Tyrell jerked with surprise, eyes wide and stunned. Devlin stalked to the sideboard, pouring a large Scotch, his hand shaking. He ignored Tyrell, trying to come to grips with his anger and other, more confusing, insistent feelings he did not wish to own or understand. Virginia wept over Sean. Was it possible that he was jealous?
It was an emotion he was unfamiliar with. He had never been jealous of anyone or anything at any time in his life. But this red-hot anger, coupled with the tremor of fear and doubt, felt suspiciously like jealousy.
“Fuck.” He threw his drink as hard as he could at the wall. It shattered loudly, sounding like buckshot.
“I have never seen you lose your temper, not ever,” Tyrell said quietly. “From the day Father brought you home when you were ten, Gerald just murdered, you have been the most stoic and dispassionate person I have ever met.”
Devlin waved at him in real disgust. He had no response to make, as none could be had.
Virginia ran into the room. “God, what happened? Are you all right?” she cried, her cheeks flushed but not tear streaked.
Devlin couldn’t respond to her, either. He could not believe his rage and he could not believe his jealousy—for that was what it was, enraged jealousy—and he stared at her in disbelief.
“I thought someone fired a musket,” she said nervously, glancing between him and Tyrell.
Devlin turned away. He still couldn’t speak.
“No one fired a gun,” Tyrell said quietly. “Could you find Benson and tell him there has been an accident?” He smiled kindly at her.
Virginia nodded, turning to look wide-eyed at Devlin’s back, and she hurried out.
Devlin poured another drink, and this time, he drank it.
Tyrell approached. “I see all is not as it appears,” he said quietly. He laid a hand on Devlin’s shoulder.
Devlin shrugged it off. “All is exactly as it appears,” he returned, his iron control returning. “Would you like a drink?” he asked far more calmly than he felt.
Tyrell de Warenne made a derisive sound. “Actually, I would.” He paused thoughtfully. “I would also like an invitation to supper,” he said.
“HOT LOAVES! MUFFINS ANDcrumpets! A penny for a scone!”
Virginia stumbled, reaching for Devlin’s hand. They were making their way up Regent Street, which was, he had assured her, the best shopping in London.
“Chairs to mend!” another street vendor cried, stepping in their path to bow before Devlin, who did not wear his uniform but a fine dark blue velvet coat with his britches and stockings. “My lord, sir, I mend any kind of chair,” he cried.
“No, thank you,” Devlin said politely, and trying not to release Virginia’s hand, he pulled her past the chairman.
“Fish! Fine goldfish fer the lady!” an old woman cried, waving a bucket at them. “Pretty goldfish! Fine fer the lady!”
Devlin smiled at Virginia, pulling her out of the fish lady’s way as well.
But she pulled back. “Let’s look at the fish!”
“Virginia,” he began.
“It’s my turn,” she reminded him, smiling and jerking free. “May I see your fish, ma’am?” she asked.
The old lady grinned, with most if not all of her teeth missing, and she lowered the pail so Virginia could see numerous goldfish swimming about, including several black-and-white striped ones. “How beautiful,” she cried.
“A penny fer a dozen,” the lady smiled at her.
“Virginia, please do not tell me we are buying you fish,” Devlin said, but amusement was in his tone.
“We are not, no, thank you,” she apologized to the vendor.
“Hot loaves! Muffins and crumpets! A penny fer a scone!”
Devlin looked at her, smiling.
