by Devilish
Praise for the novels of
Jo Beverley
Secrets of the Night
“Beverley does not disappoint as she weaves a poignant tale of forbidden love. This sparkling talent is a joy to read.”
—Romantic Times
“Jo Beverley is up to her usual magic…. She sprinkles a bit of intrigue, a dash of passion and a dollop of lust, a pinch of poison, and a woman’s need to protect all those she loves.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Ms. Beverley’s work is superb, as always…. Brand’s story is a precious treat to be savored.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette*
“A lovely step-by-step journey through a year or so of the lives of some ordinary and extraordinary people who won’t easily be forgotten…. Another winner.”
—CompuServe Romance Reviews
“A haunting romance of extraordinary passion and perception…. The story Jo Beverley weaves will astonish you. You’ll remember Secrets of the Night, with all of its power, emotion, and passion, for a very long time.”
—Bookbug on the Web
“Incredibly sensual … sexy and funny…. These characters [are] wonderfully real.”
—All About Romance
Forbidden Magic
“Wickedly delicious! Jo Beverley weaves a spell of sensual delight with her usual grace and flair.”
—Teresa Medeiros
“A gem of a book—a little bawdy, a little magical, and written with a twinkling sense of humor that only Ms. Beverley is capable of. A keeper!”
—Romantic Times
“Delightful … thrilling … with a generous touch of magic…. An enchanting read.”
—Booklist
“An excellent read—definitely for dreamers!”
—Rendezvous
“Jo Beverley’s style is flawless … a wild ride filled with humor, suspense, love, passion, and much more.”
—Gothic Journal
Lord of Midnight
“Beverley weaves a stunning medieval romance of loss and redemption…. Sizzling.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Noted for her fast-paced, wonderfully inventive stories, excellent use of humor and language, and vividly rendered characters and situations, Beverley has created another gem that will not disappoint.”
—Library Journal
“Jo Beverley brings the twelfth century to life in a vivid portrayal of a highly romantic story that captures the era with all its nuances, pageantry, and great passion…. A real treat!”
—Romantic Times
“Extremely enjoyable … intriguing … Jo Beverley is clearly one of the leading writers lighting up the Dark Ages.”
—Harriet Klausner for Painted Rock Reviews
“There can be no doubt that Jo Beverley is in the very forefront of romance writers today. Each new book is a beautifully crafted, emotionally involving, totally delightful treasure…. Witty, slightly bawdy, gently emotional without being overly sentimental, Lord of Midnight is wonderful!”
—Genie Romance and Women’s Fiction Exchange
Something Wicked
“A fast-paced adventure with strong, vividly portrayed characters … wickedly, wonderfully sensual and gloriously romantic.”
—Mary Balogh
“Intrigue, suspense, and passion fill the pages of this high-powered, explosive drama…. Thrilling!”
—Rendezvous
“Something Wicked will delight.”
—Lake Worth Herald
“Jo Beverley is a talented storyteller, creating characters who come alive.”
—Under the Covers Book Review
“A fantastic, fast-paced Georgian romance that is a masterpiece of writing, as all of Jo Beverley’s novels are … action-packed and loaded with intrigue … classy and fabulous!”
—Genie Romance and Women’s Fiction Exchange
Additional praise for Jo Beverley
and her romances
“Jo Beverley is a born storyteller!”
—Mary Jo Putney
“Romance fiction at its best.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of the Regency genre’s brightest and dazzling stars.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Fascinating, lively, wonderful…. Brimming with sensual adventure and daring wit.”
—Romantic Times
ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY
Secrets of the Night
Forbidden Magic
Lord of Midnight
Something Wicked
Devilish
Jo Beverley
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,
London W8 5TZ, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182–190 Wairau Road,
Auckland 10, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
First Printing, April 2000
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2000
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-57981-7
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book has to be dedicated to the three important men in my life—Ken, Jonathan, and Philip. You’ve all made being an author possible and pleasurable. The gods are exceedingly kind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I want to acknowledge the years of support and wisdom of my agent, Alice Orr, who is moving into a more leisurely lifestyle. I wish her much joy.
Mixing with other authors is fruitful, and my critique group has been a great help in steering this tricky beast: Jane Wallace, Solveig McLaren, Karel Loganhume, Marjorie Daniels, and Anita Birt.
