Page 12 of As the Devil Dares

“From you, Miss Winslow,” he replied with a heavy sigh, acknowledging her tenacity if not the aggravation she sparked inside him, “I would expect nothing less.”

With that declaration of war, he politely inclined his head and stepped from the room.

* * *

Still muttering to herself as she’d done during the entire hour-long carriage ride from Mayfair to St Katharine’s, Mariah hurried up the front steps of the massive stone house that served as the Gatewell School for Orphans of the Sea, cursing Robert Carlisle, his connections in Parliament, and every one of his ancestors whose procreation culminated in him. A man so infuriating that she could barely see straight by the time he’d so arrogantly sauntered from the drawing room.

The audacity of that man! To come sweeping into her life to take the company away from her. To turn her father against her. To force a season upon her, with the end goal of marrying her off…oh, the mortification of it! And to dare to touch her the way he did—

Well, perhaps that wasn’t so awful. Except that behind the caresses stood the devil himself, gleefully ready to take her soul.

She swiped at her eyes as she hurried through the maze of rooms that comprised both school and safe haven to children whose fathers had died at sea or working on the wharves. The solidity of this old house with its sagging roof and cracked walls had always brought her comfort. So had the knowledge that she was helping children just like her mother, who had lost her own father to the sea. Every time Mariah entered this building, she felt Mama smile, as if she were watching over her from heaven.

But today, even the school couldn’t bring her peace.

Doing her best to force from her mind the image of Carlisle’s infuriating grin, she ran down the back stairs and into the kitchen in search of Mrs. Smith, the woman who served as both housekeeper and cook for the school. On the tip of her tongue she held an angry rant about Carlisle so venomous that she was certain it would peel the whitewash from the walls once she unleashed it.

But she halted in the middle of the doorway. Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Smith pulled a fresh sheet of biscuits from the oven, and Hugh Whitby sat perched on a stool at the table, relating some juicy bit of gossip while rolling out little balls of dough.

At the sight of her two dearest friends, an anguished sob tore from her.

Mrs. Smith looked up and dropped the sheet onto the table with a clatter. “Mariah!” Concern instantly gripped her. “My dear, whatever is the—”

But Whitby had already sprung to his feet and hurried to her, to slip an arm around her shoulders and gently help her sit on one of the chairs. By then, she was sobbing uncontrollably. All the anger and betrayal from that morning’s introduction to that horrible man came surging out of her in an unbridled wave of wretchedness.

“Mariah?” Whitby’s face paled at her tears, making his sky-blue eyes and shock of ginger hair stand out even more than usual as he knelt in front of her and fished a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “What’s happened?”

Blowing her nose on the handkerchief, she poured out a description of that morning’s events, carefully leaving out the part when that rake had touched her.

When she finished her story, her shoulders were straighter, and her chest was lighter. She felt better, as she always did after unburdening herself to her friends. Yet she wasn’t naïve enough to dismiss so easily the oncoming storm set to rush over her during the months to come.

“Robert Carlisle?” Whitby repeated incredulously, moving back to his stool as Mrs. Smith set a cup of tea on the table in front of her.

She sniffed. “You know him?”

“My brothers knew him at Eton. They told all kinds of stories about the Carlisles and how they were always being reprimanded by the prefect.” He grinned, a goofy smile that was all big teeth and dimples and somehow just as gangly as the rest of him. “Don’t know how they never got expelled.”

Her fingers tightened around the handkerchief. This was the man her father wanted to run Winslow Shipping?

“Of course, I don’t believe all those stories.” Whitby shook his head as he logically deduced, “I mean, how could a cow fit inside a carriage?”

Her tear-blurred eyes widened.

“And as for those Chinese acrobats, why, I don’t think there are that many in all of England. Certainly not enough to fill an entire vicarage!”

Mariah’s heart lurched.

“Now, Mr. Whitby,” Mrs. Smith scolded lightly, setting a plate of warm biscuits on the table, “Mariah doesn’t want to hear stories like that.”

Certainly not!

“She wants to hear about the man’s character,” the housekeeper explained, “and be assured of his good intentions.”

“Robert Carlisle?” Whitby blurted out. “I’m not certain he has any—”

“Whitby!” Mariah pleaded. He was a dear friend, but if he didn’t stop talking, she might very well have to shove a biscuit into his mouth to silence him. She groaned and hung her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?”

“There, there now.” Mrs. Smith put her arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “’Twill work out all right in the end. You’ll see.”