Page 26 of The Devil to Pay

―Excerpt of a letter to Messrs Mortimer & Co. Publishers, from Anonymous.

2nd March 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

Any tender feelings that Jules might have foolishly harboured towards Miss Davenport died a swift and mortifying death after approximately thirty seconds in her company the next day. She had been conspicuous by her absence all morning, a circumstance that had made Jules uneasy. Guilt and anxiety plagued him. He had no business being here, insinuating himself into her life under false pretences, and he knew it. Pip had been right in what he’d told him. Davenport was a good sort, and she had enough to contend with without some spoiled nobleman sticking his oar in. He could still hear the last words she had said to him, hear that vulnerable note ringing in his ears,

Well, that’s where you are wrong, as about so many things. It would hurt very much.

He did not wish to think of her being hurt. It was all wrong for his warrior queen, but a queen could be isolated, fighting for survival without knowing who to trust. A woman like that ought to have someone as strong as she was beside her, shoring up the places where she was vulnerable. Not because she was weak or needed protecting, but because she deserved someone to stand beside her, an equal to lean on when things got tough, as they inevitably did.

He spent an uneasy morning carefully crafting the words to an apology he did not entirely know how to give or what he was apologising for. Then she came into the room and started issuing contradictory orders and snapping his head off if he didn’t jump to attention the minute she said so until he had returned to wanting to murder her.

“Not that shelf,” she said, irritation dripping from the words. “We said the botanical and natural history texts would go over there instead.”

“Yes, but you wanted—”

“I wanted you to put the books where I asked you to,” she said caustically. “But if that’s too difficult—”

“No,” Jules replied through his teeth.

His jaw hurt it was clenched so hard and he was going to burst something if she kept this up. The only thing that held him in check was the certainty that she was goading him, that she wanted him to snap, and he was damned if he would give her the satisfaction.

Instead, he turned back to the safety of the ordered piles of books. There were a lot of titles in this section. Gardening had been her mother’s passion and, combined with Davenport’s interest in both gardening and medicine, they had collected hundreds of books, from slender pamphlets to weighty tomes that took two hands to lift. Jules had just put the last book on the shelf and stood back to admire them when she said casually:

“Actually, I think I want to put the botanical books over there, after all. I often need to refer to them briefly and then put them back. It makes more sense to have them by the window where there’s more light.”

Jules swung around to glare at her as his blood pressure rose.

“That,” he said evenly, “is where I started putting them two hours ago, and you changed your mind.”

“Well?” she said, as if this was irrelevant. “What of it? Now that’s where I want them. I’m paying you for a job and you can do it or leave. Your choice.”

Jules frowned. There was an odd, defiant note to her voice, a feverish glint in her eyes, like anger that had turned to something hard and resolute. He suspected she’d gone out this morning, walking perhaps, despite the freezing weather, for her hair had a windblown look, escaping its pins with rebellious determination despite the ruthless style it had been wrestled in to. Had that been to let off steam, to give her courage, or to ease her heart? He did not like not knowing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, unable to modify the angry note to the demand, even though he was as much concerned as he was furious.

“Not a thing,” she said, returning an unconvincingly brittle smile. “Why should anything be wrong?”

“I don’t know… I….” He stopped, remembering again what she had said, the apology he had meant to give her.

“Davenport, listen,” he began, not entirely certain what to say but convinced now that he had hurt her with some clumsy attempt to satisfy his own curiosity. “I’m sorry for—”

“For what? Being incompetent?” she said, a sneer curling her lip, and now he knew without a doubt he had put his foot in something he had not understood, and this was her retaliation.

He held his tongue, wondering if he should just let her get it out of her system. She was flushed now, and he could feel the atmosphere crackle, the restless energy coming off her in waves.

“You’re dismissed. Collect your things and take your cousin—or whatever he is—and get out of my sight.”

The words were cold, hard, and uncompromising, but there was something else, something anxious and desperate in the way her fists were clenched, the way she held up her chin, so proud, so bloody dignified. He wanted to shake her, or kiss her, probably both.

“No.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what I said to upset you.”

“Upset me?” she repeated, the words dripping scorn. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could you upset me?”

“I don’t know, but I did, and I’m sorry, Davenport. Please, won’t you tell me what I said?” He held his hands out to her, hoping she could see the sincerity in his eyes. “I do not understand why the idea of you attending a dance should cause you pain, but I want to.”