Deborah Simmons - The Devil Earl

“My dear child,” Nevvy said, with one of his most unpleasant smirks. “Have you not heard? The book is about the earl here.”

Prudence looked so dumbfounded by Nevvy’s claim that Ravenscar felt light-headed. Or was it lighthearted? Could it be possible that the girl had not purposely vilified him? Perhaps Prudence, with her ink-stained hands and sometimes faraway gaze, had been so wrapped up in her writing that she was unaware of the similarities between her villain and the object of Cornwall’s latest scandal.

She turned to Sebastian, her eyes round behind the glass, her cheeks flushed a becoming rose color. “My lord, is this a jest?”

Sebastian gave her a cool smile. “Of course, Miss Lancaster, but you are not acquainted with Nevvy’s peculiar brand of humor. May I present Lord Lawrence Neville? Miss Lancaster.”

Nevvy nodded curtly, his lip curling contemptuously at the slight to his wit. “One wonders where you have been, Miss Lancaster, for all of London is talking about Bastian of Bloodmoor and his likeness to Ravenscar.”

There was no mistaking that Prudence was startled. Unless she was a very fine actress…She sent him a quick, alarmed glance that heartened him entirely too much before she regained her composure.

“I have been, Sir Neville, in Cornwall,” she replied. “You see, I fear there has been some mistake. This book is a work of fiction. It is not about anyone.”

Nevvy lifted his quizzing glass and peered through it, in order to give her the full force of his disdain. “Come, come, Miss Lancaster.” He clucked. “And how would someone buried along the coast know a thing about the latest literary offering?”

“I can readily answer that,” Prudence said, drawing a deep breath, “for, you see, I wrote it.”

Sebastian took one look at Nevvy’s expression and was surprised to feel genuine laughter building in his chest. Although the sensation was decidedly unfamiliar, it was uniquely satisfying, for watching the darling of society reduced to gaping like a chawbacon struck him as infinitely amusing.

“And I can assure you, it is not about Lord Ravenscar,” Prudence continued firmly. She lifted a hand, as if to reach for Sebastian, and he knew a brief but heady anticipation. She must have caught herself, however, for her gloved fingers fell before touching his sleeve, much to Sebastian’s disappointment.

Nevvy’s eyes narrowed, and Sebastian could almost see the man’s small mind working like a primitive gear. Undoubtedly, Nevvy would have liked to cut Prudence completely in payment for her audacious attitude, but, as the author of such a popular book, she was far too valuable a commodity to dismiss. It would be quite a coup for Nevvy to present her to society, and apparently Nevvy was coming to that conclusion, for he soon smiled at Prudence in an ingratiating fashion.

“What a pleasant surprise! I am thnlled to meet you, Miss Lancaster. I am honored, truly honored. You simply must let me introduce you to a select few of your admirers,” Nevvy gushed.

Listening to Nevvy’s invitation, Sebastian felt an unaccustomed surge of protectiveness. He knew an urge to grab Prudence by the arm and carry her off to his town house, or even to Wolfinger, as his namesake might have done. He shook it off. Why the devil did he care what became of a woman who, intentionally or not, had made a mockery of him?

“Prudence, are you all right?”

What now? Sebastian thought. He looked over Prudence’s blond head and Nevvy’s darker one, to see a pompous-looking man with thinning hair stepping toward them purposefully. Even more annoying than the man’s approach was the way Prudence turned to greet him with a bright smile. Who the devil was he? He looked like one of those dreadfully stiff, starched bores one saw seated at the edge of the shabbiest cardrooms, playing piquet for pennies.

“Yes, of course, Hugh. Lord Ravenscar, Lord Neville, I would like you to meet my cousin, Mr. Hugh Lancaster, and this is my sister Phoebe.”

Sebastian, who had not even noticed the arrival of the silly chit his brother had so admired, nodded coolly. She met his gaze with a mutinous expression that made it plain she still thought him a murderer. Habit made him glare at her until she glanced away fearfully, clutching at her reticule as if she thought he might snatch it from her in a burst of petty thievery.

“Mr. Lancaster, are you the one who coaxed your cousin to London? You cannot know how delighted I am to meet such a famous authoress!” Nevvy continued, fawning shamelessly over his prize.

Sebastian, whose initial interest was rapidly deteriorating into boredom, was pleasantly surprised by Hugh’s blank look. Apparently he was not the only one who noticed it, for Prudence colored again under Hugh’s curious gaze. The bright spots, Sebastian decided, were really quite becoming.

“I am not in the habit of revealing myself,” she explained hurriedly. “But I felt that circumstances warranted it today,” she added, shooting Sebastian another quick glance of apology that gave him a surreptitious thrill.

“You wrote this?” Sebastian heard the words cast up in an entirely different tone from that of his own venomous accusation, but they were still an accusation. Hugh Lancaster appeared shocked and a little disgusted, and his attitude engendered activity in Sebastian’s long-dormant emotions.

Although Hugh’s lack of taste assured Sebastian of his own superiority, he did not like to see Prudence hurt. By God, he had admired the book even when he had thought himself painted black upon its pages! The store around them was full of poorly written tripe that could not hold a candle to Prudence’s prose, and the doltish Hugh ought to give her the praise she deserved.

Unfortunately, he did not. “A gothic novel!” Hugh exclaimed in distressed accents. “I can hardly countenance it, Prudence. You seem so quiet and well mannered.”

While Sebastian fought a growing urge to forcibly remove the contempt from Hugh’s face, Prudence seemed unmoved. “I fail to see what manners have to do with writing ability,” she replied calmly.

And suddenly, Sebastian felt laughter building in his chest again. Prudence Lancaster, who exhibited more intelligence and poise than anyone in the motley group that surrounded her, needed no champion. She could handle the dreary Hugh very well herself, as was exhibited by her razor-sharp riposte.

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