Demon's Bride th-2

by Zoë Archer

  As the shopkeeper babbled in thanks, Leo scribbled his direction on a piece of paper. Then he strode from the shop. He was known as the Demon of the Exchange. Today, he would be the Demon of Vengeance.

  Anne accepted the dish of tea from Lady Kirton with a murmured thanks. She and the countess sat in a little parlor, a small table bearing an even smaller plate of biscuits between them. Anne nibbled on one of the biscuits. It was stale.

  The parlor itself was a fine enough room, with a portrait of Lady Kirton’s favorite spaniel taking pride of place on the wall, but it was clear this room was not often used for entertaining callers. A larger, more elegant chamber served more frequently for guests. Anne had seen it as she had been led up by the footman. She did not merit the better parlor.

  “Married life must agree with you, my dear.” Lady Kirton eyed Anne over the rim of her dish. “I have seldom seen you looking so well. Though you do appear a little tired.”

  Anne fought not to blush. She did feel different today, weary but full of wild energy. It was all she could do to keep seated. Images from the previous night—and early this morning—kept stealing into her thoughts. Leo’s hands. His mouth. His ... cock. All bringing her pleasure. And she had given him pleasure, too.

  He had kept her thoroughly, deliciously occupied, and if that had not exhausted her, then her troubling dream would have. Normally, when she did recall her dreams, they faded over the course of the day. Not so this one. Anne could still feel sticky blood on her feet, could describe in detail every pleat in the Roman priestess’s gown, and remembered all that had been said.

  He has never seen the Dark One’s true face. And on the day he does, it will be too late.

  “Mrs. Bailey?”

  Anne’s attention snapped back to the present. “Apologies, my lady. Indeed, I am a little weary, but I find your company altogether delightful.”

  “The first weeks of marriage can be quite taxing.” The older woman spoke from wellsprings of experience. “In time, the novelty wears off, and we wives are left in blessed peace.”

  Anne hoped not. The more she knew of Leo, the more of him she wanted. And it seemed the feeling was mutual.

  How very different her marriage was from others of her class! How full of wonderful potential! It exceeded her every expectation.

  Yet her memories were darkened by the dream that had followed. That temple. The images of an evil being bringing death and destruction. And the awful storm being slammed into her body.

  Anne gulped at her tea, striving for warmth. “I have heard that a husband’s interest wavers.”

  “If one is fortunate.” Lady Kirton smiled thinly. Having met the ill-tempered Lord Kirton, Anne could understand why it was preferable to keep him at a distance.

  “For the present,” Anne said, “I do enjoy having my husband’s favor.”

  The countess sniffed. “Though he lacks any sort of breeding, when it comes to fortune and appearance, your husband is generously endowed.”

  It took Anne’s supreme force of will to keep from saying something extremely unpleasant. She had a purpose here, and could not allow herself distractions.

  “Though I know in time he will behave as all men do, in the interim I strive to keep things amusing between us.” She affected a conspiratorial giggle. “Shall I tell you how?”

  Lady Kirton’s veneer of polite boredom fell away, and she leaned in close. “Yes, do.”

  “I like to play little practical jokes on him.”

  Though clearly this was not quite the response the countess had been hoping for, she still looked interested. “Practical jokes?”

  “Mr. Bailey is so very observant. It amuses me to see what he does and does not notice. For example, I replace his brandy with sherry and his Bordeaux with burgundy.”

  “I’m surprised a man of his pedigree knows the difference.”

  Anne dug her nails into her hand to stop herself from slapping Lady Kirton. “He notices. And there is another trifling game I like to play.” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “Money is indeed a pressing concern of his.”

  “Naturally,” drawled the countess.

  Anne forced her bared teeth into a semblance of a smile. “He often keeps coins in the table beside the bed. It’s extremely droll to replace the coins with the exact same amount, but in different denominations, and then wait to see if he recognizes the discrepancy. Observe.” From her purse, she pulled a handful of coins. “I have here a thruppence and two shillings. I shall use them to replace the six ha’pennies and two tanners that I know my husband keeps in his desk. Or,” she said, “perhaps you might like to try the same little jape on Lord Kirton.”

