“Angel?”

His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.

Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. “Calm yourself,” she murmured. “’Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.” She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard.

Dev’s eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. “For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.”

“What would a woman be doing in here?”

Betrayal

Harlequin® Historical

MILLS & BOON

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GEORGINA DEVON

has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Social Sciences with a concentration in History. Her interest in England began when she lived in East Anglia as a child and later as an adult. She met her husband in England, and her wedding ring set is from Bath. She has many romantic and happy memories of the land. Today she lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, two dogs, an inherited cat and a cockatiel. Her daughter has left the nest and does Web site design, including Georgina’s. Contact her at www.georginadevon.com.

GEORGINA DEVON
Betrayal

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Waterloo, 1815

War is hell.

Major Lord Deverell St Simon ran his hand over his face, smearing rain water and mud across his nose and jaw. It was hot and muggy, and he hated Napoleon Bonaparte’s guts. His troops were demoralized and he was close behind.

Damn Napoleon. Damn him to hell for starting this war with his plans of world rule. Damn him.

If it were not for Napoleon’s escape from Elba, they would not be here. But the Little Emperor never quit.

Even now, there were occasions when Dev could see Napoleon just over the next hillock as the bastard urged his troops to victory. Because of him, Britain’s finest were ready to give up their lives. He was the reason they had been fighting for four days, and the massive losses on both sides were devastating.

Smoke lay like fog over the churned, bloody dirt. Death was a miasma Dev waded through while stifling the urge to vomit. Bodies, human and equine, littered the ground, grotesque in their death dance.

The rain started. Again.

Still, Dev made himself grin at his fellow officer and friend, Captain Patrick Shaunessey. ‘We are almost through this, Pat. Don’t give up now.’ The words were for himself as much as for his comrade, and he was honest enough to realize it.

Pat grimaced, his carrot-colored hair sweat stained. ‘Never say die,’ he said, bitterness tingeing the words.

Dev shrugged and shook his head like a dog, sending drops spattering out from his light brown hair. ‘You’d say the same, Pat, except you are more tired than I.’

For the first time that day, a smile quirked up one corner of Pat’s mouth. ‘And I didn’t stay at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball until there was no time to change into my uniform.’ His blue eyes gleamed as he looked pointedly at Deverell’s gunpowder-stained evening shirt.

Dev grinned, knowing his friend needed the bantering to ease the strain of battle and death. He needed it too. ‘They don’t call me Devil for nothing. I had no intention of leaving the Duchess’s ball early and cutting short my pleasure.’ His teeth formed a white slash in his exhaustion-lined face. ‘There were any number of ladies ready to console a man about to face war.’

The Captain’s snort of amusement was lost in the roar of wind ripping through the poplars. Rain pelted down, turning the already muddy ground into a morass that would impede anything that tried to move. The artillery, with their heavy guns, would have a devil of a time.

Glancing behind and to the right, Dev caught sight of the Duke of Wellington. The Duke was mounted on Copenhagen, his chestnut gelding, and wearing his familiar dark blue coat, white breeches, white cravat and cocked hat.

‘Wonder what the Iron Duke wants?’ Pat muttered, raising up just enough to see over the ridgeline of Mont Saint Jean, the place Wellington had chosen for his final stand against Napoleon.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Dev said.

The sun broke through the clouds, turning the damp ground into a mist-shrouded enigma. Dev considered taking off his black jacket, but thought better of it. White made as good a target as the typical British red uniform coat.

‘Dev, Pat,’ Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Macdonell yelled, ‘come here. We have orders.’ Both men exchanged a telling glance as they rose.

Macdonell was a large Highlander, with a reputation for accomplishing what no one else could. His mouth was grimly tight. ‘Wellington has ordered us to hold the Château de Hougoumont.’

‘With what?’ Dev asked, realizing that the château’s open position made it a hard place to defend.

‘He has given me command of the Scots and Coldstream Guards, the best we have. The château occupies a strategically important place. As long as we hold it, Napoleon must split his forces in order to get to Mont Saint Jean.’ Macdonell made eye contact with each man. ‘It’s our best chance to defeat Napoleon. We must hold it or die trying.’

A frisson of excitement ran up Dev’s spine. He had never been one to ignore a challenge, not even one such as this. ‘Then we will do it.’

‘I knew I could count on you,’ Macdonell said. ‘See to your men and supplies. We have to be in place before Napoleon realizes what is happening.’

After Macdonell left, Dev turned and winked at Pat. ‘This is it, old friend. We are about to earn our place in the history books.’

Pat’s face was pale but determined, his blue eyes clear. ‘You always were one for action. I hope this isn’t your last.’

Dev clapped Pat on the back, ignoring the uneasiness his friend’s words created. ‘I’ll stand you to a bottle of Brooks’s finest port when we’re through this.’

‘And I’ll hold you to that,’ Pat said.

Dev sobered as he saw the fear return to his friend’s face. Dev knew his eyes mirrored Pat’s. ‘Good luck and God go with you,’ he said quietly before turning away.

Dev made haste to round up his troops and get them positioned. Coming from the east, they passed through an orchard before entering the walled portion of the property where the château, a chapel, and a barn stood. In reality, Hougoumont was barely more than a farmhouse, its grey stone walls bleak under a sky that had suddenly turned leaden.

The men broke loopholes into the buildings and walls for their Brown Besses to shoot through and then set about cleaning the rifles. Next, they built small fires in an attempt to dry their clothes, which were soaked from the earlier rains.

Dev made his rounds, uncomfortable in his wet jacket and breeches, but unwilling to stop long enough to dry them. Macdonell counted on him, and he would not let the man down. They would be prepared for Napoleon’s onslaught.

Once, he passed Patrick and grinned. Pat gave him a brief salute and continued his preparations.

It was after eleven in the morning when they saw the French. The enemy stormed through a hedge and into the fifty feet of barren ground that stood between them and the château. Dev ordered his men to fire. The French dropped, good British lead in their chests.

Time was a blur to Deverell. His men loaded and fired, loaded and fired. Dev paced amongst them, shouting encouragement, giving direction.

Without warning, a group of Frenchmen reached the gate of the château. A gigantic French lieutenant swung a sapper’s axe at the gate. The gate splintered.

Dev rushed forward, knowing that if the French breached the gate the battle was lost. He swung his sword in sweeping arches, using it like a machete. Around him other British soldiers did the same.

From the corner of his eye, Dev saw Colonel Macdonell put his shoulder to the gate and begin to push it closed. Dev followed suit. Men leaped to help.

Somehow the gate was closed. Dev only knew his existence had become a red haze of death and blood and survival.

The French trapped inside Hougoumont were killed or taken prisoner, the château secured once more.

The excitement that had held Dev drained away. He moved toward the grey stone wall with the intention of resting.

’Merci.’ A weak voice caught his attention. It belonged to a French drummer boy. He had been slashed in the arm and blood ran in a red rivulet down his sleeve. He was only a child.

Dev yanked the cravat from his neck and tied it securely around the boy’s arm, then yelled for one of his men. ‘See that this soldier is kept alive.’

The British ensign who took the prisoner was not much older than the Frenchman. Dev shook his head in resignation. Death and dying.

The day wore on. The French artillery pounded the château. Afternoon was well progressed. Ammunition was low.

Dev wiped sweat from his brow and prepared to exhort his men further, when smoke arose from the building behind him. The French artillery had hit a haystack. The flames spread to the barn where the wounded lay. Horses ran into the flames. Men and animals screamed.

Dev felt hot, then cold. ‘Pat,’ he yelled to his comrade, ‘see to our men. I must help those poor devils.’

Dev ran toward the fire. Another man joined him.

Dev plunged into the barn, grabbing the first person he reached. The man’s moans were pitiful, but Dev ignored them. Better to cause him pain than to lose him to the fire. He deposited him outside and went back.

Where was the French drummer? He had been near the door.

‘Boy?’ Dev yelled in French.

