It had probably been watched for all day, in fact. The main street through the village and the village green had been unusually busy with people, all apparently just going innocently about their business, though all had stopped and fixed their gaze upon the carriage as it passed on its way toward the bridge. And now, at Ravenswood itself, the butler and a number of footmen and grooms, all smartly dressed as though for a special occasion, were out on the terrace, the butler waiting to open the carriage door and set down the steps lest the coachman Devlin had hired in London be incapable of doing so himself, the footmen ready to carry what they must be expecting to be a great mountain of baggage inside and up to their relevant chambers, the grooms to lead away the carriage and horses.
“And so it begins,” Devlin murmured.
Ben was busy with Joy, who was making grumbling noises at having her sleep disturbed.
“Welcome home, my lord,” the butler said, bowing importantly from the waist as Devlin descended the steps. “Welcome home, Mr. Ellis. And Miss Ellis.”
Devlin had not been sure if anyone here knew of the existence of Ben’s daughter. Apparently they did.
“Thank you, Richards,” he said. Everything outdoors was immaculate. Even the sheep below the ha-ha had looked as though they might have been washed for the occasion, though it seemed unlikely. Poor sheep if they had been.
The butler preceded them up the steps to the open front doors and bowed them inside the great hall. Devlin saw immediately what he had feared he would see and had hoped he would not. The servants were all there, lined up on either side of the entrance, the women on one side, the men on the other, as though they were about to perform some stately dance. All of them were in their best uniforms, clean and freshly starched and ironed. But even as the women all curtsied at a signal from the housekeeper and the men all bowed, Devlin became aware that he was not to escape the full flowering of this homecoming farce. A group of people stood facing him beyond the servants, forming a still, silent tableau.
The family.
His mother stood between two young ladies on her left and a young man on her right. None of them were smiling, and none of them came rushing down between the lines to hug him and Ben and welcome them home. He understood the reason, of course. They had not congregated here to greet the son and brothers they had not seen for years. They had done it as a formal, almost ceremonial gesture to welcome the Earl of Stratton to his principal seat. Asthough the earl were some impersonal being. But really he had not expected any different, if he had expected anything at all. He might have hoped this first encounter would take place in some private apartment—the drawing room, perhaps—but instead it was to be in a public setting. And of course it would be reported far and wide long before this day was over.
Perhaps that was the whole point.
His return was a necessary evil as far as the family was concerned.
“Mrs. Padgett?” he said, acknowledging first the housekeeper and then each of the two lines of servants with an inclination of his head. He glanced at Ben, who was looking toward something at which Joy was pointing, and strode forward between the lines without waiting to see if his brother was coming too. But this, of course, was all about him, not Ben. He could hear his boot heels ringing on the marble tiles as he went, the only sound in the hall except the slightly softer thud of Ben’s boots as he came along behind him.
Well, let them have their moment. He had inspected silent ranks of soldiers more times than he could count. This would not disconcert him.
His mother, he observed as he drew closer, had changed. Not so much in outer appearance—she was as elegant and poised as she had ever been. There still appeared to be no gray in her dark hair. She was perhaps a bit thinner. Her cheeks were more hollowed than he remembered, but her face was unlined and she was still beautiful. The change in her was something indefinable. There seemed to be a certain loss of charm and warmth, though it was surely not possible to form an accurate impression so soon, especially when she was looking at the son she had banished six years ago and refused to receive before he left. She just somehow did not seem like his mother. Perhaps he did not seem like her son. The lightappeared to have gone out within her, whatever the devil that meant. But that was it, of course. That was what had changed.
They stood and looked at each other for several wordless moments after he halted a few feet away, neither of them flinching. Or smiling.
“Mother.” He held out his hand and, when she set her own within it, he bowed over it and made the quick decisionnotto raise it to his lips. It was icy cold and lay limp in his clasp. He had never called herMother.He had not planned to do so now. But how could he call herMama? He could not. “I trust I find you well.”
“Stratton,” she said. “Thank you. You do. Welcome back to Ravenswood.” She looked beyond his shoulder as her hand slid free of his. “Welcome home, Ben. And this is Joy?”
StrattonandRavenswoodto him.Benandhometo his brother. She had chosen her words with deliberate care, Devlin thought.
The child had burrowed her head as far inside Ben’s coat as it would go.
“She can be a bit on the shy side,” Ben said. “Thank you, Mother. It is good to be here.” He had always called herMotherin order to distinguish her from his mama, whom he could barely remember, he had once told Devlin.
Devlin turned to the elder of his two sisters. Philippa. She was no longer the girl he remembered. She was a young woman, whose looks had lived up to all the promise of her youth. Honey blond hair, a delicate complexion, blue eyes with long lashes a shade or two darker than her hair, a slender build—even to a brother’s eyes she was a rare beauty. But where were the sparkling eyes, the rose-petal cheeks, and the bright animation he remembered? Perhaps it was only this difficult moment that had banished them. The difficult moment or the whole fact of his return. She had not hated him when he left, but could he blame her if she did now? He had notdone anything in all that time to retain her love or even discover if she lived or was dead—or married.
“Philippa.” He extended a hand for hers, and she gave it to him after a small hesitation. It was limp and cold, like their mother’s. There was no sign that she was married, he thought with a glance down at her left hand. Why was she not? How had her life changed after the age of fifteen? He had absolutely no idea.
“Stratton,” she said. Her eyes did not quite meet his. “Hello, Ben. And Joy.”
Stephanie had grown a great deal, as was to be expected between the ages of nine and fifteen. She was slightly taller than Pippa. But otherwise she still looked much the same, was just a larger version of herself. Her flaxen hair, in heavy plaits, was wound over the top of her head like a double halo. Her face was round and shiny. She had not lost any of her baby fat. Poor Steph. The only real difference, apart from height, was the paleness of her face and the dullness of her eyes.
“Steph,” he said, and held out both hands, perhaps a little recklessly, as any rejection on her part would be avidly noted and reported upon by the silent lines behind him.
“Devlin.” She set both hands in his and even wound her fingers about them. She raised her eyes to look into his face and roam over it. “You got wounded. No one told us.” Her words and her expression accused.
“I lived,” he said.
She nodded and removed her hands from his before turning to their brother. “I am glad you are home, Ben,” she told him. “And I have been longing to meet Joy. Will she let me see her face? She has awfully pretty hair.”
It was short and curly and unruly at the best of times. Now itlooked rumpled. But she peeped—and smiled widely before ducking her head back under the safety of Ben’s greatcoat.
“And she has a pretty face too,” Stephanie said. “I am Aunt Stephanie, Joy. I have been waiting for you to come and play with me.”
