The Devil to Pay (24 page)

“George!” she whispered, her hand going out to grasp her brother’s arm. “Oh, God, George, what are you saying?”

Her brother’s expression gentled. “You do not know?”

Sidonie set the heel of her hand to her forehead.
“Aleric,”
she murmured. “His name…is Aleric. And his family name, why, it is Hilliard, is it not? I am guessing now, you see. I do not know. I never asked. Oh, God. How stupid I have been!”

“Hilliard, yes,” said George quietly. “He became Gravenel’s heir after his brother died.”

A strange, sick feeling clutched at her throat. “That was an accident, George,” she protested. “Just an accident. Still, to think that we are…are related! How
closely?
Good Lord, George, tell me!”

“Distantly,” he said, shrugging. “A second cousin once removed, perhaps? When Father died without a son—”

“A
legitimate
son,” she interjected.

“Yes, whatever,” he murmured. “Anyway, then the title passed so far down the family tree, I lost count. The present duke is a very staunch, upright sort of chap. Nothing like Father. Certainly nothing like his own son.”

But Sidonie’s head was pounding now. “Cousins!” she groaned. “George, why didn’t you warn me when I first mentioned him?”

“Because I loathe revisiting the past,” he retorted. “And I detest talking about Devellyn, who has had every advantage in the world and is squandering it. Besides, my dear, I hardly thought it mattered. How was I to know what you were up to?”

Sidonie nodded weakly. “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”

But George was watching her warily now. “My dear, was I wrong?”

“Wrong? About what?”

“Does
it matter?”

Sidonie was silent for a long moment. “No,” she finally whispered. “No, George. I suppose it does not.”

“Good,” said George, patting her on the hand. “For a moment, you had me concerned. Now sleep, Sidonie. Another few days’ rest will set you to rights.”

She set aside the mug, and shook her head. “I must go home,” she said. “Walrafen’s charity ball is Thursday. I am to take Miss Arbuckle.”

“You must rest,” said her brother more sternly. “We will see how you go on when Thursday arrives.”

Sidonie watched him withdraw, glowering at him from the bed. But on the threshold, George spun about. “One more thing, old girl,” he murmured. “Those chaps who cut you, did they have names?”

Sidonie closed her eyes. “Pug,” she said. “One was called Pug. And the other, he was called Budley. Why? Do you know them?”

George smiled faintly. “Regrettably, I have not the honor,” he said. “An oversight which I shall shortly rectify.”

“A man’s nature,” Francis Bacon said, “is often hidden, sometimes overcome, but seldom extinguished.” It was the Marquess of Devellyn’s nature to be wicked and self-indulgent. But contrary to Mr. Bacon’s fine theory, his nature seemed to have become unreliable of late, and some of his most entrenched watchwords—apathy, indolence, and intemperance, to name but a few—were failing him. He’d worn his nerves nigh to a frazzle lusting after—no,
obsessing
over—two different women, neither of whom he could now locate.

Sidonie had seemingly vanished. He watched her door incessantly when he was home. When he was out, he watched for Ruby Black on every street corner, his eyes running over the crowd, feverishly searching for a glimpse of red. He had told Alasdair that he’d no further interest in finding her. But that had been a lie. He couldn’t get the feel of her, the taste of her, out of his mind.

He had begun to feel as if a mischievous fiend lurked in the back of his mind, yanking his strings in spastic fits and starts like some sadistic puppeteer, and making him do things which were decidedly un-Devellynish. And it had to have been that same fiend who, with his curst pitchfork of fate, prodded Devellyn from the gloom of Alasdair’s carriage the following Thursday evening, and onto the plush red carpet which ran into Lord Walrafen’s ballroom.

There he stood like some lamb to the slaughter whilst his name was shouted out for half the
ton
to hear. All turned to gape. Then, pretending they’d done neither, they averted their eyes and began whispering. Alas, the fiend was not done with Devellyn. It sent him straight down the length of the room to the corner where Sidonie Saint-Godard lingered with all the dowagers and duennas. Some might have thought it a bold move. But it was more reflexive than that; an unthinking bolt toward the familiar and the comforting. Somehow, Sidonie had become that and more.

