A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(74)

"I am, indeed. My late husband, Lord Reginald, kept a fine stable of runners at one time." Diana directed a pointed stare at DeVere. "And I believe the horse, Titan, that you speak of is even the progeny of our former stallion, Centurion."

"All too true," DeVere confessed. "I had the good fortune to acquire a number of fine horses from Lord Reginald prior to his...unfortunate passing."

It was a fact that needled Diana to no end, that DeVere should now be making his turf name at her expense. "Though little remains of our former glory, I still have a premium brood mare in Cartimandua."

"I remember her well." DeVere gave Diana a significant look. "I also recall having some small interest in her. She last ran here at Epsom, did she not?"

"She was, indeed, a fine runner," Hew interjected. "I rode her myself and think she had a fair chance of beating your Prometheus, dear brother, but then the races ended rather abruptly..." He slanted a glance to Diana, who studied her napkin.

"Yes," she admitted. "Due to the unforeseen circumstances, her racing career terminated early." She turned to DeVere with a challenge in her eyes. "But now I have her daughter, a fine filly by Matchem that I intend to run in the Derby."

"Then perhaps it is you and Lord DeVere who should make a small wager?" Lord Egremont suggested with a smile.

"That would entirely depend on what Lord DeVere would be willing to stake." Diana taunted her nemesis.

"Ah ha, DeVere!" Lord Egremont laughed. "I wonder if perhaps the devil has finally met his match?"

"You must know by now that I like nothing better than a worthy challenge," DeVere said, rising to his feet, as well as to her bait. "What do you propose, Baroness?" His sardonic gaze swept Diana with renewed interest.

"I am unprepared to answer, my lord. I think I must sleep on it."

He bowed over her hand. "Then I shall anticipate your answer on the morrow." As she turned to depart, he added in an undertone, "It seems we may have unfinished business between us, after all."

She met his gaze over her shoulder. "Perhaps we do at that."

***

Ludovic caught up with Diana as she was going into the morning room for breakfast. "Good morning, ladies." He inclined his head in polite greeting to Phoebe and Vesta. "Might I have a private word with you, Baroness?" he asked, cornering Diana.

"Why certainly," Vesta replied, giving Diana no chance to demur. "Come, Phoebe." Vesta took her stepmother's arm and compelled her through the morning room doors, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked.

"Why can't we speak here?"

"Because this matter of the wager is between us alone." He sensed her hesitation to be alone with him but offered his arm all the same.

"All right." She sighed.

He took her down a long hallway to the north wing, toward his private apartments. He felt her tense, as if she remembered what lay in their direction. He then diverted them through a door into the family portrait gallery.

"I have not seen this room," she said.

"It is a private place where we shall not be disturbed. I never come here myself. I only use the room to store portraits I'd otherwise be obligated to look upon."

Diana strolled the periphery of the room, studying the faces of Ludovic's multifarious ancestors with an ever-changing mein. "I recognize the styles of Sir Godfrey Kneller and Allan Ramsay," she remarked. "Is this last one by Sir Joshua Reynolds?"

DeVere nodded with appreciation. "You know your English painters."

"Is this your mother and father?" She halted before the aforementioned Reynolds. It was of a beautiful, young woman holding a child on her lap, both of whom shared cobalt-blue eyes that stared blankly out of the canvas. An elderly gentleman with dissipated features stood behind the pair, one hand possessively placed upon the lady's shoulder.

"It is, indeed, my mother, Hermione, and her husband Richard, Fifth Viscount DeVere."

"And the child is you?"

"Yes, and judging by the gown, I suppose I must have been about three years old."

Diana turned to him with a puzzled expression. "I don't understand. This is a family portrait. If she is your mother and he is the viscount, how can you not refer to him as your father?"

Ludovic laughed a long and bitter sound. "Of course, you know nothing of my family. Few people do, as I have taken great care, and much greater expense, to keep it so."

"I am puzzled," she said, a frown wrinkling her brow. "These portraits are your history, and some must be very valuable. I wish to understand why you keep all this"—she made a sweeping gesture—"hidden away."

"Painters and poets have leave to lie, you know. Perhaps the subjects were not worthy of the artists' efforts."

"And what would these artists have lied about?" she continued to press.

"You wish me to air the dirty laundry?"

"I don't seek diversion, but comprehension," she said.

Ludovic's first impulse was to wave away the subject and move on to his purpose, but something in her gaze compelled him to say more, to voice the things he had paid dearly to keep secret.