The Devil to Pay (20 page)

Moreover, she was beginning to think that not only was Devellyn more clever than she’d given him credit for, he was also far more profound. While he gave every appearance of being a dissolute wastrel, on closer acquaintance, one could begin to see he was nothing quite so simple.

“Lord Devellyn—” she began abruptly.

“I do have a first name, Sidonie,” he interjected, smiling down at her. “It is Aleric, if you wish to use it.”

Aleric.
An unusual name. She felt something flicker deep in her memory, then it was gone. “Before we left Bedford Place,” she continued, “you made a jest about your father disliking you.”

There was a long pause. “It was not precisely a jest,” he answered. “As I once said, my father and I are estranged.”

“Yes, I recall it,” she said musingly. “Would it be terribly forward of me to ask why?”

They had walked as far as the wide, steep steps leading up to St. George’s. Devellyn stopped on the pavement and squinted his eyes against the midday sun. Then, as if making some sort of decision, he reached around and opened the gate which gave onto the narrow swath of churchyard. He led her in, and Sidonie went with a willingness that surprised her.

Just a few yards along sat a stone bench. He brushed it off with his handkerchief before offering it to her with a sweep of his hand. Surprisingly, he did not join her. Instead, he paced back and forth along the tender spring grass.

“You have been in London but a short while,” he finally said. “A year, I believe?”

“About that,” she said.

Lord Devellyn laughed a little bitterly. “So I’ve become the stuff of old gossip by now, perhaps,” he said. “Father and I fell out when I was young. No—not young. That implies I did not know what I was doing. I did. I was two-and-twenty, and very experienced.”

“Very
experienced?” she echoed doubtfully. “I remember being twenty-two.”

Devellyn gave a mirthless smile. “I don’t,” he answered. “I spent that year—and the three or four which preceded it—in a stupor of drinking, gaming, and whoring. My brother and I—” Here, he stopped, rummaged in his pocket, and withdrew the all-too-familiar miniature. “This is my brother,” he said, snapping it open easily. “His name was Gregory.”

Sidonie reached out, and touched the gold frame. “You…you found it,” she said. “I am glad.”

For a moment, he simply stared at it. “I found it,” he said, gently closing the case. “I swear, Sidonie, I don’t know which of us was worse, Greg or me. We were utter hellions. And inseparable, too. Yet we were forever trying to get the better of one another. But it was just a good-natured rivalry, I swear. That’s all it ever was.”

“My brother was far older than I,” said Sidonie. “But I think I understand.”

Devellyn smiled sourly and shook his head. “I wish I did,” he said. “I wish I could understand what happened that spring. In hindsight, I suppose Greg fell in love. Not with a woman of experience, either, but a girl making her come-out. I swear, I did not believe him serious. I thought he was just courting her a little to appease Father.”

“He wished your brother to settle down?”

“Desperately,” said Devellyn. “And I suppose Greg had actually begun to consider it. But then someone in our crowd of well-bred wastrels wagered ten guineas I could not persuade the chit into a dark library and steal a kiss.”

“Did you?”

“I was cocksure enough to try,” he said. “And she seemed willing. But Greg followed us and burst into the room. He was livid. He accused me of trying to ruin the girl, and took a swing at me. I hit him back. It was not the first time we’d come to fisticuffs over something foolish. But this time, my first blow felled him. He fractured his skull on the corner of a desk.”

Sidonie drew in her breath sharply. “Good God,” she whispered. “Did he…die?”

“Not quickly.” Devellyn would no longer even look at her. “My parents took him upstairs—it was a ball, you see, at our house in Grosvenor Square—and he lingered there unconscious for…I cannot recall. A fortnight? A month? God, I don’t know! They called doctors and surgeons—soothsayers and faith healers, too, I don’t doubt. Father was frantic. They bled him. They cupped him—good God, have you ever seen that done?—and then they trepanned his skull, all in some hopeless effort to wake him. But he didn’t. And then he died.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “Oh, my lord, I am so sorry.”

His mocking sneer was back. “It almost killed my father,” he said. “His despair was immeasurable. Unremitting. And he made it all too clear he wished I had died instead. He said it was a travesty that I was to take Greg’s place as heir, when I had killed him with my own hands.”