She, too, was staring at him. He took her firmly by the elbow. “Dance,” he gritted.

It wasn’t an invitation. Sidonie closed her mouth and thrust her glass of orgeat at someone standing next to her. It was then that Devellyn grasped the true depths of fate’s cruelty. Lady Kirton—one of his mother’s bosom beaus—turned to take the glass.

“Good Lord!” she said.
“Aleric—?”

Devellyn stopped dead. He’d thumbed his nose at society for two decades, but even he dared not cut Isabel, Dowager Countess of Kirton and Professional Paragon of Virtue. “Good evening, ma’am.” He gave a curt bow. “You are well?”

“Well enough to survive the shock of seeing you.” She stared at the hand grasping Sidonie’s elbow. “Madame Saint-Godard, do you require an introduction to this rapscallion?”

Sidonie blushed. “I—no, thank you,” she said. “We are well acquainted.”

“I can’t believe you would admit that,” he said, pulling her to him.

Sidonie set her hand in his. “Had I a choice?” she retorted. “By the way, Devellyn, if you wish to play Attila the Hun, Julia has one of those pointy helmets in her theater trunk.”

Devellyn was trying to think of a pithy retort when he noticed the music. Oh, God.
A waltz?
But just as well. He wasn’t especially good at the more intricate dances, and by God, he had something to say.

Sidonie looked bemused, but swept gracefully into the first turn. “I never saw a man look more miserably out of place,” she said. “Why on earth are you here?”

“Where on earth have you been?” he demanded.

She drew back, almost missing a step. “I beg your pardon?” she said stiffly. “I did not know I was accountable to you, my lord.”

“You said we were friends, Sidonie,” he said gruffly. “Friends do not vanish for three days with no word. If you’re avoiding me, I’d rather you just say so.”

“Devellyn, half the House of Lords is watching me waltz with you,” she reminded him. “What, precisely, do you think I’m avoiding?”

Just then, the music trickled to a halt. “Blast!” he said. “Is it over?”

Sidonie’s expression softened. “It was over when we started, Devellyn,” she said. “The ball, too, or much of it. That was the supper dance.”

Devellyn looked around the room, the need to escape surging stronger. Dancers were trickling from the floor, but he had not released Sidonie’s hand. She tugged on him impatiently. “Devellyn, I must go.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “No, please,” he whispered. “Sidonie, I need to talk to you.”

“I cannot.” Sidonie looked about in frustration. “I am chaperoning Miss Arbuckle.”

“Just five minutes,” he pleaded. “Everyone is going in to supper. Surely she will be safe enough?”

Sidonie scanned the crowd. “Probably,” she agreed. “I shall just see who she is dining with. Where will you be?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Waiting.”

Miss Arbuckle, as it happened, was clinging to the arm of a baby-faced baronet just up from the country. They were surrounded by half a dozen equally innocent-looking young people, with a maiden aunt thrown in for good measure. Sidonie nodded her approval and slipped away. Lord Devellyn was pacing the upstairs corridor by the ladies’ retiring room and garnering all manner of horrified looks in the process. He seemed oblivious.

“In here,” he said, when the passageway cleared. He pushed open a door and dragged her into a small, dimly lit parlor. A low fire burned in the grate, but the room was unoccupied. Without another word, he turned and kissed her.

His last kiss had been surprisingly tenuous. This one was not. This time, he claimed her, opening his mouth over hers at once and tasting her deeply. His hands slid up her back, holding her gently but firmly to him. Sidonie could not help herself. Somewhere inside her, a spark burst to flame. She melted against him, her arms going round his waist. Devellyn’s breathing roughened, his nostrils flaring wide as he slanted his mouth over hers again, thoroughly tasting her.

