The Devil in Disguise: A Regency Rogues Novel

by Stefanie Sloane

  Slumber had not come, yet Lucinda could not bring herself to leave the bed, the warmth of her cashmere coverlet creating a cozy nest that provided some comfort in the absence of rest.

  The invitation to attend the opera with Will and his family lay next to her pillow, the fine linen paper creased from her repeated readings. The day had been long and hard, in no small part due to the brandy she’d so foolishly imbibed the night before. But she knew she could not pin the entirety of her current state on the liquor.

  No matter how many times she examined her feelings, replayed the events of the last days, or imagined any number of possible outcomes, Lucinda could not deny one truth: William Randall, the Duke of Clairemont, had conquered her heart.

  “I love him,” she said into her pillow, the sound of her voice ringing unfamiliar to her own ears.

  The revelations earlier in the evening concerning Will’s childhood had not, as her aunts had feared, swayed her. Not completely, that is. Their interlude at Almack’s had started her mind racing, the intimacy of the encounter still overwhelming her, even now. They were not suited; all of the ton—including her three aunts—were in agreement that such a match would be unthinkable. Impossible.

  Insanity.

  Lucinda fidgeted with the cream ribbon at her bed-gown’s neckline. “Do you truly love Will?”

  She looped the ribbon around her forefinger, tightening it as she went. “I do.”

  He might be just as his father was, utterly charming yet a monster underneath. He could ruin her reputation with hardly any effort, leaving her without the comfort of family and friends. He could simply not love her—the thought surprisingly painful, yet altogether possible.

  He could change everything she’d expected for her life, something Lucinda found most frightening of all.

  She released the ribbon and gently massaged her finger, slightly numb from the pressure of the binding.

  Her feelings for Will were simple. They were pure. This was everything Lucinda had been missing without even being aware that something was lacking.

  “I love him.”

  But could he love her in return?

  It was decided that Charlotte would act as Lucinda’s chaperone for the evening, though it had taken some time for the four women to reach an understanding. Lucinda had done her best to remain impartial, but she’d secretly hoped that it would be Charlotte who accompanied her. Bessie would have tried to seduce Will’s brother, and Victoria may have used the opportunity to suggest the duke abandon the courtship all together and simply hand over the horse.

  Charlotte’s previous acquaintance with the duchess had been the deciding factor, and the other two had reluctantly complied, leaving Lucinda free to fret over her dress and hair, her jewels and slippers.

  She looked from the blush silk to the capucine silk in Mary’s arms, feigning interest for the sake of holding off what would surely be a litany of questions from Mary regarding the duke.

  Lucinda couldn’t have cared less what she wore. Her feelings for Will made clothing seem a trivial matter that held little importance to her at the moment.

  She’d not seen Will since attending Almack’s. She blushed at the memory of her appearance, her cries of delight at the storm of emotions and pleasure he’d coaxed from her. Her body heated at the thought, small patches of perspiration forming in the most delicate of places.

  “The capucine, my dear,” Charlotte said from the doorway.

  Lucinda turned, smiling at her aunt. “Do you think so?” she asked, posing a question in order to earn a few moments to compose herself.

  Charlotte stepped into the room, her matronly rose-hued gown making the slightest of swishing sounds as she did so. “Does the capucine not suit your tastes?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just, well, that is to say,” Lucinda began, and suddenly realized she’d run out of time. “No, not at all. It’s lovely.”

  Mary dropped the rejected blush silk on the bed and carefully held up the burnished orange with both hands. “This one it is, then.”

  Charlotte motioned for the servant to hand her the dress. “Thank you, Mary, I’ll assist Lucinda in dressing this evening.”

  Mary released the dress and swiftly curtsyed before leaving the room. “Careful of her hair,” she said over her shoulder, then smoothly closed the door.

  Charlotte turned to look at Lucinda. “My dear, what ever is the matter?”

  “I’m sorry?” Lucinda said, distracted, as she rose from the edge of her bed and crossed to the window. “With the dress, you mean?”

