She eyed him sullenly, then walked past him, pausing at the candelabra that decorated the nightstand. “If ye promise not to move anything, I’ll let ye stay here.” She lit the candles. “That door leads to the suite for the mistress of the house, though Lady Strathmore prefers the new part of the castle and has never slept there. This room was built to be the maid’s room, which is why ’tis so small.”

“I don’t mind that it is small.” Devon wondered why it was so clean while the others were not. “Small rooms are easier to heat.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Ye’re right aboot that. And it doesn’t smoke, neither. Lord Strathmore had the fireplace rebricked to keep it from wheezing.”

“Wonderful,” Devon said. He smiled his most winning smile. “Thank you for your assistance. I am so dreadfully tired that I would have fallen flat on my face had I been forced to wait for that Davies fellow to appear.”

Her expression softened as if she’d just conjured the room on her own. “Then off to bed wid ye, my good sir. As soon as yer man comes, I’ll send him up. And in the mornin’, when Lord Strathmore awakens, I’ll tell him ye’re here.” She curtsied, and then left, closing the door behind her.

Devon was all too glad to finally be alone. He lit the fire and, to his immense satisfaction, the wood took instantly, blazing a toasty warmth.

Bone-weary, he kicked off his boots and pushed them under the bed. Then he shrugged out of his coat, untied his cravat, and tossed them into the far corner of the room. Tilton would collect them in the morning and see that they were washed. Yawning, Devon removed his waistcoat. Just as he pulled it from his arm, a faint plink sounded and something silver fell from his pocket and rolled across the floor.

Devon followed the small circlet, catching it just as it headed for a wide crack in the hearth that led to God knew where. “Oh no, you don’t,” he muttered, picking up the ring and tossing it into the candle dish on the night table. Heaven knew he didn’t want the blasted thing, but the ancient ring was an heirloom of sorts, and if he lost it, his brothers would kill him. Worse, they’d do it one at a time just to make certain it hurt.

He glanced at the St. John talisman ring, a feeling of unease tightening about his throat. Blast his brother Chase for hiding the damned thing in his carriage. Devon had thought that if he was nowhere to be found, then Chase would be forced to trick their oldest brother, Marcus, into taking the ring.

Devon, of course, didn’t believe in curses. It was all nonsense. Just a fairy tale his mother had woven to entertain her six busy children.