Deborah Simmons - The Devil Earl

His interest in her was definitely out of the ordinary. Usually he limited his dealings with women to a certain sort, who were very easily read. He liked having the terms well understood before engaging in any liaison, the payments and expectations agreed upon beforehand. Although his title gave him access to the rich and pampered ladies of the ton, most of them barely tolerated his presence, and those few who were interested struck him as far more calculating than any of the demimonde.

But Prudence would hardly qualify as either. She was, it seemed, a woman of decent birth, good manners and high morals—the kind who would be comfortable with the local gentry or at the vicarage. He had forgotten that such simple, kind-hearted people existed, for it had been a long time since he had associated with his parson or the squire’s vast brood—a very long time.

“Oh, do not scold me, Prudence!” Phoebe cried. “I could not bear it! We simply walked along the beach. It was I-lovely, and we talked, and Mr. Penhurst was every bit a gentleman. He never said anything about going away.”

Sebastian saw Prudence’s frown and knew a new surge of irritation with his brother. Had the whelp no thought for those who would be affected by his disappearance? He wanted to thrash James for causing her distress, then nearly laughed aloud at the bizarre impulse. A little late for him to play the hero, was it not? His role had been cast long ago, and the part did not appeal to women like this bespectacled, ink-stained creature.

“I think there is a lot you do not know about Mr. Penhurst,” Prudence said to her sister in that same gentle voice. “And nothing to excuse you from walking out alone with a gentlemen—” she shot Sebastian a quick, pained glance “—without telling anyone.”

Phoebe pouted prettily. “There was no harm done, and no one else to walk with me, with Mary and Cook being too busy, and you always at your desk writing and not wanting to be disturbed,” she whined piteously.

With a scowl, Sebastian recognized James’s well-worn tactic of trying to turn the blame back upon one’s elder. Prudence, apparently oblivious of this manipulation, was hugging the little schemer and murmuring softly in comfort.

Taking matters into his own hands, Sebastian stepped closer and snagged dainty Phoebe with his stare. “And what exactly did James say? Did he mention his plans for the future, or anywhere he might want to go? Was he to meet you somewhere, perhaps?”

The blue-eyed creature cringed and whimpered and buried her head against the curve of her sister’s breasts. For a moment, Sebastian let his gaze linger there, wondering what the mild-mannered Miss Prudence would be like without her glasses and all those clothes. Then, with a frown of annoyance at his absurd thoughts, he turned his attention back to her sister.

“Are you sure, Miss Phoebe?” he asked, using his most malevolent tone. “Just in case he talked you into eloping, I must advise you right now that my brother is penniless. He is, in fact, deeply in debt, and can no more support a wife than any other wayward schoolboy.”

The little blonde let out a wail that belied her small size, and set up sobbing afresh. Although Prudence’s arms automatically tightened around her sister, she glanced up at Sebastian, hesitating, as if torn between the two of them.

Since he knew of no earthly reason why this strange woman should show him any loyalty, Sebastian was more than a bit surprised by her behavior, and yet he felt a surge of unfamiliar emotion in reaction. What would it take to earn Prudence Lancaster’s trust—and devotion?

Something he did not possess, Sebastian told himself, and his thoughts were confirmed when Phoebe clung to her, easily reclaiming her regard. “Prudence! Oh, make him stop talking to me so! He frightens me! He is responsible for all of these dreadful happenings!”

Sebastian stiffened immediately. Although he had heard such allegations as the girl’s often enough before, and had sometimes even found a kind of perverse enjoyment in his own wicked reputation, he realized that he did not like listening to them here in this quiet parlor—in her sister’s presence.

“Now, Phoebe, stop that at once,” Prudence muttered, a bit awkwardly, but it was too late. Already Sebastian felt his brief animation fading away, and his usual ennui taking its place.

“It is true!” Phoebe argued. “Mr. Penhurst would never, ever leave without telling me. It is as Mrs. Bates said. I know it is! That—that fiend there,” she said, pointing at Sebastian, “murdered his own brother!”

Sebastian smiled coldly, the ranting of a dim-witted little blonde sliding effortlessly off his thick skin. However, he could not so coolly dismiss her sister, and he realized suddenly, painfully, that he did not want to see the change come over her face, to see the open, serious features look upon him with fear and loathing, the straight shoulders shrink back in horror and disgust.

He did not want to see Prudence Lancaster’s disapprobation.

Before he could witness it, Sebastian spun on his heel and stalked from the room, saving them the effort of asking him to leave. He knew there was no use in trying to deny the charges against him; he had wasted many long years in such vain efforts. Finally, he had come to understand that there was no recourse for him. People assumed the worst, and Prudence Lancaster would, too.

He nearly laughed aloud at his brief flirtation with humanity. He must be growing feeble, to attach some sort of importance to the reaction of a woman who wore spectacles and sported ink stains on her hands.

Not waiting for the frightened maid to do it for him, Sebastian opened the door himself and strode outside. He welcomed the cool mist that met him, dampening his absurd ardor and chilling his deadened spirit. His steps were sure, despite the fog, and he did not falter even when he imagined her calling after him.

That was something Sebastian would not do, for he had learned long ago never to look back.

Prudence nibbled the end of her pen, frustrated, yet again, with her writing. She had finished her second novel, Bastian of Bloodmoor, in record time, and, according to her publisher, it had met with even greater success than her first effort. But now, her energies were flagging. She suspected that she needed renewed inspiration.

With a sigh, Prudence turned toward the window—and Wolfinger. The dark edifice seemed doubly lonely after its short occupation, and she felt it calling to her anew, as if she held the key to its future. Prudence shook her head, rather sadly, for even in her wildest dreams she could not pretend that was true. If she could not manage to gain entry to the abbey, how could she fill it with life and people?

Five months after his disappearance, James Penhurst was still missing, and his brother, the earl, had long since departed Cornwall. Prudence had learned, afterward, that he had left the very day he visited the cottage, his black coach and four sweeping from the abbey on the wings of another storm, leaving age-old superstitions and gossip in its wake.

They called him a murderer, anyone who dared, and yet, since his brother’s body had never been found, nothing was done—or said—officially. Still, everyone else talked, and Prudence had heard awful rumors that painted Ravenscar as black as his ancestors. As a gothic authoress, Prudence found the tales rather thrilling. As someone who had met the earl, however, she could hardly countenance them.

How often had she been tempted to write to the man! And how often, just as quickly, had she dismissed the notion. Although Prudence longed to give the earl the support she sensed he needed desperately, she could not gather her courage to do so.

What would she say? Offering comfort to one such as Ravenscar would be no easy task, Prudence knew. And how would it reach him? One simply did not send an unsolicited letter to an earl, she mused with a frown, especially one as arrogant as Ravenscar. No doubt he would toss her message away, amused by her provincialism, Prudence decided, and she forced herself to put the matter aside.