A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1) Page 9

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Ned, you must wake up.” The frantic whisper and tickle of silky hair pleasantly penetrated the periphery of Sir Edward Chambers’ drink-induced, sexually sated, and fog-enshrouded consciousness. “Come, Neddie,” the soft voice implored. “You must wake, or there will be the devil to pay.”

  He groaned, rolling onto his side to the simultaneous awareness of a pounding head and the soft, warm presence beside him. He groped blindly, defining a shapely feminine backside that tauntingly wriggled against his groin, stirring quite another part of him to a wakeful and throbbing state. He nuzzled her neck while his burgeoning erection sought the warmth betwixt her thighs. “Annalee, my sweet Annalee,” he murmured into her hair.

  The warm, welcoming body became cold stone. “Phoebe,” a voice intoned.

  Ned’s bleary eyes popped open, his attention immediately riveted to the massive bed, the heavy velvet curtains of rich crimson and gold, and the towering hand-carved posts of mahogany. He jerked upright as if doused with ice water, his gaze settling on the voluptuous, blue-eyed blonde lying amidst the tangle of luxurious linens. “Kitty?”

  “No. Phoebe,” she answered. “My name. It’s Phoe-be.”

  “Phoebe?” He frowned in puzzlement. His vision darted from his thoroughly tumbled bedfellow to the opulent room. He frantically scrubbed his face and looked wildly about the room, eager to light upon something, anything, to assure himself he wasn’t going mad. The vision of his surroundings sent him scrambling to his knees, entangling him in the bed sheets, and tumbling him to the floor. Lying stunned on the thick Turkish carpet, his confused conscience absorbed the soaring twenty-foot, shadow-boxed ceiling depicting classical heroes.

  “Kitty, Phoebe, or whoever-the-devil-you-are,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “This isn’t Carlton House, is it?”

  “No,” she answered.

  His heart beating apace, Ned willed himself first to breathe and then to modulate a tone verging on panic. “I was with DeVere last night. Where is DeVere?”

  “DeVere is locked safely in the linen closet.” She hugged her breasts, her expression suddenly wary. “Don’t you remember anything?”

  He vigorously shook his pounding head, only to bring forth a chaotic kaleidoscope of last night’s events, and the impossible truth persisted to push its way to the surface.

  His gaze glued to the bed, Ned made a mechanical backward retreat to the center of the room where he had a clearer prospect of its crowning glory. His vision rose to the top of the headboard, to the heraldic shield seated betwixt the carved figures of a lion and a unicorn. His gaze slid with dread to the engraved scroll beneath. Dieu Et Mon Droit. God and my right, the motto of the king. His chest seized. The room began to spin. He looked to Phoebe, the blood draining from his face, his voice emerging as a strangled sound. “May the same God save me...for I’m going to be hung, drawn, and quartered for spending last night rutting in the King of England’s bed!”

  Bile churned in his stomach. Ned staggered blindly, clutching for the support of the bedpost. Phoebe leaped into action to meet him, chamber pot in hand, holding back his loose hair while he retched. She retrieved a basin and damp cloth to bathe his face.

  Thank you,” he said. He stood and raked a hand through his hair with a groan, meeting her blue gaze straight on and trying with growing discomfiture, to ignore her nakedness.

  “’Tis nothing.” She met his stare with an unabashed shrug.

  The gesture drew his attention to her full, perfectly shaped, pink-tipped breasts. Ah, those I remember surprisingly well. His stare swept lower, and another vivid memory shocked him with explicit detail. “Dear God in Heaven, what happened last night?”

  She turned away to locate the scattered pieces of discarded clothing that littered the room. His eyes tracked her every movement, especially her round, shapely arse. As she bent to retrieve her discarded shift and stays, the vision jolted his brain and stiffened his prick with an amazing ferocity.

  “Here, let me help you.” Ned snatched up her gown along with his breeches and shirt, embarrassed by his nudity and even more by his erection, but her sidelong glance said she was already well-aware. He handed her the gown, opened his mouth to speak, and shut it again, clueless as to the proper protocol following a night of wild abandon in a stranger’s arms.

  Ignoring him altogether, Phoebe took the gown, yanked it over her head, and began stuffing her errant tangle of pale blond hair into the white cap. He watched her mechanical movements as she pulled the soiled sheet from the bed, stuffed it into a pillowcase, and threw the bedcovers back into place. The black gown. The mobcap. His brain jolted again.