The Genie romance exchange is my on-line home and constant support, but one magical night in a realtime conference, my fellow authors there helped me find the true heart of this book.
Thanks also to Andrew Sigel of Genie, who managed to find what still exists of the libretto of Bach’s opera Orione so I could be sure what it was actually about. (Not, of course, what I had first t
hought.) Also to Bibiana Behrendt, who knows all about port, and to the [email protected] group who checked my foreign languages.
And, of course, thanks to the Marquess of Rothgar, who strolled into an orgy eight years ago and uttered the prophetic words, “Your fate has arrived.”
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
London, June 1763
The doors of the Savoir Faire club opened, throwing a path of light into the midnight street, and causing a flurry among the idling servants. Linkboys ran forward, torches streaming, to offer the gentlemen light on their way home. A hovering footman blew a whistle, however, and a response shrilled back from one of the coaches lined up in the street. The coach’s lamps sprang to light, and a groom could be seen removing nose bags from the two horses.
The liveried footman turned back to be sure the pesky linkboys didn’t bother his master, the great Marquess of Rothgar, and his lordship’s half-brother, Lord Bryght Malloren. With a few cheeky comments, the lads drifted back to an abandoned dice game in the shadows.
Despite precious lace gleaming pale at throat and wrist, and the flash of fire in jewels, the marquess and his brother didn’t need protection. Both wore small swords, and gilded scabbards and ornamental ribbons did not make them any less lethal, especially in their hands.
They chatted as they waited for the coach to pull up in front of them. Then the doors of the fashionable club opened again, and a new group emerged laughing, one man singing badly out of tune.
Then the song changed:
“For chastity’s a noble state,
A pity it don’t wear, eh?
The lady doth protest too much
For the gentleman was bare, eh!”
Both brothers turned, swords hissing from their scabbards.
“I believe,” the marquess said softly, “that song went out of fashion nearly two years back. You will, of course, apologize for being so out of style, sir?”
The song was one of the scurrilous ones which had flown about town when Lady Chastity Ware had been found in her bed with a naked man. The young lady had declared her innocence, but it had taken Malloren intervention to prove it, and have her restored to society. Chastity was now the wife of the marquess’s youngest half-brother, Lord Cynric, now Lord Raymore.
The blond man who had been singing, disordered perhaps by drink, sneered at the swords. “Damned if I will. A man can sing a song.”
“Not that one!” snapped Lord Bryght, blade point moving to touch the other man’s throat. The singer didn’t flinch, though his companions shrank back, pop-eyed.
The marquess used his blade tip to push his brother’s away. “We’ll have no street brawls, Bryght, or murders.” He eyed the insolent singer. “Your name, sir?”
Most men in London would quail under the icy tone of the man many called the Dark Marquess, but this one only sneered more. “Curry, my lord. Sir Andrew Curry.”
“Then, Sir Andrew, you will apologize for singing out of tune.”
Nostrils flared, but the sneer stayed in place. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to shovel blossoms over the dung heap, my lord marquess. Wealth and power can only do so much, and a stink will always linger.”
“Especially in a corpse,” the marquess remarked. “I fear we must meet, Sir Andrew. Your second?”
Instead of alarm, Curry smiled. “Giller?”
One of his hangers-on, overdressed and pug-faced, seemed to gulp, but said, “Of course, Curry. Your servant.”
“Lord Bryght will act for me,” said the marquess, “but we can settle the details I’m sure. Weapons?”
“Swords.”
“Swords at nine, then, at the pond in St. James’s Park. The one so popular for suicide.” He sheathed his sword, then entered his crested carriage.
Lord Bryght sheathed his own sword, made wary by Curry’s good humor. “Giller? Step aside with me if you will.”
“Why?” asked the pudgy man in alarm.
“Because you’re my second, you numbskull,” Curry said. “Lord Bryght is evidently meticulous about these things. Go and assure him that I won’t apologize.”
Giller teetered over on high heels, looking as if he feared to be skewered.
Bryght said, “It is our duty, Mr. Giller—”
“Sir Parkwood Giller, my lord.”
“My apologies, Sir Parkwood. It is our duty to try to effect a reconciliation. Talk to Sir Andrew, and if he changes his mind, contact me at Malloren House, Marlborough Square.”
