Devil Takes A Bride (33 page)

“Well, it's about bloody time,” Alec declared, breaking into his thoughts with a tone that turned grim. “Here they come.”

Dev looked over as the cavalcade of prime carriages came hurtling up the road, stirring up a sizable dust cloud. He kept his keen tension in check as the rest of the Horse and Chariot Club thundered into the grove. The first rays of the garish red sunrise were beaming through the trees, illuminating the coat of arms depicted on the door of the largest black coach, identifying it as belonging to Carstairs.

Dev looked on, hard eyed and cool headed, as the door opened and three men got out. As they strode toward his drag, he saw that it was Quint and Carstairs, with Staines trudging between them, looking like some surly prisoner.

Alec stopped pacing to plant himself firmly between Dev and the approaching men. “How kind of you to remember our appointment, Sir Torquil,” he flung out, all princely insolence.

“That will do, Lord Alec,” Carstairs chided. “Stand aside, if you please. Staines has something he would like to say to Strathmore.”

“Let him say it over pistols,” Alec retorted grandly.

“Alec,” Dev muttered under his breath. He glanced worriedly at his brash friend, admiring his gallant style, but after all, it wasn't his neck on the line. “I'll hear him out,” Dev told them.

Staines glowered at him, but Dev noticed that Quint loomed just behind the man, as though prepared to stop him with his mighty fists if Staines tried anything.

Carstairs nudged the man. “Go on.”

Staines's mouth worked angrily, but no sound came out.

“Yes?” Alec demanded. “We haven't got all day. It'll be light soon, and we can't risk the watchmen noticing our presence.”

Dueling was quite illegal, something Lizzie would have been happy to point out, Dev was sure.

Staines cleared his throat, but held his chin high and refused to meet Dev's gaze. “I—apologize for the insult I gave you, sir. I crave your pardon. 'Twas the gin to blame.”

Dev stared at him in shock. A forfeit—from the foremost duelist in the ton?

An apology, as well, in front of thirty of Staines's best mates, no less? What the hell was going on? Quint's square, rugged face betrayed nothing, but Carstairs cast Dev a private smile.

In that moment, Dev realized his mistake all this time.

Damage Randall wasn't the leader of the Horse and Chariot Club.

Carstairs was.

The earl was also, he realized, behind Staines's about-face. Indeed, Dev grasped that he was now witnessing a supreme display of Carstairs's deft power over his underlings.

It had been Carstairs all along.

Not daring to question the reprieve, Dev snapped to attention. “No harm done,” he clipped out.

Staines managed a stilted nod. “Very well, then. I bid you good day, sir.”

“Good day.”

Alec sputtered with amazement as Torquil pivoted on his spurred boot heel and marched off to rejoin his seconds. A moment later, he and Nigel leaped into the latter's carriage and tore off in the direction of the city.

Alec turned to Dev, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What the hell just happened here?”

“A forfeit, dear boy,” Carstairs purred indulgently. “Quint and I spoke to Staines and, ah, showed him the error of his ways. It really was uncalled for, his display of temper. Most ungentlemanly. I hope it will not cast a shadow over our company in the future.”

“Ho, we are not women to hold our grudges for a year!” Quint said with a short boom of laughter. “Damn me, wouldn't have fancied buryin' either of you lads!”

Dev forced a wry smile, but he was mystified.

“Well, then, gents, I'm off to bed,” the baron added. “Big match at Dick Mace's studio this afternoon. Four o'clock. Be there if you can.”

“You boys have a nice day,” Carstairs murmured, glancing hungrily from Alec to Devlin.
Don't forget this, Dev,
his sly smile seemed to say.
You owe me now.
Carstairs sketched a suave bow and followed Quint back to the coach.

Alec turned to him in bewilderment, but Dev could only shrug.

“Well, that was all extremely bizarre,” his second huffed after a moment. “I have no idea what that was all about, but I suggest we get out of here before they change their minds.”

“Agreed,” Dev replied.

“White's for breakfast?”

Dev shook his head as he leaned against his racing drag. “There's something I have to take care of.”

“Oh,
really
?” Alec drawled, and stopped to stare knowingly at him before tossing the reins over his horse's neck.

Dev shrugged. “She was expecting me. I left her waiting all night. Obviously, I have to go and see her.”

“Very well, then,” Alec declared, “so shall I!”