His hand fisted in her skirts and began inching them up. She had to crush the urge to encourage him. She felt wanton, almost foolishly desperate. And then she remembered just where she was.
Who she was with.

“Stop,” she whispered, as his open mouth slid down her neck.

“Oh, Sidonie,” he rasped. “Must I?”

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall. She wanted nothing so much as to give herself up to his skilled touch. But she would be starting something she dared not finish.

“Yes, stop,” she said. “We cannot.”

He pulled back incrementally. In the firelight, his gaze held hers as his hands came up to cradle her face. “I know it’s wrong, Sidonie, to want you,” he said. “But I do. Enough to make a damned fool of myself. Enough to put your reputation at risk. And for all my blunt ways and bad temper, you are not indifferent to me. Are you? Tell me, Sidonie. I need to know.”

Sidonie tore her eyes from his and stared blindly into the depths of the room. “You know I am not,” she said. “I wish I were. It might be easier.”

“They say nothing worth having is easy,” he said. “By God, I’m beginning to believe it.”

“Is that why you came tonight, Devellyn?” she asked. “To try to seduce me?”

“I shouldn’t have come at all,” he said. “We’ll be the talk of all Mayfair tomorrow. And your brother will likely try to kill me. But Sidonie, I need you.”

“You
need
me?” Her voice was incredulous.

“Need, yes.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I can’t explain it, Sidonie, not even to myself,” he went on. “Let me come to you tonight. Let me make love to you. Please.”

His touch was sinfully tempting, his words almost persuasive, and Sidonie was beginning to suspect just how he’d earned his nickname. “Why me, Devellyn?” she answered. “There are a thousand other women you could have.”

He laughed mockingly. “Sidonie, I’ve had a thousand other women.”

“But I have taken no lover since Pierre,” she returned. “I know nothing of how such things are done.”

“With discretion,” he answered, setting his lips to her temple. “Tonight, when you arrive home, light a candle in your parlor window if all is quiet. I shall come to your door. Will you let me in?”

Sidonie swallowed hard. “Yes,” she answered. “But because we need to talk.”

“Talk!” he groaned. “Christ Jesus, Sidonie! Why do women always want to talk? I’m no bloody good at it. Let me take you to bed, love, and show you what I feel.”

Sidonie licked her lips. “I hate to admit how much you tempt me, Devellyn,” she whispered. “There, are you satisfied?”

He rested his forehead on hers, and Sidonie felt his body sag with relief. “Satisfied?” he echoed. “Nothing has satisfied me since I laid eyes on you, Sidonie. But I am a little reassured.”

“Reassured? Why?”

“Two days ago, I thought never to see you again,” he whispered. “Every time I called, you were out, and Mrs. Crosby has been avoiding me.”

Sidonie cleared her throat. It was time to be honest with Devellyn, so far as she could. “The truth is,” she began, “I had a slight accident. Julia knew little about it.”

“An accident?” His eyes searched her face in the candlelight. “Of what sort?”

She hesitated. “I was walking alone near the river one evening when—”

“Alone?” he interjected. “At
night?”

“Yes, that would have been Julia’s reaction, too,” murmured Sidonie. “And yes, I have learnt my lesson, thank you. Two footpads wished to rob me. I did
not
wish it. And in the midst of a rather heated debate, someone drew a knife.”

“A knife!” His eyes ran over her desperately. “Good God, are you all right?”

Sidonie dropped her gaze. “Quite all right,” she said. “I got away, and went to George’s with nothing but a slight cut. He stitched it up and made me stay put until I was mended.”

“Cut—!” Devellyn’s voice was hollow. “My God! Where?”

Sidonie touched her right shoulder.

His hands were on her at once, pushing away her shawl. “Show me,” he ordered, tugging at her sleeve. “Take this down, Sidonie. I wish to see it.
Now.”

His motions were oddly desperate. Her shawl slithered to the floor. Already designed to bare her shoulders, the low-cut sleeve slipped down easily to reveal the top of the bandaging around her upper arm.

