Chapter Sixteen

D evlin held his breath and carefully gauged his mother's reaction as she and his two sisters sat on the settee across the tea table from him and Peyton at Dartmoor House. Both her mouth and Meg's had fallen open, their eyes growing wide as saucers.

Then his mother rasped out, "Pardon?"

"I'm Peyton Chandler," Peyton repeated, pulling in a deep and steadying breath. "I'm not dead."

The two women continued to stare at her, saying nothing in their shock. Devlin readied himself to dart forward to grab their cups of tea to keep them from spilling onto the rug.

Beside them, Theodora blinked in confusion. "Well, of course not! We can see that—"

"Hush," Margaret chastised. Both she and the duchess stared as if they were seeing a ghost.

But then, he supposed, that was exactly what they were seeing.

"But I don't understand," Teddy complained. "If you're here…then who's in your grave?"

"Hush!" Without taking her eyes off Peyton, the duchess slapped her hand gently against Theodora's leg.

"It's all right," Peyton assured them quietly. "I'm certain you all have many questions for me, and you have the right to ask them." She sat forward on the edge of the settee next to Devlin and leaned toward Theodora. "No one is in that grave. The casket is empty. You see, ten years ago, I was traveling home from Dartmoor House with my parents when our carriage was attacked, and they were killed." Devlin was beyond grateful that she omitted the more gruesome details. Teddy didn't need to know any of that. "I let everyone believe that I had been killed, too, because I feared the attackers would come after me again if they knew I'd survived. I left England and only recently returned."

Devlin could tell from his youngest sister's expression that she didn't completely understand, but he also trusted that Margaret would explain it all to her later. For now, they simply needed to confide in his mother and Margaret in order to put the next part of their plan in motion.

"Peyton?" his mother whispered, her shaking hand going to her throat as she searched Peyton's face for any resemblance to the long-lost girl she'd known. "Is it truly…" A strangled sob tore from her throat as his mother finally recognized her. "Oh my heavens—Peyton!"

Devlin dove for the teacup and saucer as his mother rose suddenly to her feet and came forward to sit at Peyton's side on the settee. She cupped Peyton's face between her hands.

"My dear girl." She blinked rapidly as her bright blue eyes glistened in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the drawing room windows. "I am so sorry." Then the dam of her tears broke, and they fell down her cheeks. "I am so very, very sorry!"

She pulled Peyton into her arms and hugged her tightly to her bosom, rocking her like a child in her embrace. Devlin stood and moved away to give the two women a moment's privacy, but over his mother's shoulder, he could see tears at Peyton's lashes and Margaret reaching up to swipe her hand across her eyes.

Finally, his mother released her hold and leaned back. But this time, instead of searching Peyton's face, she locked eyes with Peyton and choked out, "You are not alone, do you understand? You are not alone."

Unable to keep her seat, Margaret rose and sat on the other side of Peyton, and both Raines women embraced her again, holding her close as more tears fell from all three of them.

Theodora remained where she was, her mouth falling open at the scene in front of her. Her wide eyes looked up at Devlin for guidance.

I will explain later , he mouthed to her over the three women's heads. He jerked his thumb toward the door. Go.

She nodded, scooted off the settee, and slinked quickly out the door.

Devlin pulled in a deep breath. He had come prepared and held out three handkerchiefs. His mother gratefully accepted one, but her attention never strayed from Peyton.

"Tell me the truth now," his mother insisted. "Are you all right? Are you in trouble?"

Thankfully, Peyton knew not to glance at Devlin. Instead, she forced a faint smile. "Nothing to be concerned with."

Peyton covered his mother's hand with hers and placed the other over Margaret's. She squeezed them both to reassure them, then shared with them all that happened to her since the attack ten years ago. Almost all. She never mentioned learning to fight or her plot for revenge. Devlin was relieved. One shock at a time… From the way his mother and sister continued to stare at her, he knew it would take a goodly while before they came to terms with this first one. No need to give them apoplexy, at least not until the tea was cold.

"I'm sorry I let you believe I was someone else at dinner." Peyton finally lifted her eyes to Devlin, and his gut clenched at the sorrow he saw in those blue depths. He'd become even more attuned to her since making love to her that morning, and he never wanted to see such grief in her again. "I wasn't ready then to face the past. But I am now."