“Alec, give up. The day is lost—”

“Ha, that's what you think. For your information, Lizzie and I share something you can never understand. We have a history, Dev. We've known each other—”

“All your lives, yes, yes, I know and I'm
so
bloody tired of hearing it. You've
never
really known her, Alec. If you had, you would never have let her slip through your fingers. I don't intend to make the same mistake.”

“It's too late, Dev, old boy. You nearly stole the race from me, but I've pulled ahead in the final furlong. Hate to say it, but you've already lost.”

“What are you talking about?”

Alec patted his horse's neck and prepared to mount up. “I'm sorry it came to this, Dev, but you should have told her about the Horse and Chariot Club. Especially in light of the third requirement.”

“You didn't,” Dev breathed, the blood draining from his face. He could not catch his wind for a second, feeling as though his old friend had just run him through.

“Sorry, Dev,” Alec said. “All's fair.” With a defiant glance, he swung up into the saddle, gave his white horse's flanks a squeeze, and went tearing off down the dusty road.

Dev stood there frozen, so horrified, he thought for a second he might be sick all over the dewy grass.
Oh, Jesus.
He had to go to her. Had to explain.

Cursing under his breath, he leaped up onto his racing drag and, scowling blackly, threw the brake. Snapping his whip over the backs of his black Fresians, he wheeled the carriage around in the grove and drove off at breakneck speed.

 

“What the blazes are those two doing?” Carstairs asked Quint in amusement as the two of them flashed by, Alec's horse naught but a white streak, Dev careening past the coach with the fierce look of a Roman charioteer in the Colosseum. “Is it a race?”

Quint sent him a dull-witted grin and shrugged.

“Let's find out.” Carstairs rapped on the ceiling with the silver head of his walking stick. “Johnny!” he called up to the driver's box. “Follow Strathmore!”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Alec's sickening revelation about Devlin's involvement in the Horse and Chariot Club had kept Lizzie up all night, leaving her further confounded when he failed to appear, as promised. Her head was in a whirl. She could barely fathom him keeping a secret of such magnitude from her, but as Alec had suggested, maybe she did not know her love as well as she had thought. Devlin would never harm a young girl—of that, she was certain—but whatever he was or was not guilty of himself, his free choice of such evil companions threw her into serious doubt about his character.

Alec had been saying it all along, but she hadn't listened. How horrible to contemplate what he had described. Some poor, illiterate peasant girl subjected to brutality….

Even if Devlin had not done it himself, which she simply could not believe he had, was it any less bad if he had even
once
been one of the men watching? The Devlin she knew—or had thought she had known—would have drawn his sword if necessary to come to the victim's defense, not sat there enjoying the spectacle of rape as though it were the latest pantomime at Sadler's Wells.

The drift of her thoughts that morning added a fierce dimension of protectiveness toward her naive, sheltered young girls as they streamed out to the chapel for Sunday services, two by two, or “in crocodile,” as it was called. For her part, her only prayer was that none of the innocents ever ran afoul of such men as the lawless fiends of the Horse and Chariot.

Somehow she managed to set aside her outrage and roiling disgust as she conversed in the parlor with the widow Harris, who had come to collect Sorscha for the Catholic Mass. Weary but managing graciousness nevertheless, Lizzie gave Mrs. Harris a warmly approving report on Sorscha's progress in her classes and told her how easily she had made friends with the other girls. Perhaps her temper was short this morning, after a night spent fuming instead of resting, but as they talked, waiting for Sorscha to come down from the girl's dormitory to join her mother, Lizzie found it disconcerting to hold a conversation with a woman whose face she could not see.

She ignored her annoyance and reminded herself that Mrs. Harris had obviously suffered a grievous loss. Fortunately, the lady still had her daughter, and her utter adoration of the sweet girl was palpable. She seemed to like nothing better than hearing about how clever and dedicated Sorscha was in her studies. Even from behind the veil, Lizzie could feel Mrs. Harris beaming with pleasure at her words.

“She really is quite mature for her age,” Lizzie was saying fondly. “Ah, here they are now!” she exclaimed as the patter of slippered feet came rushing toward the parlor from the wooden stairs in the entrance hall.

“Mama!” Sorscha flung into the parlor doorway, then rushed to embrace her.

“Oh, I missed ye, darlin'.” The woman hugged her; then Sorscha turned, smiling toward the door.

“Look, Mama! I have a new best friend! I brought her to meet you! Miss Manning has been ever so kind to me.” Her bonnet dangling down her back, Sorscha bounded back toward the doorway and drew Daisy Manning into the parlor by her wrist.

