Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls)

by R. C. Matthews

  Grace commanded the stairs with Brother Anselm at her side. She held herself erect with the elegance of a black swan, standing out against the backdrop and so painfully beautiful all eyes were riveted in her direction.

  His mother perused Grace’s attire and muttered under her breath, “God in Heaven, but the woman is an angel, and she comes with her own monk. Wherever did you find her, Dominick?”

  “Hold your tongue, Mother!” he said, clenching his jaw. “Eveline is the respectable daughter of a baron, and you will treat her as such, do you hear me?”

  Her steel-gray eyes sparkled with mirth, and she turned toward the next guest in line, ignoring him. When Grace arrived in the line, he kissed her hand and presented her formally to his mother and stepfather.

  “Mother, Lord Winters, may I present Miss Eveline Mitchell, daughter of Sir Charles Mitchell. And this is her friend, Brother Anselm. They are my honored guests, so please make them feel welcomed.”

  “Lovely to meet you both,” his mother said graciously, though she eyed Brother Anselm with barely restrained contempt. She offered Grace a curt smile. Her reception of Grace surprised him given what a cold bitch his mother could be. Why the attempt at civility?

  He observed his mother a while longer, but she didn’t flinch or look his way, other than to introduce guests or interject in his conversations with witty banter. Her gaze drifted to the entrance from time to time, however that was to be expected given her excitement over the exceptional guest list.

  “You must be bored out of your wits,” his mother finally said, raising her brow. “Why don’t you join everyone in the ballroom and allow me to finish up here?”

  He couldn’t shake the feeling she was hiding something from him, but after another five minutes, Devlin accepted her offer. Let her be useful for once in his life. It stung his pride to admit he was actually glad she’d stayed and relieved him of the burden.

  He followed the crowd through the conservatory and down the winding staircase. Excited chatter surrounded him, and the orchestra music flittered through the hallway, adding to the magical tone of the evening. As he approached the billiards room, Hatchet stepped into his path.

  “We need to speak,” Hatchet said, his tone flat.

  Devlin motioned toward the billiards room, where a small table for two in the far corner beckoned. Four gentlemen were engaged in a game of billiards, and he greeted them with a curt nod before sitting to face Hatchet.

  “Why do you look so grim?” he asked, his voice an octave above a whisper.

  “Emma refuses to listen to me,” Hatchet said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t want her anywhere near Josephine. You’re her employer. Command her to return to her quarters for the evening.”

  Pressing his lips together, Devlin schooled his expression. He knew better than any other, except Victor perhaps, why Hatchet was uneasy with the evening’s events. But, as much as it pained him to test his friend’s nerves, this was beyond his control. “Emma loves Eveline and wishes to be here for her best friend. You know that, Hatchet. You can’t force your will on her.”

  His friend clenched his fists and leaned forward. “This is bullshit. You would risk her life, knowing how I feel about her—knowing my past?”

  With a deep sigh, Devlin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to find the best way to approach the matter with his friend. Hatchet had lost his first love in a fiery, tragic accident, but he couldn’t live his life in a perpetual state of fear for his woman. It wasn’t healthy … for either of them.

  “If you hold on too tight,” Devlin said gently, “then you risk strangling the relationship. Let Emma stay awhile and then get her out. Agreed?”

  Hatchet sat ramrod straight and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He stood and, after a curt nod, stormed out of the billiards room.

  Devlin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. All would be well. It had better be, or else Hatchet may never forgive him either.

  Chapter Thirty

  Devlin entered the ballroom and thrust his concerns for Hatchet aside. Tonight, more than any other, he needed a clear head. He acknowledged all of the smiling faces angled toward him with a smile of his own. Within seconds, Maribeth trotted to his side, obviously having stalked the entrance for his arrival.

  “You promised me the first dance,” she said, grinning up at him. She bobbed a curtsey and twirled around once, offering him a view of her ruby-red dress with a white sash. “What do you think?”

  “You’re lovely,” he said, offering his arm. “And I see that my timing is impeccable. The current set is about to end.”