  The swish of Charlotte’s gown once more signaled her progress across the floor. “Not with the dress, my dear. With you. You seem quite distracted. Is it the prospect of meeting Lord Clairemont’s family?”

  Lucinda wanted nothing more than to tell her aunt the truth. She needed the counsel of a trusted confidant, but her dear, kind aunt could not be responsible for carrying such a secret.

  Lucinda turned from the window and loosened her dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor. “No, it is not that, Aunt Charlotte. I’m simply tired, that’s all. The last few weeks have found me in situations I am not accustomed to and I fear I am much more a creature of habit than I ever would have cared to admit.”

  She finished with a practiced, bright smile then raised her arms in preparation to receive the dress. “Do not forget the hair. Mary will scold both of us, you know,” she finished teasingly.

  “Oh, I know all too well, my dear. All too well.”

  It had been some time since Will’s last appearance at the theater, even longer since he’d arrived with his family. The Grecian-inspired Royal Opera House stood proudly in front of them, four large, fluted columns supporting a portico under which a large number of society’s elite congregated.

  Michael held out his arm for their mother as she exited the carriage. “Prinny himself laid the foundation stone apparently,” he remarked, assisting his mother to the bricked pavement.

  “Hardly a ringing endorsement, brother,” Will said, stepping out to join them. “Come, it’s beginning to rain.”

  Large, fat drops of water chased their progress as they made their way through the crowd. The glances and sly stares began almost immediately, the hum of low voices acting as the trio’s own personal accompaniment.

  Michael assessed the crowd around them as they mounted the stairs, then looked at Will. “Are you always so popular?”

  Will nodded to a Young Corinthian as they crossed paths. “Well, I am, after all, Iron Will. Though I would think your presence here this evening, as well as Mother’s, is a particularly juicy tidbit for these imbeciles. How long has it been since you were last in town? Four months? Perhaps six?”

  “We were here for the Yuletide, as you well know, which was barely four months ago. And our presence here was entirely thanks to you, if I remember correctly.” Michael paused, meticulously wiping the rain from his coat. “You could not be torn away from town, requiring Mother to travel in the century’s most severe snowstorm—”

  Will shook his head, holding lightly to his mother’s elbow as they ascended the stairs. “Is there something you wish to discuss, Michael? Or are you merely making conversation?”

  “This Grimaldi, is he as good as they say?” the duchess asked, cutting through the impending argument with quiet, practiced skill.

  Will’s sharp gaze located a Corinthian agent stationed near the landing and he nodded discreetly, receiving a brief nod of recognition in reply. “Better. I had the pleasure of attending a private performance by Grimaldi. He is a comic genius, to be sure.” He paused. slowing his pace, “Although I fear you may disapprove of his antics, Mother.”

  The duchess allowed Will to steer her toward the entrance to the Clairemont box. “Do you truly, or are you merely being polite?”

  “You wound me, Mother,” Will replied, clutching at his chest as though a death blow had been delivered to his heart.

  His mother’s light laughter made bystanders turn
their heads as the three walked through the parted red velvet curtains and reached their seats.

  “And you would do quite well out there,” she said, gesturing with her hand toward the stage. “I enjoy a good laugh just as well as the next person.”

  Will looked at her with mock disbelief. “Really?”

  “Yes, William, I do,” she answered in an altered tone, the teasing quality of her voice having vanished.

  “As do I,” a feminine voice came from the back of the box.

  The three turned to see Lady Charlotte Grey enter the box with Lucinda following behind.

  “Mother,” Will began, “Michael, may I present Lady Charlotte Grey and her niece, Lady Lucinda Grey.”

  The duchess smiled endearingly. “Charlotte, it has been far too long since we last met.” She moved toward Lady Charlotte, both hands outstretched.

  “I could not agree more,” Lady Charlotte replied with feeling, moving to take Will’s mother’s hands in hers. “You look as lovely as the first time we met.”

