The Devil to Pay (8 page)

In Number Fourteen Bedford Place, Julia was smiling brightly at Miss Hannaday’s maid and obviously wondering what in God’s name had happened to Sidonie’s head. “Mrs. Tuttle is taking a tart from the oven,” she said. “You would be welcome to go downstairs and have a slice.”

The maid shot an expectant look at her mistress, and Miss Hannaday nodded. The maid was gone in a flash. Julia urged them both into the parlor. “You’ll be wanting some ice, Sidonie,” she said in her no-nonsense voice. “And tea for Miss Hannaday.”

“Thank you, yes,” Sidonie agreed.

Julia shot Sidonie a veiled look and left, closing the door behind. Sidonie took Miss Hannaday’s arm, and led her toward the table beneath the front window. “My dear girl,” she said when they were seated. “Let me be blunt. I do not for one moment believe you were struck by a door.”

Miss Hannaday made a sound; a short, strangled sob. Sidonie stared out the window and down the street at Lord Devellyn’s carriage, which was rolling away. “Was it your father, Amy?” she asked. “Did you quarrel with him again?”

“No!” Miss Hannaday shook her head, sending her golden ringlets bouncing. “Oh, no, indeed, ma’am! You mustn’t think it!”

Sidonie turned to look at her. “No woman inflicted that blow, I’ll warrant.”

Miss Hannaday looked away.

Sidonie laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “Was it Lord Bodley, Amy?” she asked. “Was it? I want you to tell me.”

Miss Hannaday bit her lip. “We quarreled,” she finally answered. “He is always out of sorts with me of late. I grew tired of it, and said to him that if he would speak to Papa first, that I would be glad to cry off the engagement and relieve him of his obligation.”

Sidonie’s mouth fell open. “And for that, he hit you?”

The sob came again. “I think he imagined I was finding fault with him,” she whispered. “So I told him…I told him that in truth, I had feelings for another, and that indeed, I should prefer to marry elsewhere. And that is when…is when…” A tear leaked from one corner of the girl’s eye. “He needs Papa’s money, you know,” she resumed, her voice cold and flat. “He no longer even pretends to feel affection for me.”

Sidonie stroked the back of her hand over Miss Hannaday’s cheek. “What did your father say? Did he not hear the quarrel?”

“Bodley told Papa that I was impudent,” she answered, tears falling freely now. “And at first, the bruise was not apparent. B-B-But Papa wants a title for the family so desperately, I don’t think he will care when he
does
see it. After all, he knows I love Charles, but is perfectly willing to have me suffer a broken heart. What is a bruise to that, Madame Saint-Godard?”

“Very little,” said Sidonie. Her head ached, and she hoped she was thinking clearly. She grasped Miss Hannaday’s hand. “Amy, do you still wish to marry Charles Greer? Even if it means being poor?”

The girl stared at their joined hands. “I
was
poor not so very long ago,” she answered sorrowfully. “Now, because of Papa’s tea business, we are richer, yes. But we are none of us happier. Still, Charles says Papa will dismiss him without a character, and he won’t be able to support me as he should wish.”

On impulse, Sidonie seized her reticule, and drew out the wad of banknotes Jean-Claude had given her. She peeled off fifty pounds and pressed it into the girl’s hand. “It is a loan,” she instructed, squeezing the girl’s fingers around the money. “Take it, Amy.
Hide
it. Now, can you get a message to Charles?”

Miss Hannaday nodded, her eyes wide and tearful.

“Good,” said Sidonie. “Tell him to meet me tonight in Russell Square. I wish to speak with him. Does he know the statue of Lord Bedford which stands there?”

“Yes,” whispered the girl. “Yes, he must.”

“Tell him to wait there at midnight, or perhaps half past,” said Sidonie. “I must escort Miss Arbuckle to a musicale, but I will be there as soon as possible. Tell him that, all right?”

She nodded with alacrity. “Yes, I shall tell him.”

Sidonie looked her in the eyes. “And Amy, if you have any jewelry you’re willing to sell for ready money, bring it to me. I can get you a good price, and you and Charles will need every penny.”

Hope was beginning to light Miss Hannaday’s face. Just then, Julia returned, followed by their only housemaid, Meg, who carried the tea tray.

“Julia, I am afraid my head hurts rather more than I should wish,” said Sidonie, rising from the table. “I’ve asked Miss Hannaday to excuse me from our lessons and return tomorrow.”

Miss Hannaday was already gathering her things. Julia handed Sidonie a cloth filled with ice, then saw their guest out. She returned quickly, the suspicious look still on her face. “All right, out with it,” she ordered. “And put that ice where it belongs, if you please.”