  A whirl of emerald satin passed within six feet of him, snaring his attention. Grace wore a glorious smile as she was swept around the dance floor in Victor’s arms. She was radiant and moved with skill and grace.

  “I’m a cad. I promised to teach her to dance. Where do you suppose she learned, Poppet?”

  Maribeth beamed at the couple. “Victor has been giving us daily lessons while you’ve been locked away in your study, preparing for tonight. Being a marquess seems a dreadfully boring nuisance. I much prefer you as Devlin the sea captain.”

  He rubbed his chin, his thoughts drawn to the mound of paperwork piled on his desk. “I have to agree with you on that account.”

  The waltz ended, and couples paired off for the next dance.

  “Come along,” he said.

  Their arrival in the queue caused quite a stir, but Maribeth did not seem to care one bit, and neither did he. It was his ball, and he would conduct it in the fashion of his choosing. By the time they completed the quadrille, his partner’s cheeks were flushed and she wore the happiest smile he had seen in some time. After a quick survey of the room, he spotted Grace and Brother Anselm congregated near the punch table. He herded Maribeth in their direction and retrieved a glass of the fruity liquid for her.

  “Well done,” Brother Anselm said, patting Maribeth on the back. “Your timing was spot-on. Did it meet your expectations?”

  She nodded. “Even better.”

  “Enjoy your punch, Poppet,” Devlin said, wrapping Grace’s hand over his forearm before fixing a stern gaze on Maribeth. “Then it’s off to the kitchen with you for a bite to eat and bed. I’ve kept my promise; it’s time for you to keep yours.”

  He wanted the child tucked safely away before the events to come.

  Maribeth gulped her last mouthful of punch, creating an unsightly red ring over her upper lip, and smiled. “Very well. I bid you all good night.”

  After she skipped out of sight, Devlin leaned over, speaking for Grace’s ears only. “Forgive me for neglecting you over the past month. It was my wish to teach you the waltz. Leave it to my first mate to try and steal you from under my nose.”

  She chuckled and patted his arm. “Your marriage proposal came not a moment too soon. Victor’s prowess on the dance floor nearly swept me off my feet.”

  “Saucy wench,” he said, stroking her cheek with a smirk curving up the corner of his mouth. “Toss your dance card, because the rest of the dances belong to me.”

  The first notes of a waltz sounded, and he pulled her into his embrace, twirling her into the fold of couples with ease. Her breasts molded to his hard chest, and his loins stirred to life.

  “Our bodies shouldn’t be touching,” Grace said, giggling as he held her even tighter. “You’re creating a scandal. Victor didn’t hold me so close.”

  Devlin basked in the warm glow of her happiness and countered, “That’s because he values his life.”

  “You’re incorrigible!”

  “And still you agreed to be my wife,” he said, nuzzling her neck. “What does that say about you, madam?”

  “Apparently that makes me insane.”

  A tremulous smile faded from her lips, and she turned her face away.

  She knew … O’ sweet Jesus … she knew. His heartbeat hammered out a staccato. He smoothed lines of worry away from her cheeks with his thumbs and hugged her close, lending her some of his streng
th.

  “All will be well, I promise.” He whispered, more for his own benefit than hers, because he knew with certainty that nothing would be well after the evening’s toast.

  When the music ended, he returned her to Brother Anselm’s care and sought a quiet moment with Victor to bring him up to speed on all that had happened.

  • • •

  Grace fiddled with the cross on her necklace and suddenly wished she carried a fan. Although the underground ballroom had the added benefit of remaining naturally cool, the air seemed to grow hotter with every tick of the clock. The hour of reckoning would soon be upon them. She hadn’t spoken to Devlin since the last waltz and was beginning to grow concerned.

  Her fingers trailed over the length of her braid and paused on the ring woven into her hair, hidden beneath fresh flowers. She didn’t dare allow Josephine to see it, the ring that had held Rosalie’s essence. She may need it after the evening’s toast should Josephine become enraged when her plan failed, for it would fail.

