The Devil to Pay (15 page)

Devellyn drew, glanced, then flung down the two of clubs. “Kiss me, Al,” he said dryly. “We’re partners for the evening.”

“Well!” said Julia briskly. “This should be fun. Gentlemen, what stakes?”

“A guinea a point,” suggested Devellyn.

Julia made a pout with her lips. “That is hardly worth the effort, my lord.”

“It
isn’t
worth the effort,” Alasdair complained. “I should rather see Mrs. Crosby’s memorabilia.”

“Shut up and play, Alasdair,” said the marquess.

For half an hour, they tossed down their cards amidst generally witty conversation, with Sidonie determined to win. On the
Merry Maiden,
she’d learned all there was to know about cards, and Julia was a ruthless whist player. Unfortunately, things did not begin promisingly.

In the third game, their luck turned. When the deal passed to Sidonie, she dealt herself a handful of red, then turned up a trump that made Sir Alasdair chuckle. He snapped his cards together, and tapped the trump with the corner of his pack. “I have the feeling you’re done for this time, old friend.”

Devellyn eyed the trump card for a moment. “The queen of hearts,” he murmured. “You think it a bad omen, Alasdair?”

It was. The ladies surged ahead, taking eight tricks in the first hand. The second and third went almost as well. With the gentlemen squarely at zero and the ladies on the verge of going out, Sir Alasdair began to make jokes about being trounced by Amazons.

Julia and Alasdair paused to refill their wineglasses. The deal passed to Lord Devellyn, who turned up diamonds for trumps.

“Oh, drat!” said Julia, surveying her hand. “Misfortune is mine tonight!”

Sir Alasdair laughed. “Might I remind you, ma’am, that you’re leading four to naught?”

“Yes,” said the marquess dryly. “If your luck is out, it is only for the nonce, I’m quite sure.”

“Indeed, how would you like to be old Dev here?” added Alasdair. “Misfortune has followed him about for a sen’night like some sort of stray dog.”

Julia looked up from her hand. “How perfectly dreadful,” she murmured. “Ill luck at the tables, my lord?”

“Not exactly,” muttered the marquess. “Lead on, ma’am.”

Julia tossed down a black two, but Alasdair had seemingly lost interest in the game. “Had you not heard the story, Mrs. Crosby?” he asked, his voice a wicked whisper.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Alasdair!” said Devellyn. “Play the bloody game!”

Alasdair tossed down a worthless eight of clubs, and rattled on. “It started, you know, with Miss Lederly hurling all his chamber pots out the window,” he went on. “Then there was the death-watch beetle in his staircases. And following that, his cousin Richard unexpectedly dropped dead—”

“A third cousin,” grumbled the marquess. “And how unexpected could it have been, Alasdair? The man was ninety-two.”

“Still, your luck has gone downhill from there, old boy,” Alasdair continued. “I cannot believe, Mrs. Crosby, that you’d not heard the whole of it.”

Julia had lost some of her color. She obviously sensed what Alasdair was leading up to. “Our condolences, my lord,” she managed to murmur.

Sidonie forced herself to smile. “Gracious, Devellyn!” she said, tossing down another black. “Alasdair has quite forgotten your accident yesterday.”

Julia looked even more confused. “An accident?”

“Yes, Miss Lederly set his carpet afire,” Alasdair cheerfully interjected.

Julia looked aghast. “Why?”

Devellyn shot Julia a wry look. “Let us just say that I’ve had a run of devilish bad luck, ma’am,” he said, trumping the trick and sweeping it up. “But it seems to be turning. Alasdair, perhaps you ought to attend the game instead of the gossip?”

Alasdair tossed his hand down with a grin. “Now I must tell all, Dev!” he said. “Ladies, my friend here is also the latest victim of the Black Angel. I would regale you with the sordid details, but they are not for ladies’ ears.”

“Do hush, Alasdair,” said the marquess.

Julia tossed back the rest of her sherry.

“A black angel?” said Sidonie innocently. “I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“No,
the
Black Angel,” Sir Alasdair repeated, as if to jog her memory. “The female Robin Hood who preys upon gentlemen of the
ton?”