Sidonie lay back on the sofa and set the ice to her forehead. “Oh, Julia, I’ve had the most damnable luck,” she said weakly. “I walked straight into Lord Devellyn’s carriage door.”

“Oh, dear God.” Julia sat down abruptly. “He recognized you?”

Sidonie turned her head. “Don’t be silly. It was almost dark in the Anchor, and I was painted and padded to within an inch of my life.”

But Julia looked shaken. “There’ll be no avoiding him now, Sidonie.”

“It is odd he’s visiting in broad daylight,” she admitted. “But surely it won’t become habit?”

Julia shook her head. “Oh, he isn’t visiting, my dear,” she answered. “He’s moving
in.
I sent Meg over to make cow-eyes at one of the footmen when I saw all the commotion. It seems his house in Duke Street is being repaired, and he’s to be here a month or more.”

“A month or more?”

Sidonie felt a strange, sudden rush of emotion. It should have been panic. Fear. A little dread, at the very least. But it wasn’t, heaven help her. Instead, it was the thrill of the chase coming back to her again. That vibrant, exhilarating sense of walking along the edge of disaster. And something else, too. Anticipation? But what had she to anticipate from the Marquess of Devellyn?

“Sidonie!” said Julia in a warning tone. “Sidonie, whatever it is you’re thinking, girl, stop it this instant!”

As it happened, Lord Devellyn did not go out that evening. Instead, mired in some sort of dull lassitude, he took the almost unheard-of step of hanging about the house and hinting that he might take his dinner in. It made little sense to remain, he mused, drifting through his dark, overdecorated drawing room; a room which always put him in mind of an expensive brothel. He had no special attachment to this place, nor did he find it particularly soothing. He associated it instead with sex, revelry, and bacchanalia. All very fine indulgences, to be sure, but not what a man yearned for when he sought the comfort of his own home.

A part of him realized that this strange mood—this restless pacing and pondering which had so thoroughly consumed him of late—had little to do with his usual blue devils, though they visited him often enough. And it had even less to do with this house, or with Camelia’s having left him. No, it had begun instead with that woman at the inn. The Black Angel, damn her eyes.

It was said the Black Angel was some sort of avenging Robin Hood. But whom—other than perhaps himself and Greg—had he ever wounded unjustly? Devellyn did not call men out for trifling offenses, or bankrupt young bucks for sport. Well, not unless they begged for it, which the bolder ones were wont to do. And as black as his reputation was, he’d ruined but one innocent—and in hindsight, he was not perfectly sure just how innocent she’d been. So far as experienced women went, he’d created some scandals, certainly. But he’d never known a woman worth fighting over, a lesson he’d learnt young.

But the Black Angel had targeted him nonetheless. And now, it was not so much the fact he’d been made a fool of. No, what really fed his fury was how quickly and how profoundly he’d succumbed to the charms of a slick, twopenny whore like Ruby Black. But she hadn’t been a whore, had she? And she wasn’t Ruby Black either, he’d wager.

Ruby.
Damn her. How could a man both hate and hunger for such a creature—and on the same breath? Devellyn closed his eyes and drew the scent of brandy deep into his lungs, pondering it. Good God, he felt…he felt
cheated.

That was it, wasn’t it? He still felt cheated, deeply so, but not of his personal possessions. Save for Greg’s portrait, he didn’t give a damn. No, he felt cheated of what her mouth and her eyes had promised him. Her body. The taste of her lips on his. The warmth of her beneath him. The way it would feel to bury his body deep inside hers. Yes, even now, those thoughts stirred him, and left him aching. Which made him angry all the more.

While he brooded on it, Devellyn poured himself another brandy. Then, inexplicably, he carried the glass to the window and pulled back the drapes. He stood looking out into the night; looking, really, across the street at Number Fourteen. Just then a stylish carriage spun round from Great Russell Street, halting near Madame Saint-Godard’s front door. The lady herself stepped out onto the gaslit pavement, wearing a feathered hat set rakishly to one side, and a dark, sweeping cloak over a gown which looked very elegant. She was assisted into the carriage by an equally elegant brace of footmen.

So
madame
was going out for the evening. He wondered who owned the carriage. Perhaps it was hers, but he doubted it. Few in Bedford Place could afford such a fine equipage. A relative, perhaps? But Madame Saint-Godard was French. A lover? Yes, more likely. She might be a widow, but she was not the sort of woman who would be left to languish. And that insight stirred another question. Just what was it about her that kept drawing him to the window, anyway? Something nagged at him. But what?
What?

Suddenly, it struck him.
She reminded him of Ruby Black.
He let the drapery fall and considered it a moment. No, they were nothing at all alike. The hair, the voice, the shape of her face; nothing was the same. Ruby had been taller, loose-limbed, more voluptuous. Madame Saint-Godard was slight and elegant. But both women exuded a sort of innate sensuality—the kind that would drive a man mad if he wasn’t careful.