They clung to each other's arms and Lizzie smiled to herself, recalling herself and Jacinda as wee girls. Daisy even had the bouncy gold curls, though Miss Manning was the daughter of a coal-mining tycoon rather than a duke. Like old Lady Strathmore, she came from the wealthiest class of merchants and was destined to improve her family's lot in life by marrying into the nobility. Thus her enrollment in the fine finishing school.

“Mama, this is Miss Daisy Manning. Daisy, my dear,” Sorscha said, turning to her boon companion with all her youthful earnestness, “this is my mother—well, not my real mother, but I never knew
her
—”

“Sorscha!” Mrs. Harris breathed with an appalled gasp at the girl's careless slip.

“Oh! I'm sorry, Mama!” Sorscha whispered, wide-eyed as she blanched.

She could feel Mrs. Harris glaring beneath the veil.

Quickly masking her shock, Lizzie cleared her throat. “Daisy, you really need to hurry over to the chapel or you'll be late.”

“Yes, Miss Carlisle. Mrs. Harris. Bye, Sorscha.” Daisy curtsied prettily, then walked off with perfect debutante posture to catch up to the line of girls wending toward the church down the lane.

Mrs. Harris stood immobile after Daisy had gone. “Miss Carlisle, please pay no mind to Sorscha's enthusiasms. It is quite true that I am not her real mother, but adopted her when she was very small—”

“Oh, ma'am, it's not my business,” she assured her. “Please take no thought of it. I can be discreet.”

“It's quite all right, Miss Carlisle. You see, I was in a terrible—accident—as a young woman. It left me unable to bear children. Still,” she added stiffly, “perhaps when Sorscha is older, she'll learn to mind her tongue.”

“I'm so sorry, Mama,” Sorscha offered with sadness in her big, blue eyes.

“Your secret will not leave this room, Mrs. Harris. Never fear. I will speak to young Daisy on this matter to ensure your privacy, if you desire.” She sent the contrite Sorscha an affectionate smile.

The girl brightened slightly.

Mrs. Harris gave Lizzie a regal nod. “You're very kind.” Taking her errant child by the hand, she drew herself up and started to glide toward the parlor door when, all of a sudden, a ruckus reached them through the windowpane, hoofbeats and clattering wheels coming from the graveled road out in front of the school.

An angry male shout punctuated the noise. “Get out of the way, damn it!”

Mrs. Harris looked at once toward the window, but Lizzie furrowed her brow. It sounded like Devlin.

Sorscha giggled and rushed to the window. “Uh-oh, Miss Carlisle, your suitors are here!”

Now it was Lizzie's turn to blush.
Blast.

When Sorscha pushed the lace curtain aside, Lizzie had a clear view out the parlor window, just as Alec, astride a white horse, come sailing over the school fence, cantering his steed right through the front garden.

Lizzie's jaw dropped.

“Good gracious!” Sorscha cried. “Did you see that? Well done!”

“Lizzie!” Alec yelled up at the tranquil building, but he had barely slowed his horse when Devlin clattered onto the scene, standing aboard his racing drag.

He hauled his team of high-stepping black Fresians to a skidding stop that sent gravel flying, and leaped down out of the vehicle, throwing back the front gate. He looked incensed.

“Damn it, Alec, I'll kill you for this!”

“Oh, dear,” Lizzie murmured under her breath. It seemed Devlin now knew that Alec had exposed him.

He marched toward him with a wrathful glower as Alec jumped down off his horse. “Why can't you leave her the hell alone?”

“Bugger off, Dev. I saw her first.”

“Aaargh!”
With a war cry of pent-up frustration, Devlin charged him, driving Alec back a few feet until they both went tumbling over the dainty wooden bench beside the flower beds.

“Sorscha, come away from the window!” Mrs. Harris hissed.

Aghast at their fighting and foul language in front of her student, not to mention the offended parent, she whirled to Mrs. Harris and stammered an apology. “I'm so sorry, ma'am. I'd best go and, er, manage this.”

Alec rose up onto his knees and dealt Devlin a blow to the jaw, but Lizzie did not see his response, for she was already dashing out of the parlor and through the entrance hall, flinging open the front door, striding out onto the porch.

“Stop it!”
she cried. Pounding on each other, they both froze at the sound of her voice. “The two of you, get up and stop acting like children!” she yelled at them in fury. “How dare you come here and embarrass me like this?”

