Duke Of Darkness. Anabelle Bryant

luggage had been any indication of her belongings, she scarcely had anything at all. Thank heavens, she’d taken to wearing simple day gowns at the insistence of Lady Julia, and vanquished those horrid black mourning frocks. It hadn’t been necessary for her to wear them in the first place, but he appreciated her devotion to Aunt Min.

      “Lady Alexandra didn’t strike me as a spendthrift, Your Grace.”

      He chuckled aloud. Reeston was one of a kind. Any master of the house would dismiss their servant for his bald insolence, but Devlin considered his staff as family, and Reeston was correct. Alexandra only ordered eight gowns at the modiste and that again under the duress of Julia’s insistence. It was a very good thing he’d visited the shop not an hour after the ladies departed. He had tripled Alexandra’s request, choosing the finest fabrics and styles, and taken his time with the ordering of an assortment of under things. Then he had continued on to his tailor and purchased himself an ensemble worthy of social functions. He enjoyed a well-cut coat as much as a well-aged brandy. If he was going to be forced to endure a limited thrust into society, he would need his armour. Nothing could distract from one’s inner emotions like the fine presentation of clothing. People rarely looked into one’s eyes if they were busy admiring the workmanship and style of one’s waistcoat.

      “No, she is borderline frugal, Reeston. I amended her orders and added to her purchases. She is clearly uncomfortable spending my money, but I’m not. Let’s hope she is having a little more fun on her outing this morning.”

      “Yes, I agree. Would you like me to have the footmen deliver these packages to her bedchambers?”

      “Perhaps you should open the yellow drawing room and have the packages placed in there until she can sort them through.” Devlin flicked his eyes towards the staircase, lost in reflection before he continued. “Actually, have the entire west wing reopened for Lady Alexandra’s use. It is time we aired out those rooms. Do you think they need to be refurbished?”

      “It has been some time, Your Grace.”

      Both men realized more was being discussed than a portion of the manor.

      The west wing had been sealed after his mother’s tragic death. She had loved that part of the house with its early-morning sunshine and unique design. Feminine and fresh, every room –– the conservatory, drawing room, parlour, guest bedrooms and her personal library –– boasted warm, bright colours. The drawing room doors led to extensive gardens lush with rose bushes, imported tulips and rare varietals in every colour. These flowerbeds wrapped around the house and followed a walking path past a small duck pond and further still, to the main gardens behind the estate. There one discovered a fountain, birdbath and collection of small marble statues, complete with ornate sundial, to complement the array of foliage and fauna. It was almost as if the space comprised a little house within a bigger one, and not until this very moment did Devlin question why his mother would desire such a retreat. Wasn’t she content in the main living area?

      Once she died, everything was closed, furniture covered and doors locked. What could have made her so desolate that she took her own life?

      Devlin was a child when his mother committed suicide. His father’s behaviour remained hidden well from him as a youth, but not so much he wasn’t aware of the lack of normalcy in his parents’ relationship. He rarely enjoyed his father’s company even at a young age. His father was short tempered, argumentative and unusually strict. While his mother was apt to intercede, she was not always able to protect him from his father’s anger and certainly not from his cutting deprecation.

      A sharp memory forced its way to mind and Devlin clenched his jaw, the brief remembrance hurtful on some unexplainable level he’d rather not consider closely. Decades had passed, yet the pain existed over a few trivializing moments when his father and not his mother had answered his bedtime plea. Had his father paused, listened to his heartfelt request and empathized with his childhood fear of the dark, his angered perception may never have festered. But no, on a laugh rich with mockery, his father had dismissed his request for a story and confirmed the shadows on the wall were indeed malevolent monsters meant to steal his breath if he did not go to sleep. He had then removed the only lantern and sealed the door tight so not a pinprick of light could be seen.

      How ironic that the darkness provided Devlin more solace than pain now; at least when he escaped the tremors. And where had his mother been that evening? She would have soothed away his concerns and spared him anxiety. Why hadn’t she come at his call? Had his father offended her that evening as well?

      In the morning, things had appeared as normal and Devlin had dared not mention the episode. Yet a child does not empathize with the emotions of their parent, tied too closely to the immediacy that comprises childhood. Instead Devlin lived each day as if separate, never pausing to string together the endless weeks, months and years of his father’s aberrant behaviour or to consider the terrible unhappiness it caused his mother.

      And yet, Devlin had only known happiness in his time spent with her. His mother never allowed her despair to overflow into their outings. He remembered her lovely smile, gentle laughter and comforting hands. Most of all, he missed her innate ability to make him feel extraordinarily special.

      Still he hadn’t been enough to ease her pain or to nourish her desire to continue living. Perhaps that barb cut the deepest. It haunted him over the years without answer and created a well of guilt and vulnerability no matter how hard he attempted to bury his emotions. At times he’d deluded himself into believing she did not take her life at all, that there existed another explanation, some cause still unknown, to explain why she would leave him so utterly alone. As years passed, he discarded the fanciful notion.

      Now painful memories contrasted sharply with the cheerful images of his mother’s rooms. The loss of truthful information concerning her passing festered, bitter and unsettled. For years he sought any tiny fact to lead to a better understanding of his past, but discovered nothing. As a child, he’d missed the moments every child favours: a bedtime story read, a picnic shared. Yet as a man, he mourned not just a life grown without a mother, but a true understanding of what had taken the relationship from him. It cut twice as deep to have the first loss and lack of explanation to follow.

      The maudlin mood could not take hold. A streak of white fur flashed, followed by King’s insistent bark. Not a blink later, the sheepdog lumbered forward and with a clumsy lurch knocked into two large towers of boxes, sending the entire foyer into disarray with nothing more than the bulk of his body. The puppy raced over the boxes in frantic escape, climbing, sinking and struggling to accomplish the foyer floor before King pursued him. Reeston, his butler austere lost, picked his way among the boxes and lids in an attempt to grasp the tiny terrier without disrupting additional piles. Devlin bit back a guffaw and took pity on his old friend.

      “Reeston, get King. He is much easier to catch. I’ll go after Henry, the little rodent.”

      “Thank you, Your Grace.”

      Devlin bounded up the staircase with the same agility the little pup showed only seconds before. He checked left and right when he reached the top, and after hearing a distant yip, turned towards the west wing. It made sense that Henry should seek his own bed. Only the devil could instigate such havoc as both dogs escaped their confinement in a matter of minutes. At least peace would be restored once Lexi took the offending little pup to her new home.