Sidonie widened her eyes. “Really, Sir Alasdair! Surely there is no such creature?”

“Do you mean to say you’ve not heard of the Angel’s exploits, ma’am?”

Sidonie shook her head. “I’m afraid we are not much in society.”

Deep in the house, a clock could be heard striking ten. Julia cleared her throat. “I believe I shall have another sherry,” she said. “I get the distinct impression this game just ended.”

“Yes, I’d much rather pilfer through your memorabilia box,” agreed Alasdair.

“Only a milksop quits when he’s being thrashed, Alasdair.” Devellyn looked at Sidonie. “Piquet, my dear?”

Julia and Sir Alasdair moved to the table by the windows. The marquess began to methodically sort the pack of cards, tossing the small ones aside.

Sidonie looked at him. “My lord, you don’t really wish to play piquet, do you?”

“I quite loathe it,” he admitted, deftly shuffling what was left of the pack. “But it is an excuse to sit quietly with you and avoid Alasdair altogether.”

She stilled his hand, lightly touching his coat sleeve. For an instant, their gazes met. “You need no excuse,” she said quietly. “This is my home, my lord. And Julia is my friend, not a chaperone.”

He crooked one brow sharply. “You are very young, my dear.”

“Not so far from thirty,” she murmured. “As you recently reminded me.”

“Badly done of me, I admit,” he said. “Especially since you don’t look it. How long, my dear, were you married?”

Sidonie’s smile faltered. “Ten years.”

He reshuffled the cards without looking at them. Instead, his gaze held hers, intense and steady. “A child bride,” he said.

“Hardly. I was seventeen.”

“Did you know what you were doing at seventeen? Assuredly, I did not.”

“Many girls are married at that age.”

Devellyn made a vague gesture with his hand. “Arranged marriages, yes,” he said. “But you, Sidonie? Your marriage was not arranged, I’ll warrant.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I think you would marry only if you thought yourself in love.”

“You know me that well, my lord, on such short acquaintance?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Am I wrong?”

Across the room, Alasdair and Julia burst into peals of laughter. Alasdair turned in his chair and lifted something from the box, as if he wished Devellyn to look at it. It was an old-fashioned corset.

“What in God’s name are they about?” muttered Devellyn. “No, never mind. They are a bad influence on one another. Now, answer my question.”

Sidonie bit her lip. “No, you are not wrong,” she admitted. “I eloped with Pierre—ran away from school, no less—because I thought myself in love.”

“Were
you in love?”

Sidonie hesitated. “I was…lonely,” she answered. “But yes, I felt all those things one reads about in love poems, silly though they now seem.”

“Are they silly?” he asked.

“Very silly.”

“My dear, you disappoint me,” he murmured. “I was hoping the poets were correct on the whole, and that the love of a good woman might someday redeem even me.”

“I think you tease me, my lord.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Do I? I am not sure.”

“What sort of redemption do you seek, then? If you wish only the forgiveness of society, my lord, much can be forgiven for a title.” She hesitated for a moment. “And for a dukedom, nearly anything.”

Devellyn laughed so loud, Julia and Alasdair turned in their chairs. This time, Alasdair held a pair of red silk harem boots with curling toes.

Sidonie chose that moment to venture into more dangerous waters. When Devellyn’s gaze recaptured hers, she drew a deep breath. “My lord, I collect you have family,” she said casually. “Are you close?”

The marquess lifted one shoulder. “Not really,” he said. “My mother disapproves of how I live my life, and my father and I are politely estranged.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “That often happens, does it not?”

“Family estrangement?” He looked at her warily. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Sidonie hesitated. “My father died while I was away at school,” she answered. “And my mother had her own life. We were not, perhaps, estranged. But we were none of us close.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She lifted one brow and shook her head. “There are worse things, I daresay,” she answered. “What of you? Have you no other family? No brothers or sisters?”

The marquess’s gaze turned inward. “I had a brother,” he said, his hand dipping into his coat pocket. “Until he died, we were insepara—” His hand froze.

Sidonie felt suddenly ill. “What is wrong?”