  The duchess quietly clucked her tongue. “You are too kind, Lady Charlotte,” she said, then turned her gaze to Lucinda, “And you, my dear, are just as I’d hoped.”

  Lucinda graciously smiled and came to stand next to her aunt. “Your Grace, now I fear you are the one who is too kind.”

  The three ladies softly laughed, looking from one to the other with instant affection. The low lighting from the candles reflected off their dresses—Lucinda’s dress perfectly complemented by the soft rose of Lady Charlotte’s and the deep brown of his mother’s. It was as if Thomas Lawrence himself were readying to paint the trio, their ease with one another as pleasing to the eye as it was to the soul.

  Will didn’t know whether to be elated or terrified, the conflicting emotions discomforting. “Do not forget my little brother, ladies,” he said, oddly compelled to dispel the heartwarming scene.

  “Lady Charlotte.” Michael bowed. “And Lady Lucinda.”

  “Lord Michael,” Lady Charlotte replied, dipping her head in unconsciously regal acknowledgment.

  Lucinda stepped forward and curtsied with easy grace. “Lord Michael, I am most happy to make your acquaintance.” She rose, offered her hand to Michael, and smiled brightly.

  He bent to kiss her hand, a smile to match Lucinda’s. “My mother was correct, you are lovely indeed.” He waited just a moment too long for Will’s comfort before he released her hand.

  “And you, Lord Michael, are very much His Grace’s brother,” she answered in kind, the slightly teasing nature of her words vexing Will further.

  The sound of the gong from the stage signaled the call for the audience to find their seats, putting an end to the party’s friendly conversation.

  “About bloody time,” Will muttered under his breath, escorting Lady Charlotte the few steps to her seat then returning to Lucinda. “Lady Lucinda,” he said, offering her his arm.

  She smiled in warm response and linked her arm through his, allowing him to guide her to the front of the box. He waited for her to sit, then dropped into the miniature seat next to her.

  “Oh, my …” she murmured. Will immediately wondered whether in the process of attempting to settle his frame comfortably in the ridiculously small seat he’d managed to tread on her gown.

  About to apologize, he belatedly noticed Lucinda wasn’t looking in his direction, but rather out at the theater. He followed her gaze and realized what had caused her unease.

  It appeared the entire audience was not buzzing with anticipation over the impending performance, as they should be.

  No, their attention was concentrated on the Clairemont box, every set of opera glasses in the whole of the Royal Opera House trained on them. The sight brought to mind countless curious owls avidly eyeing a particularly delectable mouse.

  “Lean ever so slightly to your right,” Will whispered to Lucinda, who, despite clearly being confused, did as he asked.

  He leaned in the same direction and the two watched every last owl do the same, following them with marked determination.

  Lucinda muffled a laugh and centered herself in her seat before turning to Will. “This could prove to be quite amusing,” she said, a wicked grin curving her lips.

  “Oh, yes. The stupidity of the ton is an endless source of entertainment, particularly when you are as popular as I am.” Will winked at her.

  She laughed out loud, causing all three of their box mates to turn.

  “I … that is to say …” Lucinda began, desperately trying to piece together a proper explanation. “I simply cannot bear the anticipation! Everyone of my acquaintance talks endlessly of the great Grimaldi. Are you not all as excited as I to be here tonight?”

  It was clear from their faces that the three were skeptical of her comment, but they smiled politely and returned to their conversation.

  “You really do need to practice your prevarications, Lucinda,” Will whispered, keeping his eyes on the audience. “It is a skill that can be quite useful, especially for those in my social circle.”

  “You called me by my first name.”

  His gut told him to look at her but his brain demanded he keep his eyes on the stage.

  “I like a man who can follow directions,” she continued smoothly.

  The massive red and gold curtain that divided the stage from the audience slowly began to open and the crowd hushed, preventing Will’s response.