  “A maid? I’ve ravished a chambermaid?” He was astounded by the depths of sheer depravity to which he’d sunk.

  Phoebe turned to face him with a full-bodied chortle of mirth. “You truly don’t remember a thing!”

  Heat suffused his face. “No, damn it all! Only bits and pieces that make no sense. Except for the part where we—you and I...” He gesticulated wildly to the bed and grappled with the jumbled events in his head. The night had begun in the brothel. He remembered that much. And the kava kava too. His stomach roiled anew at the remembrance of the foul brew. “There was a masked woman.” His gaze flew to Phoebe’s face. “Who are you?”

  All trace of humor disappeared from her face. “Are you daft? I’ve already told you thrice! I’m Phoebe.”

  A rapid click of footfalls and clattering sounds in the outer passage interrupted his confused ramblings, followed by a key rattling in the lock of the antechamber. The tumblers turned. Ned froze.

  “Away with you! Under the bed!” Phoebe urged in a frantic whisper. Ned dove underneath with a muffled cry as a shoe she kicked after him hit him squarely in the head.

  ***

  “You!” cried the shrill voice from last night. The large ring of keys dangling about her waist identified the wizened woman as the palace housekeeper. She pierced Phoebe with steely gray, close-set eyes. “Who the devil are you? And what are you doing here?”

  Phoebe dropped her gaze and bobbed. “Betsy, mum. Sent by the laundress to air the sheets.”

  “Air the sheets? But these are fresh sheets. The king has not slept here in a for’night.” She advanced with a menacing look. Phoebe cried out as the housekeeper grabbed her by the ear. “You don’t fool me for a minute! I knew there was sommat amiss here last night! You can confess now, or I’ll see you flayed!”

  “Please, mum,” Phoebe whimpered. “’Twasn’t me! ‘Tis the new footman.”

  “What? Who? Tell me!” the termagant demanded with a yank.

  “Have pity, mum!” Phoebe cried.

  “What footman? Where is the scoundrel?”

  “Through the dressing room. Passed out in the closet. I found him when I got the fresh sheets. I’ve already called for the Yeoman.”

  The housekeeper released Phoebe with a shove and barreled into the adjoining chamber. “Quick! Out the door,” Phoebe whispered. “I’ll see what can be done with DeVere.”

  “The devil you will,” Ned said, straightening his tunic and donning his hat. “I’m the Yeoman, aren’t I?” He smiled a devious smile. “I’ll take care of DeVere.”

  Her brows furrowed with uncertainty, Phoebe, nevertheless, followed Ned into the dressing room. They arrived just in time to witness the housekeeper unleashing her invective on the unwary and gaping victim.

  “So, here you are at last, you ill-begotten rogue! Caught in the very act! Not only did you filch the king’s brandy, but I now find you trespassing in his private quarters? You are not only dismissed, you vile and feckless scoundrel, but I’ll see you in Newgate!”

  DeVere gave a thunderous look, first to the housekeeper, then to Phoebe and Ned whose broad shoulders filled the doorway behind the two women. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ned stifled him with a warning look.

  “So here be the blackguard!” Ned declared. “Stand you back, ladies.” Entering the closet with a much-
exaggerated swagger, he hauled DeVere unceremoniously to his feet. The would-be footman swayed unsteadily. His face blanched. His lids fluttered, and then his knees buckled. Ned caught him just in time. “Looks like ‘e’s yet to sleep it all off.”

  “Sleep? Devil take him first!” the housekeeper roared. “Convey him to the stable yard at once!”

  With a grunt, Ned heaved DeVere over his shoulder.

  DeVere groaned. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Put me down, you damnable lout!” The air nearly turned blue with the rest of his muffled curses.

  “Now. Now. You’d best be watching your tongue. There be ladies present.” Ned winked at Phoebe. While DeVere continued in impotent protest, Ned and Phoebe followed the enraged housekeeper through the Royal Apartments, down the servants’ stairs, through the west courtyard, and into the stable yard.

  “There!” She pointed. “That’ll wake ‘im, sure enough!”

  “The hell you do!” DeVere cried.

  Ned gave Phoebe a helpless look, but she was doing all she could just to stifle her laughter. “Sorry ol’ chap,” she heard him mutter before he tossed Lord Ludovic, sixth Viscount DeVere, into the watering trough.

  ***

  While everyone’s attention was diverted to the wildly cursing, sputtering viscount, Phoebe perceived her opportunity to quietly slip away. With the evidence for the wager in hand, she was resolved to collect the promised money as quickly as could be arranged and to start her life anew—someplace far from London, and even farther from Sir Edward Chambers, the man who had stolen and then trampled her heart.

