Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,107
long lecture from the duke, or anyone, as long as he could do it while sitting.
As they all began to leave the club room, Severin appeared somewhat forlorn. “What about me?” he asked. “Is everyone just going to leave me here?”
The duke turned to him, arching a brow. “It would seem so. Is there anything you need?”
Severin pondered the question with a frown. “No,” he finally said, and heaved a sigh. “I have everything in the world.”
West lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell and followed Niall. The porter was dressed in a uniform, some kind of rich matte cloth in a shade of blue so dark it looked black. No gilt or fancy trim, save for a thin black braided trim on the lapels of the coat, and on the collar and cuffs of the white shirt. Very discreet and simple, tailored for ease of movement. It looked like a uniform for killing people.
They went through an inconspicuous doorway and up a narrow, dark staircase. Niall opened a door at the top, and they went through some ornately decorated vestibule with a ceiling of painted angels and clouds. Another door opened into a set of beautiful serene rooms, gold and white, with pale blue water-silk paper on the walls, and carpets in soft, subdued colors.
West went to the nearest chair and sat heavily. The upholstery was soft and velvety. It was so quiet up here—how could it be this quiet with the clamor of nighttime London just outside the window, and a damned club downstairs?
Wordlessly Niall brought him a glass of water, which West didn’t want at first. After he took a sip, however, a voracious thirst overcame him, and he gulped it down without stopping. Niall took the glass, went to refill it, and came back with a small powder packet. “Bicarbonate compound, sir?”
“Why not?” West muttered. He unfolded the packet, tilted his head back to dump the powder on the back of his tongue, and washed it down.
As he lifted his head, he saw a painting on the wall, in a carved and gilded frame. It was a luminous portrait of the Duchess with her children when they were still young. The group was arranged on the settee, with Ivo, still an infant, on his mother’s lap. Gabriel, Raphael and Seraphina were seated on either side of her, while Phoebe leaned over the back of the settee. Her face was close to her mother’s, her expression tender and slightly mischievous, as if she were about to tell her a secret or make her laugh. He had seen that look on her face, with her own children. And with him.
The longer West stared at the painting, the worse he felt inside, inner demons jabbing at his heart with spears. He wanted to leave, yet he was no more capable of exiting that chair than if he’d been chained to it.
The duke’s lean form came to the doorway, and he regarded West speculatively.
“Why was Larson here?” West asked hoarsely. “How is Phoebe?”
That caused Kingston’s face to soften with something that resembled sympathy. “My daughter is well. Larson took it upon himself to come here in a panic and try to enlist my support in persuading Phoebe to marry him. He tried to present his situation in the best possible light, presuming I would be willing to overlook his relationship with Miss Parris because of my own profligate past. Needless to say, he was disappointed by my reaction.”
“You’ll be able to help Phoebe remove him as trustee?”
“Oh, without question. Breach of fiduciary duty by a trustee is a serious offense. I’ve never liked Larson’s involvement in Phoebe’s personal life or financial affairs, but I’ve held back to avoid accusations of meddling. Now that there’s an opportunity, I’ll meddle as much as possible before I’m put back on the leash.”
West smiled slightly, his haunted gaze returning to Phoebe’s figure in the portrait. “I don’t deserve her,” he mumbled, without intending to.
“Of course you don’t. Neither do I deserve my wife. It’s an unfair fact of life that the worst men end up with the best women.” Taking in the sight of West’s drawn face and slouched figure, the duke seemed to come to a decision. “Nothing I say to you is going to sink in tonight. I won’t send you out in this condition—there’s no telling what trouble you’d find yourself in. You’ll stay the night in this guest room, and we’ll talk in the morning.”