The Devil to Pay (28 page)

Her face fell. “Ah, you are thinking of Jane,” she murmured. “But Jane is now Lady Helmshot, Aleric, as she has been for nearly a dozen years. Indeed, I cannot see as she has suffered overmuch.”

“She was forced to marry a man twice her age.”

“Forced?” said his mother archly. “The only thing you forced was Lord Helmshot’s hand.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you proposed to Jane, did you not?”

“The following day, as Father ordered,” he snapped. “And she refused me in her next breath.”

“Yes, but at the time, your brother still lived,” murmured his mother. “And we all, Jane included, had every hope he would awaken and resume a normal life.”

“Yes, well, he didn’t, did he? And that, too, is my fault.”

The duchess set down her teacup and pressed her fingertips into her temples. “Aleric, I have not the heart to fight that battle just now,” she said wearily. “Moreover, I am making an altogether different point.”

“Then for God’s sake, Mother, just make it.”

“I shall give you a question instead,” she returned. “Why do you think Jane went into that dark library with you?
You
had no expectation of a title.”

“She went to make Greg jealous,” he admitted.

“Yes, and it worked, too,” said his mother. “Gregory came storming in, ready to guard his little conquest from his brother’s ravening hands. How very romantic!”

“Well, I guess I’ll know what to say next time I’m accused of being cynical, Mamma,” said Devellyn. “I’ll say I got it honest.”

His mother laughed. “A cynic, am I?” she answered. “Well, I have every idea that had the two of you not quarreled, and had Greg not fallen—”

Devellyn cut her off. “Good God, Mother, he did not fall,” he interjected. “I hit him, and damned deliberately, too.”

But his mother spoke over him, saying, “As I said, had Greg not fallen, I have every idea Jane would be Lady Devellyn now,” she went on calmly. “But instead, Lord Helmshot offered for her two days later, and Jane—how do they say it at White’s?—yes, she hedged her bet and set a long engagement.”

Devellyn smiled bitterly. “You never did like Jane, did you?”

His mother shrugged her narrow shoulders. “She knew what Greg would think when she went into that room alone with you,” she said. “She was an opportunist. And eventually, Greg would have seen it, but he might well have married her by then.”

“I am not sure how we came to be discussing Jane and Greg, Mother,” said Devellyn.

“Yes, forgive me, you wished my advice, did you not?”

Devellyn smiled sarcastically. “And I’m paying dearly for it, aren’t I?”

His mother began to rearrange the pleats of her blue dress. “It would help me vastly to know the lady’s name, Aleric.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” he answered. “The lady’s name makes no difference.”
Lord, what gammon!
It would make a vast deal of difference if it got out.

His mother sniffed. “Well, is she respectable? Virtuous?”

“Blister it, if she were some lightskirt, would I be here now, having myself dragged through your briar patch?”

“Point taken, Aleric,” she said. “So the lady is virtuous. Is she virginal?”

“A widow,” he said stiffly. “But young, and not well connected.”

“Ah, I see,” said his mother, then she paused for a long moment. “Of course, if you sincerely wish to protect her good name, the best alternative would be marriage.”

Devellyn looked at his mother as if he’d not thought of it. “Marriage?” he said. “Marriage to
me?
You’re as mad as Great-aunt Admeta if you think my name would offer her reputation one shred of protection. And frankly, Mamma, I don’t want the woman.”

His mother seemed to concede the point. “Very well,” she murmured. “No wedding bells, then. How many people witnessed this compromising situation?”

“Just two,” grumbled Devellyn. “It was your crony Isabel, and that friend of hers. The tall, blond Adonis of a fellow who married Lady Kildermore.”

“Ah, the Reverend Mr. Amherst!”

“Damn! A parson? Worse and worse!”

“Do mind your foul mouth, Aleric,” said his mother perfunctorily. “And you’ve little to worry about with Amherst. One could not pry gossip out of that man with a crowbar.”

Devellyn relaxed a little.

