Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(70)

“Bloody hell,” Devon muttered, his face heating. “Where’s the laudanum?”

The valet grinned and went to ring the servants’ bell.

As soon as Devon left his room, he was overwhelmed by a surplus of unwanted attention. Not one but two footmen accompanied him down the stairs, eagerly pointing out dangers such as the edge of a particular step that wasn’t quite smooth, or a section of the curved balustrade that might be slippery from a recent polishing. After negotiating the apparent perils of the staircase, Devon continued through the main hall and was obliged to stop along the way as a row of housemaids curtsied and uttered a chorus of “Happy Christmas” and “God bless you, milord,” and offered abundant wishes for his good health.

Abashed by the role he seemed to have been cast in, Devon smiled and thanked them. He made his painstaking way to the dining room, which was filled with lavish arrangements of Christmas flowers, and hung with evergreen garlands twined with gold ribbon. Kathleen, West, and the twins were all seated, laughing and chatting with relaxed good humor.

“We knew you were approaching,” Pandora said to Devon, “from all the happy voices we could hear in the entrance hall.”

“He’s not accustomed to people exclaiming happily when he arrives,” West said gravely. “Usually they do it when he leaves.”

Devon sent his brother a mock-threatening glance and went to the empty place beside Kathleen. Immediately the underbutler, who had been waiting at the side of the room, pulled back the chair and helped to seat him with exaggerated caution.

Kathleen seemed to have difficulty meeting Devon’s gaze. “You mustn’t overdo,” she said with soft concern.

“I won’t,” Devon replied. “I’m going to have tea, and help the family greet the tenants as they arrive. After that, I expect I’ll be done in.” He glanced around the table. “Where’s Helen?”

“She’s keeping company with Mr. Winterborne,” Cassandra said brightly.

How had that come about? Devon sent a questioning glance to West, who hitched his shoulders in a slight shrug.

“Mr. Winterborne had a rather difficult day,” Kathleen explained. “He’s feverish, and the laudanum makes him ill. It’s against all decorum, obviously, but Helen asked if she might try to help him.”

“That’s very kind of her,” Devon said. “And it’s kind of you to allow it.”

“Mrs. Church told me that Mr. Winterborne isn’t snapping and snarling anymore,” Pandora volunteered. “He’s resting on pillows and drinking orchid tea. And Helen has been chattering like a magpie for hours.”

Cassandra looked dumbfounded. “Helen, chattering for hours? That doesn’t seem possible.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she had that much to say,” Pandora agreed.

“Perhaps it’s just that she’s never able to slide a word in edgewise,” West remarked blandly.

A few seconds later, he was pelted with a shower of sugar lumps.

“Girls,” Kathleen exclaimed indignantly. “Stop that at once! West, don’t you dare encourage them by laughing!” She sent a threatening glance at Devon, who was desperately trying to suppress his amusement. “Or you,” she said severely.

“I won’t,” he promised, wincing and reflecting ruefully that whoever said laughter was the best medicine had never broken a rib.

Kathleen thought it was a wonder that the family had managed to adopt a reasonably dignified façade by the time the tenants and townspeople began to arrive.

As they welcomed the procession of guests, Devon was self-assured and gracious, without the slightest hint of arrogance. He exerted himself to be charming, receiving praise and admiring comments with self-deprecating wit. Well-scrubbed children were shepherded forward, the little boys bowing, the girls curtsying, and Devon bowed in response, showing no sign of the pain he had to be feeling.

However, after an hour and a half, Kathleen noticed subtle grooves of strain appearing on his face. It was time for him to stop, she thought. West and the girls could manage the last few arrivals without him.

Before she could draw Devon away, however, a couple approached with a rosy-cheeked infant, a girl with blond curls tied up in a ribbon.

“Will you hold her, milord?” the young mother asked hopefully. “For luck?” Obviously she knew nothing about the injuries that Devon had sustained during the train accident.

“Oh, please let me hold her,” Kathleen exclaimed before he could reply. She reached out for the cherub, feeling a bit awkward since she knew little about young children. But the baby relaxed contentedly in her arms and stared up at her with eyes as round as buttons. Kathleen smiled down at the infant, marveling at the delicacy of her skin and the perfect rosebud shape of her mouth.

Turning to Devon, she lifted the baby and suggested, “A kiss for luck?”

He complied without hesitation, bending to press his lips to the infant’s head.

As he stood, however, his gaze traveled from the baby to Kathleen’s face, and for one brief moment his eyes were the flat, frozen blue of glacier ice. The expression was deftly concealed, but not before she had seen it. Instinctively she understood that the sight of her with the baby had opened a door on emotions he didn’t want to confront.

Forcing a smile to her lips, Kathleen gave the baby back to her proud mother, exclaiming, “What a beautiful little girl. An angel!”