Devil's Bride (12 page)

She had no doubt of the substance of that promise. In company with the twins, Honoria crossed the lawns, musing on her situation. She would send for her brother Michael tomorrow, but he would take some days to reach her. Those days could be useful.

She needed to see justice done; she had a duty to avenge innocence—that was doubtless why Tolly's face haunted her. Impossible to send adult Cynster males to avenge innocence; their vengeance would be fueled by their warriors' reasons—the defending of their family, their clan.
She
would be the defender of innocence—she had a role to play, too.

She'd been looking for excitement, for adventure and intrigue—fate had landed her here. Far be it from her to argue.

The wake was a crush. Many of the bucks and bloods who had come up from London stayed for the final scene. In half an hour, Honoria had been introduced to more dangerous blades than she'd thought to meet in a lifetime. Luckily, her inclusion within the family group had sent a clear message; she was not troubled by any of the visitors.

The twins again took to their instruments; the crowd filled the music room and the drawing room and overflowed onto the terrace.

While chatting with Cynster relatives and
ton
nish family acquaintances, Honoria kept a careful eye on Devil and his five accomplices. A pattern was soon apparent. Devil stood in the drawing room, his back to the open terrace doors; the others roamed the crowd, every now and then either stopping by Devil's side quietly to impart some information or catching his eye.

She could do nothing to intercept that silent communication; as for the other, however, . . . Honoria focused on Lady Sheffield, her present interrogator.

“Of course,” her ladyship intoned, “this distressing business will delay matters somewhat.”

Deliberately vague, Honoria raised her brows. “Indeed?”

Lady Sheffield eyed her consideringly. “Three months of mourning—that makes it December.”

“Winter,” Honoria helpfully observed. She smiled at Lady Sheffield, and gave her something for her pains. “Pray excuse me, ma'am—I must speak with Webster.”

With a smile, she glided to the door, quite certain how her words would be interpreted. In the hall, she wove through the knots of guests. Plates piled with tiny sandwiches sat waiting on a sideboard; picking one up, she proceeded through the music room and onto the terrace.

Reaching the spot immediately behind Devil's back, she took up her position, her back to the drawing room. The sandwiches on her plate instantly attracted suitable cover.

“Lady Harrington,” an older lady introduced herself. “Know your grandfather well, miss. Haven't seen him for a while. Daresay he's keeping well?”

“I daresay,” Honoria replied, keeping her voice low.

“Hurst knows nothing, nor does Gilford.”

Without turning around and risking one of Devil's cousins noticing her, Honoria couldn't tell which one was reporting. But she knew Devil's voice. “Vane's checked with Blackwell. Try Gelling.”

“Nice sandwiches, these.” Lady Harrington took another. “There's Lady Smallworts—she knows your grandfather, too. Here—Dulcie!”

Lady Harrington waved at another bedizened lady; behind Honoria, another report was coming in. “Nothing from Dashwood and yes, I leaned heavily. He's not holding anything back. Not his style, this sort of caper.”

There was silence, then Devil asked: “Anyone else here from that part of town?”

“I'll try Giles Edgeworth.”

Some older gentleman approached Devil, and he was forced to converse; Honoria grasped the opportunity to give her attention to Lady Smallworts.

“Dear me, yes!” Lady Smallworts was examining her face through lorgnettes. “There's a definite likeness there, don't you think, Arethusa? About the chin.”

Making a mental note to examine her chin when next she glanced in her mirror, Honoria plastered a smile on her lips and set herself to getting the two old dames chatting. Then she tuned her ears to the activity behind her.

“No luck with Farnsworth, nor Girton either.”

Devil sighed. “There has to be something, somewhere.”

“Must be—we'll just have to keep looking until we find it.” After a pause, whichever cousin it was said: “I'll try a touch on Caffrey.”

“Careful—I don't want this all over town by morning.”

“Trust me.”

Honoria could almost see the Cynster smile that went with the words.

Again Devil's attention was claimed by others; Honoria put her tuppence worth into the discussion over whether sprigged muslin would still be all the rage next Season.