Devellyn, however, had learnt long ago never to let lust overcome logic; never to want a woman badly enough to do something stupid. And yet Ruby Black had made him do both, hadn’t she? And with damned little effort. No wonder he’d so little enthusiasm for another night of carousing.

Abruptly, he went to the bell and rang for the butler.

“What is the name, Honeywell, of our new footman?” he asked when the servant appeared. “The one who was supervising the unloading of the van this morning?”

“Polk, sir. Henry Polk.”

“Well, Henry Polk has rather an eye for the ladies, I noticed,” said Devellyn. “Fetch him up here, will you, after the plate is washed from dinner?”

Honeywell gave a slight bow. “Certainly, my lord,” he murmured. “Do you still intend to dine in?”

Devellyn rolled his shoulders restlessly beneath his coat. “I believe I will, yes.”

It was a choice, however, he was soon to regret. An hour later, he was but halfway through a prime cut of beef and a good bottle of Bordeaux when Honeywell came into the dining room, appearing rather more nervous than one might wish one’s butler to look.

“Yes?” said Devellyn, setting his glass down with a sharp clink.

“My lord, a most unusual thing…”

“Yes?” Devellyn repeated, folding his napkin and setting it aside.

The butler made a wincing face. “I fear it is…well,
Her Grace,”
he whispered. “Were you expecting her?”

A difficult question. God only knew what assignation he might have agreed to, then promptly forgot. A short list of
her graces
was already running through his head. He didn’t know many. There was the Duchess of Esteridge, but she had thrown him out of her bed twice already. Then there was Keeling’s luscious wife, but she’d slapped his face last time he propositioned her. Perhaps it was that black-haired cousin of Alasdair’s—her name escaped him, but her very fine bosom was forever fixed in his memory.

Really, a chap could hardly go wrong. A woman who came calling alone at night wanted only one thing. Already, Devellyn’s cock was half-hard and twitching with expectation. Strategically, he repositioned the napkin. “Memory fails me, Honeywell,” he admitted. “Which—”

But it was too late. Her Grace had not waited.

“Good evening, Aleric!” said his mother, striding purposefully into the room. “Don’t even think of turning me away. Now, what, pray, is this nonsense about beetles having eaten your staircases?”

Devellyn’s erection withered at once, a circumstance he appreciated, since courtesy required him to stand. “Good evening, Mother,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously even as he kissed her hand. “What a pleasant surprise.”

His mother was already surveying the room. “Oh, I daresay it is mostly the latter,” she said airily.

“Frankly, I’m shocked you’d call on me here.”

She shrugged her deceptively delicate shoulders. “What choice had I?” she answered. “I’ve this instant come from Duke Street, and was quite put out to find the place shut up. Oh—do carry on with your dinner, dear.” Her gaze dropped to the table. “Lud, have they served everything at once? They seem to think they’re feeding the threshing hands.”

“I’m not a formal sort of fellow, Mother,” he said, as Honeywell seated her. “I did not know you were in town. Have you dined?”

His mother waved at the butler dismissively. “At Great-aunt Admeta’s, yes,” she said. “I came up from Stoneleigh just yesterday. Cousin Richard has died.”

Devellyn returned to hacking at his beef. “Didn’t know we had a Cousin Richard,” he said. “Cut down in his prime, was he?”

His mother’s gaze turned on him, incredulous. “Lord, Aleric, he was ninety-two!” she said. “Which you would know if you did your family duty.” Then she paused to purse her lips. “I don’t suppose you would attend the funeral tomorrow?”

Devellyn chewed slowly, buying time. She was a wily one, his mother. “Are you alone?”

His mother clasped her hands and stared at the candelabrum in the center of the table. “I am not,” she finally said.

Devellyn resumed his hacking, a little violently now. “No. I cannot. You know I cannot.”

His mother made a hissing sound. “I don’t see why!” she retorted. “Cousin Richard is—or was—
my
relation, Aleric, not your father’s.”

“A technicality,” said Devellyn. “And you know it.”

For a long moment, the silence was broken by nothing but the sound of Devellyn’s knife at work. “Aleric,” she finally whispered. “He misses you.”

Devellyn dropped his knife. “No, he doesn’t,” he answered. “And I should think that after the first decade passed, Mother, you’d have grasped that fact.”

His mother’s eyes were wide now, and shimmering with what he hoped was candlelight. Suddenly, she was on her feet again, roaming restlessly through the dining room, pausing here and there to pick up bric-a-brac or candlesticks. God, she was a tough old bird.