The answer was a ragged cough, but it was enough. Dev turned left. A figure staggered toward him, and Dev caught the slight youth. Smoke curled around them and burned Dev’s lungs as he sped toward the door.

Overhead the timbers crackled. A large snap reverberated through the murky air. A hand grabbed Dev’s leg. He slung the drummer boy over his shoulders and gripped the fingers still clinging to his leg. With a grunt, Dev pulled the other man to his feet and propelled the lumbering figure forward.

Noise reverberated through the building.

A large overhead timber gave way, crashing to the floor, bringing a curtain of fire with it. Dev threw the youth forward at the same time he shoved the older soldier toward the doorway.

Pain ripped through Dev. His right leg gave way and he tumbled to the ground. Smoke filled his mouth and burned his lungs.

His last conscious thought was: this is hell!

Chapter One

Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing.

Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.

Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.

A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.

Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.

‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.

Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.

‘Blast,’ she muttered, putting aside her wish for petticoats. Steeling herself, she made the decision to remove the filthy bandage. The man would be no worse without it, and probably better.

‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you are doing?’

Pippa heard the voice as background noise. She was still too new at her masquerade to realize she was the ‘boy’.

‘You, boy,’ the gruff voice said angrily as a beefy hand gripped her shoulder and swung her around so she landed on her knees.

Pippa did not like being touched. She liked even less being interrupted when she was with a patient.

‘Unhand me,’ she said, lowly and furiously.

‘Touchy for a mite of a lad,’ the man accosting her said, dropping his hand.

Scowling, Pippa stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her buff pantaloons.

The officer looming over her—and she was not small—was a bull of a man, with a scowl the equal of hers. A shock of dark brown hair fell over equally dark eyes.

His frown deepened. ‘Leave the men alone. We have enough problems without your meddling.’ He squatted by the soldier. ‘And this one is sorely hurt.’

Pippa’s anger seeped away as she watched the surgeon gently tend to the man’s wound. ‘I can help, sir. I’ve trained with our county surgeon and know many of the local midwife’s pain remedies.’

Disregarding her, the surgeon soaked the bandage with water from the nearby bucket and then carefully unwrapped it. ‘He would be better off without this.’ Dismay moved across his craggy features, followed quickly by stoic acceptance.

The surgeon took off his coat and made it into a pillow, which he carefully laid the soldier’s head on. Next, he washed his bloody hands in the water and dried them. Only then did he deign to give Pippa a critical once-over.

‘You are naught but a boy, dressed in his older brother’s clothes. I’d sooner trust yon private—’ he jerked his head in the direction of a man who was going around giving the hurt soldiers water ‘—with an amputation before I’d let you treat these injured men.’

His callous words bit into Pippa, but she held herself straighter and met the other’s hard gaze with one of her own. ‘I know enough to realize you have ruined the drinking water by washing your hands in it. Now you must send someone to fetch a fresh bucket.’

‘Any fool knows that.’

‘You should also consider giving him a tincture of henbane to ease the pain and promote relaxation and sleep. You could do the same with opium or laudanum, but I doubt there is enough of either to go around.’

The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old are you, boy?’

The barked question took her by surprise. It should not have. Only very young boys have downy cheeks and slim shoulders. She had tried to pad her shoulders, she could do nothing about her cheeks.

Going on the offensive, a trick her twin had taught her early in life, she met the surgeon’s eyes boldly. ‘Old enough to be here.’

For an instant the man’s wide mouth quirked up. ‘Plenty of spunk.’

Two moans pierced the air, each from opposite sides of the street. The surgeon glanced from one wounded man to the other, his face torn by indecision. The hook of his nose seemed to turn down.

‘All right, boy. This is your chance. I cannot tend both men simultaneously.’

Anticipation made Pippa’s hands shake. She looked from man to man and found her attention drawn to a bright brown thatch of hair. Her twin had hair that color, not black as her own because they weren’t identical. Could it be Philip?

She took a step toward the man, saying over her shoulder, ‘Yes, sir.’

The surgeon didn’t stop her. ‘Mind you don’t do anything that will harm the bloke,’ he stated, his dark eyes boring into her back. He raised his voice. ‘Or I shall have you thrown out of the city on your arse.’

‘Ingrate,’ Pippa muttered under her breath as she hastened to the patient who might be her twin.

She knelt beside the man, disappointment clenching her hands. He wasn’t Philip. But he was sorely injured.

The man’s moans increased in volume, and his arms and legs thrashed about, throwing off a dirty blanket that had been draped over him. His right calf was a mass of torn muscles and protruding bone. If she did not act quickly, putrefaction would set in and he would lose the limb. The moans stopped the first time she probed the wound.

She glanced at his face to see him watching her with pain-racked hazel eyes. Rivulets of sweat poured from his high brow. He was more handsome than she had ever imagined a man could be. Pain twisted his features and furrows creased his forehead and carved brackets around his mouth, a mouth that might have been wide and sharply defined if it were not flattened by agony. His jaw was square and clenched. His cheekbones were high and flushed with fever. Perspiration slicked his hair.

‘Don’t cut it off,’ he said, his voice a deep, dry rasp that made her fingers shake even more.

In some ways he reminded her of her brother; strong and clean of limb, with the exception of his right leg, and similar in colouring. But the feelings this man aroused in her, in spite of his helplessness, weren’t sisterly. Nor were they welcome under any circumstances, much less these.

Forcing her attention back to his wound, she saw that amputating the limb was his best chance, and yet she found herself agreeing with his command not to remove it. This man had a fierce light in his eyes and a muscular wiriness that spoke of activity. He would not appreciate living without his leg.

By the time she pulled the last fragment of bone and the final piece of torn cloth from the wound, perspiration drenched her shirt. His piercing gaze bent on her face as she worked did not help. Never had a man stared at her so intently, and never had a man’s attention affected her so completely.

She dared glance at him again, only to wish she had not. His face was creased in agony, and she knew it had been a supreme effort of will that had kept him conscious during the cleaning.

‘That leg will have to come off,’ the surgeon said in a gruff voice.

Pippa had not heard him approach. Starting, she twisted around in her squatting position and looked up at him. ‘I think I can save it.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘If we were in a small town or he was the only patient, I might agree. But ‘tis not so, lad. If the leg stays, it will fester and kill him. Better he lose a limb than lose his life.’

Pippa frowned. She had heard the surgeon at home say similar words, but…

Perhaps the surgeon was right.

The man’s broad shoulders shook and the leg beneath Pippa’s fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered, their thick sandy eyelashes creating a sharp shadow against his pale skin. His eyes caught and held her attention, commanding her.

‘Don’t let him take my leg,’ the man whispered, his voice coming hoarse through cracked lips. His hand gripped her wrist and squeezed to emphasize his order. ‘I would rather die.’

Even as he said the words, his eyes closed and Pippa realized he was trusting her to do as he ordered. He did not have the energy to fight the surgeon. It was up to her to save his limb.

Her twin came instantly to mind. Philip would not want to lose his leg. He would call himself half a man. This man would do the same. She knew it with a certainty she did not want to question for fear that she would find herself gone insane; that she would find herself more involved with this man than she had any reason to be.

Chewing her bottom lip, Pippa stood and faced the surgeon. ‘You heard him. He would rather die.’

‘You would risk his life on a whim?’ The surgeon’s bushy brown eyebrows formed a bar across his wide face. ‘I was right not to entrust anyone’s care to you.’

Pippa flushed, half-embarrassed at her statement and half-angry at the surgeon for doubting her skills. ‘The way a man feels about his life is as important as whether he has one.’

The surgeon’s scowl deepened, his attention going to the patient. ‘You did a thorough job of cleaning the flesh. Can you set the bone?’

Pippa nodded, sensing that she had won.

‘You,’ the surgeon bellowed to a nearby soldier, ‘bring an eighteen-tail bandage and splint.’ Turning his frown back on Pippa, he said, ‘If this man dies, you will have to live with your conscience. Now, show me what you can do.’