His mother leaned across the table and set a hand on his arm. “Perhaps I should just pop round to Berkeley Square and drop a card on Isabel,” said his mother. “We are old friends, you know.”

She moved as if to rise, but on impulse, he seized her hand. “Mamma, wait,” he rasped. “Perhaps you oughtn’t go yet.”

Her color faded, and she settled back down with a worried expression. “What is it, my dear?”

He chewed at his lip for a moment, a habit he thought he’d conquered in boyhood. “I lied,” he finally said. “The lady’s name might matter.”

She patted his hand. “I was just going to ask Isabel anyway.”

“Isabel does not know all,” he said. “You see, the lady was wed young, to a French sea captain. After his death, she came over from France, and took a house opposite mine in Bedford Place. I thought until recently she was French.”

His mother raised one brow. “And she is not?”

Devellyn shook his head. “Her name is Madame Saint-Godard,” he said. “But before her marriage she was Sidonie Bauchet. Do you know her?”

His mother frowned and shook her head.

“She has a brother, who calls himself Kemble,” Devellyn went on. “He is a businessman in the Strand, and very wealthy. And I’ve discovered he has influential friends, Walrafen amongst them. But the family otherwise moves on the fringes of society. They are not well placed, and she values her good name.”

His mother clucked sympathetically. “Isabel will not talk, my love.”

“Mamma, are you sure?” he asked stridently. “I feel doubly responsible here. The lady, you see, is a distant relation to us. She is the daughter of the previous duke.”

His mother looked confused. “No, dear, she died in India.”

Devellyn reached across to squeeze her hand. “His
illegitimate
daughter,” he said. “She is the child of Claire Bauchet. Gravenel’s courtesan, Mamma.”

“Oh, dear!” His mother’s gaze softened. “Was there a daughter? The little boy, now, that I recall all too well. Your father was outraged, of course, but he had no recourse.”

“He knew Claire Bauchet?”

His mother shook her head. “Aunt Admeta did, I collect,” she said. “Poor, poor girl. He ruined her, you know.”

“Ruined her—?”

His mother’s eyes came back into focus. “The previous duke,” she said softly. “Mademoiselle Bauchet was his daughter’s governess at Stoneleigh. She was young, and very beautiful. When she would not return his flirtations, he forced himself on her. Our senior servants still whisper about it.”

“Good God! Sidonie never mentioned that.”

“Then don’t bring it up,” cautioned his mother. “The duke was her father. She may feel affection for him.”

Or she might feel outrage,
thought Devellyn. She might even want revenge. But her father was dead. “And this poor Claire Bauchet,” he murmured, “she stayed with that contemptible dog? All those years?”

His mother’s eyes widened. “What choice had she?” she asked, lifting her elegant shoulders. “She was carrying his child.”

Devellyn was enraged and hardly knew why. “By God, I would have killed him!”

“Oh, Aleric, you fool.” Irritation flared in his mother’s eyes. “You’d have done nothing of the sort.”

“I would,” he insisted. “And gone to the gallows gladly.”

“Spoken like a man!” she snapped. “The poor girl was
ruined,
Aleric, and she was with child. She could not afford the satisfaction of killing him. I declare, you men know nothing of motherhood. Even before birth, a mother will tolerate anything, and sacrifice anything, just to protect her child. You cannot begin to comprehend what that kind of devotion is like.”

Devellyn fell quiet and considered it. Perhaps his mother’s anger was justified. He thought of her, of how slender and fragile his mother had always seemed. And yet she had defended him nearly to the death during those last dark, hellish days of Greg’s life. He remembered the quarrels, the ugly accusations she had flung back in his father’s face. Her defense of him had all but torn asunder her marriage. And when his father had remained embittered, she had gone to her own father, a very wealthy man, and begged him to support Devellyn.

His grandfather had done that, and more. He had made Devellyn his heir, enabling him to continue his life as a gentleman. And while Devellyn had been deeply grateful, he had still proceeded to throw much of it away out of rage and bitterness. How could he have failed to appreciate her sacrifice?