Devellyn withdrew the hand, and smiled tightly. “I once carried his miniature,” he answered. “But I was careless with it. Still, after so many years of having it with me, I cannot quite get used to this empty pocket.”

Sidonie could feel the blood draining from her face. “I am so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Ah, well, I merely wished to show you to see his likeness,” he said. “Greg was very handsome, with a look of kindness about his eyes which I, alas, do not possess.”

“I’m not sure that is true,” said Sidonie awkwardly.

“An admirable lie,” he answered. “What of you, my dear? Who is it that calls you
Sid
when I cannot?”

But Sidonie was still thinking of the young man in the miniature. “I’ve a brother, George,” she answered dully. “He is much older, and something of a—” She stopped, unable to form the right words.

“Something of a what?”

Sidonie shook her head. “My relationship with George is hard to explain,” she said. “He is more than a brother, but less than a parent.”

“I think I see.”

Sidonie smiled wanly. “I’m not sure you do.”

“You could…tell me more?”

She opened and closed her mouth soundlessly. “George ran away from home when he was very young,” she finally said. “He fell in with a bad, dangerous crowd—I don’t mean rakes, rogues, or spoilt rich boys. I mean
dangerous.
And after that, we were…estranged, too, I suppose. But not by choice, if you see the difference?”

“I think so,” he said. “And I see you are very fond of him, too.”

She managed to nod. “After George ran away, I did not see him for a long time. Mother sent me away to school. I thought never to see him again, but not long after my marriage, he found me. I was very glad.”

“And now he is a changed man, I suppose,” said Devellyn.

Sidonie stared at the table. “That would depend upon one’s definition.”

Devellyn lifted one brow again. “This brother of yours sounds like a man of mystery.”

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his. “It has always been just George and me,” she said quietly. “George is…strong. A little ruthless, really. But when I was small, it felt as though he was the only person I could count on. Papa was rarely around, and Mother was forever quarreling with the nannies and governesses, so they did not stay long.” She paused and covered her lips with her fingertips. “Oh, my God! Why am I telling you this?”

“My compassionate, caring face?” he ventured.

Sidonie looked at him skeptically. “No, definitely not.”

The marquess grinned. “Just go on.”

And strangely, she did, with no clear notion of why. “George was Papa’s only son,” she continued. “But our parents were…were not married. We were just Papa’s second-best family.”

“Ah, I do see.”

“Yes, well, it is rather a long and miserable story,” she said. “I shan’t bore you with any more of it.”

The marquess laid aside his pack of cards. “There is much in my life I’d rather not discuss,” he admitted. “I think I understand.”

Suddenly, Sir Alasdair stood. “Good Lord, Dev!” he said. “It’s half past ten.”

Devellyn withdrew his watch. “So it is,” he agreed, standing. “Ladies, I am sure we have overstayed our welcome.”

“Oh, no!” said Julia. “Must you go?”

Sir Alasdair looked a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid we have business in Stepney,” he answered. “Unfortunately, it cannot wait.”

“Stepney!” said Julia. “You must mean to be out half the night!”

Sir Alasdair laughed. “We usually are, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you for the good company. We’ll not find it so pleasurable where we mean to go, I fear.”

After that, Lord Devellyn, too, thanked them, and all the proper bows were made. Then together, Sidonie and Julia showed their guests back down the stairs and restored to them their sticks, cloaks, and hats.

A little sorrowfully, Julia watched them cross the threshold, then shut the door with a sigh. “What thoroughly charming gentlemen!” she said, as if forgetting her earlier reluctance. “I’ve not had so much fun in many a day.”

“We’d best go down to Great Russell Street for a hackney.” Alasdair’s voice was pensive. “It won’t do to have Tenby hear that your carriage was seen anywhere near Sisk’s house.”

Lord Devellyn lifted his gaze from the piece of pavement he’d been assiduously studying. “I beg your pardon, Alasdair?” he said. “I was not attending.”

Alasdair stopped walking. “The meeting with Sergeant Sisk,” he pressed. “Christ Jesus, you’re thinking about that woman, aren’t you?”