Pippa bit her bottom lip and studied the surgeon. He met her gaze squarely. He was laying a heavy burden on her, but one doctors and healers faced every day of their lives. She could and would accept that burden.

Reaching into her herbal pouch, she withdrew some garlic oil and mixed it with fresh water. She poured the mixture over the wound to protect against putrefaction. Her patient flinched, and when she looked at his face she saw he had bitten his bottom lip until it bled. But his eyes were open and watching her.

Conscious of his gaze on her, she flexed the leg to straighten the bone for setting. Without a sound the man flinched and then went limp. He had finally passed out. She breathed a sigh of relief for his sake. Quickly and competently, she set the bone, put on soft lint to absorb the drainage and crossed the eighteen tails of the bandage so that the leg was completely wrapped. Lastly, she applied the splint.

By the time she was done, her hands shook and sweat ran in rivers down her spine. It was a hot, muggy day, but she knew it was the fear of failure that had worn her down. She did not want this man to have his leg amputated. She wanted him to awaken a whole person, wanted to see the fierce determination and fire in his hazel eyes once more.

‘You know he will limp—if he survives.’ The surgeon’s gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

‘And it will pain him most in damp, cold weather,’ she added, standing and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

‘Perhaps we can use you after all. I could not have done a better job of cleaning and setting the leg.’

It was a concession she had begun to think would never come. Pippa released the breath she had been unconsciously holding and broke into a radiant smile. ‘You won’t regret it.’

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and shook his head. ‘You are as pretty as a maid. See that you watch yourself. Some of these men are none too particular.’

Pippa turned red. ‘Yes, sir.’

Her attention flitted to the unconscious man. What would he think of her as a woman? It was a question she was fearful of having answered.

‘I’d be doing you no favors if I didn’t warn you, lad.’

‘Thank you,’ Pippa muttered, trying to deepen her voice.

The surgeon looked at the patient. ‘This one is your special case. See that you let me know when gangrene sets in and the limb must be removed. You have until then to try and save the leg.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Pippa vowed, watching the steady, shallow rise and fall of the hurt man’s chest.

‘Meanwhile, there are others who need your services and your herbs.’ Turning from her, the surgeon bellowed, ‘Jones, stay with this lad and see that you get him what he needs.’

A tall, thin, battle-scarred sergeant ambled up. ‘Knew we was robbin’ the cradle for the fightin’, Major, but thought we wasn’t in need of babies to tend the sick.’

‘This young man has just performed as well as any army surgeon I know,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t go giving the lad trouble or I’ll have you confined to the hospital.’

Jones shuddered. ‘Horrible place. Dark and hot and stinking.’

‘A living morgue,’ Pippa whispered, her stomach churning. ‘Those poor men.’

‘Ah, Lord.’ Jones rolled his eyes. ‘The boy has that fervent look in his eyes. Now he’ll want to go nurse the bastards there.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ Pippa said firmly, squaring her shoulders and jutting out her chin. ‘Show me the way, Jones.’

‘What about this one?’ the surgeon said, stopping Pippa in her tracks. ‘Do you intend to leave him here, exposed to the elements?’

Pippa’s gaze travelled over the patient. He was tall and well-formed, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a spectacular man. She didn’t want him going to the filth and squalor of the hospital.

He is your patient, she told herself. Patient and nothing more. He might not even live.

With difficulty, she forced her concentration to his medical problem. Because of the bands of muscles in his legs, it had been difficult for her to relax his calf enough to open the wounds so she could clean them. It was a good sign because of the strength it showed he had, but he had already been exposed to the wind, sun and rain too much. For the benefit of his limb, he should be sheltered.

‘If you can spare the men, Major,’ she addressed the surgeon the way the sergeant had done so, ‘I’ll give them directions to my lodgings. He…he can stay there. ‘Tis a single room only, but all that could be had.’

‘It’ll be done,’ the Major said. ‘And see if anyone recognizes him. He must have rooms of his own somewhere.’

It took some time before they found men to transport the unconscious soldier to Pippa’s lodgings, but when that was done, she set off for the hospital. She knew the men in the confines of the hospital would have less chance of survival than the ones littering the streets. Contagion spread easily in the crowded, dark places and probably the worst of the patients had been taken there.

She was right.

Loud moans woke Pippa from an exhausted sleep. Her head still ached from too many hours over the past weeks spent in the small, smelly quarters of the hospital, and it took her some time to become reoriented.

The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight entering through the single window, which she had opened in an attempt to get any slight breeze. It had not helped. Heat and humidity hung over Brussels like a pall, and she was sticky and miserable.

The moan came again.

It was her patient. Pippa rose from her pallet on the floor and hurried to the single bed where he lay. A sheen of moisture lit his forehead and the sheets were damp. His linen shirt clung to him, outlining the muscles of his chest and shoulders.

Pippa bit her lip and forced her attention back to his face. Even in the silvered light of the moon he looked flushed. She poured a small amount of bark into some water and knelt beside the bed. Gently she lifted his head and put the mixture to his lips. He swallowed thirstily.

‘That will ease the fever,’ she murmured to him, not expecting an answer. He had yet to regain consciousness since having the leg set, and she did not expect him to do so now.

‘Nothing will ease hell’s flames,’ he muttered, opening his eyes.

Their intensity held her spellbound. Although she knew they were bright from fever and sickness, they seared to her soul. She reached to put the empty container back on the nightstand and missed. It crashed to the floor.

‘Oh!’ Exasperation coloured the word. Now she would have to clean up the mess before she stepped or sat on a piece of glass.

‘Unless ‘tis a goddess,’ the man whispered, continuing his confused train of thought. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

Pippa’s attention snapped back to him. His gaze was roving over her face and down to the nightshirt she wore. The muslin sheath was loose, but the material was thin enough to show the swell of her bosom. She had removed the confining linen wrap because of the heat and now regretted the comfort that one action had given her in the moist heat. His intimate perusal was making her heart pound. She told herself it was fear that he would discover her charade.

‘You are mistaken, sir. I am a youth, not a maid.’

‘And I am the Prince Regent,’ he muttered, his mouth curving into a rakish grin. ‘No man of my acquaintance has such translucent skin. Nor eyes of such lustre. Green as new grass in a summer meadow. Or are they silver?’ he muttered, his voice turning querulous as he sought to focus in the dim light. Giving up, he closed his eyes. ‘God, but I hurt!’

‘You have been grievously injured,’ Pippa said, forcing her voice down an octave. ‘I…I have been tending you.’

Her subterfuge was wasted. He had passed out again.

Her worry of exposure was immediately replaced by worry for his leg. Was it worsening? Lighting a candle, she quickly examined him. The wound had finally scabbed over several days ago, but the bandage needed changing. Thank goodness there had been enough materials for her to have extra. She changed the dressing quickly and efficiently. Next, she had to lower his fever.

She soaked a cloth in water, wrung it out, and wiped it across his brow and cheeks and down his neck. Hopefully this would bring the fever down while the bark worked from inside. The water was warm, but it was better than doing nothing. She dipped and wrung the cloth again.

If he were not so well muscled and completely inert, she would move him and change the bedding, but she had learned early that he was too heavy for her. Instead, she lifted up his nightshirt as best she could and ran the cloth down his chest and across his ribs, tempted to follow the trail of brown hairs that led beneath the covers. Intellectually she knew that cooling his groin would ease some of the heat from his body, but just the idea of doing so made her stomach knot.

She did not know what was wrong with her. She never had reacted to a patient this way. Never.

She was a healer.

Eyes averted, Pippa carefully peeled back the cover. Soon she would have to look at him, but first she could moisten the cloth. She did so with meticulous care. The last thing he needed was to have sheets wetter than they already were from his sweat, or so she told herself.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. Her gaze travelled slowly down his body, past broad shoulders and flat belly—lower. He was lean and narrow. She gulped and turned hot and cold and hot again.

He was magnificent. Everywhere.

She was a healer. It was her duty to sponge his flushed skin until it cooled, and she would do exactly that.