“Checking the hallmarks?” he asked, forcing the humor back into his voice.

His mother shot him a dark look, then ran a judicious fingertip down the wall covering. “Really, Aleric!” she said, obviously herself again. “Purple flock-paper in one’s dining room? Have you any idea how vulgar that is?”

He didn’t, really. Camelia, or perhaps her predecessor, had chosen it. “I’m hopelessly unaware, ma’am,” he said, forking up a succulent black truffle. “But if you find that vulgar, go up and have a gander at my pink-and-red bed-hangings.”

His mother groaned. “Oh, Aleric! I’ve already seen your drawing room, and it looks like a cheap bordello.”

He grinned across his plate at her. “Mother, my mistresses hold orgies here, not literary salons.”

“Aleric!” The flock-paper and bed-hangings forgotten, she marched down the length of the table toward him. “You live to shock, do you not?”

“A man’s got to work with whatever talent God gave him.” Devellyn was picking through a mixed salad now, and wondering if there were any radishes in it. He liked bright, spicy things. Like Ruby Black.

His mother set her hands on her hips. “Could you stop poking at that pile of greenery for just one moment, Aleric, and try to carry on an intelligent conversation?”

Devellyn looked up from his salad. “Certainly.” He set his fork down. “But not two minutes past, you told me to carry on with my dinner.”

“Yes, well, that was before you refused to go to the funeral.”

“Planning to starve me out, eh?” he said, winking. “It won’t work, Mother.”

She set both hands flat on the table, and leaned into him. “Aleric, stop it,” she said. “Stop joking and eating and drinking and talking about your whores, and just listen! It is time you and your father reconciled. He is very sorry, you know. He always had been. He never meant—well, all those things he said. That’s why I’ve come. I
need
you to reconcile. Please.”

Aleric gave her a sidling glance. “After you rag me about Father, is this going to turn into one of those lectures about finding a wife and doing my duty, isn’t it?”

His mother threw her hands up in exasperation. “Heavens, no!” she answered. “As much as I love you, I wouldn’t wish you on any female I know. Besides, I have not the heart to part you from your opera dancers and your actresses. I daresay you’ve one—perhaps one of each—upstairs lounging in your bathtub, even as we speak.”

“There is no woman in this house.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “Ah,” she said. “Left you again, has she?”

Aleric scowled. “Yes. Again. Try to contain your delight.”

His mother sighed, long and deep. “Aleric, my dear,” she began. “Find another. Find two or three. I no longer care. But you’ve stewed in your grief and anger long enough. We cannot all go on as we are. I need you and your father to at least try to get along. Please. I’m begging.”

Devellyn was quiet for a long moment. He had no wish to see his mother unhappy. It wasn’t as if he chose to torment her. “Why must we do this again, Mother?”

He noticed this time that her hand trembled a little as she finally sat back down. She let her head fall forward onto the heels of her hands, and when she spoke, she addressed the tablecloth. “Aleric,” she said quietly. “Aleric, it is his heart.”

Suddenly, the room felt unsteady beneath Devellyn’s chair. “His…heart?”

His mother looked at him with simple sorrow in her eyes. “Oh, Aleric,” she whispered. “He has not long.”

“How long?”

She shrugged lamely. “A few months?” she suggested. “A year, or perhaps two
if
he rests.
If
he suffers no stress.
If
—”

“If
I swallow my pride and beg forgiveness?” Devellyn interjected. “Is that it? Well, it won’t work, Mother. I did that for all of six months. It did not help. His
only son
is dead, remember? We are beyond this now.”

His mother’s face was one of anguish. “You are going to be the next duke, my dear,” she whispered. Think how it looks.”

It was Aleric’s turn to shove back his chair and rise. “Good God, Mother!” He threw his hands in the air. “Do you imagine for one instant I care
how things look?
I’ve hardly lived a life of respectability and circumspection, now, have I?”

“Indeed not,” she agreed. “And I wonder whom you most wish to punish by it, yourself, or your father.”

His expression bitter, Devellyn shook his head. “Don’t be melodramatic,” he said. “I was never a saint, and neither was Greg.”

His mother leapt from her chair again and crossed the room to lay her hand on his arm. “Listen to me, Aleric,” she said. “All young men sow wild oats. And then, why, they turn their lives around! You and Gregory were just mischievous.”

“You have been reading too many novels, Mother,” he said quietly. “And I am no longer a young man. Does Father know you’re here?”

Her expression softened. “A good marriage has no secrets, Aleric.”

“What did he say?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Nothing. But he did not forbid me.”

Aleric gave her a sour grin. “No, no, he would not dare!”

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck the hour. His mother rose onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I should go,” she said. “I’ll be at Aunt Admeta’s until Wednesday, all right?”