Demon's Bride

by Zoë Archer

  “There’s a tavern in an alley off Threadneedle. The Cormorant. I’ll meet you there in a quarter of an hour.”

  His friends dispersed, trailing shadows. Leo spent a few minutes chatting with acquaintances, maintaining the illusion that all was well, even as he knew otherwise. Eventually, he drifted away and toward Threadneedle Street. He hated missing any potential deals, but he had no choice. The Hellraisers would not seek him out at this hour unless the situation were dire.

  Less crowded than a coffee house, the Cormorant tavern still held a few patrons. One man slept with his head on the table, beside his tankard. Another puffed on a pipe by the fire, watching smoke rings drift up to the stained ceiling. The Hellraisers occupied the settles in the corner, and they stared at their mugs with hard, wary expressions, as if anticipating an attack.

  Leo sat next to John. He grunted his thanks when the tapster brought a grimy mug of ale, though he had no thirst for it.

  “Whit’s been spotted,” Bram said without preamble. “Here, in London.”

  Leo clenched his hands into fists. “When?”

  “Don’t know. John and I only heard about it last night.”

  “We ran into Chilton at the Theatre Royal,” said John. “He asked why Whit wasn’t with us, as he had seen him just that morning on Westminster Bridge, with a pretty Gypsy girl on his arm. Whit asked Chilton about us, wanted to know what we had been doing.”

  “And Chilton told him,” added Bram.

  Leo swore. He considered taking a drink of his ale just to steady himself, but something floated on the drink’s surface, and he pushed it away.

  Damn it. Damn.

  “What do you think he wants?” Edmund gnawed on his thumbnail, as he always did when anxious.

  “Same as he’s always wanted—to take our gifts.” John’s fingers beat a staccato rhythm on the tabletop.

  “He hasn’t the power to do so.” Yet Bram did not sound as confident as his words attested.

  “Not that we know of.” Leo crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s been months since Bram saw him in Manchester. Not even Mr. Holliday has been able to keep track of him. Anything might have happened in the interval.”

  “We can’t let him take our gifts. We cannot.” A note of panic threaded into Edmund’s voice. Unlike the broader-reaching gifts that John, Bram, and Leo had received, Edmund had received one, and one alone: Rosalind.

  Bram scowled. “Just last night I used my gift to persuade my way into Lady Hadlow’s bed. She was always too devoted to her husband, even if he’s in India.”

  “As a married man,” said Edmund, “I find your actions deplorable.”

  “Because, before Rosalind, you only fucked widows and courtesans?” Bram snorted. “You forget, I once saw you sneaking off with the very married Augustine Colford.” When Edmund continued to sulk, Bram added, “For all her fidelity, Lady Hadlow did not complain when I brought her to climax four times.”

  “There’s more at stake than your damned cock.” John growled. “Yesterday afternoon, I read the mind of the Earl of Northington, the damned Lord Chancellor, and learned his plans for the treaty with France. Without Mr. Holliday’s gift, I wouldn’t know a bloody thing. I’d be merely another normal man,” he sneered.

  Dissention was never difficult to come by with the Hellraisers, but Leo needed to stop it before they degenerated into an outright scrum. “No one is taking anything. There are four of us, and one of him.”

  “And the Gypsy,” added John. “The ghost, too. If she has reappeared.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Bram. “Between us four Hellraisers and his less-than-reliable confederates, the odds favor us.”

  “Whit always did like steep odds.” Leo smiled darkly. “But this is one gamble he cannot win.”

  “You have a scheme in mind,” said Bram.

  “Continuously.” Leaning forward, Leo braced his elbows on the table. “Whit might not be able to mount a full-scale frontal assault. He knows that he cannot beat us all. If I were him, I would seek out allies, wherever I could find them. All that remains to us is to ensure that he makes no allegiances.”

  John’s fingers slowed their beat as he began to understand Leo’s intent. “Ostracize him.”

  “If Whit is not received anywhere in London, if he becomes a pariah, then he is left to his own frail resources.”