It seemed a long time before his fever began to break, and every minute was alternating pain and pleasure. Was he as wonderful a person as his body was perfect? She almost feared he would be. He was definitely charming. No man had ever kissed her hand.

He was very likely a rake.

Her hands moved automatically while her mind raced. Perhaps when her quest for her twin was over, she would go to London for a Season. She had refused to do so these many years because she had no wish to find a husband. Now, to her chagrin, she found the idea had some interest. But that was the future. First she had to heal this man and then she had to find her brother. After that would be time enough to think further.

Resolutely, she covered her patient and returned the cloth to its bowl. Next she cleaned up the broken glass she had forgotten about.

When she crawled back into bed, she felt as though she had been riding to hounds and all her energy was spent. All because of him. The way he affected her made it hard to breathe and even harder to think impartially.

Never had she been this attracted to a man, much to her grandfather’s irritation since Earl LeClaire wanted her married. All she had ever cared about was her healing. Now she had found a man who stirred her blood—and she was impersonating a male.

It was a situation she could do nothing about, and morning would come soon enough. She needed rest as tomorrow would be another busy day.

But sleep eluded her. And when it came, her dreams were of a tall, smiling rake who pursued her down a tree-shaded lane. Spring filled the air with the scent of freshly scythed grass; grass the colour of her eyes.

Dev woke slowly, his head spinning, his leg throbbing. Heat was a palpable blanket of discomfort, so he tossed aside whatever was covering him, only to discover he was still twisted in something.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, frustration and pain increasing his normal impatience. Where was he? Why did he hurt? Why couldn’t he move?

Hougoumont. Flames. Pain. The woman.

Memories roared back, bringing agony instead of comfort. But he was alive, he had survived that battle fought in hell. Was it over? Had they defeated Napoleon? What of Patrick?

He tried to sit up and pain shot from his right leg to his groin and up his spine. He fell back, cold sweat breaking out on every part of his body.

Slowly and carefully, he lifted his head only and gazed down the length of his body. He wore a nightshirt that reached down to his thighs, ending—

His right leg was encased in a wooden splint from foot to knee.

He groaned and let his head drop. He vaguely remembered someone saying it would have to come off and him telling a lad not to let it happen. It seemed the youth had done what he asked. Relief washed over Dev.

It was instantly replaced by anxiety. He was alive and whole. Was Patrick? Had he saved the French lad?

And what about the woman? The one who had cared for him. Or had she? The memory was not solid. It seemed to float in and out of his mind. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps it had been the lad, if there had been a lad. He was delirious.

Yet, the image of a beauty with ebony hair and green, green eyes haunted him. Her face was an oval with high cheeks, a wide mouth and flawless skin. Unless there was no woman, and his mind was playing tricks with him—which was quite possible under the present circumstances.

Perhaps he was even crazy. He would not be the first to go insane after a battle. His older brother, Alastair, had suffered nightmares for years that made him relive the battles against Napoleon in Spain.

Wearily, Dev rubbed a weak hand over his brow. If only someone were here to tell him what was going on.

The sound of an opening door caught his attention. Turning, he saw a youth pause in the act of entering the room.

Chapter Two

Pippa stopped flat. Her patient was awake and alert, his gaze fixed on her. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

His cheekbones were rouged with fever or exertion, but his eyes were aware and intelligent. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’ he demanded in the tones of one used to being obeyed.

She smiled in spite of herself even as she bristled at his order. He reminded her much of Philip, her twin. Moving to the bed, she said, ‘My name is Pippen LeClaire, and you are in my room.’ At his frown, she added, ‘No one knows who you are, and I am the only one with room for you. I could not leave you in the street or have you taken to the hospital with the other wounded.’

The scowl faded from his face when she laid the back of her hand lightly on his forehead to feel for fever. He had none.

‘Then I have much to be grateful to you for. And my name is Deverell St Simon.’ His brow furrowed again, and his eyes took on a faraway look before coming sharply back to her face. ‘Are you the lad who saved my leg from amputation?’

She nodded.

‘Then I owe you my life,’ he said gravely. ‘I would not have wished to live a cripple.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ Pippa said hastily, feeling uncomfortable at his solemnity. ‘I am a healer and helping others is something I must do. Besides,’ she said as matter-of-factly as possible while her heart pounded in discomfort, for she had known exactly how he would feel and that scared her. ‘You will never move comfortably and most likely that leg will plague you until you die.’

He attempted a shrug that made him grimace. ‘Much better than wearing a wooden peg.’

Pippa, seeing the stubborn set of his jaw, forbore comment and hoped fervently that he would continue to think so. ‘You have been unconscious and delirious for nearly a fortnight and must be ready to eat a feast. If you will lay quietly, I will ask the landlady for some gruel.’

‘I won’t eat pap!’

Instead of arguing, which she knew from past experience with her twin would be fruitless and only end in a fight, Pippa turned away and left the room. He was weak enough and hungry enough that he would eventually eat whatever she brought him.

Dev watched the youth leave. The boy had an odd feminine look about him, with a face that was free of beard and hips that were a trifle too wide for his shoulders and moved a tad too much for masculine purpose. Pippen reminded him of the woman he had seen in his delirium—a ridiculous thought.

Exhaustion ate at him. Sighing, he fell back on to the cushions and told himself Pippen could not help that he was made the way he was. It was not as though the lad was the only man ever born with more female traits than was good.

Dev promptly fell into a restless half-sleep where cannon and musket shot echoed in his ears, and the stench of burning flesh swamped his nostrils.

A short time later Pippa re-entered the room with a tray. Warm tea and a steaming bowl of beef-flavoured gruel would do wonders for her invalid.

Putting the tray on a nearby table, she saw her patient—Deverell St Simon, she told herself—had slipped back into a troubled sleep. Sweat dotted his brow and his hands clenched the sheet in bunches. The urge to soothe him was as overpowering as it was bewildering. All her life she had felt the need to help others, but never had the desire to care for another made her body shake. Why, she knew nothing about this man except his name, and that meant nothing to her.

She took a controlling breath and laid a hand on his shoulder. He jolted awake.

‘Who—?’ He broke off, his eyes wide, his body jerking upward. ‘Angel?’

His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.

Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. ‘Calm yourself,’ she murmured. “Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.’ She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard. She must be more careful, constantly on guard. It would not be easy. ‘I have brought you some food.’

His eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. Some of the tension left his body. ‘For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.’

Pippa kept her countenance smooth, showing only mild interest. ‘What would a woman be doing in here?’

He turned away. ‘I don’t know. I thought a green-eyed lady cared for me while I was unconscious.’ He looked back at Pippa. ‘She had your face. Only I would swear, she had the sweet curves of a female.’ He sighed. ‘But enough of daydreaming. Right now I could eat the landlady’s entire larder.’

Pippa chuckled, letting the relief she felt at his change of topic ease the tightness that had mounted in her shoulders during his talk of a strange woman. He was remembering the time she had sponged him. ‘You will eat lightly. I don’t want you throwing everything up no sooner than you get it down.’

He grimaced.

Pippa put her fists on her hips, feet shoulder width apart, and looked at him. Belatedly she realized what she was doing. The pose was natural with her when dealing with her brother, and invariably it put her twin’s back up. It would probably do the same to her patient.

With a sigh at her own mishandling of the situation, she quickly sat down on the only stool the room had and ladled up some of the gruel. She put the spoon to his lips. Instead of opening his mouth, his nose wrinkled in disgust and he scowled at her.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘You need food to get well, and you need food that is easy on your digestion. Later, when you are better and your stomach can handle mutton, I will allow you a complete meal.’ When his face softened, she added the clincher, ‘I don’t have the time or energy to care for you longer than necessary. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital.’

She watched his countenance as irritation warred with consideration. Consideration won. Pippa had been right about the way to handle him. It was the way she would have dealt with her twin.

Dev swallowed the gruel quickly, and Pippa was sure that if he had the energy and the bad manners, he would pinch his nose closed. Afterwards, she sponged off his face as professionally as she could when his nearness made her stomach knot. That finished, she tucked the covers around his chest to protect him from a draught.