Devlin nodded with approval. He was so very proud of her for facing down her demons. This meeting with his mother and sisters took only a small fraction of the courage she would need to survive the next few days, but it was a good first step.

"Now you're back in England." His mother smiled as she wiped away the last of her tears. "For good."

Peyton's lips parted, as if she were going to deny it. Then she looked away from Devlin as she equivocated, "I'm not certain what I'm going to do."

"You're going to stay here and let our family become yours," Margaret insisted. "Let us help you, Peyton. You shouldn't have to go through this alone."

Peyton slid off the settee and stepped away, as if seeking out the warmth of the small fire, but Devlin knew she simply wanted distance. Too much familiarity and affection were overwhelming her. He could see it in the way she wrung her hands and fought back the urge to pace.

Peyton straightened her shoulders. "Actually, there is something I need your help with."

Devlin recognized the gesture. It was time to start the next part of their plan.

"I'd like to announce to society that I'm alive and back in London." She added beneath her breath, "For the time being, at least."

Devlin frowned. What the devil did she mean by that?

"But it needs to be done in a very specific way," she explained, "and I can't do it alone."

She didn't dare look at Devlin as she made her request. He hadn't wanted to involve his family at all, and Peyton had come to understand his desire to protect them. But they desperately needed his mother's and sister's help if their plan had any chance of success.

"What do you need?" Margaret asked.

"Help me host a party?" She softened the absurdity of that request with a nervous smile. "I don't want to wait to make the announcement, and I don't want to ease back into existence. It's going to be painful no matter how it's done, so best it be done quickly—and softened with drinks and refreshments. Many, many drinks." She forced a nervous smile. "I want to announce myself, let the room have a good look at me, and then deal with the consequences all at once rather than letting the torture drag out." She paused. "As soon as possible."

"How soon?"

"Is two evenings from now too soon?"

"Two evenings from now?" his mother repeated as if she couldn't possibly have heard correctly.

Peyton nodded, her smile turning sheepish. Devlin knew she wasn't acting. "I know it's a bit rash, and that's why I need your help. I don't think I can wait a moment longer than that."

Devlin said nothing. He hated that he and Peyton were misleading his family, even though not one falsehood had yet been uttered—they did need a party, and it did need to happen as soon as possible. He simply hated manipulating his mother and sisters like this.

But once the evening was over and Peyton was safe, the truth could come out.

The duchess exchanged dubious looks with Margaret, then asked, "What did you have in mind, exactly?"

"Nothing too grand. I just need an excuse for a big gathering."

His mother blinked. "How big?"

"Everyone in society."

"Everyone?"

Devlin had to give his mother credit. She was handling this conversation extremely well, given everything she had been told this afternoon.

Peyton nodded. "Everyone we can squeeze into the party. Everyone in society, Parliament, Whitehall, the army—"

His mother's eyes widened like saucers. "The entire army?"

"Just the most important officers based here in London." Peyton laughed at herself. "After all, we need to leave room for the navy, too, of course."

His mother leaned back against the settee and repeated, deadpan, "Of course."

"But there isn't time." Margaret injected a dose of sanity into their plans. "Our house isn't ready for a party, and we can't issue invitations and receive replies in time."

"That's why I was thinking of having the party somewhere else. I wouldn't ever ask to put you out like that."

Nor would Devlin ever allow his family to be placed in so much danger as to welcome snakes under their own roof. The army and navy be damned.

"There must be somewhere else we could host it." Peyton shook her head. "I've been unexpectedly put out of the townhouse I was renting, so we can't have it there."

"I have an idea," Devlin interjected as if the thought had just occurred to him, although his input had been completely planned in advance. "The Duke of Malvern has given me permission to use his townhouse whenever I have need. I think this counts."

"Malvern?" Margaret asked for clarification. "Seamus Douglass has opened up Malvern House to you?"

"Don't sound so shocked," Devlin drawled with a touch of pique. "I'm not hosting bacchanals and virgin sacrifices. Just the occasional card party."

"It's not that. It's…" She blinked, as if her concern was obvious. "Well, he hasn't opened Malvern for years, if ever. I don't think he even comes to London at all anymore since his brother died."

