Betrayal

He returned her gaze complacently. ‘It tastes bitter.’

Without conscious intent, she assumed her position of hands on hips. Exasperation made her voice breathy. ‘You are like a child about this medicine. If you don’t drink this for the pain, you won’t be able to rest. If you don’t rest, you will be longer healing.’

Dev cocked one devilish brow. ‘You fuss like an old woman, and you’re not even old enough to grow a decent beard. And speaking of which…did you get my gear? A shave would be the very thing to make me feel human again.’

Pippa’s heart, which had speeded up at his reference to an old woman, eased as her patient’s thoughts turned to his grooming. ‘I have all your things, and a heavy load it was. Most of it is in your trunk in Madame’s cellar. Only a portmanteau is here. Are you one of those dandies who must dress to perfection for everything? Although you certainly weren’t dressed correctly for the battlefield.’ She shook her head in private amazement at the fact that he had fought in evening dress.

Dev smiled, a rakish baring of perfect teeth. Memories of enjoyable times sparkled in his eyes. ‘I dare say I wasn’t the only one out of uniform. A group of us went directly from the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball. And I’d do it again.’

Pippa left him to his memories while she pulled his portmanteau from under the bed and rummaged through it, looking for his shaving equipment. She found his razor, a small mirror, a lathering brush and finally a tin in which she found his soap. The exotic scent of bergamot, an ingredient for perfumes distilled from the rind of certain oranges, surrounded her. It was a very distinctive smell, and Pippa found herself entranced by it.

‘Is this what you use to shave?’ she asked, holding the soap out to Deverell.

Dev’s attention came back to the present. ‘Yes,’ he said, the bergamot bringing back memories.

He had first worn the scent the night he met Sam. She had seemed like a goddess on the stage, all aflame with the passion of her role. Losing her to his oldest brother, Jonathan, Marquis of Langston, had been the hardest thing in his life. Until now.

He sighed and forced his thoughts back to the present. A good cleaning would make him feel better.

‘Help me sit up higher, Pippen, and then bring a tray with hot water and towels.’

Pippen gazed at him, doing nothing. ‘I’ll help you sit straighter, but you cannot shave yourself.’

This boy to whom he owed his life had a very definite way about him. Any minute now he would spread his feet and plant his fists on his hips, a stance he took when he was determined to have his way.

‘I can shave myself very well, thank you,’ Dev said in his chilliest tone. ‘You cannot do it.’ He gave the youth a once-over that made the boy blush. ‘You have probably never wielded a razor in your life. And you aren’t about to start on me.’

The lad drew himself up and assumed the pose. ‘What if you slit your own throat? You are still weak and shaving is a very precise art.’

Dev felt his lips twitch. ‘Are you a valet when you’re not healing? If so, tell me and I will let you clean me up.’

Dull red spread over Pippen’s unfashionably tanned skin. The boy was in the sun too much. ‘No, but I have done the service for…for Earl LeClaire. Upon occasion.’

Much as he was inclined to argue, Dev found that his small store of energy was fast depleting. ‘Show me how you sharpen the razor.’

With methodical motions, Pippen stropped the razor over the sharpening strap. He had a grace of wrist that Dev could not remember seeing in any man other than his middle brother’s valet. But then Alastair was a Corinthian and well thought of in the ton, so his man was the best to be had.

When the razor glistened in the bright sunshine pouring through the single window, Pippen gave him a ‘what now?’ look. Dev sighed.

‘Proceed as you would with Earl LeClaire and if you falter, I will stop you immediately…if I am not mortally injured.’

The words were as autocratic as he could bring himself to be with the boy. Pippen looked too vulnerable for his own good, and when his chin trembled like a child caught with his hand in the toffee, it made Dev wonder how the lad had got to Brussels on his own, let alone how he had been so successful as a healer for Wellington’s victorious army.

Then there were the boy’s soft looks. Dev very nearly shook his head in wonder before catching himself. Pippen had taken off the hot towels, which had been wrapped around Dev’s face to soften his beard, and lathered his cheeks, jaw and upper neck. Now he was applying the razor to Dev’s skin with a look of complete concentration.

Yes, his saviour looked almost like a madonna. The boy’s hair was pitch black and too long for fashion, with curls that sprang in all directions. Some lady of Quality would want Pippen for ulterior motives. But some man of questionable virtue would want the youth for even more nefarious schemes.

Pippen’s long, slim fingers firmly guided the razor up Dev’s neck in one smooth motion. A slight line drew Pippen’s ebony brows together and accentuated the pure green of his eyes. They were the colour of the emeralds Dev’s mother had set aside as a wedding gift for his bride. The jewels would suit Pippen.

The thought was a leveller.