Her face flamed at the familiarity of the gesture and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her fingers. It was a relief to turn away and prepare a draught.

‘Take this,’ she said, pivoting back and tipping the glass to his lips.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ he groused, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the glass Pippa still held.

Mind-startling awareness travelled from where they touched to explode in Pippa’s chest. She stepped abruptly away and chattered, ‘The drink is laudanum for sleep and pain and bark for the fever and inflammation. When I return, I will change your dressing, but ‘twill not be until late tonight. If you need anything, ring this bell and the landlady will come.’ She laid a brass bell with wooden handle by the bed.

‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I won’t ever forget what I owe you.’

“Tis nothing,’ Pippa mumbled, grabbing up her coat and heading for the safety of the hospital.

The less time she spent in her handsome patient’s company now that he was awake, the better for her peace of mind. She was here in Brussels to find her twin, not get herself embroiled with a man who might be anyone. But even if he was the Prince Regent himself—which he wasn’t because he was much thinner than that corpulent royal—she would not be interested. She was going to dedicate her life to healing.

Best, when she returned, to find out if he had lodgings somewhere and arrange for him to be moved there. Surely there was someone who could look after him. That decision made, Pippa found herself alternately unsettled at the thought of him alone and relieved that he would no longer be a constant temptation to her.

Arriving at the crowded hospital, she set to work with a vengeance. There was always so much to do and not enough people or supplies to do it with.

Bent over the ripped arm of a sergeant, Pippa concentrated on removing the dressing with as little pain as possible. Gangrene had set in.

‘How is it?’ the man asked, agony etching furrows in his brow.

Pippa looked from the arm that would need to be amputated to the man’s face. It was all she could do to keep tears from slipping down her face. ‘You will need the surgeon to look at you,’ she said calmly, quietly, hoping the sergeant didn’t see the truth in her eyes. ‘For now, I am going to clean it and let it lay unwrapped. The air will do it good.’

What she didn’t tell the man was that it would not matter what she did, and the surgeon would be glad of the time saved by not having to remove a bandage. Too many soldiers needed operations. Sighing, Pippa stood and knuckled the kinks in her lower back.

‘You, young man,’ a French-accented female voice said imperiously. ‘Come here.’

Pippa was getting used to being called a boy and turned to see if the woman was speaking to her. A small, blonde Pocket Venus with the biggest, bluest eyes Pippa had ever seen, knelt less than ten feet away with a soldier’s head in her lap. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion in a sprigged muslin dress, all of which was covered by a voluminous apron. Definitely a lady, but the accent was wrong for a British hospital.

Pippa strode to her. ‘Madam?’

‘Lady Witherspoon.’ She motioned Pippa down. ‘This man needs a bath and I cannot give it. The water is right here and a piece of soap.’

Pippa nearly choked. This was one of the few duties she had managed to avoid. ‘Ah, milady…’

Before she could finish her explanation, the lady had gone on to the next patient. Pippa stared after her, feeling awkward and trapped. Luckily, she saw Sergeant Jones and waved him over.

‘I cannot lift the man properly,’ she gave him her regular excuse, one he’d heard frequently.

Jones gave her his great lopsided grin that showed a missing canine tooth. ‘Then you take that bloke over yonder. Has shrapnel all in his head. Them head wounds are the bloodiest nuisances. Turn my stomach with all their weeping they do.’

Pippa agreed willingly, but before going asked, ‘Who was that lady? Her accent is all wrong.’

Jones didn’t even bother to look where Pippa indicated. ‘Frenchie. Married to our Marquis of Witherspoon. Several of the men have spit on her, but she never says a harsh word. Almost as though she’s doin’ this to make up fer somethin’.’ He grunted as he rolled the patient on to his side. ‘She’s been helpin’ regular as clockwork. Not as good as you, mind, but then she’s a woman—and Quality.’

Pippa suppressed a grin at his lumping her with the ‘men’, while she digested the information. ‘Then why have I never seen her?’

Jones slanted her a knowing look. ‘Fine woman, but not fer the likes of me ‘n’ you, lad. Besides, she comes in the late afternoon. You’re with the Major making rounds.’

Accepting Jones’s assumption and explanation, Pippa went to her next patient. At least her disguise was perfectly safe. If the man she spent the most time with, and who did all the really personal care of the wounded, thought she was male, then everyone else did too.

Many hours later, Pippa walked the darkened streets of Brussels. Her back ached, her feet hurt, and she’d cried enough tears to float one of His Majesty’s ships. The man had lost his arm, screaming in pain in spite of all the rum she and Jones had forced between his clenched teeth. She hated it when these things happened.

Her reaction made her question her commitment to healing. She should be strong and not cry. She should be able to focus on doing what was necessary and go on. The local surgeon had said she felt too much of her patients’ pain, that she needed to distance herself emotionally—and that was before she came here and saw all this carnage.

She raked her fingers through the short length of her hair, her hand running on even after the strands ended. A month since she’d whacked off her waist-length hair, and she still tried to comb it as she had for many years. Another tear slipped.

Pippa stopped in the middle of the road and stomped her foot. She was acting like a watering pot. This would never do. She had things to do. Sick men to help and a brother to find.

Philip.

Somewhere her twin still lived. Instead of spending all her time worrying about the man lying in her bed or crying over things that had to be done, she should try again to see Wellington. Last week was the most recent time she’d sought an audience with the Iron Duke, and last week was the most recent time her request had been denied. Tomorrow she would try again.

Finding Philip was her sole reason for being here in Brussels, disguised as a boy and unchaperoned. Nothing else mattered.

Her grandfather thought she was here with Aunt Tabitha, but Aunt Tabitha was in London, blissfully unaware that Pippa was supposed to be under her chaperonage in Brussels. That was the way Pippa wanted it.

She had cut off her hair and taken the clothes Philip had worn as a youth. They were no longer in fashion, but a country man might still wear them. Disguised as a boy, she had booked passage on a packet crossing the channel and made her way here.

A young woman would never be told anything but what was proper, and she had a funny feeling that what had happened to her twin was less than respectable. Nor would a woman have been allowed the freedom to come and go as she had been while asking about her twin in the hopes that some clue to his whereabouts would emerge.

But if someone ever found out what she had done, her reputation would be gone. No one in Polite Society would ever receive her. No decent man would ever ask for her hand, no matter how wealthy she was. Not that she wanted to marry. She wanted to heal the sick and had turned down numerous offers from Aunt Tabitha to come to London for the Season. Still, she did not want to be beyond the pale.

She sighed. She had to stop this useless worrying, it did her no good. Shaking her head to clear the melancholy thoughts, she squared her shoulders. Spirits somewhat under control, Pippa strode purposely to her lodging.

She paused just inside the door of her darkened room, allowing her eyes to adjust. The moon shone through the lone window like a silver flame in a big lantern. A splash of white light fell across the bed where Deverell St Simon lay, his face flushed and glistening from sweat.

‘Patrick! Damn it man, where are you?’ His anxious words cut through the night. ‘I can’t see you!’

A nightmare. Pippa forgot her earlier resolve to have him gone as soon as possible and rushed to his side.

She put a hand to his forehead. Fever. She should have prepared another draught of bark and left it with the landlady with instructions to give it to him. Instead, she had let her attraction to him make her careless. Guilt twisted her stomach even as she wrung a damp cloth in the nearby bowl of water which she had placed just for this type of occurrence.

Remorse brought still more tears. She dashed them away with the heel of her hand and concentrated on cooling and soothing her patient. She was overly tired and needed a good night’s sleep, something she would get shortly.

‘Deverell,’ she murmured, ‘everything is fine. You’re in my bed, not on the battlefield. Patrick is not here.’

Her voice seemed to calm him. He stopped thrashing and no more words came.

Pippa crossed to her bag of herbs, lit a single candle and prepared more bark. Kneeling at the bed, she dripped it into her patient’s mouth.