“Oh, my lord, I am sure that is not true.”

He turned on her suddenly, his eyes aflame. “I’m sure it is,” he gritted. “He said it. He said it over and over. And that isn’t all he said, either. He said—and he was quite right, too—that only his good name had kept me from the gallows. Men have been hanged for less. And sometimes I would to God they
had
hanged me.”

He was holding the gold pocket case clenched in his fist now, the leather of his gloves drawn so taut she began to fear he might break it. She thought of the glass plate inside, and reached out. Devellyn did not even look down as she peeled his fingers away from the case and returned it to his pocket.

“It was an accident,” she said, holding out her hand. “A tragic one, yes, but an accident nonetheless.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. Then he seemed to realize he was holding tightly to her hand. “Come on, let’s go, before God strikes me dead with a lightning bolt for standing on consecrated ground.”

Sidonie had not the heart to question him further. Indeed, she wished she had not brought up the subject at all. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and rose. As they walked together in silence, she thought of what Jean-Claude had told her that night in the alley.
The Marquess of Devellyn had killed his own brother.

Sidonie had not believed it true. Now, however, the truth seemed to make no difference in her opinion of the man. It only made her more thankful that she had run the risk of restoring to him his miniature.

They did not speak another word until they were turning from Drury Lane. Devellyn drew to a halt, covered her hand with his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I should leave you here.”

Sidonie could see the bustle of the market stalls in the distance. The flower sellers were few, but the barrows of vegetables still rolled to and fro. A weary costermonger trudged past them, returning from his rounds, still calling his wares in a halfhearted voice. “Cabbage! Carrots! Endive!”

“Thank you for seeing me this far,” she said. “I realize marketing cannot possibly be your idea of a pleasant afternoon.”

Some strange emotion passed over his face. “Sidonie, it is not that.”

“What, then?” she asked. “Devellyn, what is wrong?”

Abruptly, he took her by the hand and pulled her into the shadows of an alley. He set her back to the cool brick and looked down into her eyes with a startling intensity. “Sidonie, I’m not the sort of man a woman like you should consort with in public,” he said. “Not if you wish to keep your reputation.”

Sidonie forgot her vow to avoid him. “I value friendship above all things, my lord,” she said. “If we were to be friends, I would not care what conclusion others drew.”

“Friends?” he echoed, setting his big, warm hands on her forearms. “I hope we are already that much, Sidonie.”

She thought of how quickly he’d leapt to her aid today. “Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, of course we are.”

His grip tightened and, still holding her gaze, he dipped his head. “I’m just not sure it’s enough,” he whispered.

The kiss was inevitable. Sidonie felt her arms go slack. Heard her basket clatter to the cobblestones. And in the next moment, Lord Devellyn brushed his lips over hers. It was a kiss neither urgent nor wild, but instead, a caress of exquisite tenderness. A question. A plea. And she answered him, though she’d sworn she would not. Instead, Sidonie tipped back her head, closed her eyes, and offered herself to him.

His mouth moved on hers, his lips slanting back and forth as if she were something fragile and precious. His hands left her arms and came up so that his warm, wide palms might cup her face. His thumbs brushed along her cheekbones, delicate as a bird’s wing.

Sidonie exhaled on a sigh and let her hands skate up the powerful span of his back. Foolishly, she urged the warmth of his body against hers, urged him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he tore his mouth from hers. His words were clear and controlled.

“Oh, Sidonie, this has to stop.” He bowed his head until his forehead rested against hers. “Look at what I’m doing to you! In an alleyway, for Christ’s sake. I am so sorry.”

He was sorry.
He wanted her, yes. But not, apparently, in the way he had wanted Ruby Black. There was no heated madness in him. Sidonie forced away the sting of disappointment and cupped his cheek in her hand. “Devellyn, it’s all right,” she whispered. “No one is here. No one can see.”

“I want you, Sidonie,” he responded. “Damn it, don’t you see that? You should probably backhand me for the audacity. But I want you, as—as a
lover.
Not some lightskirt to flash about in public, but…but something else. I don’t know. Something private, just between us.”

