Free The Prince of Ravenscar by Catherine Coulter Page A

there, observing them bringing in the gin and tobacco. No more shipments until Julian found another landing site, a pity, for this one had served well before he’d left three years earlier. He imagined Harlan would have suggestions.
    Devlin Monroe smiled now at Sophie. “Miss Wilkie, I fear my mother has seen you. Yes, she is dismissing the aged roué who was doubtless encouraging her to rotate her barley crop more frequently. She still does not know whether to despise you or nab your fat purse.”
    â€œEven if I were an heiress, I think she would still despise me, since my mother was best friends with her own stepmama,” Sophie said. “How odd that sounds when Corinne is younger than your mother. I am not, you know—an heiress, that is. My father is a vicar, the younger nephew of Viscount Denby.”
    â€œYes, I know exactly who you are. My mother had only to ask me, but she never does. I cannot imagine why she wants an heiress in the family. Well, every parent wants their offspring to fatten the coffers. But the truth is I have no need to wed an heiress, since the ducal boat sails nowhere near the River Styx. Even the thought of marrying an heiress—no, I thank you. They tend to be unpleasant, from my experience, full of conceit and their own worth, and double chins abound.”
    She said, “Roxanne is an heiress.”
    â€œAh, well, that settles it, then,” he said.
    â€œSettles what?”
    He gave her a flick of the finger against her cheek, simply couldn’t help himself, and walked away from her, raising his black umbrella over his head. Sophie watched him meet his half-uncle, who had appeared around the corner of the house. The two men fell into close conversation. What were they talking about? They seemed so serious. Was something wrong? Had something happened? How to get Devlin to row her on the Thames?
    Sophie grinned and walked to where Corrie stood, staring with intense concentration at Lady Marksbury’s rosebushes.
    As for Devlin, he and Julian had moved to stand at the top of the grassy slope of the Thames embankment, watching several small pleasure boats move smoothly through the calm water, rowed by young men eager to impress. Devlin said, “I know you’re worried about the Blue Star. Have you any word of her?”
    â€œIt’s not only the Blue Star. And no, I haven’t heard a word.”
    â€œThen what is it?”
    Julian eyed his half-nephew. He said, “I remember not long ago when you believed what your mother told you: I was naught but an interloper, an adventurer out to destroy your legitimate family—in short, an unwanted disgrace, your grandfather’s most striking mistake in an otherwise long life of uprightness and common sense.”
    Devlin laughed. “You’re right, Julian. All my life, my mother dinned in my ears that you were a bastard in everything but name. My father never said a word against his own father or against you. Then I finally met you when I went up to Oxford at eighteen. Perhaps it would have taken longer to appreciate you if I had not been desperate. Even if you were everything my mother said, you were there, and you appeared quite competent.”
    Julian laughed. “I’d wanted to meet you for some time, and here was my unknown half-nephew, who’d gotten himself into a proper mess. I remember I was proud of you, even though you should have run rather than face down three bullyboys bent on breaking your head.”
    â€œYou know what really won me over? Your teaching me how to fight dirty. It is a fine thing, Julian. Did I tell you a cutpurse tried to bring me down two years ago on Boxing Day? I was no more than a dozen steps away from my own town house when he leaped out from an alley, knife slashing.” Devlin paused, smiled big. “I, myself, dragged him to the watch after I’d given him a good pounding. Now, you have distracted me. What is it,