His eyes opened, catching her in their brilliance. ‘Angel,’ he whispered. ‘My angel of mercy.’

Pippa started, nearly dropping the half-full glass. ‘No! That is…’ She took a deep calming breath. He was delirious. “Tis me. Pippen. The boy who is taking care of you.’

‘Pippen?’ Bewilderment replaced the admiration in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes. I remember now.’

Pippa lifted his head and tipped the rest of her concoction down his throat. ‘That will help you,’ she said as he sputtered.

‘Choke me, more like,’ he said with a faint smile that did dangerous things to her equilibrium.

She let his head fall. ‘Some laudanum will ease the pain in your leg and help you sleep.’

‘You should take some for yourself, Pippen.’ His hazel eyes, full of compassion, held hers. ‘You look exhausted. I’d wager a monkey that since I’ve been here you have not gotten a decent night’s sleep.’

His words were too close to the truth for comment. Instead, she held out the opium.

‘I need to go back to my own rooms,’ he said. ‘There is no reason you should have to give up your bed and your privacy for me.’

He took the small glass from her. Pippa didn’t fight him, understanding that he needed to show he was not completely helpless. His hand shook, and he very nearly spilled the contents before getting it to his mouth. The small act exhausted him, and she grabbed the empty glass as his arm fell.

‘You will get stronger every day.’

‘Can I be transported to my rooms?’

‘Most probably. But it would not be comfortable.’

His eyes darkened. ‘I can stand pain, Pippen. I am not a milksop to be constantly coddled. I am a man who has taken care of himself for many years.’

‘Tell me where your rooms are, and I’ll find out tomorrow if they are still available.’ Now it was her turn to frown. ‘But I’m not sure this is a good idea. You need someone to care for you.’

He grinned. ‘You can check on me. It isn’t right that I have taken your bed. Where have you slept while I’ve been here?’

Pippa nodded to a screen. ‘Behind that is a pallet. It’s big enough and comfortable enough.’

Dev gave the tiny room a cursory look. A single window provided what cooling breeze there was. There was a plain oak wash-stand, a small stool and table. A single candle illuminated the area around the bed. Nothing was expensive, but it was utilitarian. The screen took up space, but he understood why Pippen would want it. No one, not even family, liked living this close together.

‘This room isn’t big enough to house my father’s hunting dogs, let alone two men,’ he said.

‘Your father must be very grand, indeed.’

‘The Duke of Rundell.’

Pippa sat abruptly on the stool. ‘The Duke of Rundell?’

Even she had heard of the most powerful duke in Britain. That meant Deverell was definitely an officer. He might know her twin. Excitement clenched her hands and made the breath catch in her throat.

‘Do you…do you know Philip LeClaire?’

His brow furrowed. ‘No. I’ve heard of the LeClaire name, but that’s all.’ He gave her a narrowed look. ‘Why do you want to know?’

She took a deep breath and plunged into her rehearsed lie. ‘He is a distant cousin and we were told he was dead, but I know better.’ For once the words came easily to her tongue. ‘I am searching for him because his grandfather—my great uncle—is ill and needs him home.’

‘Who told you he was dead?’

‘The Home Office sent a letter two months ago saying Philip was dead. But it isn’t true. I know it.’

‘Steady,’ Dev said.

Pippa took a deep breath and just barely kept her voice from catching. ‘Earl LeClaire suffers from apoplexy. He had a seizure just six months ago, and the letter nearly brought on another. The doctor has ordered complete bed rest. I fear that if I cannot find my t—cousin soon, the Earl will have another. One that might be the end.’ Only sheer will power kept her from more tears. ‘I have to find Philip. I have to.’

‘I will help you,’ Dev promised. ‘When I am able to walk we will go see Wellington. If anyone knows where an officer is, and I assume an earl’s grandson is an officer, the Iron Duke will.’

Gratitude overwhelmed Pippa. ‘Do you know Wellington?’

A lopsided grin eased the lines of pain around his mouth. ‘Not really. But he’s a crony of my father’s and my commanding officer. I think he will see me.’

‘Thank you so much.’ This man would finally get her into the illustrious hero of Waterloo. The barely checked tears flowed. ‘You must think me a sissy to be crying like this.’

‘I think you a young man who has carried too much responsibility and needs a good night’s sleep. Something I doubt you’ll get on that pallet.’

Pippa gave him a watery smile. ‘That’s where you are wrong. I am so tired I could sleep on a heap of rocks.’

‘Then go to bed,’ her patient said, ‘and let me get my rest.’

Pippa went behind the screen and sprawled on the blankets. Excitement made her pulse speed. Deverell was going to do for her what she had been unable to accomplish. He would get her into Wellington. But tonight she had to put the hope aside and rest.

The room was close and humid. The discomfort from the heat was intensified by the binding she wore around her breasts and the fact that she was still in her shirt and breeches. She had slept this way since Deverell had regained consciousness, but the lack of rest was finally wearing her down.

This constant crying was not like her, and she realized that if she did not get some rest, she would not be able to keep going. It was a thought she could not bear. Too many people needed her healing skills.

She had to undo her breasts and sleep in less restrictive clothing in the hopes of being cooler. But what about Deverell? Did she dare? What if he needed her in the night? She sighed. She could give him more laudanum.

‘Deverell,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered back. ‘You need to sleep. I need to think.’

‘You are fighting the laudanum,’ she scolded gently. ‘I can give you more. You need rest.’

He snorted. ‘You have already given me enough to fell an opium eater. No, thank you.’

She heard him shift. ‘Do you need help getting comfortable?’

‘No, thank you again,’ he said. ‘Will you take a message to Wellington’s headquarters tomorrow? Tell him I’m alive and find out where Patrick is? Ask him to meet with us.’

‘Of course, if that will make you sleep tonight.’

‘It will certainly help.’

‘Consider it done.’

Now perhaps he would sleep so she could put on her loose nightshirt and be able to rest herself. Within minutes she heard his light snoring, a sound that strangely enough did not bother her.

She gave him several minutes more before acting. Freeing her breasts from their restraint was like taking a deep breath of fresh air. Comfort eased some of the ache in her back and legs as she laid down.

She would feel better in the morning. Tomorrow she would be her old self.

The next day, Pippa wondered how she ever thought she would be her old self while Dev still lived with her. Even taking off his bandage was an ordeal she dreaded nearly as much as he seemed to. Most patients faced anxiety when bandages were removed, and normally she dealt with their emotions better. But this was Dev. She was beginning to realize that when he was uncomfortable so was she. And for some reason she did not understand, he was very upset about this. There was no underlying excitement or joy as she was used to seeing.

She looked down at his strained face. ‘This shan’t take long. And it should be relatively painless.’

He nodded, his mouth white around the edges. ‘Pain isn’t the issue, Pippen.’

She stopped unwrapping the linen bandage that covered his lower right leg. ‘Then what is?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away.

Dev gritted his teeth to keep from telling Pippen all his fears. The boy had no idea what it was like for a man to look into his future and see himself as an invalid. He was used to being active and doing what he pleased when it pleased him. Much as he might tell himself differently, he knew his wounds would make a difference. The knowledge was like a sore that ate at his peace of mind.

‘Dev?’

Pippen’s enquiry pulled Dev from his melancholy thoughts. There was no reason to burden the lad with his problems. Pippen was doing more than necessary for many British soldiers here in Brussels. He was just another one of the youth’s patients—or would be if he hadn’t ousted Pippen from his bed.

Dev released the breath he’d unknowingly held. ‘Never mind, Pip, just unwrap the blasted thing so I can see just how ugly it is.’

Pippen’s too green eyes darkened in something suspiciously like pity. ‘It will be like any other wound that’s healing, but not completely well.’

It was an effort not to snap at the boy. With carefully measured tones, Dev said, ‘I don’t need your pity, lad. Your skill as a sawbones has been more than sufficient.’

Pippen nodded, refraining from a response.