“Dear God,” he whispered, running an unsteady finger along the top of the dressing. “I’ll kill the man who did this. How bad? How many stitches? Christ Jesus, Sidonie, your brother’s got no business sewing up wounds! What if it should turn septic? What? Take off that bandage. I wish to see it.”

“This is not necessary,” she said tightly. They had begun to tussle over the sleeve, Sidonie tugging up, and Devellyn tugging down. “It is healing. It is fine.”

“Damn it, don’t argue!” he growled.

Just then the door beside them flew open. “Oh, dear, this isn’t Walrafen’s office!” chirped a female voice. “Did we take a wrong turn, Cole?”

Sidonie and Devellyn froze. One hand still clutching the doorknob, a tall, handsome gentleman stood on the threshold, staring straight at them—or more specifically, at the very naked shoulder Devellyn was intent on baring.

“I do beg your pardon!” he said, horrified. Then, over his shoulder, “The room is engaged, Isabel,” he murmured. “Let us go elsewhere.”

But the lady—Lady Kirton, to be exact—had already swept past him. “Madame Saint-Godard!” she murmured, her face bursting into color. “Oh, dear!”

Sidonie could only imagine the impression she made with her hair and clothing in disarray and her lips swollen from Devellyn’s kisses. Clumsily, the marquess tugged up Sidonie’s sleeve, then shot her a questioning look, his eyes aggrieved. “Out!” she mouthed.

With a curt nod, the marquess started toward the door. “I daresay I waste my time saying so,” he gritted in Lady Kirton’s direction. “But this isn’t what it appears.”

Lady Kirton pursed her lips.

Devellyn bowed stiffly. “I beg your pardon. I must go.”

On that, the tall gentleman hastened out, too, his expression still stricken. “Isabel, we shall look over those papers later,” he said before slamming the door.

Lady Kirton looked at Sidonie and smiled faintly. “I do apologize,
madame,”
she said moving nearer. “Are you perfectly all right?”

“Quite, thank you,” said Sidonie coolly. “But in defense of Lord Devellyn, my lady, I should say that he—”

“Oh, you needn’t defend him to me, my dear!” Lady Kirton interjected, but her cheeks were still pink. “I knew that scamp before he was breeched.”

“I think it my duty,” said Sidonie tightly, folding down her sleeve so that the bandage showed. “You see, I suffered an accident last week. I was set upon by cutpurses.”

Lady Kirton blanched. “How dreadful!”

“Indeed,” Sidonie agreed. “When he heard of my injury, Devellyn simply wished to—to reassure…” Words failed, for how was she to explain what she barely understood? “We are neighbors, you see. Friends. I fear he was seized by concern.”

Her eyes warmed. “Yes, well, that bandage would concern anyone, my dear.”

Sidonie tried to adjust the sleeve, but the fabric caught on the bandage. “Allow me,” murmured her ladyship. She laid aside a sheaf of papers she’d carried in, and moved to help Sidonie. “Have you sutures underneath?”

“A half dozen, I collect,” she said. “I was not quite awake when they were put in.”

Lady Kirton smoothed the sleeve over Sidonie’s shoulder. “There, now,” she clucked. “All is in order. Goodness, footpads! What an exciting life you do lead!”

“Exciting?” Sidonie turned to face her. “I hardly think so.”

Her ladyship blinked innocently. “But I’m given to understand you sailed the world with your late husband,” she answered. “And you have—well, you have your students. And your tutoring. And everything else that you, well,
do.
Now you have been set upon by footpads. Nothing exciting ever happens to me.”

Lady Kirton sounded dithery, but she was getting at something, Sidonie feared. “I was unaware, ma’am, that teaching was thought particularly exciting.”

Lady Kirton lifted her brows, and reached for Sidonie’s fingers. “I also noticed
this
at my musicale,” she said, lifting Sidonie’s gloved hand in her own. “When you were turning pages for Miss Arbuckle at the piano. Meddlesome, am I not?”