Chapter 21
Devlin took the wide front steps to the Admiralty two at a time, his mouth set in a grim line.
He had received notice of this meeting but an hour ago.
He had been expecting such notice; after all, all of London would be talking about the affair last night and the befuddled old men in blue were no exception.
His conduct had not been that befitting an officer and a gentleman.
Other officers and their aides were coming and going; Devlin did not nod at anyone, as he saw no one. A beautiful pale face with furious violet eyes haunted him instead. Last night I gave myself to you with joy and love. Today there is only hate.
His mouth twisted. There was a terrible piercing in his chest as her hurtful declaration echoed, but he was glad, fiercely so, that she had come to her senses.
He deserved only hatred, not love, and he was relieved, as fiercely, that finally she would cease imploring him with her every manner to love her in return.
“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant was waiting for him inside at the top of the marble staircase.
Devlin shoved his thoughts of Virginia aside. His feelings were not so easily shunted; both guilt and regret tormented him. He calmly accepted the lieutenant’s salute. Inwardly he remained in turmoil.
“Admiral St. John is waiting, sir,” the young officer added.
Devlin knew the way—how many times had he been called to Brook Street to be set down? A dozen, perhaps more. He preceded the junior officer down the hall, knocked on St. John’s office door and was instructed to enter.
He did so, saluting smartly and giving no indication of any surprise or any other feeling when he noticed Admiral Farnham present. He removed his bicorn, tucking it under his arm, remaining at attention.
“Do sit down, Captain,” St. John said, his florid expression grim.
Devlin nodded and took a chair.
St. John took his seat behind his desk, while Farnham sat in an adjacent chair. “I am very sorry to have called you in today,” St. John said grimly, “especially after the most unpleasing hearing of last summer.”
Devlin said nothing.
“The events of last night have come to my attention, rightly so. Do you care to explain yourself, Devlin?”
“Not really.”
St. John sighed. “Tom Hughes has taken a dozen stitches. His head is concussed. He states you attacked him unjustly and unfairly. How do you rebut?”
“He is well enough to make an accusatory statement?” Finally, Devlin smiled. “I should have inflicted far graver wounds, then.”
St. John shot to his feet. “This is hardly amusing. This is conduct unbecoming an officer, sir.”
Devlin also stood. “And the unprovoked assault on a lady of character is conduct becoming an officer?”
St. John was flushed now. “I beg your pardon, but a woman of no virtue has no character.”
Devlin stiffened, real anger rushing through him; he controlled it. “Miss Hughes is the Earl of Eastleigh’s niece. She is a gentlewoman of both character and virtue.”
“Do you deny that she is your mistress?” Farnham accused, still seated, his black eyes gleaming.
Devlin did not hesitate. “I do. I am afraid there have been malicious gossips at work—Miss Hughes has been my guest and nothing more.”
Farnham snorted. “The world knows she is your mistress, Captain. A woman of no virtue, she undoubtedly provoked Tom’s attentions.”
“She did not,” Devlin said flatly, fighting the urge to smash his fist in Farnham’s large red nose. “Eastleigh’s conduct should be at question here.”
“Were you there?” St. John asked.
Devlin turned. “No.”
“Hughes said she invited his interest, clearly and openly. She suggested he meet with her at a later date, perhaps on the morrow. She was so seductive he lost his patience, which is when you happened upon the scene.”
Devlin’s fury knew no bounds. “And it is the word of Thomas Hughes against the word of a whore?”
“Those are your words, not mine,” St. John said. “Your attack on Tom was beyond the bounds of gentlemanly conduct. This is my last warning, Devlin. One more incident and you will be court-martialed on the aforementioned grounds. There is no room in His Majesty’s navy for a ruffian and a scoundrel.”
Devlin knew that once again this was a battle he must lose.
Nothing ever changed. The admirals ranted and raved over his insubordination and independence, but in the end, he was always given his liberty again.
They dared not lose his competence of command and his superiority in naval battle.
This time, though, his heart knew no mocking triumph. This time, he felt ill.
Defend Virginia as he might, it was more than time for her to go. She had no future in Britain, thanks to him.
An honorable man would simply marry her.
He was astonished with his thoughts. He dismissed them instantly. An honorable man would have never used her so abominably in the first place.
“Do you comprehend me, Captain?” St. John asked.