Under the bright afternoon light of a hot Brussels afternoon, Dev’s leg was slowly revealed. In much less time than Dev had thought possible, his limb lay stretched out on the sheets. Vivid red lines slashed across his flesh, interspersed with splotched welts where the skin was healing after being burnt.

‘Not a pretty sight,’ Dev said softly.

‘No worse than many others I’ve seen. You are fortunate that it has healed cleanly and you still have your leg.’

Pippen’s gentle words did nothing to assuage the bitterness knifing through Dev’s gut. Exhaustion smashed into him, and he fell back on the pillows, one arm flung across his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see right now was his deformity.

‘The swelling is almost gone.’

Dev nodded.

‘I think it looks fine,’ Pippen stated.

Dev ignored Pippen’s attempts to gloss over the wound. He didn’t want to talk about his leg. Maybe in a couple days, after he got used to the looks—like he’d got used to the pain and then later the constant ache—he would be interested in talking to Pippen about what the scars would look like after the redness went away. Maybe. Not now.

He said nothing while Pippen bathed the leg.

‘I think we can stop wrapping it,’ Pippen said, his tone thoughtful. ‘The fresh air will be good for it.’

Dev grimaced. Without the bandage he would be able to see the carnage that was his leg. When it was wrapped, he could fool himself that it would return to normal. Even with the discomfort, he had been able to tell himself the leg would be fine when it healed. But seeing it, with the scars and puckered flesh, would be a constant reminder that it would never be normal again.

He stared at the dingy wall, wishing Pippen would go away.

‘Dev?’

‘Go away, Pippen. Go see if you can get a message to Wellington. See if anyone knows what happened to Captain Patrick Shaunessey.’ He managed to keep from saying, Go away and let me wallow in my self-pity.

For long moments, the lad said nothing and Dev could feel his gaze. ‘As you wish, Dev. I shall tell the landlady to bring you something to eat. Stew, if you like, and a big chunk of fresh bread.’

Dev forced himself to smile and meet Pippen’s eyes. ‘That would be more than welcome. Now, please go.’

He heard, rather than saw, the door close. With a grunt of pain, he pulled himself up in bed. His leg lay spread out, immobile and stiff. He looked his fill, willing himself to accept the disfigurement. He bent at the waist and carefully ran one finger along the line of the worst scar. The welt twisted and buckled, the angry red trail ending just above his knee. He barely felt his touch.

Growing braver, he ran his palm along the damaged skin, noting the roughness. Little pricks of pain darted along the length of his leg. At least he could feel something. That had to be good.

Exhaustion ate at him. This was more movement than he had done since regaining consciousness. Yet he gritted his teeth and continued to study his leg.

He had always been active. The army had been the ideal place for him. As the youngest son, many had expected him to join the clergy, but he was too energetic. Knowing he would never be happy in so sedate a position, his father had bought him a commission. Dev had never regretted that decision. Not even now.

He could have crippled himself riding to hounds or in a coaching accident. At least he had gained his wounds by fighting for his country, by protecting something he felt strongly about, by defending England.

Determination clenched his fists and tightened his shoulder muscles. He would heal. He would do everything he always had. He would ride a horse. He would dance the night away. He would bed a woman.

So help him, he would not waste away into the life of a cripple. He would not.

Chapter Three

Deverell’s previous landlord shrugged his ample shoulders, that perennially Gallic motion expressive of great regret. ‘I am sorry for it, but Monsieur St Simon never returned from the battle. I am a businessman. I rented his rooms.’

Pippa felt like crumbling. This was the second piece of bad news today. Just minutes before, she had been denied access to Lord Wellington and anyone else who could have answered Deverell’s questions. The setback would not please Dev.

Now she was being told that Deverell would have to stay in her small, cramped room. He would continue to disturb her in ways she was unaccustomed to. Desperation gnawed at her. ‘Do you have any other rooms available?’

‘Non. The English are coming like the droves of sheep they raise.’ A grin split his thick, wide lips. ‘Very profitable, to be sure.’

Pippa nodded. She had spent all morning preparing herself to move Dev. She had told herself it was for the best. Being the son of the wealthiest duke in Britain, he could easily pay someone to watch him around the clock. She didn’t have to be that person. She had squared her shoulders and girded her loins, so to speak. And now this.

She felt an inexplicable mixture of emotions. Regret, apprehension…elation. As much as she had known closer proximity to Deverell would not be good for her peace of mind, she found herself glad that he would have to stay with her. At least, for a while longer. This way she would know he got expert care, and she wouldn’t have to worry about someone harming his leg, which was not entirely healed. Why, he couldn’t even use a cane yet, so could not walk.

They were paltry excuses for the real reason she was glad, but she refused to acknowledge any other.

‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘do you still have his things?’

The portly landlord drew himself to his full height, which was several inches shorter than Pippa. ‘But of course. When I let his rooms, I had all his belongings packed away in case someone came to claim them. I have, also, a note. Sent from London,’ he finished, a sly, curious gleam in his dark eyes.

‘From his family, no doubt,’ Pippa said. ‘I would like his possessions, please.’

It was a short matter of time before Pippa’s errand was completed, and she was back in her room. With Dev’s possessions, her meagre space was more cramped than ever. Having been raised on a country estate where all of the public rooms were large enough to train horses in, and the private chambers were not much smaller, Pippa found herself feeling claustrophobic. There was too little space and too many objects in this single room. Not to mention Deverell.

Trying to stow his gear under the bed, she accidentally knocked the mattress. Dev opened his eyes, their usual bright clarity muddy from sleep. His light brown hair lay like thick satin across his broad forehead. He grinned and Pippa thought her knees would fail.

‘You’re back from the hospital early,’ he said, grimacing as he pulled himself up in bed until he lay propped up against the pillows.

‘You should not do that yourself,’ Pippa scolded, rushing to help him get comfortable.

‘I have done this before.’ His gaze darted to her, his knuckles white where he gripped the sheet. ‘Did you find out about Patrick?’

Pippa gulped. He wanted so badly to find out what had happened to Patrick. ‘I know you’re eager for information, but no one I could reach knew anything. I couldn’t get into Wellington or even his aide.’ She sighed and added softly, ‘As usual.’

Dev frowned, but his grip on the sheets eased. ‘Well, no news is good news, or so the saying goes. Patrick is very likely doing better than I am.’

‘I would not be surprised,’ Pippa said, wanting to ease his anxiety about his friend. ‘I understand how it is when you are worried about someone.’

He smiled at her. ‘I know you do, and we’ll do something about that. Wellington will see me. I promise you that.’

She returned his smile, her stomach doing funny things. ‘I know. I wish I could have helped you today.’

‘You helped by trying. How about my rooms?’ He gave her a devilish grin. ‘If I remember right, that was another errand I asked you to do for me.’

Chagrin pulled her mouth down. ‘And again I have no good news. The innkeeper gave your rooms away.’

Dev fell back into the pillows. ‘That is not surprising. I shall just have to find others.’

Pippa shook her head. ‘There are none to be had. Brussels is filled with every Englishman and woman who wanted to travel to the Continent in the past years but could not because of Napoleon.’

‘I should have thought of that,’ Dev said. ‘Oh, well. We will make do.’

‘That we will,’ Pippa said, picking up the concoction of bark and water she had left on the table by the bed and giving him a purposeful look. ‘You were supposed to drink this.’

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.’

Before Pippa could speak, the door opened again. ‘Excuse me, your Grace,’ the butler intoned, ‘but I thought you and your guest might like refreshment.’

‘Goodness, yes, Michaels.’ The Duchess gave Pippa a rueful smile. ‘My staff endeavour to keep me from making too many faux pas.’

Pippa grinned. Yes, she could like this woman whose concern for her child superseded all else. In as few words as possible, Pippa brought the Duchess up to date. The last word was barely out of her mouth when the Duchess jumped up and rang the bell.