No, Shay didn't. But Devlin had no intention of weeding through the details of his friend's private troubles. "Which makes it perfect. No furniture to move, no rugs to roll up—the place is clean and empty. We'll have the staff from Dartmoor House work the party, and I'm certain Lucien will offer up his as well, given the circumstances. The Dukes of Dartmoor and Crewe will host." With security provided by Chase and his men, just as they'd planned that morning. "All we have to do is provide the glasses and drink."

"And music and food and candles and lamps…" His mother ticked off each item on her fingers.

"Which is why I need your help." Peyton went to the duchess's side and squeezed her hand beseechingly. "I've never thrown a party before, and I don't know the first thing about it." She glanced at Margaret. "I also need help finding an appropriate dress. I have nothing in the current London style."

She had nothing at all, actually, except the dress on her back.

"Of course." Margaret nudged her mother. "We can help her do this. Isn't that so, Mama?"

Peyton grimaced self-effacingly. "And if it's any consolation, after my announcement, everyone will most likely be too stunned to notice that there's no dancing or supper."

"I suppose." Yet the duchess frowned. "But it won't make a difference if no one shows up because of the last-minute invitations."

"Then we also make a point of calling on everyone we know to tell them about it and assure them that a shocking announcement is going to be made that they need to hear for themselves," Devlin explained. "Tell them to invite everyone they know. We'll start with the biggest busybodies and convince them it's the announcement of the season."

"That is a grand understatement," his mother murmured as she cast an assessing look over Peyton. "Are you certain you want to do this, my dear? Truly certain? Once let loose, this secret can never be put back into the bottle."

"I know." She nodded firmly. "I have to do this. It's the only way forward."

Her eyes finally lifted to meet Devlin's, yet only for a moment before looking away. The guilt and grief he saw was undeniable.

"Very well, then." His mother gracefully stood, then helped Peyton to her feet. "We shall throw the biggest, best last-minute party England has ever seen! I'll make a quick list of all we need to do and then set Jennings and Cook right on it." She looked at the mantel clock. "There's yet time to pay visits to several friends today and start the invitations flowing."

"While you're doing that," Margaret offered as she linked her arm through Peyton's, "we'll be up in my dressing room, looking for the perfect dress."

"And I'll contact Lucien to let him know we'll be borrowing his staff for the evening," Devlin added. Although he didn't have to. It had been Crewe's idea in the first place to use Shay's house and send in his servants to man the event.

"Thank you." Peyton hesitated before impulsively throwing her arms around the duchess in a grateful hug. "Thank you so much!"

Then she was gone, hurried from the room by Margaret, who was already jabbering a mile a minute about the current London fashions and how Peyton should style herself. The two women didn't look back.

"Good God…" His mother whispered, finally letting her grief show. "Peyton Chandler is alive."

"Yes, she is." Devlin reached for the tea tray to help himself to a cup. "And she needs us more than you realize."

"I can only imagine. What she went through…" His mother's face lost all color, and she trembled as she sank onto the settee, her knees giving out. "She didn't say… Did she see her parents killed?"

"Yes."

His mother was quiet for a long moment, then she whispered, "She must have been so terrified, not only during the attack but every day after."

Devlin wordlessly stirred sugar into the tea. There was nothing good to say to that.

"To come back, after so many years… Why is she back? What brought her back to London now?"

She wanted to exact her revenge and completely destroy me. Instead, he shrugged and dissembled, "Us."

"Then she shall have our help, however we can provide it."

In silent agreement, he passed the fresh cup to his mother. Nothing fortified her better than tea.

But Devlin needed something far stronger. He headed toward the door. He had a new bottle of Bowmore whisky waiting in his study and planned to—

"You like her, don't you?"

His mother's words drew him up short. Not a question.

He faced her. "I want to protect her."

She nodded faintly at that explanation, but her eyes narrowed. "Well, yes. But you like her, too. More than simply as an old acquaintance."

Christ, he needed that whisky. He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, his casual posture belying the way his heart suddenly leapt into his throat. "She needs us."

His mother eyed him over her cup as she lifted it to her lips. "I think she needs you ."

"She doesn't need me." His heartbeat spiked despite his scoffing dismissal.

