Deborah Simmons - The Devil Earl

“Prudence!” A loud shriek made her spit out her pen. Good heavens, was that Phoebe? Prudence rose from her chair in surprise. Poor Phoebe had fallen into a fit of the dismals after Mr. Penhurst’s disappearance, and had yet to fully recover, so Prudence was pleased to hear her sounding so cheerful. When she turned to see a pink-cheeked Phoebe, bubbling with excitement, she smiled with relief.

“Pru! Just look at the size of this bank draft!” Ignoring the obvious—that her sister had opened her post—Prudence glanced down at the amount, and was stunned by what she saw. Apparently her last book had been more than well received, if her success could be measured by the amazing sum staring up at her.

They were flush! The knowledge was dizzying.

When Prudence had begun to write, they had not been starving. Indeed, they could always have lived, if meagerly, on the small stipend left from their grandmother, but they had been forever scrimping, and had had little left over for trifles. Then she had sold her first work, The Mysterious Alphonse. It had done far better than she expected, allowing them to fix up the cottage and still put something by.

They had settled in, quite comfortably, but now…Now they had more than enough to see to their needs. Prudence gaped, dumbfounded, at the figure, while Phoebe whirled round and round, finally coming to rest before her sister with glowing features.

“You are plump in the pocket, Prudence! What are you going to do with all of it?” Phoebe asked, waving the paper happily. Before Prudence could answer, her sister showed her white teeth and bit her lower lip. “Better yet, tell me, what is your heart’s desire, for you may now have anything?”

Smiling absently at her sister’s play, Prudence let her gaze drift from the handsome draft toward the window. Her fondest wish? In a sudden, weak moment, she envisioned herself not as the head of the family, but as the young, funloving girl Phoebe was—and she had never been.

In the distance, the black walls of Wolfinger rose out of the mist like a living thing, pulsing with its distinctive power, calling to her like some siren’s song, and Prudence felt herself drift into her own imagination. Abruptly she knew, without a doubt, what she most desired. “I wish to visit Wolfinger,” she said softly.

“Oh, pooh! That old place!” Phoebe said, obviously disappointed with both her choice and her serious tone. Phoebe did not like anything somber, least of all the abbey. She shivered and pouted prettily. “That is impossible, anyway. You must choose something that your newfound money can buy.”

“All right,” Prudence answered. Well used to giving in to her younger sibling, she turned her back on the ancient structure and faced Phoebe with a smile. “Then I would wish for a season in London for you!”

“Oh, Pru! Really? Do not tease me!” Phoebe begged.

“Really.”

“Oh, Pru!” Phoebe cried as she threw herself into Prudence’s arms. Engulfed in a cascade of pale blond curls and her sister’s sweet feminine scent, Prudence put her mind to the practical aspects of their trip. Spring was coming on quickly, and if they were to go to London this season, she had lots of preparations to make.

Once there, she would have to forget about her writing to concentrate on finding Phoebe a suitable husband. It was just what Mrs. Bates had suggested, and the perfect thing to drag her sister out of the doldrums. Indeed, Phoebe had been begging for a London trip for years.

Unfortunately, Prudence could find little to please herself in the prospective visit, but she pushed her spectacles back into place and smiled at her sister’s happiness, just as she had always done, knowing that when she returned, Wolfinger would be waiting.

Mrs. Bates clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Well, there is no mistaking me this time, Miss Prudence Lancaster. You simply must have a chaperone.”

Prudence sighed. “I am afraid you are right, Mrs. Bates,” she admitted. “I have written my cousin Hugh, and he is most adamant upon the subject.”

Mrs. Bates made one of her odd noises, which managed to sound critical even though she soon voiced her agreement. “I should hope so! It appears that there is at least one Lancaster with some sense.” With that, she settled herself more firmly in her seat, which meant, Prudence noted dismally, that she was preparing herself for a lengthy visit.

As if confirming Prudence’s worst fears, Mrs. Bates took a deep breath and gave her a superior look. “There are all manner of people who prey upon country visitors, and not all of them are easily discerned. If you truly hope to find a proper husband for Phoebe in London, then you simply must appear to be above reproach. Otherwise, you shall surely draw the wrong kind of fellow—shabby genteel, fast, or worse! And I am sure you cannot trust to the gel herself to judge,” she added with a snort.

Prudence opened her mouth to come to her sister’s defense, but then snapped it closed again, being well aware of Phoebe’s blessings—and her flaws. Phoebe had the lion’s share of the family’s beauty, while Prudence possessed the majority of the intelligence. Luckily, their natures seemed well suited to the arrangement, and, having had many years in which to become accustomed to it, they were both contented.

However, Prudence knew well that because she was the oldest, the flightier Phoebe was her responsibility. She could not afford to make any mistakes, especially after her sister had behaved so unwisely with Mr. Penhurst. Despite her own contempt for convention, Prudence was not about to let Phoebe ruin herself by walking out unchaperoned—or worse—in town. And, as much as she loved her sister, Prudence suspected that Phoebe was capable of getting herself in much deeper trouble, if she was allowed free rein.

“Of course, I cannot say much for your judgment, either,” Mrs. Bates commented, scowling at Prudence. “Living alone, when I have warned you against it. And entertaining gentlemen! When I think of that poor Mr. Penhurst coming here, not to mention the Devil Earl himself!”

It was Prudence’s turn to frown. Although she had said nothing of Ravenscar’s visit to the cottage, she had not been able to prevent Mary and Cook and a distraught Phoebe from spreading the news, and Mrs. Bates had made much of it too many times for Prudence to listen again.

“He is not the Devil Earl,” she said simply. “The Devil Earl died nearly two hundred years ago.”

“Humph! Died? Murdered in that ghastly abbey by his very own wife, in payment for his sins!” Mrs. Bates retorted. She shot a disapproving glance out the window toward Wolfinger. Its dark stone gleamed malevolently, as if to spite her. “And now his descendant follows in his footsteps. Bad blood runs true, my girl, make no mistake!”

Prudence put down her cup and placed her hands in her lap, tamping down an unruly urge to toss the cantankerous matron from the cottage. “I hardly see the connection, Mrs. Bates,” she said firmly. “The Devil Earl locked his wife in the tower room for years because she was mad, or so the story goes.”

“Humph! As if he did not drive her to it! Wickedness, excess and madness,” she proclaimed in a ringing voice. “That is the legacy of the Ravenscar earldom.”

“Nonsense,” Prudence replied calmly. “Mr. Penhurst has run off, as young boys do, and will show himself when he is over his sulks. Then everyone will regret maligning Lord Ravenscar.”

Mrs. Bates gasped, obviously outraged by her hostess’s dissent. “Prudence Lancaster! How can you say such a thing? Why, even your own sister knows the boy was murdered!”

“Phoebe’s judgment has been clouded,” Prudence said, without elaborating.