Devellyn shook his head.
Women
was the word Alasdair should have used, since there were two of them plaguing him. Devellyn kept obsessing over them in turn—sometimes even in the same moment. But why now? And why
two?
Good Lord, could two females have been more different?

“Come on,” said Alasdair. “Step lively, Dev.”

Devellyn considered it but a moment. “I think not tonight, Alasdair,” he finally answered. “I’m tired.”

“Good Lord, do you want the Black Angel or not?” Alasdair sounded annoyed. “The sergeant is expecting us. We can bribe him out from under Tenby if you wish, but time is wasting.”

The marquess set a hand on Alasdair’s shoulder, then let it slip away. “No doubt, old chap,” he answered. “But not tonight. I’ll send a messenger to recompense the fellow for his wasted time. Will that do?”

Alasdair shrugged. “Well, it’s your miniature she stole, Dev,” he said, starting down the pavement. “Suit yourself. For my part, I think the night’s young. I believe I’ll go down to Mother Lucy’s to see if Ilsa and Inga are engaged.”

The marquess lifted one brow. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The pretty Swedish sisters everyone is talking about.”

Alasdair’s expression heated. “Twins, Dev!” he corrected. “Limber, long-legged blondes with breasts like a Rubens painting, and cornsilk hair that hangs all the way to the cracks of their luscious little bums.”

“That good, eh?”

Alasdair lifted one brow. “Quin Hewitt swears Ilsa can cross her ankles behind her head, and Inga can suck the brass off a ten-inch candlestick.”

“Hmm,” said Devellyn. “That’s descriptive.”

Alasdair slapped him encouragingly across the back. “And if Inga can suck the brass off a candlestick, she’ll find it no challenge to suck all those troubles out your pikestaff, eh? Then Ilsa can use those clever little hands of hers to rub all the tension out of your shoulders. Metaphorically, I mean. Or even literally, if you prefer.”

“My troubles, Alasdair, are in my head,” said the marquess. “The one which sits on my tense shoulders. And no amount of sucking or rubbing will fix it tonight.”

Alasdair cocked one eyebrow. “Everything flows downhill, old boy,” he retorted. “Metaphorically.
And
literally. Now, come on, be a sporting chap. Tell you what—I’ll even sing hymns with you if you like. All the way down to Lucy’s.”

“Good Lord,” said Devellyn. “We’re neither of us drunk enough for that, Alasdair. Besides, I’ve every confidence you can keep both Ilsa and Inga productively engaged without me.”

“But Dev, what you really need is—”

“A good night’s rest,” he interjected.

“But twins, old boy!” he persisted. “It would be better, even, than those three French
filles de joie
we hired in the rue Richer last spring! Remember the one who kept screaming ‘Harder! Harder!’ ’til you knocked yourself out cold on the headboard?”

Finally, Devellyn laughed. “Must you remind me?”

Alasdair grinned. “So come on, Dev. It will do you a world of good.”

“Another time, Alasdair,” he said firmly. “Pray make my apologies to Ilsa and Inga.”

“Lately, old boy, I worry what’s got into you,” said Alasdair, turning to go. “Time was, you’d have buggered a knothole in a rotting fence. Now you’re passing up Swedish twins.”

“A grievous error, I’ve no doubt,” he murmured, setting a heavy hand back on Alasdair’s shoulder. “Hold up a moment, can you?”

“That’s more like it,” said his friend magnanimously. “And you can have Ilsa first, if you prefer.”

Devellyn shook his head again. “No,” he said quietly. “No, I’m not going. But tell me, Alasdair—what did you think of our evening? Or rather, what did you think of Madame Saint-Godard?”

Alasdair was silent for a long moment. “I think,” he finally said, “that you are in shite up to your boot tops, Dev.”

Below the street level of Bedford Place, in the scullery of Number Fourteen, Sidonie and Julia were helping Mrs. Tuttle and Meg carry down the plate, china, and linen so that all could be properly washed up. Theirs was a small, informal house. A dinner party, even a small one, taxed the staff.