It was some time before another of his cousins came to Devil's side. Guests were starting to depart when Vane reported; Honoria recognized his voice. “Forget Hillsworth or, I suspect, any of that ilk. If the problem's in that line, we'll need to get Harry to dig deeper.”

“Speak of the Demon . . .”

“No go with any of my lot.”

“Here come the others,” Vane said.

“Not a whisper—not so much as a twitch.”

“No luck.”

“Not so much as a hint of a suspicion.”

“Which means,” Devil said, “that we'll have to go hunting.”

“But in which direction?”

“In all directions.” Devil paused. “Demon, you take the tracks and all connected enterprises. Vane, the guards and the taverns. Gabriel, the dens and finance in general. Scandal—you can do what you do best—chat up the ladies. Which leaves the catteries to Lucifer.”

“And you?” Vane asked.

“I'll take the local angle.”

“Right—I'm for London tonight.”

“So am I.”

“And me—I'll give you a lift if you like. I've got a prime 'un between the shafts.”

Their deep voices faded, blending with the murmurs of the crowd. Lady Smallworts and Lady Harrington had moved onto the mysteries of the latest poke bonnets. It was time for Honoria to retreat—she'd heard all she needed. “If you'll excuse me, ladies?”

“Actually, my dear.” Lady Harrington grasped Honoria's wrist. “I had meant to ask whether it's true.”

“True?”

On the word, Honoria heard from behind her: “Dear me, coz—what trouble you do get into when you don't have me covering your back.”

It was Vane's drawl; Honoria knew the instant Devil turned and saw her—she felt his gaze on her neck, her shoulders. She stiffened. She longed to swing about, but her ladyship clung tight.

“Why, yes.” Lady Harrington smiled. “About you and—” She broke off, gaze lifting to a point beyond Honoria's left shoulder, eyes widening with delight. “Ah—good afternoon, St. Ives.”

“Lady Harrington.”

It wasn't his voice, and the subtle menace beneath it, that sent shock waves coursing through Honoria—it was the large hand that curved possessively about her waist.

Devil captured the hand Lady Harrington freed. Honoria watched her fingers, trapped in his, rise inexorably toward his long lips. She steeled herself to feel his lips on her fingers.

He reversed her hand and pressed his lips to her wrist.

If she'd been a weaker woman, she'd have fainted.

Smoothly, Devil turned to Lady Harrington. “You were saying, ma'am?”

Lady Harrington beamed. “Nothing of any importance—think you've given me all the answer I need.” She all but winked at Honoria, then jabbed Lady Smallworts in the arm. “Come along, Dulcie—I saw Harriet on the lawn. If we hurry, we might catch her before she leaves. Your Grace.” Her ladyship nodded to Honoria. “We'll see you in town, my dear. Give my regards to your grandfather.”

“Yes, of course,” Honoria half gasped. Her lungs had seized, courtesy of the long fingers spread over her ribs. If he kissed her wrist again, she
would
faint.

“Wave to their ladyships,” her tormentor instructed.

“With what,” she hissed back. “The plate?”

“I really don't think you need the plate anymore—Thomas will take it.”

A footman appeared and relieved her of the plate. There were few people left on the terrace. Honoria waited, but the grip on her waist did not ease. Instead, Devil wrapped his other arm about her waist, too, her hand still held in his. She could feel him, his chest, his thighs, steely-hard behind her, his arms an unbreakable cage about her.

“Did you learn much, out here on the terrace?” The words, soft, deep and low, tickled her ear.

“Reams about sprigged muslin. And did you know that the latest poke bonnets have a ruched rim?”

“Indeed? What next?”

“Precisely what Lady Smallworts wanted to know.”

“And what do you want to know, Honoria Prudence?”

He had a distinctly lethal way of saying her name—he rolled the “r”s, just slightly, so the perfectly prim English words transformed into something more sensuous. Honoria fought down a shiver. “I want to know what you're about.”

She felt him sigh. “What am I to do with you, you meddlesome woman?” He rocked her, slightly, to and fro.

The sensation of losing touch with the earth made Honoria gasp. He hadn't even shifted his grip. “You can put me
down
for a start!”

She was saved by the Dowager. “Sylvester! What on earth are you doing? Put Honoria down
at once
!”

