Page 2 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
ONE
Fifteen years later…
“I warrant ye won’t be getting yer way with this gent, missus.”
Devona Bedegrayne did not seem upset by her footman’s grim assessment of the situation. Being the fifth and youngest child of a baronet, she was not the sort to be put off by minor obstacles. Her older sister Irene described Devona’s nature as tenacious as a mouthful of nettles, something she had desperately wanted to put to the test every time her cheeky sister uttered her glib little phrase. Devona, realizing she was clenching her jaw, immediately relaxed.
So Rayne Wyman, Viscount Tipton, was proving to be a difficult man to visit. She had tried to be polite about gaining an introduction. Since Lord Tipton abhorred society functions, she had chosen to discreetly contact him by post. He had returned all her thoughtfully worded letters unopened.
Undaunted, she had tried to pay him a social call. She knew her family would disapprove even though she had called on the proper day, the proper hour. Lord Tipton was not in, or so the rude little man had said before he slammed the door in her footman’s face.
Devona was beginning to think the man was purposely avoiding her, although she could not understand why. It was not that she had a fine opinion of herself, even if this very evening Lord Nevin had tried to flatter her by comparing her copper tresses to the constrained fire of Mount Etna. Personally, Devona just considered her unfashionably colored hair unruly and a source of distress when she was forced to look critically into a mirror. Still, what woman minded a little flattery? She frowned, staring at the imposing door that was keeping her from her goal. She doubted when she finally forced an audience with the elusive Lord Tipton that he would be comparing her hair to ancient volcanoes.
Barely disguising her sigh, she met the gaze of her loyal servant. “What did his man say this time, Gar?”
“He said”—Gar took a deep breath, trying to lessen the irritability in his tone at his lady’s persistence—“that areallady does not make social calls at midnight. His lord has no need to buy off the streets.”
“Well, that certainly puts me in my place, does it not?” she said dryly, noticing even by the light of the carriage lanterns that Gar’s ears had reddened. Her gaze strayed back to the secured door in the distance. “What we need is a better plan. Trying to pay a social call is not working. Lord Tipton is obviously beyond the notion.”
“My lady, let’s go onward home and try another day,” Devona’s maid, Pearl Brown, implored. “Even with us in attendance, this isn’t respectable. Nor the night safe.”
It took quite a bit of adventure to rattle Pearl, and she looked like she had reached her limit. Of course, it did not help Devona’s staff that their stubborn mistress enjoyed testing the limits of everyone around her. “It was perfectly safe to travel to the ball this evening, and as you can see I have yet to step down from the carriage.” Inspiration, sharp and bright as a lightning bolt, lit up her face. Of course, that was it! Devona clapped her hands together, dismissing the wary looks her servants gave her. She had a plan.
Minutes later, Gar was pounding his elbow against the door while he grappled with the shifting weight of Devona and the yards of silk overflowing in his arms. “’Tain’t likely to work,” he muttered.
“You underestimate my abilities. My future husband’s gain is the stage’s loss.”
Pearl scowled. “The master is sure to tan all our hides when he hears of your latest mischief.”
“Nonsense. Papa can be very indulgent,” Devona reassured them, even if it was a tiny lie. It was up to her to keep her staff’s spirits up.
“Only ’cause there’s too many Bedegraynes to work up too much steam about,” was Pearl’s tart reply. “If your sweet mama was alive, she would have pruned the first bud off your hoydenish ways.”
The comment aimed and delivered the guilt right where it was intended. It was a direct blow to her heart. Anna Bedegrayne had lost her life in a senseless accident. In the act of running after her mischievous three-year-old youngest daughter, Anna was struck in the temple by a heavy wooden beam a workman had been maneuvering into position for some household renovations. The simple childhood game, and a generous gift from a loving husband, clashed, then went horribly wrong. Her brain hemorrhaged and she died. Devona accepted the blame for her mother’s death. Being reminded of it by an impertinent servant was another matter.
“If I were you, I would tread carefully when speaking of my mother. You never know how a hoyden who is responsible for killing her mother might react.”
Pearl, seeing her words had hurt her mistress, was instantly contrite. “Devona—”
The door swung open, ending their conversation. It was time for their performance.
“Make way, man!” Gar ordered, brushing past the stunned manservant before he could form a suitable dismissal. Gar carried Devona into the small hall and placed her on a plain walnut bench. “There, there, missus, all will be well.”
On cue, Devona clasped her stomach and groaned. “The pain is worse, Gar. I—yes—I shall be sick!”
Lord Tipton’s manservant stood firm. “She can’t be doing that here. Off with you.”
Stubborn man, she thought. Guards his master like an unyielding gargoyle. You’d think the man had countless women vying for his attention, though Devona knew better. Men considered demons were quite safe from the machinations of theton’s mamas. Crying out, she doubled over, her face lost in the folds of her skirts.
Gar drew himself up and used every inch he had on the man to tower threateningly over him. “See here. Our lady is ill. If you can’t run for the doctor, then the least you can do is find a clean chamber pot before she disgraces herself on your floor.”
Pearl put her arm around Devona, offering comfort. “And something to drink as well, if you can spare it.” Concealing her nerves, she patted Devona’s arm. “This crying will make you feel worse, my lady.”
The manservant wavered as he glared at the trio. His duty warred with his instinct that these people were up to something. The suggestion that the sobbing woman might actually be a lady had him grudgingly warning, “Don’t move a hair. I’ll see what I can do.” He disappeared down one of the dark halls.
“Trusting soul,” Gar murmured.
Devona lifted her head. Her face was clear of the agony and tears she had affected. “You owe me a shilling, Gar.” She gave Pearl’s hand a quick squeeze. “Since he went left, we shall search right.” Devona was already heading in that direction.