  Still, Bram looked skeptical. “Frail was not the word I would have used to describe Whit in Manchester. He had no magic, ’tis true, but he seemed stronger than ever. Especially with that damned girl at his side. As if he could level mountains with thought alone.”

  John snorted. “False confidence engendered by a bit of quim. Doubtless he has begun to realize that, outside of the bedchamber, a Gypsy girl makes for an inferior companion. He could be weakening even now.”

  “We cut Whit off from any source of support,” said Leo, “leave him with nary a friend, so he has no reinforcements.”

  Clearly heartened by this idea, Edmund brightened. “That should not prove overly difficult. His habits at the gaming tables seldom won him friends—beyond us, of course.”

  “A few well-placed tales of cheating and theft,” Leo continued, “and the deed is done. There’ve already been rumors about him ruining lordlings and reckless gentlemen. Some more kindling on that fire, and we will smoke him out.”

  Yet Bram was not entirely satisfied. “And then?”

  “And then ... when Whit has nowhere to turn, he will either flee, or attempt to make a stand. At which point”—he smiled grimly at the other Hellraisers—“we will render him no longer a threat. By any means at our disposal.”

  A sheet of paper awaited Anne at breakfast. On it, in Leo’s bold, masculine scrawl, was a list of names. She took her tea and rolls in the upstairs parlor rather than the cavernous dining chamber, and as she sipped from her cup, she considered the list.

  All of the names she knew, some better than others. Impoverished her family might be, but their breeding was matchless, their connections impeccable. A few barbs might be lobbed in Anne’s direction, given that she had married so far beneath her rank, yet a baron’s daughter she remained. Barring any real scandal, she ought to be admitted to anyone’s home. Welcomed, even.

  She picked apart a roll and reviewed the list. Leo had selected the highest-ranking members of Society, men of ancient lineage. Anne mulled over their names, sensing that something connected them, something she could not quite identify, yet lingered at the back of her mind like a distant storm. Dark clouds massing on the horizon.

  But what was it? What linked the names on the list?

  Anne shook her head. Again, she let fancy run rampant. Leo had revealed much this morning, giving her glimpses of a self she suspected he showed few, if any. How much of his past did his friends know? Men seldom unburdened themselves to one another, as if, like the basest pack of animals, they feared a show of vulnerability meant a challenger would disembowel them and claim dominance.

  What Leo had said to her today had been spoken in trust. She could not repay that trust with suspicion. Already she knew her acceptance pleased him. Her mouth and body still resonated with the heat of his kiss.

  God, if that kiss was any gauge of what she ought to expect when they finally consummated their marriage ... no wonder she battled fear. For the effects of Leo’s desire could leave her a smoldering ruin. And she might gratefully welcome the conflagration.

  Cheeks burning, heat pooling low in her belly, Anne tried to compose herself with a sip of tea. Yet the liquid was too hot, and she burned her tongue. Everything, it seemed, burned her.

  She spent the remainder of the morning in correspondence. As she sat at an escritoire in the opulently furnished drawing room, no noise in the chamber but for the scratching of her pen across the foolscap and the pop of the fire, Anne thought she heard a rustling, and the sound of a footstep just behind her. Startled, she dropped her pen, spattering ink across the paper.

  She turned in her seat, expecti
ng to see either Meg or one of the servants. No one. The chamber had one occupant: her.

  Instinctively, she looked toward the mounted sconces, but the candles were unlit. There was nothing to extinguish.

  Chiding herself, Anne sprinkled sand onto the paper in the hopes of salvaging it. The contents of her letter were not irreplaceable, but she was too used to frugal living to readily lose a sheet of foolscap. Paper was dear.

  Now she could afford as much foolscap as she desired, and in her letters she would not have to cross her lines anymore as a means of using less paper.

  Anne sighed. The letter was beyond repair, and her thoughts too scattered to attempt anything resembling coherent correspondence. Checking the hour, she saw that she was well within polite boundaries for paying calls. She may as well begin crossing names off Leo’s list. No sense in delaying.