Dev closed his eyes. What was he thinking? He had never been a lover of boys. His last love had been Samantha, who was decidedly female and several years his senior. Since losing her, he had flirted with every eligible girl in Brussels and shared less acceptable activities with the ineligible ones.

No, these wayward thoughts were due to exhaustion and the fact that Pippen was too feminine and delicate. A state no man should enjoy being. He would do his saviour a favour by telling him to toughen up and get to Gentleman Jackson’s for some bouts with the great man. Perhaps, when he was recovered, he would take Pippen there and introduce him. He might even stand as a mentor to the youth during the Season and get the lad some town bronze. He owed Pippen much.

Bit by bit, Pippa slid the razor over Dev’s bergamot-scented skin. Some patches were difficult because of the length of his beard. She had shaved him with a borrowed razor early in his illness when he had been too weak to know what she was doing and then a couple weeks later before he regained consciousness. Now she was unbearably aware of him and did as little grooming of him as possible.

The exotic smell of bergamot seemed lodged in her senses and locked in the tiny space of the room they shared. It was an unusual scent. Her brother used sandalwood or, when he tired of that, lemon. Even as she toweled away the remains of the soap, Pippa knew that every time she came into contact with bergamot she would remember these moments and Deverell St Simon.

To divert herself from this dangerous track, she said, ‘There was a missive for you at the inn. I forgot until just now.’

She dug into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew the cream-coloured sheet of paper that had been folded into a screw and handed it to Dev. He took it eagerly and read it while she put away his shaving gear.

‘What day is it?’

‘The twenty-ninth of July. Why?’

‘My mother is here in Brussels. Her note says she expected to arrive the first week of the month.’ His voice was full of joy and lightness. Genuine pleasure eased the lines around his mouth that were threatening to become permanent. ‘She gives her direction and orders me to come to her when I get her letter.’ He smiled. ‘That is just like her, assuming that, no matter what the carnage of Waterloo, I would survive.’

‘She is an optimist.’ Pippa wished she had the Duchess’s unfailing faith. In a way she did. Everyone thought her brother dead, but she would not believe it. That was very like the Duchess’s determination that her son would live through hell.

‘Very much so. Do you have paper and ink? I need to send her news.’

‘Madame will have something, although not as grand as that your mother used.’

‘Mother won’t mind. She is not a snob.’

Pippa fetched the writing materials and tried not to watch Dev as he jotted down the note. Such joy lit his features that seeing it made her glad. He had come to mean so much to her. It was disturbing.

When he was done, she took it herself. ‘I will go straight away and deliver this.’

‘Thank you. Stay for a message,’ Dev ordered, grinning like a boy about to take his first pony ride. ‘And don’t be surprised if my mother sees you herself and then instantly orders her coach brought around. She is very impulsive.’

Pippa nodded. Her grandfather and brother often accused her of jumping before she looked. There was the time a labourer’s small daughter had dropped her puppy into the trout stream. Pippa had plunged into the icy water without a thought for her own safety. The mountain snows had melted, and the stream had been nearly a river. The current had caught Pippa’s skirts and dragged her hundreds of feet until she had managed to grab an overhanging tree branch. Later she had caught an inflammation of the lungs, but she had saved the puppy. That more than compensated for a week in bed with the sniffles and a fever.

If Dev’s mother was equally rash, she could deal very well with her ladyship.

Dev was not far off the mark, Pippa found out thirty minutes later. The butler had barely shown her into the salon when a petite, vivacious woman burst through the door.

‘Where is Deverell? Is he all right? Why did he not come with you?’

Alicia, Duchess of Rundell, was strikingly beautiful. Shorter than Pippa, she was willowy thin. Her thick black hair was cropped fashionably short in front. The glossy waves shone blue in the late afternoon sun that poured through the large double windows. Her irises were the clear grey of polished silver and ringed by ebony lashes that were so abundant as to make her eyelids appear heavy. Her full, red lips were parted in a welcoming smile as she came to Pippa and grasped her hands.

Taking a step back and studying Pippa, the Duchess said, ‘Why, you are nothing more than a child. What is Dev doing to rob the cradle for his minions?’

Pippa squelched her first impulse to curtsy and instead did the best bow she was capable of with the Duchess still grasping her fingers. ‘Your Grace, I am all of four and twenty.’ The Duchess gave her a quizzical look and Pippa realized her mistake. ‘That is, I am a late bloomer. My entire family matures slowly. That is—’

‘I understand perfectly,’ the Duchess said, releasing Pippa’s now clammy hands. ‘You don’t want anyone to know how young you really are.’ She patted Pippa’s arm. ‘I will keep your secret, child. Now tell me where my son is and how he is doing.’