“Changes his mind!” declared Giller. “Curry? I should think not. Try instead to convince the marquess not to commit suicide.” He turned, nose in air, and teetered back to his friends.
So it was as he suspected. Curry was a professional duelist.
Bryght entered the carriage and it moved on, but behind them, singing started again. Bryght cursed but his brother put a hand on his arm. “It will be dealt with tomorrow in proper fashion, Bryght.”
“Proper fashion? Why the devil are you fighting a man like that? You could have taken a whip to him for singing that song and no one would have objected.”
“You think not? This is not autocratic France, and besides, he seemed intent on a duel.”
“You aren’t usually so obliging to those with intent,” Bryght snapped, for it touched on an issue he’d come to London to raise. Now, however, was definitely not the time. If this went amiss, it would end the issue anyway.
Rothgar smiled slightly in the flickering light of the carriage lamp. “The duel would have been hard to avoid, Bryght, and I found myself curious as to who wants me dead.”
Bryght looked at his brother. “So, you do know the man’s reputation?”
“A bully and probably a cheat who gets away with it because people are afraid of his skill with a sword. He needs a lesson.”
“But why from you?” Rothgar was good, damn good, but there was always someone better. He’d drilled that into his younger half-brothers when preparing them for the world.
Rothgar didn’t answer, and Bryght remembered what he’d said. “You think he’s a hired killer? Devil take it, Bey, who would want you dead?”
Rothgar turned one of his deceptively mild looks on him. “You think me unworthy of hate and fear?”
Bryght laughed—Rothgar often had that effect on him—but said, “He’ll not make a killing matter out of it. Deadly duels can land a man in prison these days.”
“What else is the point? And he’s just the sort of rootless rogue to flee to France without a care, especially with a large bag of blood money for comfort.”
“Whose money?”
“That’s the interesting question. I fail to see any enemies who would go to such extremes. Rather lowering, really. Surely the passion of one’s enemies should mark the stature of one’s triumphs.”
“You probably have enemies you don’t even know about.” Rothgar’s almost playful mood made Bryght snappish. “The trouble with being the ‘Dark Marquess,’ and the éminence noire of England is it makes it easy for anyone to
blame their misfortunes on you.”
Rothgar laughed. “Like a warty village crone? The sort simple people blame for every misshaped child or suddenly dead sheep?”
Bryght had to laugh, too, for a less likely image for his elegant, sophisticated brother was hard to imagine. As the coach halted in the front courtyard of Malloren House, however, humor faded. Did someone want his brother dead?
After a restless night, he was still asking that question the next morning when their coach arrived at the area of St. James’s Park close to the gloomy pond. “Devil take it! Why are there so many people here? This is a duel, not a theatrical performance.”
“Is there any difference?” Rothgar asked dryly as he climbed out of the carriage. Bryght could not know if his brother had slept well, but he seemed his normal, unruffled self.
Bryght climbed down, staring around at the crowd. Most of London Society seemed to be here—the male part at least. Behind the fashionable circle in lace and braid clustered the lower orders, bobbing up and down to try to see. Some, by Hades, carried children on their shoulders, and a number of men, women, and children were up in nearby trees. In the distance, people massed in the windows of overlooking houses. Flashes of reflected sunlight told him some had telescopes.
Anything his brother did was cause for public excitement, but this was damned improper for a meeting of honor. Who the devil had alerted the world? It almost turned the duel into a joke.
Then Bryght noticed Lord Selwyn at the front of the crowd. Selwyn had a morbid taste for public executions, and traveled Europe to watch the most gruesome. He wouldn’t have risen early from his bed for a joke.
Selwyn, at least, expected to enjoy a death here today.
Bryght realized that he was staring around in far too revealing a manner. He forced himself to relax, pulled out a silver box, and took a pinch of snuff. Though he’d abandoned London’s games for the country when he married, he still knew the rules. One did not show fear or even concern over personal safety. Rarely in private. Never in public.
Or, as in the animal world, they’d tear you apart.
He turned his attention to Rothgar’s opponent. Curry was already down to shirt and breeches, showing a body that was whipcord thin and strong. Height and reach must be similar to his brother’s.
