Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(91)

They went through an inconspicuous doorway and up a narrow, dark staircase. Niall opened a door at the top, and they went through some ornately decorated vestibule with a ceiling of painted angels and clouds. Another door opened into a set of beautiful serene rooms, gold and white, with pale blue water-silk paper on the walls, and carpets in soft, subdued colors.

West went to the nearest chair and sat heavily. The upholstery was soft and velvety. It was so quiet up here—how could it be this quiet with the clamor of nighttime London just outside the window, and a damned club downstairs?

Wordlessly Niall brought him a glass of water, which West didn’t want at first. After he took a sip, however, a voracious thirst overcame him, and he gulped it down without stopping. Niall took the glass, went to refill it, and came back with a small powder packet. “Bicarbonate compound, sir?”

“Why not?” West muttered. He unfolded the packet, tilted his head back to dump the powder on the back of his tongue, and washed it down.

As he lifted his head, he saw a painting on the wall, in a carved and gilded frame. It was a luminous portrait of the Duchess with her children when they were still young. The group was arranged on the settee, with Ivo, still an infant, on his mother’s lap. Gabriel, Raphael and Seraphina were seated on either side of her, while Phoebe leaned over the back of the settee. Her face was close to her mother’s, her expression tender and slightly mischievous, as if she were about to tell her a secret or make her laugh. He had seen that look on her face, with her own children. And with him.

The longer West stared at the painting, the worse he felt inside, inner demons jabbing at his heart with spears. He wanted to leave, yet he was no more capable of exiting that chair than if he’d been chained to it.

The duke’s lean form came to the doorway, and he regarded West speculatively.

“Why was Larson here?” West asked hoarsely. “How is Phoebe?”

That caused Kingston’s face to soften with something that resembled sympathy. “My daughter is well. Larson took it upon himself to come here in a panic and try to enlist my support in persuading Phoebe to marry him. He tried to present his situation in the best possible light, presuming I would be willing to overlook his relationship with Miss Parris because of my own profligate past. Needless to say, he was disappointed by my reaction.”

“You’ll be able to help Phoebe remove him as trustee?”

“Oh, without question. Breach of fiduciary duty by a trustee is a serious offense. I’ve never liked Larson’s involvement in Phoebe’s personal life or financial affairs, but I’ve held back to avoid accusations of meddling. Now that there’s an opportunity, I’ll meddle as much as possible before I’m put back on the leash.”

West smiled slightly, his haunted gaze returning to Phoebe’s figure in the portrait. “I don’t deserve her,” he mumbled, without intending to.

“Of course you don’t. Neither do I deserve my wife. It’s an unfair fact of life that the worst men end up with the best women.” Taking in the sight of West’s drawn face and slouched figure, the duke seemed to come to a decision. “Nothing I say to you is going to sink in tonight. I won’t send you out in this condition—there’s no telling what trouble you’d find yourself in. You’ll stay the night in this guest room, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“No. I’m going back to my own apartment.”

“Splendid. What, may I ask, is waiting for you there?”

“My clothes. A bottle of brandy. Half a jar of pickled carrots.”

Kingston smiled. “I’d say you’re sufficiently pickled already. Stay the night, Ravenel. I’ll send Niall and my valet to draw a bath and set out some amenities for you—including a large quantity of soap.”

West awakened the next day with only blurry recollections of the night before. He lifted his head from a soft goose down pillow and blinked at his luxurious surroundings in bewilderment. He was in a plush, remarkably comfortable bed with soft white linen sheets and fluffy blankets topped by a silk counterpane. Dimly he recalled the bath last night and staggering to bed with the help of Niall and the elderly valet.

After a good long stretch, he sat up and looked around the room for his clothes. All he could find was a gentleman’s robe, draped over a nearby chair. He felt more rested than he had in a week, which was not to say that he felt well, or anything close to happy. But everything didn’t look quite so gray. He put on the robe and went to ring the service bell, and the valet appeared with startling promptness.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Ravenel.”

“Afternoon?

“Yes, sir. It’s three o’clock.”

West was astounded. “I slept until three o’clock in the afternoon?”

“You were somewhat the worse for wear, sir.”

“Apparently so.” Rubbing his face with both hands, West asked, “Would you bring my clothes? And coffee?”

“Yes, sir. May I also bring hot water and shaving supplies?”

“No, I don’t have time for a shave. I have to go to . . . a place. To do things. Quite soon.”

To West’s dismay, Kingston came to the doorway just in time to overhear that last part. “Trying to dash off?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m afraid that jar of pickled carrots will have to wait, Ravenel. I intend to have a chat with you.” He smiled at the elderly valet. “Bring the shaving supplies, Culpepper, and see to it that Mr. Ravenel has a hot meal. Send for me when he’s fed and presentable.”