A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(30)

“Splendidly.” She forced a confident show of teeth.

His brows furrowed. His face darkened. “You don’t say?”

“Indeed, I do. And I have a gift for you...a particular item you desired.” She wrinkled her nose at the group of men. “It is rather indelicate to display, but shall I have my maid fetch it?”

“Where is DeVere?” Lord Malden demanded. “The wager was with DeVere.”

Phoebe opened her mouth, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest when a baritone voice from behind her replied, “My Lord DeVere is feeling very much under the weather at the moment.” She felt Ned’s presence beside her, and her mouth went instantly dry. She licked her lips but dared not turn her head for fear of crumbling if she looked into his face.

“My dear Miss Willis, or whoever you really are,” he added sotto voce, taking her hand with exaggerated gallantry and raising it to his lips. “I am as always...transported.” Ned was dressed in velvet and lace. His manner was DeVere. This was not the man she knew.

The men snickered and exchanged lascivious glances. Phoebe’s face flamed at his blatant insinuation that she was his mistress.

He addressed the prince, “I am come to convey DeVere’s regrets. I’m afraid he was quite incapacitated and unable to carry out the agreed-upon terms of the wager, however, I am prepared to settle with you on his behalf.”

Lord Malden looked to him with a smug smile. “So, our nocturnal revels were too much for him, eh? The little adventure has finally debilitated the insatiable Devil DeVere?”

The prince looked first confused and then suspicious. “But Miss Willis claimed to have brought me the...item. Did the lady presume to carry out an act of fraud?”

All eyes shifted to Phoebe as if she were some prurient curiosity. She felt Ned stiffen and slanted an anxious glance in his direction, noting the subtle flare of his nostrils, the mouth etched in a grim line.

“Fear nothing of the sort, Your Highness, for I assure you the deed was done. And done most thoroughly. It was just not, shall we say, orchestrated quite as planned.” Ned took her hand, planting a lingering, openmouthed kiss on her palm.

Phoebe’s face flamed at the remembrance of last night and the intimacy, nearing indecency, of the gesture. He had taken her three times, counting the interlude in the closet, and had ensured her pleasure on each occasion. He was nothing if not thorough.

The prince scowled at them both. “But the wager was with DeVere,” he insisted.

“It was, indeed, and since I usurped him in this business, I am prepared to settle with you on his behalf.”

Blast him! She had hoped to collect the money and leave on the first post chaise. Now, any chance of escape, of independence, was dashed. What was his game?

Ned pulled a bank draft from his breast pocket and handed it to the prince. “Now then, I suppose our business is complete.” He bowed to the prince and offered an arm to Phoebe, but the prince halted them. He was staring at Phoebe, a strange look on his face. “You have most unusual hair,” he said. He stood, and everyone around him scrambled to their feet. “It is as gold as a new guinea. And the curl is from nature alone, is it not?”

Phoebe nodded mutely at his approach, his eyes fixed upon her hair, and her stomach leaped into her throat. “Yes. Uncommon, indeed,” he said. He skirted the back of his hand along the blond cascade falling over her left shoulder and took a curl between his fingers. He examined it with a look of fascination and playfully wrapped it around a plump finger before he let it loose with a smile.

He looked to Ned whose expression might easily have been interpreted as menacing. “I pray you will indulge me just a moment longer, Sir Edward,” the prince said with an artful curve of his lips. Ned’s reply was little more than a grunt.

The prince ambled over to a large mahogany desk, unlocked a drawer, and rifled for a moment. “Ah, here it is.” He returned bearing a subtle smile and a small box designed to hold jewels. He popped the latch. She flicked a glance inside and discovered, to her deep chagrin, a dozen or more locks of hair, each a different color and bound with a satin ribbon.

“Blue to match her eyes,” he said, retrieving a bright gold curl tied with blue ribbon. He held it up to her hair. “What do you know? A perfect match.” His smile grew to blazingly smug proportions. “You may have bested DeVere, Sir Edward, but I believe I claimed the supreme prize about four years ago.”

With this humiliatingly public pronouncement, Phoebe gave a strangled cry and fled the prince’s apartments only to be caught in the foyer when Ned clasped her arm in an iron grip. “Oh, no you don’t! I’m far from finished with you.” She would have pulled away, but his look portended dire consequences.

Like a mother hen, Mrs. Andrews was instantly in his face. “And just what business do you think you have with the girl?”

“Some very personal business.” He glared at the wardrobe mistress who looked to Phoebe with concern. Ned retrieved a small coin purse from his pocket. “For a hackney and for your trouble, madam.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Andrews. He means me no harm.” Phoebe rasped and gave a nod of reassurance she wasn’t sure she really felt. With a shrug and a final wary glance over her shoulder, the elder woman clutched the purse to her expansive bosom and departed.

“I have DeVere’s carriage,” Ned said, steering her toward it. His manner was mechanical and his speech terse as he gave directions to the coachman and helped her inside.