  Last night, he had unveiled her eyes to the wonderment, the ineffable ecstasy of unbridled passion. What had begun as a game had turned into something very real and raw, a conflagration of sensation and emotion that she had never before experienced. He had made her dare to hope for what could be, but hours later, he regarded her as a stranger.

  Her eyes stung, yet it was her own fault, she admitted in bitter self-recrimination. She’d carried out a deception, while he’d been nothing but candid. She hadn’t even told him her real name until the tangle of petty lies and deceits were drawn too tight to ever unravel. But then again, he’d never actually said he wanted her. Knowing his weakness, she had seduced him. He had succumbed to her, to the powerful but transient pull of sheer unadulterated lust but had never implied anything more. She scrubbed the angry tears from her face. What would Kitty do now?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bloody hell! The girl was gone! Although Ned had escaped detection in the tumult, he knew he was in imminent danger of discovery if he didn’t make himself scarce. Having cursed a blue streak, DeVere was now deposited under lock and key in the palace guardhouse, and to make things worse, if that were possible, he was facing the very real prospect of transfer to Bedlam for claiming to be the Viscount DeVere!

  Knowing he could do little else in the present circumstances, Ned skulked his way into an empty corridor, discarded his outer garments, and departed St. James Palace less conspicuously in plain shirt and breeches. Leaving his best friend to stew, he set his course for Carlton House.

  ***

  “Duckie.” Mrs. Andrews gasped. “Whatever happened to you?”

  Phoebe knew she looked bedraggled. Perhaps bed-raggled would be a more apt description, she thought wryly. Her hair was a nest of tangles; she’d not had time earlier to tie her laces properly, and she was missing a stocking. She knew she had only escaped the housekeeper’s scrutiny by having diverted her attention to the imposter footman. She wondered, now, what had become of DeVere after his dunking in frigid water. In truth, she couldn’t have imagined a more suitable punishment. The man had sorely needed to be taken down a notch...or three.

  “It’s a very long story,” Phoebe said, “And one I don’t yet have time to tell you. Right now, I am in need of your help just one more time. I promise you will be generously compensated.”

  The wardrobe mistress waved away the offer of money. “Just tell ol’ Peg what you need.”

  “I must go to Carlton House and do not wish to be recognized. Besides, I will never be admitted through the front door unless I appear as a grand lady with servants in tow. Would you accompany me as my lady’s maid?”

  “Anything, duckie.”

  After a tepid but thorough sponge bath, Phoebe was prepared to reprise her role of Kitty Willis for the final time. The wardrobe mistress laced her tightly into a modish violet and pink silk day gown with a matching violet plumed hat. With a generous amount of powder and rouge, she prayed the effect of dress and cosmetics had sufficiently transformed her from the erstwhile nursery maid to a London lady of fashion. Feeling as prepared as she would ever be, Phoebe called a hack to convey them from Drury Lane to Carlton House.

  “Miss Kitty Willis,” she said by way of introduction, adding a haughty lift of her pert nose. She could feel the footman’s disapproval as he scrutinized Phoebe from head to toe behind his supercilious blank mask, but she refused to squirm. Willing her nerves to quiet, she added, “His Highness should be expecting me.”

  He quirked a brow at this and then gave a subtle nod. “Then pray follow me, Miss Willis, and I shall inquire if His Highness is receiving.”

  When Phoebe entered his private chambers, the Prince of Wales was garbed in a loose flowing banyan. In the midst of his levee, he was surrounded by his tailors, their assistants, and various sycophants. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she advanced into the prince’s private salon, ignoring the lecherous stares she’d invoked by invading a gentleman-only ritual.

  Dipping into a puddle of silk damask petticoats, she made her obeisance. When she rose, she focused on a spot in the middle of his forehead, trying not to meet Prince George’s gaze directly. Yet she couldn’t help noting with rising discomfiture his tented brows.

  “Miss Willis, is it? Have we met before? I have the feeling we have.”

  “No,” she said perhaps too quickly. “I mean not formally, Your Highness,” she amended, “I was present at the little...soiree at King’s Place last night and attended you later with Lord DeVere.”

  “She’s the masked Sapphist!” Lord Malden hissed beneath his breath.

  The prince smiled. “Ah. And how did it go with you and Lord DeVere?” he asked Phoebe with a sly smile.

  “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.