"She needs the protection of a duke to ease her through her announcement. With you and Crewe at her side, everyone in the room will know to take her seriously and not assume she's attempting some kind of fraud. They'll know she is truly who she claims, and if you accept her return to London—and from the dead—then so will the rest of society. There will be an inquest, I'm certain, and much, much gossip and newspaper columns about her. She will need you and Crewe to remain at her side while she weathers the scandal."

They would do exactly that because the weather she would face was going to be one hell of a storm. "As I said, she needs us. All of us."

She returned her cup to her saucer balanced on her knee. "And you need her."

At that, his foolish heart stopped completely.

"You need someone like her anyway," his mother clarified.

He grimaced, having been through this conversation with his mother too many times before when she'd prodded him in the direction of marriage. The reprieve he'd earned with his pursuit of Lady Catherine was apparently over. He recited the old litany. "Because she's accomplished, refined, wealthy—"

"In pain." His mother's eyes turned somber. "You have suffered so much in your life, Devlin. If anyone can understand that kind of pain, I think she can."

Devlin knew so. That same pain had drawn them into each other's arms that morning.

But he also knew that what stood between them now wasn't ghosts from the past but fears of the future. For both of them. He wasn't at all certain they would be able to help each other through those dark days.

"You need someone who understands you, someone who can be your best friend and companion—"

"You're suggesting I need a dog?" he asked, deadpan. This conversation was not going in the direction he wanted. Best to cut it short however he could, including by impertinence.

Her mouth tightened. "I'm suggesting you need a wife."

Definitely not in the right direction. "And you're suggesting I consider Peyton Chandler?"

"No," she corrected. "Not necessarily." Her second correction made him feel no more assured than the first had. "But you need someone like her much more than you need someone like Lady Catherine."

He bristled at that. After all, hadn't his mother been prompting him for years to find a suitable wife? "Catherine is well-educated, polished, the daughter of an earl—she would have made a fine duchess."

"Yes, she would have. But you need more than just a fine duchess. You need someone who understands you and challenges you. You deserve so much more than a peer's perfect daughter."

He arched a brow. "I deserve a peer's im perfect daughter?"

"Impertinent." She set her tea down on the table and rose to her feet. "I'm not disappointed Lady Catherine broke off your engagement, no matter how scandalous the circumstances." When he began to defend himself, she cut him off with a wave of her hand as she approached him. "I have heard the rumors regarding what happened that night. I am assuming the woman you visited in her private box was Peyton Chandler, because if there is a third woman caught up in all this, then—"

"There is not," he said firmly and, with that, admitted to far more between him and Peyton than a simple desire to help her.

His mother knew it, too, based on the way her expression softened. "You need a true partner and a kindred soul. I'm not saying that Miss Chandler is that woman. What I'm saying is to let your heart lead you to where you belong." She cupped his face between her hands and emphasized her wishes for him. "Marry for love, not for a perfect duchess. You are under no obligations for the title. Absolutely none." She placed a kiss to his forehead, the way she'd done since he was a boy in leading strings. "But I also don't want you to be lonely."

He stepped back with a teasing grin he certainly didn't feel. "How can I be lonely when I'll have Megs and Teddy underfoot for the rest of my life?"

She pursed her lips together at that flat attempt at a joke. She returned to the settee and sank down onto the cushions, letting the subject drop, although he could tell from the determined glint in her eyes as she reached for her tea that this conversation was far from over.

"I will find a wife when the time is right," he assured her, pressing the point to prevent any future discussion of the matter. He knew what a brilliant battle tactician his mother could be. Medieval sieges were nothing compared to her patience in wearing someone down to eventually win what she wanted. "Right now, my concern is simply being supportive of Miss Chandler. That's all."

"Well," his mother murmured against the rim of her teacup as she took a sip, "I suppose it's a moot point anyway, if Miss Chandler isn't planning on remaining in London."

"No," he mumbled in quiet agreement, knowing Peyton thought her future lay elsewhere, some place far away from the ghosts of her past. "Most likely not."

He turned on his heel and marched out of the room, praying there was enough whisky in his bottle of Bowmore to get him through the next few hours. But a sinking feeling in his gut told him there wasn't enough whisky in all of Scotland for that.