After what felt like ten trips down to the kitchen, Sidonie at last dragged herself up the three flights of stairs to her bedchamber. Exhausted, she stripped off her clothing, dropped it into an untidy pile, then flung herself naked across the bed with a volume of poetry. But the book could not long hold her attention, and halfway through Shelley’s “Indian Serenade,” she rolled onto her back, and stared up at the plasterwork ceiling, the words running wild in her head.

But she’d already been to
her
chamber window—and indeed, when no one else was looking, to every window which gave onto Bedford Place. And she knew that in the house across the street, the lamps had gone out long ago. Devellyn’s chamber window, whichever it happened to be, was probably three floors up and steeped in darkness. No light burned in the front of his house—nor in the rest of it, either, she’d wager.

Sidonie sighed aloud, frustrated by something she could not name. Why did it feel so hot and muggy in London tonight? The clock downstairs was striking midnight. Sidonie rolled over again, then grabbed a pillow and punched it into a semisatisfactory shape. Perhaps it felt hot and muggy because, ever since she’d tripped going up the stairs on Devellyn’s arm, she’d been thinking of him. Specifically, of her vision of him naked. And sprawled across his bed. Or
her
bed. Or—
oh, God!
She was losing her mind.

She couldn’t think
why
she was obsessed with thoughts of the man. He was, by his own admission, a lout. He was not romantic. He was not lithe, not graceful, not even handsome in any conventional sense. He dressed decently, but there was no elegance in him. He was a man’s man, open and brash. He was also a scoundrel—albeit a little more pure of heart than she’d first thought.

But why think of him at all? And in particular, why keep wallowing in lurid imaginings about him naked, whether he be saint or sinner?

Perhaps it was because Devellyn constituted a challenge. Admittedly, she wanted him—and in a deeply sexual way. It surprised her that she should be drawn to raw, brute strength. There was no charisma. Just pure visceral energy. Devellyn would simply take what he wanted without troubling himself to pretty up the process with words or tricks.

She thought of him that night in the Anchor.
“I want you,”
he had said to Ruby Black.
“Name your price.”

Those words—so blunt, so raw, and so honest—made her shiver now. But there had been tenderness in him, too. He had touched her gently for the most part, and apologized when he did not. In the lamplight, Sidonie eased her hand down the counterpane, closed her eyes, and touched herself. Oh, yes. That was her shameful secret. She wanted it, too. She had had a taste of him. And now, what he was did not matter.

It was, on one level, a relief to feel physical lust again. At least her ability to desire a man was not dead, as she had once feared. Sidonie had always enjoyed sex—until she’d discovered Pierre having it with someone else. Then it had lost its charm.

There it was again.
Charm.
That wretched word she’d come to hate. Lord Devellyn was not charming. He was a beast. And she knew beyond a doubt that he’d say
yes.
If she asked him. She’d seen that much in his eyes. She tipped her head back and stroked herself lightly. God, what a wicked woman she was.

For an instant, Sidonie toyed with the insane notion of just going across the street and asking Devellyn to take her to bed. The prospect was breathtaking to consider, and it had been a long time since anything had left Sidonie breathless. Even her midnight escapades of flirting, deceiving, and thieving no longer did so.

Could she do it? Could she just ask him, point-blank? No. Too bold, even for her. And then there was the matter of that damned tattoo…Besides, she consoled herself, Devellyn was out for the evening. He had gone off on some sort of caper with Sir Alasdair. One could only imagine what.

Just then, Thomas leapt onto the bed, severing the strange mood. And suddenly, Sidonie realized what she had to do. Or perhaps it was more a case of what she
wished
to do. Ignoring that small truth, she got up. Ever the opportunist, Thomas stretched languidly across the warm spot she’d left and watched her move through the room as she gathered her things. His face wore the dispassionate expression of a wiser, more superior being. He thought her an idiot, most likely.

“Curiosity killed the cat, eh, Tommy?”

The cat blinked his gold eyes, stretched out a hind leg, and began to nibble at his toes.

Thomas was right. She was about to do something inexplicably stupid. Yet she could not seem to stop herself. But it was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it?