When the butler once more entered the room, Alicia, Duchess of Rundell, said, ‘Have the carriage brought round immediately, Michaels, and prepare two rooms. I am bringing Lord Deverell back, and his young friend here—’ she waved a graceful, manicured hand at Pippa ‘—will be staying with us indefinitely.’

Pippa nearly choked on the tea the Duchess had poured and liberally laced with cream and sugar. ‘Your Grace, I cannot impose on you. I have my own room and am quite happy.’

‘Stuff! I dare say you will be much more comfortable with us, child. Brussels is a wonderful city, but after the battle and with all the riff-raff, you will be safer here.’ She turned a stern look on Pippa’s rebellious face. ‘Don’t argue with me, young man. You did not say so, but I believe you are responsible for Deverell being alive today. You will come to us.’

Pippa carefully set her cup down. ‘Your Grace, I am perfectly happy and safe where I am.’

‘Not another word.’ The Duchess stamped her foot. ‘I swear, you are as difficult as my own boys. Now, come along.’

Without a backward glance, the Duchess exited the room. Her muslin skirts swirled around her fashionably clad feet, and the perfectly coiffed back of her head led the way. Pippa followed.

She would go with Deverell’s mother to fetch him, but she would not move here. ‘Twould be too easy for her deception to be discovered in a household like this. Servants were everywhere and they saw everything. No, she would not be coming to stay with Deverell and his mother.

Several hours later, chagrin filled Pippa as she explored her new room in the Duchess of Rundell’s town house. How Deverell’s mother had got her here she still did not know. It must be from raising three boys that, if the Duchess were correct, had been hellions before growing into wonderful adults and husbands and fathers. According to their mother, they were everything that was admirable, with a few perfectly understandable flaws.

Pippa shook her head.

A discreet knock on the door caught Pippa’s attention. She opened it to find a footman. He bowed and said, ‘Pardon me, Master Pippen, but Lord Deverell requests your presence.’

Instant fear that the move had been too much for her patient sent Pippa flying to her bag of herbs. She should have never left him. She should have made him wait another day before relocating. She should have stayed by his side instead of coming to see her room. The admonishments twirled in her brain as she hurried after the servant.

Deverell’s room was down the hall and to the left. In all, it was not very far. Pippa was winded by anxiety when she entered the chamber and came to a standstill.

Dev lay propped up on copious pillows, laughing at something his mother was saying. There was no sign of pain or discomfort that she could discern from this distance.

‘Ah, Pippen,’ he said, waving her forward. ‘My mother thinks I am suffering, and I am trying to convince her it isn’t so. You tell her.’

Pippa moved to the bed and looked from the Duchess’s worried countenance to Dev. On closer examination, he had the tiny line between his brows that always intensified when he was hurting. And his eyes looked strained around the corners. But he wanted her to assure his mother that he was fine. She looked back at the Duchess.

Many aristocratic parents left the care and raising of their children to servants. Often that meant the ties between them and their children were not great. She had been lucky in having her grandfather. He had taken care of her and her twin after her father’s death in a coaching accident. Grandfather had given them over to nannies and tutors, but he had also spent time teaching them about the estate and their place in the world. He had played children’s games with them, and he had read to them. Church on Sunday had been a weekly activity he had insisted they share as a family. It seemed that Dev had had similar care from his mother.

Consequently, Pippa knew she could not lie to his mother. Not even for him.

Pippa chose her words carefully. ‘Your Grace, Deverell has been grievously wounded. He’s mending now, but ‘twas nip and tuck about his leg.’ She glanced at her patient to see him frowning fiercely at her. She decided to ignore him. ‘We were able to save it, mainly because Deverell is strong and stubborn. He didn’t want to lose the limb. That can be a powerful motivator for recovery. He weathered the infection that set in and the leg will heal. Still, he is not fully recovered. Even now he is in pain.’

‘Blast you, Pippen. See if I ever cover for you.’

‘Deverell St Simon,’ the Duchess interposed, ‘how dare you talk so to the young man who saved your life? Now be quiet while Pippen tells me the truth about your injury.’

Pippa took another deep breath and looked from her patient to his parent. ‘He will always be plagued by the leg and may not regain complete movement in it. He would help himself…’ she slanted him a reproving glance before turning her attention back on the Duchess ‘…by taking the draughts I prepare for him instead of leaving them untasted on the nearest table. They would ease the discomfort and promote restful sleep.’

‘Do you have one prepared now?’ the Duchess asked.

Pippa hid her smile behind a cough. She had hoped Dev’s mother would ask that question. ‘I can prepare one quickly, your Grace. A bit of laudanum will help him sleep tonight. He needs rest after being moved.’

Dev glared at her as she prepared the mixture, his pointed regard making her hands shake just a bit.

“Tis for your own good,’ she told him firmly when the preparation was done. She handed him the glass.

‘I know that well enough,’ he growled. ‘But I don’t like the feeling of helplessness the drugs give me. Even though they dull the pain, they remind me that I have a deformity.’

Pippa stared at him. She had known he was headstrong, but until this instant she hadn’t realized why he disliked the medications. He was going to find it hard going when he was healed enough to move around, but not well enough to do as he saw fit.

‘I am sorry for that,’ she murmured, wishing she could do something for him besides give him the painkillers. Noticing that the Duchess had moved away from them, she added, ‘I am sorry that I had to spoil your plan to shield your mother. Your sentiments toward her are very admirable, but she deserves to know. This way, when you don’t bounce out of bed in the next couple days, she won’t be surprised and worried.’

Dev grunted. ‘You’re right, Pippen, but all of us have got in the habit of protecting her from the harsh things of life—if we can.’

His words brought a rush of warmth to Pippa’s heart. Would she have been so protective of her mother, had her mother not died birthing her? The question brought back all the old guilt over being the death of her mother and the determination to atone for that deed. Even though no one had ever blamed her for her mother’s death, Pippa had occasionally blamed herself. She knew death in childbed was common and that her mother’s demise was not her fault, but still her mother’s death was the reason Pippa had first wanted to learn midwifery and later medicine. She wanted to help others and hopefully prevent parents from dying and leaving behind their children.

She shook her head to clear it of the old memory. A long time had passed since she had last had these thoughts. They were probably brought on by watching Dev with his mother. That the two loved each other was obvious. That she was getting maudlin was even more obvious. She needed to go to her own room and do exactly what she was telling Dev to do—rest.

Resisting the urge to smooth the hair back from his forehead, Pippa stepped away from the bed and packed her herbal bag. ‘He should be fine now.’

‘Thank you, Pippen,’ the Duchess of Rundell said, coming over and taking Pippa’s hands. ‘I will never be able to thank you enough.’

Pippa felt awkward and embarrassed. She didn’t want anyone’s gratitude. She just wanted…She glanced at Dev and saw his roguish grin. She just wanted things she had never wanted before, things she couldn’t have. Not now.

‘You don’t need to thank me.’ Pippa gently pulled her fingers from the Duchess’s grasp. ‘I am glad I could help Dev.’ She stepped back. ‘If you will excuse me, I am very tired.’

‘Of course, child,’ the Duchess said. ‘Sleep as late as you need.’

‘Sweet dreams,’ Dev added, his hazel eyes twinkling with devilry.

And what type of dreams did he expect her to have? Pippa thought sourly as she made her way back to her room. As far as Dev was concerned, she was a young man who couldn’t even grow a beard. She knew from living with her twin that not being able to grow facial hair was tantamount to being a baby.

Pippa closed her door behind herself and looked around the room she had been given. It was masculine in its simplicity. A large oak four-poster bed took up the centre while a matching armoire hogged one entire wall. A Turkey rug covered most of the wood floor, and blue drapes that echoed one of the rug’s colours hung from the high ceiling to puddle fashionably.

What would Dev do if he knew she was a girl, and her room at home was done in peaches and soft greens? He would be scandalized. If she was unmasked, she would be beyond redemption. Dev’s liking would turn into loathing. It was a thought she could not bear to contemplate for long.

Deverell St Simon’s admiration and friendship meant too much. To lose them would be unbearable.

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