He stared at the coffee, and dragged both hands through his hair. “I am sorry, Mamma,” he whispered. “I am not thinking clearly today.”

His mother relaxed into her chair. “This woman,” she said. “Sidonie. Is she a good sort of person, do you think?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, she is wonderful.”

And in that moment, he meant it. His wrath toward her was forgotten, and he felt that Sidonie was the best sort of person he’d ever met. She possessed every womanly virtue one could imagine. Indeed, she reminded him very much of the woman who sat opposite him. Delicate. Elegant. Pragmatic. With the heart and the spirit of a lioness.

He looked up to see his mother standing before him. “Aleric, I must visit Isabel now,” she said, kissing him again. “Please trust me, my dear, to take care of this. I hate to see you so worried.”

Devellyn felt the last vestige of fear drain away. He
did
trust his mother. She would not promise what she could not deliver. Sidonie’s reputation would remain untarnished—at least by his hand.

His mother was already halfway out the door. “By the way, congratulations,” she said, halting. “Honeywell tells me the Duke Street house is finished, and you’ll be returning next week.”

“Does he?” muttered Devellyn. “I daresay we shall, then.”

“Aleric! You don’t sound pleased.”

Devellyn shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, Mother. I’m a little tired of living in Duke Street, if you know what I mean.”

His mother wrinkled her nose. “Well, Bloomsbury is not very fashionable nowadays.”

Devellyn laughed richly. “Nor am I, Mamma,” he said, rising and offering his arm. “Nor am I.”

The Duchess of Gravenel wasted not a moment in racing across town to Mayfair. By this hour, the streets were choked with fine carriages and footmen, as the
haute ton
rushed back and forth between one another’s houses, dropping cards, delivering flowers, and making a general frenzy of the social season. Nonetheless, the duchess was quite certain she would find her girlhood friend at home in Berkeley Square. Lady Kirton was little enamored of society.

Lady Kirton was not, however, at her desk. In fact, she must have been peeking out her parlor window, for she threw open the door herself. “Elizabeth, at last!” she said. “Go into the library at once. We’ve not a moment to waste.”

The duchess was taken aback. “You know why I’ve come?”

Lady Kirton nodded sagely. “About Madame Saint-Godard, yes?” she whispered, pulling the duchess down the passageway. “About what happened last night in Walrafen’s parlor? You should have seen Aleric’s face, my dear.”

“Oh, I think he is done in by this one, Isabel,” said the duchess. “I think he is head over heels.”

“I agree,” said her friend. “Never have I seen Aleric lose his composure so thoroughly—and all of it over a cut!”

The duchess lifted her brows. “Do you believe that silly story, then?”

“The story that Madame Saint-Godard had a run-in with some common criminals?” asked Isabel. “Oh, indeed! But I do not think it silly. I find it quite chilling. You see, my dear, I know a little something about our dear Madame Saint-Godard and her penchant for trouble. More, perhaps, than does Aleric.”

“Do you indeed?”

“Oh, I fear so,” said Lady Kirton, quietly shutting the door. “And believe me, Elizabeth, when I say that we have not a moment to lose in getting this pair to the altar!”

By half past eight, Devellyn was strategically positioned in a room overlooking the entryway of the Cross Keys Inn. He’d taken the precaution of sending Polk down to Cheapside to engage the bedchamber some six hours earlier. Then he had paced the floor of his study until the footman returned with the key, along with some ludicrous tale about having bribed the innkeeper for the best view using the change from Devellyn’s ten-pound note.

Devellyn had taken the key and waved away the explanation. He had clutched it tight as he paced, the metal digging into his flesh. He had told himself there was no need to arrive much before nine. Nonetheless, he’d been standing—or stooping, rather—by the window for better than an hour now, staring down at the traffic in Wood Street. He’d sent down for a piece of beefsteak, but tonight, it tasted like boiled boot leather.