  The countess sat back, stunned. “I? On Lord Kirton?”

  “With such an amusing trick, it might rekindle some of the newlywed’s spirit in your husband.”

  Lady Kirton looked dubious. “Truly?”

  “La, yes.” Anne giggled. “I assure you, whenever Mr. Bailey catches on to my jest, it puts him into a very agreeable humor.”

  The countess considered this, tapping one finger against her chin. Some faded memory of past passion must have revived, for her pale cheeks turned pink. At last, she said, “Perhaps I shall.”

  “Oh, marvelous!” Anne clutched her purse tightly. “Can you think of a place where Lord Kirton keeps his coin?”

  “His desk in the library.” Lady Kirton stood eagerly. “I can fetch them in an instant. A moment, Mrs. Bailey.” She hurried out the door to the parlor, leaving Anne alone.

  Smiling to herself, Anne set down her dish of tea. She rose up from the settee and drifted around the parlor, idly examining the room. The portrait of the dog drew her attention; paintings were costly, and she wondered what sort of person immortalized an animal.

  She realized that in the whole of Leo’s house, there were a few paintings of landscapes, some hunting scenes, but not a single portrait. No grim ancestors staring out from the walls. Not even a picture of Leo’s father or mother. Her husband had no history. He created himself, whole and entire, as if he were both Zeus and Athena, springing forth fully formed from his own mind.

  A demilune table was positioned directly beneath the portrait of the dog. Lit candles were arrayed atop the table, struggling against the overcast day. As Anne neared the picture, the candles guttered. When she halted her advance, the candles stopped flickering. The room was still and silent, the windows shut tight, and not a breeze or draft whistled.

  Anne took another step forward. The candles flickered. She took one more step. The candles went out. Twists of smoke rose to the ceiling.

  It was as though she were the breeze that extinguished the flames. Frowning, Anne crossed to the fire burning in a small hearth. As she drew closer, the blaze sputtered and popped, despite the screen arrayed in front of it. She walked quickly to the fire. It shuddered as if harried by a wind. Then it choked out, leaving only smoldering ashes.

  Anne stared down at the ashes. Her dream assailed her—the windstorm conjured by the priestess, and the wind crashing into her own body, absorbing it.

  It had been a dream. Nothing more. Yet Anne gazed at her hands as if she could not quite place them, as if they belonged to someone else, and were grafted on to her body.

  “This will be amusing.” Lady Kirton sailed back into the parlor, her hands cupped around an assortment of coins. She held them out to Anne.

  Anne blinked.

  “The substitution,” prompted the countess. “Some of Lord Kirton’s coins for the same amount in different denominations.”

  Anne shook herself. There was a purpose in her coming here. “Yes. Let’s make the exchange.”

  Lady Kirton frowned at the now smoldering hearth. “Those useless servants. Cannot make a decent fire.”

  Saying nothing, Anne took her seat. Lady Kirton did the same, and counted out twenty-seven pence’ worth of coins, which Anne traded for her two shillings and thruppence. Anne felt a visceral thrill when the countess placed her coins in her han
d. The woman had no idea what she had willingly agreed to do, believing herself the instigator of an entertaining prank. But Anne had manipulated Lady Kirton to do precisely what she wanted.

  If this was anything like the sort of excitement Leo felt when finessing a deal at Exchange Alley, no wonder he devoted himself to work. She could get quite addicted to the stimulation.

  “I cannot wait to see Lord Kirton’s face when he discovers my cleverness.” Lady Kirton gave a sly smile. “He was in a fever to marry me, those many years ago. Not merely for my fortune. I had been known as quite a beauty.” She patted her powdered curls. “Perhaps this may reignite that tendre.”

  Anne rose, tucking her purse into her pocket. “Do keep me informed, my lady.” Though she rather hoped that she did not receive any excessively detailed descriptions. “Now, I thank you for your affability in welcoming me into your home, but I have several more calls to pay.”