  What was the enchanting woman playing at? Will’s body was literally humming from the effort of sitting still next to her. He’d spent almost the entire day attempting to decide upon a course of action. His past relationships with women were of no help, intimate displays of affection being merely an expected part of the equation there.

  But Lucinda was different for so many reasons. Or was she? Perhaps he’d been wrong in assuming she would be affected by their interlude.

  He glanced at her discreetly. She looked to be perfectly comfortable despite the fact that he’d pleasured her in the storage room above Almack’s.

  The entire audience erupted with laughter, as did Lucinda, Lady Charlotte, his mother, and Michael, giving Will the opportunity to look at her directly.

  She turned and gave him a dazzling smile, her eyes dancing with merriment. “He is wonderfully wild, is he not?”

  “Indeed,” Will answered, his light tone failing to betray his thoughts.

  He gripped the spindly arms of the chair, loosening his hold when they audibly creaked in protest.

  If Lucinda had deeper feelings for him, there would have been telltale signs, Will was sure. The woman wasn’t practiced in the ways of deception. He’d witnessed her face flush with color over lesser things; her eyes shielded by her lashes when she wished to conceal the truth; her searching for words that would hide what she was thinking.

  No, that small sliver of hope for something he couldn’t quite explain had been in vain. Be thankful, you fool, he thought to himself, releasing the chair and folding his arms across his chest. She’s doing you a favor.

  The audience erupted with laughter again, and this time Will joined in. He, unlike Lucinda, was well versed in the art of deception, and he’d be damned if he would let something as trivial as his emotions compromise the quality of his work.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked Lucinda.

  She leaned in conspiratorially, her shoulder connecting with his. “Immensely.”

  “In that case,” he replied, turning to look at her. “Perhaps you’ll do me a favor. After all, Grimaldi is quite the most difficult ticket to obtain in town.”

  She turned to face him, her eyebrows furrowing. “What might that be, Your Grace?”

  “Assure me that we’ve come to an agreement concerning your morning rides.”

  She pulled back, the absence of her shoulder leaving Will cold. “I thought I made myself clear.”

  Will smiled charmingly. “Really, because I’m quite sure that I made myself clear as well. It is neither safe nor appropriate. A
nd, as your suitor, I do have some say in the matter.”

  The color began to rise from her chest, slowly creeping its way up to settle in her cheeks. “I do so appreciate your concern. But let us remember, you are not my husband, Your Grace.”

  “Not yet,” he growled. Why was she being so disagreeable? He was doing his bloody best to play by the ton’s rules—and if that meant he would not have to rise at an ungodly hour in order to keep her alive, well, all the better.

  “Are you expressly forbidding me from my morning ride?” she furiously whispered, her face turned toward the stage.

  Will took a deep breath, his cravat suddenly tight. “I am.”

  Her jaw clenched. “And if I do not obey?”

  “Lucinda,” he began, itching to rip the bloody cloth from his neck. “Is it even necessary for me to answer?”

  “We shall see.”

  THE WILY WOLF TAVERN

  CHARING CROSS, LONDON

  Will lifted his tankard and drank deeply, realizing belatedly that claiming a need for ale as an excuse for taking his leave from his mother and brother had not entirely been a ruse.

  After receiving word of Garenne from a Young Corinthian at Covent Garden, he’d escorted a chilly Lucinda and her aunt to their carriage, then accompanied his mother and brother home, only to excuse himself and immediately head out into the dark night.

  He set the pewter tankard on the rough-hewn, scarred tabletop and took in his surroundings. He’d heard of the Wily Wolf, a popular gathering place for London’s criminally inclined, and he had to admit, it lived up to its reputation.

  Scant light threw ominous shadows around the interior. Smoke from the tallow candles hovered in a thick cloud against the ceiling and hazed the room, preventing clients from getting more than a minimal view of their fellow drinkers.

  It was a sizeable room, though Will had counted a total of only twelve tables and a large bar that ran along the back wall; hardly surprising in such an establishment, where privacy was a necessity.