  Lord Newstead seemed the best candidate with which to begin. Lady Newstead was close in age to Anne, and married only a year. She and Anne might find elements of parallel over which they might form, if not friendship, then a better sense of acquaintanceship. Keeping this strategy in mind, Anne donned her hat and, with Meg in tow, stepped outside.

  The sky was mottled, gray clouds streaking the cold blue sky, and an air of hushed waiting hung over the street.

  “Mr. Bailey has taken the carriage.” The footman waiting in attendance by the door seemed apologetic, as if having only one carriage seemed a breach of decorum. Anne’s family had to share their carriage with two other families, which kept impromptu journeys to a minimum. “I can summon a hack for you, madam.”

  It seemed a dreadful expense, when a sedan chair would suit the same purpose, but she had to remind herself that expense little mattered anymore. She glanced down the street. “I do not see any hackneys.” In truth, almost no one was out, apart from a sweep with his brushes.

  “Two streets over, there’s loads of traffic. I’ll just run over. Back in a moment, madam.”

  “You may have an admirer, Meg,” Anne said once the footman had run off. “He seemed most eager to show himself at an advantage.”

  The maid sniffed. “As if a lady’s maid would ever hold truck with a footman. It takes more than a fine pair of calves to turn my head.” Yet Meg cast lingering glances in the direction which the footman had disappeared.

  An icy wind spun down the street. Anne shivered.

  “This weather is changeable.” Meg gazed critically toward the sky. “Shall I fetch a shawl for you, madam?”

  At Anne’s nod, the maid hurried up the stairs and then into the house. Anne stood by herself, rubbing her hands on her arms. The sweep had turned the corner. No one else occupied the street. She was alone.

  “Mrs. Bailey.”

  Anne spun around.

  Not five feet from her stood a tall, brown-haired man, his clothing fine but verging on threadbare. His brilliant blue eyes shone with intelligence, and though he never took his gaze from her, he seemed acutely aware of his surroundings, as if sensing enemies all around. At his side was a young woman of exotic origin, her skin dusky, her eyes as black as her hair. Like the man, the exotic girl had an air of wariness about her. They had the guarded manner of fugitives.

  Though Anne did not recognize the girl, she knew the man by reputation alone.

  Her voice came out little more than a croak. “Lord Whitney.”

  Chapter 6

  The street had been empty, yet Lord Whitney and his companion had just noiselessly appeared. “My ... my husband is not at home.”

  “It’s you we want to speak with,” said the young woman. Large golden hoops hung from her ears, necklaces draped around her neck, and rings adorned her fingers. Anne had never been this close to a Gypsy in her life, though she had seen them at Bartholomew Fair doing trick riding and telling fortunes.

  “Time is in short supply.” Lord Whitney stepped closer, and Anne took an instinctive step back.

  “Time for what?”

  “To warn you.”

  Unease crawled up Anne’s neck. “Truly, perhaps you should return when Leo is home.”

  “Leo is the one you should be afraid of.”

  Anne did not like the alert tension in Lord Whitney’s stance, nor the way the Gypsy woman kept glancing around the street. Perhaps the Gypsy was ill, for her body gave off a tremendous amount of heat. Perhaps both the woman and Lord Whitney were both ill, for they had a kind of fever in their eyes.

  “He has been nothing but kind to me,” Anne said.

  Lord Whitney and the Gypsy exchanged speaking glances. “She doesn’t know,” said the Gypsy.

  “Know what?” Anne’s anxiety gave edge to her temper. “These riddles you speak are tiresome.”

  “Leo has—” Lord Whitney broke off when the front door opened.

  Anne turned to see Meg standing at the top of the stairs, an Indian shawl in hand. “Madam?”

  Glancing back at Lord Whitney and his companion, Anne jolted in surprise when she found no sign of them.

  “Did you see them?” Anne asked when Meg came down the steps.

  “I heard you speaking with someone, but when I came out, you were alone.” The maid’s forehead wrinkled in concern as she draped the shawl around Anne’s shoulders. “Are you well, madam?”