“A secret lover?” she whispered. The notion did not strike her nearly as incongruously as it should have. But somehow, she set her hands on his chest and forced the notion away. She could never give herself to the Marquess of Devellyn. Sidonie bit her lip and mentally cursed the day she’d gotten that damned foolish tattoo.

Devellyn misunderstood her hesitance. He dropped his hands and looked past her, into the depths of the alley. “Good girl,” he said quietly. “Don’t do it. Don’t waste yourself.”

It was the second time he’d given her such a warning. She set her hand against his cheek and turned his face back into hers. “It would not be a waste, Devellyn,” she said. “Trust me to choose my friends, and choose them well. But to be your lover? I am sorry. I cannot.”

His eyes were very solemn. “It would be futile for me to hope, then?”

Sidonie swallowed hard. “For anything beyond friendship?” she asked. “Yes.”

He bent down and picked up her empty basket. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t.” She shook her head, and hooked the basket over her arm. “And I cannot explain it.”

“A lady need not explain such things,” he said, smiling. But it was a forced smile, and they both knew it.

“Come to the market with me,” she said impulsively. “I shall need help carrying my purchases.”

“What a liar you are, Sidonie Saint-Godard,” he said.

But he took the basket and followed like a dutiful spaniel as Sidonie picked over the merchandise displayed in the stalls along the marketplace. But her mind, strangely, was still on Ruby Black, the woman Devellyn desired with a passion he had called maddening. A passion which left him aching and sleepless. Powerful words, indeed. What would it be like, she wondered, to be the object of such a man’s obsession?

And then it struck her that she was.
She
was Ruby. Why did she keep feeling those little stabs of envy? Good Lord! This was becoming ridiculous. She felt like a love-struck schoolgirl again—over an unrepentant rake! She shut the thought away and forced her mind to her marketing.

This time of year, there was an abundance of root crops and a dearth of the green vegetables Sidonie loved. She made her way deep into the market, methodically picking over the produce and dropping the best into her basket. Suddenly, from the corner of one eye, she spied one last bunch of hothouse broccoli lying in a shallow basket just an arm’s length away. She reached for it just as a thin, long-fingered hand scooped it up.

Sidonie did not believe in surrendering gracefully. “I’m afraid that was mine!” she insisted, just before looking up into the wide, golden eyes of her brother.

“I cower before such steely resolve, my dear.” George Kemble let his gaze sweep down Lord Devellyn, then dropped the broccoli into their basket. “Pray introduce me to your escort.”

Lord Devellyn liked neither the looks nor the tone of the slender, perfectly dressed man who stood opposite them. He was strikingly handsome, but in a dangerous way, like a serpent slithering through sunlit water. He was neither young nor old, and his gaze drifted haughtily—and quite fearlessly—down Devellyn’s length.

Sidonie slipped her arm awkwardly from Devellyn’s. “Hello, George,” she managed. “What a surprise.”

“I gather,” said the man. “Now, my love, about that introduction?”

Sidonie recovered herself. “Lord Devellyn, this is my brother, George Bau—I mean, George Kemble.”

Fleetingly, Devellyn wondered what she had been about to say, but the concern was short-lived.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” said Kemble, his glittering eyes belying his words. Then he returned his attention to Sidonie. “My dear, I wish you to dine with me tonight. At seven. I shall send a carriage.”

Sidonie’s brow furrowed. “I cannot,” she said. “I promised to prepare dinner for Julia.”

George Kemble did not take the refusal well. “What rubbish!” he snapped. “The woman is your companion. Surely you need not act as her cook?”

“George!” Sidonie’s voice was chiding. “Tuttle is ill, and Meg is off. I cannot be away.” She leaned forward and gave a little tug on the man’s cravat, though it was already flawlessly arranged. “There, you are perfect now. I shall see you on Friday as usual, George.”

Her brother bowed stiffly to them. “Then I bid you both good day.”

A very black mood came over Lord Devellyn as he watched the man stalk away. And he already knew Sidonie would be seeing her brother long before Friday arrived—whether she wished to or not.

Beside him, Sidonie cleared her throat. “Onions,” she said, moving as if to lead him in the direction opposite her brother. “I need onions. And eggs.”

Out of sheer irritation, Devellyn took her hand and laid it back on his arm. “Well, my dear,” he murmured. “Shall I still trust you to choose your own friends?”