Devon went to the sofa and sat down. For a long moment, he considered what his brother was describing to him.
"I admit," he said, "that this is disturbing to hear, but perhaps the doctor has a point. You said yourself that Father is sixty-nine now. This sounds to me like nothing more than the eccentricities of old age. He is simply reminiscing about the past. Perhaps that is why the doctor is not overly concerned."
His brother took another sip of brandy. He looked tired all of a sudden and shook his head.
"You seem disappointed," Devon said, as a small twinge of displeasure nipped at his mood. "Were you expecting that I would come home and simply wave a hand and make the problem disappear?"
When his brother gave no reply, Devon studied his expression carefully, then leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Or perhaps you are remembering that I am not the hero everyone always imagined me to be."
It was why he had left home in the first place three years ago-because he had disappointed everyone to impossible degrees. Vincent and Father especially.
No…Disappointed was not a strong enough word. Because of his own youthful passions, he had betrayed Vincent's trust and shattered and crushed his father's grand and lofty opinions of him. He had annihilated the man's unfathomable pride in his eldest son.
Devon remembered every word of their argument as if it happened only yesterday-how his father had told him what a useless failure he was as a son and especially as a man.
Why hadn't he been able to control the horse? he had asked. How could he have been so foolish as to take that slick, muddy path through the woods that time of year? And what had he been doing with MaryAnn in the first place? Had he no sense of honor or decency? She was his brother's fiancee.
Devon had listened to all of this at a time when he was leaning on crutches, when the stitches over his eye still burned, and when the guilt over what had occurred was worse than death itself.
Because MaryAnn-the woman Vincent had loved and intended to marry-was dead.
You are no longer my son, his father had snarled at him from behind the desk.
Their argument had ended there. Devon did not even say goodbye the next morning when he struggled awkwardly into the coach to leave for America. He had never written to his father, nor had he received any letters from him, but he had not expected it, such was the intensity of the man's rage that night.
"We need you," Blake quietly said, interrupting Devon's recollections. "You are the head of the family."
"No," he firmly replied. "Our father, the duke, is head of the family."
"Not if he is mad."
Devon stared uneasily at his brother, then set down his glass. "I am not yet convinced he is mad, Blake, nor will I be until I speak to him myself. As I said, it is probably just old age. There is nothing to be done about that except to be patient and tolerant as best we can until the end comes."
"Until the end comes, you say." Blake chuckled with some bitterness.
"Is there something amusing about that?"
Blake stood and walked to the window. "It is not amusing at all. I only chuckle at the coincidence of your remark. You see, I didn't get to the most distressing part of all this."
"Which is?"
Blake faced him. "Father has spoken of the end more than a few times himself over the past month. Come here." He waved Devon over to the window. "Look outside and you'll see what I mean." Devon stood and approached Blake, who pointed at the Italian Gardens. "There he is, out there in the rain."
Indeed, there he was-their father, the exalted Duke of Pembroke, powerful patriarch of this family, on his knees in the muddy garden. Or at least, what was left of it, for all the plants had been dug up, and there was nothing left but deep holes and piles of dirt. He was now digging up one last rose bush with a shovel.
"He's been moving all his favorite flowers to higher ground," Blake explained.
Devon felt his temper rising. "God in heaven, where is the gardener? Why is he not doing it? And why is there no one out there with an umbrella over his head?"
"Father won't let anyone help him," Blake said. "He insists on doing it himself, and just last week, he fired a footman who tried to push the garden cart for him."
"But what is he trying to accomplish?"
"He says he is saving the palace, Devon-his beloved gardens especially-because he believes we are victims of some ancient curse, and that a great flood is coming and we are all going to be swept away."
"A curse!" Devon blurted out. "Bloody hell, Blake, has he lost his mind?"
His brother sank down into the chair behind the desk and took a drink. "Now you're finally getting it."
Devon looked out the window again at his father, who had placed the rosebush in the wheeled cart and was struggling to push it across the muddy terrain.
"But the real reason we are thankful that you have returned," Blake said, "is because he believes you are the only one who can stop the curse."
"Me? How, for pity's sake? I'm the one he declared no longer his son."
"We do not know how," Blake replied, "but we are eager to find out, which is why we wanted you to come home. He will want to see you, Devon, the very minute he hears you are back."
Devon looked out the window at his father again. "I am no one's hero, Blake. Nor do I ever wish to be. Ever again."
"I know that. I remember what you went through. But that does not concern him. You'll have your work cut out for you, trying to convince him of it."
It would not be easy, he knew, and he doubted he could make a difference. But something had to be done. His father had to be brought in from the rain at the very least.
Devon set down his glass and strode to the door to get his coat. He paused, however, and turned back to face his brother. "I don't know what will happen out there, Blake, but I will at least bring him inside and, hopefully, I will return with answers."
Chapter 4
Dear Diary,
Heaven help me, I am doomed.
This morning, I woke in my bed in my father's house with the early morning sun shining in on me, and felt again those wicked sensations of need in my body. I fought to resist them, truly I did, but alas, I was weak. I slipped out from between the thin sheets, dressed quickly, and went into the woods again.
It was cool beneath the shelter of the trees, and the deeper I went into the forest, the faster my heart began to race with that wild and decadent excitement that will not release its hold on me. Soon, like all the other times, I did not even care how wicked it was. My skin was tingling with anticipation, and, oh, how I gloried in the cool perspiration that drenched my body! I pulled the pins from my hair and let it fall loose down my back, then I began to run, shedding all my inhibitions and reservations along the way. All I cared about was the irresistible pleasure I knew he would bestow upon me when I came to him.
I reached the clearing and he was there, lying naked on the grass, bathing in the sweet warmth of the sun. If only I could describe the overwhelming fire in my blood and the ferocity of my passions! I stood unable to move, blinded by my desire and bewildered by the impossible splendor before me. His smooth skin was gleaming, his long, muscular legs stretched out on the blanket, and that manly part of him I cannot bring myself to put in writing held me captive and burning with fascination. I could barely catch my breath!
Then I could not wait another minute. I removed all my clothes and left them in a careless pile on the grass, then walked naked across the lush, green clearing toward him.
He heard my soft approach and sat up. "Lydie," he said in a deep, husky voice that made my heated body throb. "I knew you'd come."