  “The obligations of a new wife.” Lady Kirton sighed. “Enjoy these early days, child. You will soon discover that the man you thought you married is someone else entirely.”

  With a small shiver, Anne asked, “Why would you say that?”

  The countess shrugged. “We all of us pretend to be different people in order to make ourselves agreeable to our spouses. But the illusion soon drops away. ’Tis the nature of marriage. Then it becomes a matter of adjusting expectations.”

  “I will take that under advisement. My lady.” Anne dipped a curtsy and was led by a footman back downstairs.

  Leo had taken a hackney that morning, leaving her use of their own carriage, and it now waited for her outside. As the footman held the carriage door open, something within caught her attention.

  A letter, placed upon the seat.

  “Who put that there?”

  The footman shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, madam.” He turned to the driver. “You see somebody put a letter in the carriage?”

  The coachman only shook his head.

  “Never mind.” Anne gave the footman a vail, though she was careful to keep some of Lord Kirton’s coins for Leo, then climbed into the carriage. As the door closed and the carriage drove away, she picked up the letter. The name Mrs. Bailey had been written across the front, but with no direction.

  Someone had placed the letter in the carriage without being seen—someone of dark skill. She pressed back into the seat and drew the blinds, yet she could not rid herself of the sensation that she was being watched.

  Madam,

  I am given to understand that you have been contacted by Valeria Livia Corva. I wager she has confused you more than elucidated. Have patience with her, as existing over a millennia trapped between the realm of the living and the dead tends to confound one’s wits.

  As I have

  not

  been trapped between these realms, my mind is a degree sharper than Livia’s, and I must illuminate that which she has left dark. Thus shall I to my purpose.

  Mrs. Bailey, your husband is not the man you believe him to be. He and the other Hellraisers all share a wicked partnership. Once I counted myself one of their compatriots, but wisdom, and an audacious Gypsy woman, prevailed. All of us Hellraisers were blinded by arrogance and greed. We made a bargain, gaining gifts but never understanding the price.

  The price was our souls.

  In short, Mrs. Bailey, we forged a pact with the Devil.

  Likely, you think me mad, and with good reason. Yet my pen conveys the truth, difficult as it may be to accept. My gift had been the ability to manipulate fortune, for I could control probability to suit my needs. As a gamester, no greater ability exists. I have since surrendered this ability, and with great joy. The other Hellraisers, however, retain their bequests so bestowed upon them by the Devil.

  John gained the facility to comprehend thoughts.

  Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.

  Edmund was bestowed Rosalind.

  And Leo has the ability to see what has not yet transpired.

  Well may you think me deranged for proposing such outrageous allegations, yet my claims are factual. Indeed, not so long ago, I battled the Devil and the Hellraisers, both. Upon Leo’s shoulder is a scar which I made with the point of a rapier blade. If I may presume, you may observe it in the intimacies of nuptial life.

  Your husband is in monstrous danger. If he is not already consumed by the Devil’s evil, soon shall he be. All of the Hellraisers are being consumed. As they fall, as their dark power grows, they become threats not merely to themselves, but to the world.

  This cannot stand.

  You shall find me and Zora at the Black Lion Inn, in Richmond. Do not dally in seeking us out, for the danger to you and Leo increases with every passing moment.

  Three things I urge you: do not speak of this missive to anyone; destroy this letter upon reading it; find Zora and I quickly. We face now a war for Leo’s soul, as well as the fate of millions. In this, we are your sole allies.

  I remain,

  Your servant, & c.

  James Sherbourne, Earl of Whitney

  She lost count of the number of times she read the letter. A dozen, at least. She moved from shock, to fear, to indignation, to anger. To pity.

  Anne sat on the settee in her bedchamber, the letter in her lap. She glanced from it to the rain-streaked windows.

  Lord Whitney was mad. That much was plain. Who else but one destined for Bedlam might pen such a letter, with allegations too preposterous to be considered? The Devil? Truly?