  Brother Anselm fidgeted at her side but attempted to lighten the mood with his oft-comical observations of the other guests. God bless his heart for trying when she was certain he dreaded the passing of time as much as she did. He’d taken the news of her recent meeting with Josephine hard, but when she begged for his assistance in carrying out her plan, if needed, he had recovered admirably. He could’ve refused to help, and he had every right to be cross with her for not having entrusted him with the truth from the beginning. Still, he stood by her side. And she loved him dearly for his support.

  “Brace yourself, my dear,” Brother Anselm whispered. “Lady Beaufort approaches with Dominick’s mother.”

  Grace smoothed her hands over her gown and schooled her features into what she hoped included a pleasant smile.

  “So good to see you again, Miss Mitchell,” Lady Winters said, though her tone belied the statement. “May I introduce you to Lady Beaufort? She’s new to Devil’s Cove, but the stories she tells are truly fascinating.”

  A chill scurried over Grace’s skin, and she shivered, pushing away the image it produced of hundreds of baby spiders fleeing their nest. She didn’t care to consider what stories Josephine might wish to share with Devlin’s mother.

  “Lady Beaufort and I are acquainted,” she said, clasping her hands together at her waist. “It’s a pleasure to speak with you again.”

  “Likewise, Miss Mitchell,” Josephine purred. “You must pay my compliments to your modiste. Green suits you so well. Your gown is exquisite.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Devlin said, wrapping his arm around Grace’s waist. His timing was impeccable. She leaned into him, calmed by the familiar scent of his cologne and the heat radiating off his body. “It seems we both have excellent taste, Lady Beaufort.”

  “Indeed, we do,” Josephine said with a husky chortle. “Lord Sommerset, allow me to congratulate you on your miraculous recovery. Amnesia, wasn’t it? I should think a toast is in order.”

  “Yes, of course, it’s more than past due,” Lady Winters said. “Shall we take our places on the dais, Dominick, so everyone may hear?”

  Devlin squeezed Grace close to his side. “Certainly, but first allow me to share our joyous news in private. Eveline has agreed to become my wife, Mother. Isn’t it marvelous?”

  Lady Winters heaved in a gulp of air, garnering attention from all corners of the room. “Over my dead body!” she hissed.

  Grace cringed as several nearby ladies gasped. Restless chatter grew around them, and she sought the comfort of the cross on her necklace. Tension radiated off Devlin, worsening with each second as the murmurs spread. She laid her hand over his, trying to subdue him as well as her mounting anxiety.

  “This evening is to celebrate the return of my long-lost son,” Lady Winters said, lowering her voice one decibel, yet failing to disguise her fury. “You’re a valued member of the ton who will take his place in parliament and restore dignity to the family name. Not marry a devil worshipper! One need only look at those empty eyes to see that the woman is insane.”

  Grace recoiled, and an odd tingling sensation formed in her belly, fanning out like a misty fog over rolling hills. When it reached her heart, Rosalie’s soul sputtered to life. Josephine, my love, I’m coming … The words echoed throughout her body like a chorus in an empty chapel, laced with undying devotion.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Josephine hadn’t lied. Devlin would betray her. The die had been cast … and now he would follow his mother’s suit, support her vile accusations.

  Words are only words and cannot hurt me.

  Grace chanted the mantra over and over in her head. She inhaled sharply through her nose, fighting against the pressure building in her limbs as Josephine’s soul mate sought her eternal release. Her mind flooded with Rosalie’s memories … lying in Josephine’s embrace by the crackling fire … swimming together in the ocean under a moonlit sky … exchanging rings and vows. She shook her head, casting them out.

  “Get a hold of yourself, madam,” Devlin said, dropping his arm from Grace’s waist and placing her behind him. “People are staring!”

  “Of course people are staring!” Lady Winters shouted, just as the orchestra music died. “Eveline Mitchell is a madwoman. Everyone has heard the terrifying accounts of what her mother did here years ago, of what Grace is capable of!”

  Horrified gasps filled the ballroom as guests pieced together her connection to Beatrice Mitchell. Everything seemed to close in on Grace. She could hear the nervous rustling of ladies’ gowns, felt people crowding in to catch the dirty details. She braced herself for the words, balled her hands into tight fists, and held her breath.