The room was little better. Tucked up under the eaves like an architectural afterthought, it was small and drab. Devellyn had to hunch in order to stand near the window or go through the door, and the place was furnished with nothing but a narrow bedstead, a washstand, and a stout deal table with two chairs. Thwarted and impatient, Devellyn was beginning to feel like a caged lion in the room’s tight confines.

Still, it was the view he’d wanted, not the ambiance. He had the strangest feeling that if he could just see Sidonie in the role of the Black Angel, he would be able to come to terms with the truth. Accept it, perhaps, and move on. And yet, his every nerve seemed on edge.
Would she come? And would he see her?
Yes, by God, he would. And he was determined to put an end to this, once and for all.

Despite the hour, the Cross Keys was full of activity. In the lamplit yard below, pedestrians and ostlers dashed madly about. Carriages rattled in and out constantly, a few of them sleek blue mail coaches, returning from their rounds. People of all classes hastened through the front door, some seeking accommodation, others just a pint of porter in the taproom.

The taproom.
The note had mentioned it specifically. A respectable lady would not wish to be seen meeting a man in a common taproom, would she? The Black Angel would be dressed, then, as someone with less propriety. Perhaps he was watching for Ruby Black?

Ruby. Yes. It might be Ruby.

Good Lord. There was no Ruby. He needed to get a grip. Devellyn dragged a hand through his hair and tried to focus through the gloom beyond his window. And in that instant, he saw her. She crossed through a pool of lamplight, her stride bold, her hips swaying.
Ruby Black.
Though she wore a dark cloak tossed casually over her shoulders, her red velvet dress and garishly clashing hair were unmistakable. From above, she looked and moved so little like Sidonie, Devellyn marveled at the alteration.

He hastened down the two flights of stairs, then made his way through the inn’s public areas until he reached a side entrance to the taproom. This chamber was slightly better lit than the Anchor had been, and it was easy enough for Devellyn to take up a position just outside the door. He drew back into the shadow of a large cupboard and watched her saunter between the tables.

She was looking for someone. Without success, it seemed, for she finally sat down at a narrow trestle table in the rear and turned her face to the main entrance of the room. Still, at least a dozen pairs of hungry eyes were watching her, taking in her mouth and her breasts and the enticing curve of her hips, which were snugly—
too
snugly—encased in red velvet. They looked at her boldly, as if she were for sale. Which was, after all, the impression she sought to give. Devellyn felt his temper ratchet dangerously upward. He bloody well hoped Sidonie was enjoying her little ruse. It was the last one he meant her to have.

Just then, a newcomer entered the room, a striking young man with quick black eyes. He was thin, slightly built, and dressed with Bond Street elegance. In the lamplight, he cast his eyes unhurriedly over the room. Eventually, however, he caught Sidonie’s eye and approached. After exchanging a few words, he sat down with a measured grace.

Ruby
—Sidonie—
leaned across the table eagerly. Her skin was darker, her face less drawn, and her mole, he noticed, had moved from her mouth to the corner of her eye. Careless of her. Still, it taunted him. After some five minutes, the conversation grew more intense. The young man’s expression became fervent. Which meant it was likely just a matter of time before Ruby enticed him into doing something foolish.

That moment, a serving girl bearing a tray full of tankards passed by, fleetingly obscuring Devellyn’s view. Devellyn tried to look around her, uncertain what his next move ought to be. Perhaps he should simply walk over and warn the young man, who was quite obviously in over his head. Yes, apparently he was naive enough to be lured into the Black Angel’s trap. He reached across the table, and seized her hand. She drew back, nodded, then relaxed again, as if some sort of bargain had been struck.

The taproom was growing crowded, the conversation and the smoke thickening. The tension was thickening, too. And then came the ugly moment. The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his purse. Still, only an experienced gamester would have noticed the money he so cleverly palmed, then passed across the table.

Sidonie took it, slipped it into her shabby reticule, and moved as if to rise. The gentleman did the same. Devellyn was halfway across the room before he knew what he was about.

Ruby—no,
Sidonie
—saw him coming. She panicked and dropped the reticule. The young man remained unaware until Devellyn grabbed Sidonie by the arm and jerked her from the table.