Devlin jerked, his brooding far too intense for comfort, and he bowed. “Completely.”
“Good.” St. John came forward, smiling. “Will you have a brandy?” he asked, the crisis clearly over.
Devlin nodded; three brandies were poured and passed around.
Sipping appreciatively, St. John then said, “You have received your orders?”
Devlin nodded. “Yes, I have.”
“When can you set sail?”
“As you suggested, sir, within two weeks.”
St. John nodded. “Try to hasten your departure, Devlin. The news arrived today. The HMS Swift was captured by the USS Constitution. I do not know how they are doing it, but the Americans are owning the seas and I am counting on you, my boy, to swiftly change that fact.” He saluted him with his glass.
Devlin set his snifter down and bowed. “Of course, my lord,” he murmured. “I shall make every effort.”
St. John beamed, pleased.
“What the bloody hell happened?” the Earl of Eastleigh demanded coldly of his younger son.
Tom Hughes lay in bed, his torso and one arm bandaged, as his manservant took his breakfast tray from the room. “My head pounds, Father. Would you please refrain from shouting?” he said.
Eastleigh stared. “I was not shouting.”
William stood beside him, pale. “This is simply insufferable.”
“Be quiet.” Eastleigh looked his youngest son over. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I will live,” Tom said. His face tightened. “That bastard only got a set down. He went before St. John and he only got a set down.”
“He is probably paying them off,” Eastleigh spat. “Either that or the man has had nothing but luck his entire life.” And that would change, he silently vowed.
“This is beyond insufferable!” William erupted.
“First he parades our cousin about Hampshire, openly flaunting their liaison, destroying her and, by association, our entire family! Lord Livingston did not receive my wife the other day. She is always received there—Lady Livingston loves Cecily! But now the best of friends are the worst of friends—after all, we have a whore in the family! This is beyond insufferable. It has to stop!”
“I admit that I never expected him to go so far as to take her to the Carew ball.” Tom was clearly disgusted.
“And you had to pick a fight with him?” Eastleigh asked, his tone icy.
“He attacked me,” Tom exclaimed with indignation. “She is our cousin—and she is a fetching little thing. I think I had every right to sample her charms—but the savage attacked me!”
“You have only encouraged the gossips.” Eastleigh was outwardly calm, but inwardly, he seethed. He agreed with his sons. O’Neill had to be stopped. But the question remained, how? He felt certain that nothing short of killing the man would dissuade him from his revenge.
“I am sure all of London will do nothing but speak of last night’s entertainment now.
Do you know I dread the dinner party we are attending tomorrow?
” William finally sat down. “At least we have an offer for Sweet Briar. Although the buyer wishes to remain anonymous and we are selling the place for half its market value.”
“I didn’t know!” Tom smiled, pleased. “This shall help ease our depleted coffers for a while. Father, you must be thrilled.”
Eastleigh did not really hear him. His sons were both weak; they were both fools.
But he was not weak, never mind that he was older, impoverished, obese.
He had killed once before with as much chagrin as one felt when swatting a fly.
The Irish were mostly savages. He knew that firsthand, having spent his youth as a soldier stationed among them.
He had never favored Catholic emancipation and he despised the fools who did.
No Catholic should be able to vote or own land—and no Catholic should be as wealthy and powerful as that savage, O’Neill.
What would it matter if he killed one more time?
He had so little now to lose.
Eastleigh began to plan.
Virginia stood at her window, looking out at the Thames as the twilight grew, where several yachts sailed among the more plebian traffic of dories, dinghies and skips.
It was suppertime, but she had no intention of going downstairs to dine.
Although she could not remain hateful—she would never hate Devlin O’Neill—her heart had been broken for the very last time.
She smiled sadly, bitterly, recalling every moment of her conversation that morning—and every moment spent in his arms last night.
But she had had enough. It was over now and she was going home.
Her sadness felt like grief, heavy and depressing, a weight that threatened to sink her down.
Virginia heard voices on the terrace below her window. Her puppy came to stand beside her, whining.
She started, as she had not known they were having company. She heard a man’s and a woman’s voice, both terribly familiar.
Her cheeks heated. She recognized the woman instantly and she thought, oh no! For it was none other than Mary de Warenne, which meant the man with her was the Earl of Adare.