He obeyed—reluctantly; the second Honoria's feet touched earth, the Dowager took her arm. “Come, my dear—there's someone I want you to meet.”

Without a backward glance, Honoria escaped with the Dowager.

She took care to play least-in-sight for the rest of the day. While most guests left directly after the wake, many of the family lingered. Honoria had no intention of finding herself unexpectedly alone with Devil in his present mood. The sum-merhouse, a white-timber hexagon wreathed by a yellow rambler, became her refuge.

Her embroidery in her lap, she watched the carriages roll down the drive—watched Devil play the host and wave them on their way. Afternoon was fading to evening when Charles Cynster descended the front steps and started across the lawn, heading straight for the summerhouse.

Inclining his head gravely, he entered. “Good evening, my dear. I wanted to speak with you before I left—Sylvester told me where to find you.”

So much for her refuge. Honoria studied Tolly's older brother critically. He was certainly older than Devil, which made him the oldest of the Cynster cousins. He cut an impressive figure, six feet tall and solidly built, but lacked the lean Cynster lines. His face was rounder, with heavy jowls. His eyes, resting on her, were plain brown; given his recent loss, Honoria was surprised by how intent his expression was.

The summerhouse boasted a long wickerwork settee with chintz cushions, and nothing else. With a wave, she invited Charles to sit; somewhat to her relief, he declined the settee to settle on a windowsill. Facing her. Honoria raised a polite brow. Presumably, Devil had sent Charles to persuade her to leave Tolly's death to the Cynsters.

“I wanted to thank you for aiding Tolly. Sylvester mentioned you'd helped.” Charles's lips twisted in a fleeting smile. “To use his phrase, ‘above and beyond what might reasonably be expected of a lady of your station.' ”

Graciously, Honoria inclined her head. “Despite your cousin's beliefs, I did nothing more than any lady of practical sensibilities.”

“Be that as it may . . .” Charles's words trailed away; Honoria glanced up and met his gaze. “My dear Miss Anstruther-Wetherby, I hope you will excuse me if I speak plainly?”

“I would prefer you did so.” Setting aside her embroidery, Honoria folded her hands and gave him her full attention.

“It appears to me that, rather than being rewarded for your help, you have been placed in an invidious position.” Charles glanced at her. “Forgive me—this is a delicate subject. But I understand that, by virtue of rendering assistance to Tolly and thus being stranded by the storm, you were forced to spend the night in company with Sylvester, and thus now find yourself compromised and, not to put too fine a point on it, forced to accept his offer.”

Honoria opened her lips—Charles raised his hand. “No, if you please—allow me to finish. I realize that many ladies would be
aux anges
over becoming the duchess of St. Ives, whatever the circumstances. I can see, however, that you are not of that giddy ilk. You're an Anstruther-Wetherby, daughter of an old and ancient line—quite as proud as we Cynsters. You are a woman of sound sense, independence, and—as you acknowledged—of a practical bent.

“You have, I believe, chosen to live life quietly—it hardly seems fair that in return for your good offices, you should be forced to become Sylvester's wife, a role that will not only be demanding but also very likely less than rewarding.” He paused, then added: “For a lady of sensitivity.” He hesitated, weighing his words, then continued: “Sylvester bears a very specific reputation, as do most of the Cynsters. It seems unlikely that a leopard so devoted to hunting will readily change his spots.”

He looked at Honoria; she raised her brows haughtily. “There is little in your assessment with which I would argue, Mr. Cynster.”

Charles's brief smile did not light his eyes. “Indeed, my dear, I believe we are two who would understand each other well, which is why I hope you will understand my motives in proposing an alternative solution to your undeserved predicament.”

“An alternative?” Honoria was conscious of increasing unease. She had not expected Charles to undermine Devil; she was truly surprised that he had.

“A more acceptable alternative to a lady of your sensibility.”

Honoria looked her question.

“Marrying Sylvester would not be in your best interests—anyone with understanding can see that. You stand, however, in need of an offer, in restitution if nothing else. As Tolly was my brother, in order to retrieve your standing, I would be happy to offer you my hand. My estate, of course, is nothing compared to Sylvester's; it is, however, not inconsiderable.”