  “You’re absolutely right, Mother,” Devlin said, each syllable louder than the last. “Eveline Mitchell is insane and belongs in an asylum for agreeing to marry into a fucked-up family such as ours!”

  A moment of dead silence greeted his furious declaration, and Grace could suddenly breathe again. She heaved in a lungful of fresh air and nearly laughed with joy … because his family truly was a bit screwed up, but even more so … his words had not hurt her. A radiant smile beamed across her lips.

  “This is not funny,” Lady Winters sneered. “Caretaker, come collect your charge! You heard her fiancé, she’s insane and belongs in an asylum.”

  Shocked murmurs swelled to a heightened pitch, and Brother Anselm grabbed Grace’s arm. “O’ merciful Lord, this cannot be. What is the meaning of this, Captain Limmerick?” he bellowed. “Grace, we must get you out of here immediately.”

  “Caretaker,” she whispered, clutching her mentor’s sleeve. Her mind reeled, and she wanted to retch. She covered her ears, blocking out that one terrifying word rippling through the crowd. Devlin had invited the caretaker to his ball … No … no … no … it couldn’t be true.

  The floor dropped beneath Grace’s feet, and she stumbled, falling on her knees. Shards of betrayal ricocheted violently throughout her body, and with it, traces of ancient, dark magic bled into her soul.

  Declaring her insane before his guests was abominable … but carting her off to the asylum … How could he? Bile lurched up her throat, cutting off her airway.

  I’m far beyond redemption, you silly chit!

  She should’ve listened to him, she should’ve known. He did not love her, had never loved her. His soul could not be saved, no more than her own. He had invited the caretaker. Slumping onto the marble floor, Grace laid her head on her forearms, devoid of strength, of her will to live. She’d placed her faith in Devlin and their love, yet he’d abandoned her.

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she gave up the fight, giving over to Rosalie’s relentless demands to reunite with her lover. At least theirs was a deep love, forged over centuries. A violent blaze of flames mushroomed in her heart, and she begged for God’s mercy to plunge her into sweet oblivion.

  “Bloody fucking hell,” Devlin hissed, his tone ominous. “What have you done, Mother? Victor, Hatchet!” His shouts pi
erced Grace’s ears as he hauled her into his arms. “Escort Lady Winters and her guest out this instant! I’ll deal with them later.” He tucked her head against his chest and squeezed her close. “Stay with me, my love, please. I’ll do whatever God asks, just stay with me. I love you, Grace. Do you hear me? I love you.”

  He sounded so far, far away. His musky scent wafted in her nose, reminding her of happier times. She clung to the feeling with the last bit of her strength as scorching heat battered her soul. When he held her this way and spoke tender words, she almost believed them to be true.

  A giggle gurgled in Josephine’s throat, and then a snort, and another giggle. She leaned in close and cackled, “You’re too late, fool. The moment your mother steps one foot into the carriage, the score will be settled.”

  Rosalie’s spirit rallied deep within, and Grace groaned as black magic leeched into her veins, solidifying its deadly effects, wracking her body with pain. The price had been paid. Devlin betrayed a loved one in exchange for Satan’s help.

  He had betrayed a loved one … He loved her … He must in order for the transformation to take effect.

  A ray of hope burst from her heart, borne from the Lord’s holy light, and Grace saw everything with His stunning clarity. Devlin was as shocked about the caretaker’s presence as she. He’d kneeled before God, prayed by her side, and done everything she’d asked of him without complaint in the past month.

  Devlin loved her, as she loved him.

  Wings of joy fluttered in her stomach, and the searing pain of Josephine’s dark magic faded, replaced by the cloying sweetness of rosewater curling under her nose.

  “A few minutes more,” Josephine cooed, “then Grace will move on to meet her Maker, and my soul mate shall cherish life in her body forever.”

  Devlin’s heart thundered in his chest, and he growled, but before he exploded in a violent rage, Grace threaded her hands into the hair at his nape and tugged. “Don’t listen to her, Devlin. All is well, I promise. Set me on my feet.”