The man whipped around, his gaze glittering furiously. “See here,
monsieur!”
he said, his accent heavy. “Unhand her at once!”

Devellyn stuck his face into the young man’s. “See
here,
you naive little coxcomb,” he growled in a low undertone. “This is no twopenny whore you’re dealing with. Now get out, and count your blessings before she strips you of everything but your knackers.”

For Sidonie, the game was obviously up. She seemed to turn from Ruby into Sidonie before his very eyes. “Go!” she ordered the young man as Devellyn dragged her away. “Go, now!”

The young man shot her one last reluctant glance and headed for the door. Devellyn snatched up the reticule, and flung it after him. “And take your bloody money!” he bellowed. “She is not for sale.”

Sputtering indignantly, Sidonie tried to wriggle from his grasp. “Let go, you brute!” she said. “Stop! You’re hurting my wrist.”

One or two patrons started from their chairs as if to intercede. Then, taking in Devellyn’s size, they sat back down again. Sidonie was trying to wrench herself from his grasp, but Devellyn was ruthless. He dragged her through the taproom to the stairs and started up, ignoring the pair of serving girls who were gaping at them.

“Let me go, you swine!” Deliberately, Sidonie snared one toe on the lip of the stair and dragged at him until she was worse than a deadweight. Devellyn just bent down, grabbed her round the waist, and tossed her over one shoulder. She landed with a loud
oomph!
and was momentarily winded.

Devellyn dashed up the stairs, then turned to start up the next flight. But Sidonie kept squirming and flailing. He smacked her soundly across her arse with the flat of his hand. “Hold still, you little hellcat!”

“Put me down!” she screeched, pounding on his back with both fists. “Devellyn, damn you, put me
down.”
Then she altered her tactic. “Help! Help! I’m being abducted!”

Devellyn kicked open his door, tossed Sidonie onto the bed, and slammed it shut again. “They can’t hear you,
Ruby,”
he snarled.

Sidonie scrabbled up awkwardly, her breasts nearly spilling from the tight velvet. “What do you want from me?” she snapped. “What?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the taproom. “Perhaps I’ll just take what your pretty Frenchman paid for,” he suggested, his hands going to the fall of his trousers. “It would be a bloody shame to let a fancy piece like you go to waste.”

“Look here, Devellyn, that wasn’t what it appeared.” Her eyes darted about the room as if looking for an escape route. “Jean-Claude is a friend. He was trying to warn me. Someone—a fence—was just arrested.”

Still glowering, Devellyn folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door.

“Oh, I don’t have to put up with this!” Sidonie bolted for the window and shoved at it impotently.

“Sweeting, you’ll never make it,” he warned. “And you’d likely break a leg if you did.”

She looked over her shoulder contemptuously. “Don’t be a fool, Devellyn,” she hissed. “I wouldn’t so much as chip a nail.”

Devellyn held up one hand. “Why, I’d forgotten!” he said. “The Black Angel can practically fly out windows, can she not?”

“Why should you give a damn?” she challenged. “I thought I was dead to you. I thought you wished—now, let me get this straight—yes, to drive a stake through my heart. Do I remember correctly?”

Her tone made him inexplicably angrier. He crossed the room in two strides. He gripped her arm again, dragged her bodily to the washstand, and slopped a quart of water into the basin. “Wash that filth off your face,” he growled. “Before I take my hand to your arse again.”

Sidonie whirled around, and cracked him through the face with her palm. “Just try it.” Her tone was like ice, her eyes glittered with fire, and suddenly, she looked not like Ruby, nor even Sidonie. Instead, she was George Kemble made over, the resemblance startling.

Devellyn let her go and touched at his stinging cheek with two fingers. “Just wash it off, Sidonie,” he said again.
“Please.”

She held his gaze defiantly. “Wot’s wrong, gov’nor?” she said. “Yer liked it well enough last time, aye?”

