A Devil Named DeVere (The Devil DeVere)(9)

"How so?" asked Ned.

"You shall see for yourself if you merely incline your heads to the long wall to the left. Call it an absurd vagary, but I have taken it upon myself to remove the two portraits from the gilt monstrosity that serves as a library to hang them here, side by side."

All eyes turned to study the portraits.

"What do you see?" asked DeVere.

Annalee responded first. "Each is a young nobleman of similar age, and they bear a striking resemblance one to another. Brothers, mayhap?"

"I have seen one of these portraits!" exclaimed the duchess. "The one to the right is clearly Frederick, Prince of Wales, the father of our own King George. Yet the other does not resemble any of his living brothers, the royal dukes. Who is it, darling?"

DeVere inclined his head toward Caroline. "You have correctly identified the Prince, Your Grace, but the portrait to the left is another Frederick altogether—Frederick Calvert, Sixth Baron Baltimore and the late owner of this house. The Prince of Wales was his godfather."

"Merely his godfather?" She arched her delicately penciled brow.

"Officially, yes. Though I surmise his true parentage is suspect. Calvert's father was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the prince, who we all know was a great philanderer. In looking at these portraits, one wonders if Lady Baltimore might have also have taken some less official role in the prince's bedchamber? Yet his questionable birth is only the beginning of this wastrel's tale."

"Whatever did he do?" asked the duchess.

DeVere laughed. "One might better ask what he didn't do!" DeVere continued his narrative, "Frederick came into a vast fortune upon his father's death, but had little interest in the administration of his holdings. Instead, he appointed a sub-governor for Maryland and took himself off for extensive continental travels. The influence of his grand tour is seen in the tawdry appointments of this house." DeVere rolled his eyes at the frescoed ceiling above them. "With all of these Italian frescos and friezes, Corinthian columns, plasterwork, and gilt furnishings, it is as if he endeavored to create his own little Versailles. In addition to his execrable taste—"

"But I think it's lovely," Annalee interrupted, craning her neck to better study the depiction of Verrio's Ganymede.

DeVere gave her a half shrug. "Chacun son go?t, my dear. On any account, Frederick proved a profligate of the highest order."

"Let not my brother the pot call the kettle burnt-arse," said Hew. "You bought this place, after all."

DeVere looked affronted. "Accused by my own blood." He raised his glass in a laughing salute.

"Your history of the house is diverting, darling, but let us hear more of the iniquity." Caroline leaned into him until her breasts caressed his arm.

"I live only to indulge you, my pet," said DeVere.

"Oh?" The duchess smiled, and Diana noticed one of her hands slip under the table.

DeVere's expression seemed to change, yet he continued his narrative. "The scandals that followed our young prodigal were sordid enough to have inspired Hogarth's Rake's Progress had he lived a generation earlier. As I said, Frederick travelled extensively and always with a grand entourage. He also gambled away a great deal of his wealth and was in need of a boost to his coffers upon his return. Thus, he wed a younger daughter of the Duke of Bridgewater. It was considered an advantageous match on both sides, but they were constantly at odds with one another. 'Tis no great surprise, of course. No man loves his fetters, be they made of gold."

Caroline slanted DeVere an inquiring look. His lashes fluttered briefly, he seemed to tense for a moment, and then he slumped back in his chair. Her hand returned to the table.

"Perhaps she just didn't care for his philandering ways?" Diana suggested tersely, feeling more than a slight affinity to the duke's daughter.

"But it is a man's world." DeVere gave a smug smile and raised his glass.

Diana felt her hackles rise. "So you believe all women should blindly accept profligacy and faithlessness in marriage?"

"Let us say, she would be much more content who does."

"I differ with you on that score, my lord," the duchess remarked. "I say the sauce for the gander is just as good for the goose."

DeVere's expression hardened. "Speaking as one with no personal inclination toward monogamy, my answer is then why wed at all?"

Caroline gave him a petulant look.

"More wine!" DeVere called out, breaking the strained silence. He took another great draught, and then his genial mask returned. "Where was I now? Ah! Conjugal felicity! This is precisely where the story gets interesting. Five years into their less-than-fruitful marriage, Lady Baltimore took a fatal fall from her husband's phaeton."

"I remember hearing of this!" Caroline declared. "He was highly suspected of foul play. After all, how can one possibly fall from a moving carriage unless it has overturned?"

"No charges were filed against him?" asked Annalee.

"None," remarked DeVere. "One of the many privileges of being a well-connected peer of the realm. Yet suspicion lingered, so Baltimore left the country again, hoping the scandal would die down. He spent an extended period in Italy and then went eastward, living amongst the Turks until he was forced to leave Constantinople for fear of his life."