; to perfect the ideal golf swing. Reluctance faded and Devlin Ravensdale, only Duke of Wharncliffe, warmed to the idea with a wry smile, and relished the thought of what the ton would say of his newfound responsibility.

       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 СКАЧАТЬ