  Anne pressed a hand to her forehead. Had she just imagined that entire bizarre conversation? Manufacturing Lord Whitney—a man she barely knew—and a Gypsy woman—whom she knew not at all? If she had invented that scenario, she could not understand where the details came from, nor why she would construct the person of a Gypsy out of her own imagination.

  Perhaps I’m the one with fever.

  “I do not know.” She pulled the shawl close around her shoulders.

  Carriage wheels rattling broke the street’s silence. The footman ran beside a hackney coach, and he smiled with ruddy-faced pride at his work when both he and the vehicle stopped in front of the house.

  “The missus isn’t going to need that.” Meg deflated the footman’s satisfaction. “She’s ill, and must have rest.” Realizing her presumption, the maid turned to Anne. “That’s right, isn’t it, madam?”

  Anne did not feel sick in the slightest, yet she must be, to believe she had conversed with people who were not truly there. And she had had that peculiar incident earlier in the drawing room, that sense of being watched. This morning had been a collection of eldritch moments. “Yes. I think I will lie down.”

  The footman looked crestfallen as Meg led Anne up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, before going inside, Anne glanced back out to the street. Movement near the mews caught her eye, yet when she peered closer, all she saw were shadows caused by shifting clouds. Shaking her head at the strange convolutions of her mind, she went inside.

  Meg lit candles against the onset of darkness. Yet as soon as the maid left Anne’s chamber, the same thing happened. One by one, the candles went out. Not wanting to summon Meg for something she could easily accomplish on her own, Anne tried to relight the candles, but they continued to extinguish themselves. She checked the windows. They remained secure. The door to her chamber stayed closed. There were no drafts, no gusts. Again, she had the oddest sensation that something, someone blew the candles out. Yet she was completely alone.

  On the third try, the candles stayed lit, as though whoever had blown them out either left or grew weary of their labors. She gazed around the room, uneasy.

  Full dark fell by the time Anne heard Leo’s footsteps on the stairs. She set her book aside as he entered the bedchamber, looking slightly windblown yet striking nonetheless.

  Seeing her reclining in bed, he took long strides until he stood beside her.

  “What ails you?” He sat down and, frowning with concern, took her hand between his.

  “Nothing. A momentary complaint.” Indeed, after spending the remainder of the day in bed, with the walls of the chamber—of the house itself—close about her, restlessness danced through her. She barely remembered the incident outside the house, and
now began to wonder if all of it had been some strange, momentary folly brought about by too little sleep and too much idleness.

  Yet Leo was solicitous. “I’ll fetch a physician.”

  “It isn’t necessary. Truly, Leo, if there was a crisis, it has passed.” He looked skeptical, but she could be as obstinate as he, when required. She tried for a diversionary tactic. “I hope your day of trade and commerce proved fruitful.”

  If she had not been studying the angles and contours of his face, she might have missed the slight movement of his gaze—the barest flick to the side. But her husband was at all times a subject of fascination, and so she did see this tiny movement, and could only wonder what it meant.

  “A hectic day.” He smiled, and pressed her hands closer within his.

  It was not precisely an answer, but she decided not to push for specifics, since she did not want an accounting of her own actions today. They would maintain a mutual blindness.

  As they gazed at each other, realization crept over them both. The last time they had been in each other’s company, he had kissed her. The kiss resonated now like unheard music, the beat of a drum steady and compelling beneath the silence. Her gaze drifted to his mouth, just as his did to hers. Both of them wondering, each asking themselves, Did that truly happen? Could it happen again?

  Beneath his hands, the pulse in her wrists quickened.

  He released his clasp of her hands. As if to distract himself from the potential of his wife in bed, he glanced over to the small table beside the bed. Extending his long body so that he stretched over her, he took hold of some of the squares of thick paper piled there. His body spread warmth through hers as his torso brushed hers.

  He straightened, his cheek darkening beneath golden stubble. Riffling through the cards, he read aloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bingham. Sir Frederic and Lady Wells. The Lord and Lady Overbury humbly request the honor of your presence.” He looked up at her, baffled. “What are these?”

  “Calling cards. Invitations. Sending them is rather a mania for Society. The cards arrive every morning, especially after a wedding. Have you never received them?”