With looks of chagrin and scowls at each other, they parted with a small shove and ruefully brushed the mud from the flower beds off their clothes.

Lizzie set her hands on her waist, her heart pounding as she glared at them. “What on earth are you two doing here? You have no business coming here at this hour!”

Devlin slashed a cold glance at Alec. “I meant to come alone, but I was followed.”

Alec let out a short, haughty snort of sardonic disdain. “I was not about to abandon the field to you, Strathmore.”

“Field? It's all a game to you, isn't it, you horse's arse? You ruin my life, and it's all just a bloody game!”

“Devlin!” Lizzie clipped out, for he seemed sorely tempted to launch at Alec again.

Simmering, he turned away from his old school chum and took a step toward her with a fiery expression. “Lizzie, whatever he told you, you have to let me explain—”

“She doesn't have to let you do anything, Strathmore—”

“Lord Alec, that will do—and both of you, mind your language! There are children about.” Indeed, she could see that Daisy had been distracted by the commotion, and, instead of going on to church, had drifted back to see what was the matter.

“Now, I want you to promise you will stop this foolish fighting and go home,” Lizzie scolded. “Knowing both of you, I cannot imagine what brings you out at this hour of the morning, for I hardly think you're on your way to church.”

“Actually, Bits, we're on our way home from Strathmore's duel.”

“What?”
she cried.

“You are a bastard.”

“Devlin!”

“I was his second, you see.” Alec smiled at Devlin. “Did Lizzie ever tell you how much she hates dueling—old boy?”

“Devlin, how could you?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He shut it again with a look of dismay and lowered his head. “It wasn't my fault.”

Alec shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Lizzie fumed at both of them. “I am in no mood to deal with either of you right now. You must leave at once. One of the parents already saw your juvenile display, and if Mrs. Hall comes out here, I'm doomed.” But if she had imagined that she had trouble so far, she went very still as a large black coach rolled up behind Devlin's racing drag, next to where Daisy was standing by the front gate.

The brim of Daisy's poke bonnet concealed her face as the girl turned to look at the hulking carriage with an unfamiliar coat of arms emblazoned on the side.

Lizzie saw two dissipated-looking men peer out the carriage window: one flaxen-blond and fine-featured, the other brown-haired with a square, rugged face. She recognized the latter as the same man Devlin had been talking to on the night of the Madison ball.

“Who are they?” she forced out as a prickle of dread ran down her spine.

Devlin and Alec turned around, but somehow she already knew the answer. They were the wicked men Alec had warned her about. Devlin's evil friends, radiating sheer menace.

“Bloody hell,” Devlin whispered.

Lizzie was not sure what made her blood run colder—the icy smile the blond man sent her, or the lecherous look on the larger man's face as he tipped his hat to little Daisy.

“Daisy, come here!” She started down from the porch to run and collect her student, but the grim note in Devlin's voice stopped her in midstride.

“Elizabeth, go back inside.
Now.
”

 

“Come, Alec. This has gone far enough,” Dev murmured to his rival as they both stared at Quint and Carstairs. “Neither of us wants those two anywhere near here.”

“Agreed,” he answered under his breath. “So, how do we get rid of them?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with his erstwhile rival, Dev bristled when he saw Quint leering at the little blonde, who couldn't have been more than sixteen. “Don't know. I'll figure something out. Daisy!” he echoed Lizzie's shout as he and Alec strode toward the girl.

 

“Mama, there's Daisy!”

“Sorscha, get back here!”

“Perhaps she'll want to go to church with us instead of the others.”

“Don't go out there! Stay by me.” Mary's heart pounded crazily as she grasped her daughter's wrist and pulled her over to her side, holding her near.

“Mama, what is it?” the girl asked in alarm.

Mary did not answer. Her stricken gaze was fixed on the scene playing out beyond the lace curtains.

Holding Sorscha near, she prayed they would both be safe if they stayed hidden in the parlor. As soon as those blackguards moved on, they would leave the school.

They would not be coming back.

Sweet Christ, things had just gone from bad to worse. First Strathmore. Now Quint and Carstairs, but at least Sorscha's little friend was now moving away from the carriage and hurrying back up the path to the school.

Watching the lover's triangle unfold on the lawn a moment ago, Mary had been appalled enough to discover that by some colossal twist of fate, Devil Strathmore had been courting her daughter's favorite teacher. But then matters took an even more virulent turn as Carstairs's coach rolled up to the school like a great black insect landing in search of food. Searching for something it could contaminate.