Devellyn gave her a little shake, then backed away, his gaze locked with hers. “Stop it!” he demanded. “Damn you, stop using that voice. Those clothes—take them off. Stop this! All of it, do you hear?”

But the devil, it seemed, was in her now. She backed him across the floor. “What’s wrong, Devellyn?” she whispered, her own voice now. “Is that naughty Ruby too much woman for you? Don’t you just wish you could rip her clothes off yourself? Isn’t that what’s driving you mad?”

“Shut up, Sidonie!” he shouted. “You aren’t—you aren’t
her.”

It was her turn to force him up against a wall, though he could have stopped at any moment. Instead, he came up short by the foot of the bed, his head bent against the low ceiling. For a moment, she simply stared at him. “Do you know what your problem is, Devellyn?”

“My problems,” he gritted, “are legion. And none of your damned business.”

Sidonie shocked him then by setting the flat of her hand against his belly, and sliding it down until he closed his eyes and trembled. And she kept going, too, down the close of his trousers, all the way down, until she found his cock, already rock-hard and throbbing, damn it. Easing her hand up and down his length, Sidonie made a sound of pleasure and bent her head until her lips almost touched his throat.

“Your problem, Devellyn,” she whispered, her breath warm on his skin, “is that you
want
women like Ruby. You want the predictability. The simplicity. The luxury of walking away. And you don’t want any questions when you’re done—because you’re half-afraid of what the answers might be.”

He closed his eyes, and listened to the breath saw in and out of his lungs. “Stop it, Sidonie.”

But she didn’t. She just kept easing her hand up and down his cock, making him strain at the wool of his trousers. “Yes, I’m the Black Angel, Devellyn,” she whispered. “I’m Ruby Black, that bad, bad girl you still burn for, and I’ve got my fingers wrapped round the proof. But you can turn your back on Sidonie without so much as a fare-thee-well, just because she turned out to be something less than your virtuous little widow next door.”

“Shut up, Sidonie.” His voice seemed disembodied now. “Just shut up. It is
not
like that.”

She set her lips to his skin. “Are you sure?” she whispered silkily. “Perhaps you think women like Ruby are all you deserve. Or perhaps you’re just too afraid to take on anything more complicated.”

He seized her wrist and tore it from his body. “That might have been true once,” he gritted. “But now, I—hell and damnation, I don’t know! I left you, Sidonie, because you’re a liar. I saw the truth. The
tattoo.
How could you hide that from me, damn you? How could you let me go on yearning for you, making love to you, and never tell me? How?”

Some of the fight left her then. “I…I made a mistake,” she whispered, her gaze softening.

“What mistake?” he demanded, jerking her body against his. “Lying to me? Giving yourself to me?”

She closed her eyes, and shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Making love with you might have been reckless. But it didn’t…it didn’t feel like a mistake. Not until you left me.”

Devellyn drew in a deep, rough breath. “Good God, I thought I was in love with you,” he managed. “Now I just think I’m insane. So explain
that,
Sidonie, if you’re so bloody damned clever. Because that’s what tortures me at night nowadays. I worry about your getting your throat slit in some alley, or caught in the hangman’s noose. Not some fuck-fantasy about a dockside tart who never really existed.”

Her sweep of black lashes came down, and she looked up at him with a strange mix of fascination and wariness. “Oh, the Black Angel exists,” she whispered. “And she isn’t finished.”

Devellyn snapped. And then his mouth was on hers, hot and hard. His hands, too, took her. His head swam with the scent of her, and he couldn’t think straight. Despite her bold talk, Sidonie tried to squirm away, but he held her to him with a powerful desperation. Finally, he felt her surrender, felt her lean into his body, giving herself over to his ravening mouth and urgent touch.

For long moments, he kissed her, holding her still to his onslaught. She kissed him back, her tremulous hands moving over him, her breathing softly audible in the stillness of the room. He filled his hands with her breasts, and plumbed her mouth with his tongue, deeply and sinuously. She sighed, and whispered his name into the darkness of the shabby little room.