  Like most women of her acquaintance, Anne went to church on Sundays. She sat through sermons, the reverend admonishing the congregation about sin, temptation, wickedness. Evil. These things existed in the hearts of man. One couldn’t walk down the streets of London without seeing proof. But she never truly believed there was an actual Devil. He was a metaphor, nothing more.

  That Lord Whitney believed the Devil was real ... that might be excused as a religious mania. Perhaps he had fallen out with the Hellraisers because of newfound spiritual beliefs. He could be one of those fire-and-brimstone Calvinists. Many former sinners found redemption and comfort in the arms of an angry God.

  Yet there was more, far more, than simple religious conviction in Lord Whitney’s letter. He was not speaking metaphorically. Nor even as one trying to convert former friends. No, this was insanity. The depths of his madness were unfathomable.

  She watched rain streak down the glass, the gray city beyond. Shivering a little, she stood to prod the fire. As she neared, the flames snapped and guttered.

  She frowned, and pulled her shawl of Indian cotton closer about her shoulders. She had thought that perhaps this strangeness was confined to Lady Kirton’s home. But it seemed to have followed her back to Bloomsbury.

  Lord Whitney had to be mad. That could be the only explanation for his letter. She felt a small comfort in knowing that he had, in fact, approached her the other day and was no construct of her own unbalanced mind. Yet this comfort was small compared to the dozens and dozens of questions now tumbling through her mind.

  Quickly, before the fire could go out, Anne strode to it and threw the letter onto the flames. She backed up, watching the paper writhe as it burned. Like a soul in Hell. Leo’s soul?

  Stop it. Do not give Lord Whitney’s lunacy any credence.

  Men did not sell their souls to the Devil. Not literally. They did not gain magic power as a result of this bargain. Magic did not exist. She lived in a world of coal and clockworks. It had been decades since witches were burned. Every day were made new discoveries in the realm of natural science. Lectures were given nightly by distinguished men of learning on those very subjects.

  And there were maps, wondrous maps, of new lands. For every new inch of land charted, fear and superstition retreated, replaced by rational thought. Maps embraced the progressive, the enlightened, one of the reasons why they fascinated her. Magic and superstition—relics of older ages—had been supplanted by the modern era.

&
nbsp; Life was about the present. The present meant her life with her husband, Leo. As of last night, they had begun to form a true connection, not just of legalities, but of their hearts.

  Lord Whitney was a stranger. His mad words could not touch her. They would not.

  Yet the red walls of the bedchamber felt too close, the vines snaking up the wall coverings forming a cage. She strode from the room. Some of her books had arrived from her parents’ house, and waited in the library to be unpacked. That would serve to occupy her.

  Walking down the corridor toward the stairs, she passed lit sconces and candelabras. They all flickered as she passed, just as they had at Lady Kirton’s.

  Magic?

  Anne scowled. Magic was not real. She was real. Leo was real. This house and everything within it—all real. Everything that Lord Whitney alleged was false. Perhaps there had been a bad falling-out between him and the other Hellraisers, and he simply sought a means of hurting them. What better way than driving a wedge between Leo and his wife?

  She descended the stairs and headed toward the library, resolve in her step. If Lord Whitney thought her some empty-headed girl easily swayed by suggestion, he must reconsider. Leo had shown Anne that her own strength had value. She refused to surrender it to Lord Whitney’s manipulations.

  Inside the library, she found a small crate of her books. She called a footman to open the crate, and after he did, she sorted through the few tomes. All of the books had been secondhand, their pages already thumbed, the bindings coming undone.

  A man’s purposeful stride sounded in the corridor. Her pulse sped, for she knew the tread, yet she made herself sit in the wing-backed chair and wait, rather than rush out to meet him.

  Leo’s long, muscular form filled the doorway. The light from the candles within the library did not fully reach him, and with the glow of the sconces in the hallway behind him, he made a dark, imposing shape.

  Anne half rose, unable to keep seated. What was it that made her heart pound: Excitement? Pleasure? Fear?