After washing off her perfume with plain, strong soap, Sidonie dressed quickly in nothing but soft-soled boots, a woolen shirt, and a pair of loose trousers. Then she braided her hair, coiled it high and tight, and pulled on a brimmed leather hat. That done, she wrapped Devellyn’s possessions, including the gold miniature case, in plain handkerchiefs, tucked them into a small silk sack, and dropped Devellyn’s money on top. She could not keep such ill-got gains. Whatever Devellyn’s sins—and undoubtedly, they were legion—they weren’t the ones she’d assumed him guilty of. He had not thrown Miss Lederly, or any of his other mistresses, into the street. Quite the opposite. And now she knew that the man in the miniature was his beloved dead brother. Sidonie felt ashamed of having jumped to conclusions.

The house had fallen silent. Swiftly, she tied the bag to her with a cotton cord and dropped into her pocket the cracksman’s calling card—a slender, silver starring-hammer. Just in case. Then she wrapped her waist with a thin, strong rope attached to a small grappling hook, a trinket she’d salvaged from her seafaring days. She shoved her shirttails in to cover it all. Absent any braces, the trousers rode a bit low. Still, they would make her climb much safer.

With Julia abed and Meg still belowstairs, it was easy to slip out through the mews and into the fringes of Great Russell Street. When certain she could move unseen, she slipped through the intersection like a shadow. Still, she knew that what she was doing was incredibly dangerous. Indeed,
everything
the Black Angel did was dangerous. And foolish. Not to mention futile, in all likelihood.

So why, she asked herself for the hundredth time, did she keep doing it? No matter how many exploited women she helped, no matter how many self-indulgent noblemen she punished, she would never have the revenge she truly sought. Sadder still, her actions were but a finger in the dike of human misery. She would help but one or two, perhaps—out of one or two hundred. So why did she go on?

A death wish,
Julia had once called it. Initially, Julia had rejected out of hand Sidonie’s pleas to teach her about costuming and acting. But Sidonie had worn her down, and proven herself to be a natural mimic. Besides, it wasn’t a death wish. It was…about giving people choices.

She herself had had very few of those. Her mother, almost none, once her virtue was gone. And all of it was the fault of her father, a powerful man who saw what he wanted, took it, and damned the consequences. She and George. They
were
the damned consequences; the living, breathing results of unchecked selfishness.

But she must not think of that. Not now. Thinking of it was a good way to slip up. To misjudge oneself—or one’s quarry—when the error of a mere second might be critical. Only by focusing on the small things—a footfall, a whisper, an intuitive, well-timed glance in the right direction—would greater things be done. As if to remind her, something squeaked in the darkness. She froze. A weight, something almost buoyant, skittered ephemerally over her boot toe.

Just a mouse.
She steadied her breathing and gathered her wits. It was dark as pitch in the mews behind Devellyn’s house, and the gate, of course, was locked. She clambered up his garden fence and peeked over. No gaslight permeated here. One moved by feel and instinct. Sidonie threw her last leg over the top, balanced her weight for an instant on her hands, then dropped like a cat into the gloom.

She landed neatly, her soft boots crunching into the graveled yard. She hunkered down to listen. Silent as the grave. And twice as dark. The back of the house was unlit save for a narrow belowground casement beneath the study window. The servants’ hall, most likely. Best to avoid that.

On the opposite side of the garden, she could see the faint silhouette of a row of outbuildings which abutted the house at one end. The privy. The boothy. Perhaps a shed where ashes were stored. She kept to the shadows as she approached, scuttling along with her back to the wall. A large dustbin sat at the end farthest from the house. It was an easy task to climb onto it, then up to the low roof of the privy. She made her way across the roofline to the house, then studied the dark windows above.

Now the hard part. She looked far up—two floors up—where the master’s rooms would most likely be. Would Devellyn’s bedchamber be to the left or to the right? In the end, it did not matter. A stout drainpipe ran up the right. She would go in the right-hand window and make her way from there. Perhaps she would get lucky and find herself in Devellyn’s room. Perhaps she would be unlucky, and find the window locked. In that case, she would be wise to star the glass, hurl the sack inside, and bolt. But somehow, she knew she would not stop at that. Oh, how foolish she was.