The Devil You Know

by Liz Carlyle

  He could almost see poor Freddie now, tearfully confessing all to Winnie Weyden. He could see Winnie screeching, wailing, then penning a hysterical note to Lord Rannoch. He could see that black-hearted devil’s carriage careening back from Scotland, Rannoch polishing up his claymore as he came. Could see himself being marched down the nave with one of those nasty little Scottish daggers at his back and a rope drawn tight around his ballocks, choking off his life’s blood.

  Marriage. A wife. A life of bondage.

  God help him.

  Suddenly, cool fingers touched him lightly on the cheek. Bentley blinked and looked down at his sister-in-law, Helene, whose eyes were melting with warmth. “Ah, you did not fail me, my dear,” she said in her faint French accent. “I knew you would not.”

  Sometimes, he thought, I get a little tired of her faith in me. But Bentley did not say that aloud. Instead, he just snorted. “You were bloody lucky, Helene.” Suddenly, a chill wind chased over him, and Bentley looked up to see that they stood in the shadow of the bell tower. The others were leaving, filing off toward the village gate or onto the path which circled through the churchyard and back up to Chalcote. Dutifully, he returned his gaze to his brother’s wife and offered her his arm.

  With another smile, she took it, and they followed the others at a distance, making their way between the gravestones in silence. The churchyard was separated from Chalcote’s orchard by a stone wall, set with a thick wooden door. Bentley helped her through, then turned to push it shut.

  “Bentley, I fancy you are limping,” Helene remarked as he dropped the latch.

  “Wrenched my knee,” he admitted.

  “Oh, dear.” She stared at his leg. “How?”

  He tried to glower at her. “None of your business.”

  Amiably, Helene shrugged, took his arm again, and changed the subject. “You have changed, Bentley, since we saw you at New Year’s,” she mused. “You are quieter than usual. A little grim, I think. It is not like you, my dear. I hope nothing is wrong?”

  Bentley felt his fists clench. “Did my brother put you up to this, Helene?” His words were low and hard. “Is it to be an inquisition?”

  His sister-in-law jerked back as if he’d struck her. “Nom de Dieu!” said Helene quietly. “How can you ask this? And do you imagine Cam would notice anything amiss in someone’s manner? Like most men, he sees only deeds.”

  Yes, and maybe that is what troubles me.

  The thought came out of nowhere, and at the last instant, he bit back the words. Instead, Bentley slowed to a halt and covered Helene’s hand where it lay upon his coat sleeve.

  “Forgive me, Helene,” he said quietly. “I spoke wrongly.”

  They strolled through the orchard in silence, the grass brittle beneath their feet, the bare branches clattering above their heads. Catherine, Cam, and the others were well up the hill now, and Helene seemed disinclined to hasten after them. And so Bentley slowed, matching his pace to hers and allowing a measure of peace to settle over him.

  As if to stir him from his reverie, Helene gave a little squeeze on his arm. “Pray do not be so quiet,” she said. “You worry me. Tell me instead of your adventures—at least those fit for a lady’s ears. Did you come straight here from London?”

  “More or less,” Bentley replied, bending down to pluck a twig from Helene’s cloak hem. “I’d been in Essex for a few days. Went by Hampstead just long enough to put up my kit and turn round again.”

  Helene smiled. “And you’ve dressed for the occasion, I see. Most impressive.”

  “Almost respectable, do you mean?” He looked up, squinting into the sun. “I daresay my brother finds that most gratifying.”

  She did not answer but continued on in her musing tone. “The season is almost upon us, Bentley. Will you spend it in town?”

  “What, doing the pretty with all the debs?” He laughed and began to snap the twig into pieces, tossing them over his shoulder as they strolled. “No, I fancy not.”

  “But you might enjoy it, Bentley. Don’t your friends go? Wouldn’t you like to meet—well—new people?”

  Bentley tossed her a dark look. “Good Lord, Helene, do you think to marry me off?”

  At that, she laughed. “Heavens, no! You are not the marrying kind, Bentley. Still, you might consider cultivating a better class of friends, you know.”

  Bentley stopped abruptly on the path. “I cannot believe I am hearing this from you, Helene, of all people! What happened to your fine notions of egalitarianism? Besides, not all my friends are as ramshackle as Cam makes them out to be. Augustus Weyden, for example. He is quite well bred.”

  “Precisely my point,” Helene gently insisted. “He and his brother Theodore seem quite nice gentlemen. You should spend more time with them. And of course they will be in town for the season.”

  “Will they?” Bentley shot her an odd look. “I thought they went only under duress.”

  Daintily, Helene skirted a patch of mud. “Lord Rannoch’s eldest daughter is to make her come-out this year.”

  Bentley was taken aback. “Do you mean little Zoë Armstrong? Helene, she is but a child!”

  “Ah, but all of seventeen, at least,” murmured Helene.

  With a stab of guilt, Bentley remembered that Zoë was but a year or two younger than Freddie. And Zoë seemed a child to him. He vaguely recalled the invitations which had landed on his desk last spring when Freddie debuted. He had been surprised by them, even as he had declined them. He had been quite sure that Freddie was too young for such a thing.

  But she had not been too young to lust over, had she? He had been a little ashamed of his feelings then. Now he was mortified. And suddenly, he felt very, very old.

  “And so you will do it?” interjected Helene brightly. “You will stay in town for the season and accept at least a few of the invitations which come your way?”

  “Absolutely not, Helene.” Bentley quickened his pace, tugging gently on her arm.

  But suddenly, an appalling chill settled over him. The truth was, he might have no choice about attending the season’s events. By the time invitations went out, he might well be married. Once wed, a man belonged as much to society as he did to himself. Appearances would matter. A fellow wouldn’t dare get himself carried out boots first from any sordid pubs or rowdy whorehouses. A man’s public conduct reflected on his wife. And a gentleman never, ever embarrassed his wife.

  Nor would he, Bentley sadly realized. Instead, he would have to learn to be tactful, to partake of his indulgences with a newfound respect for discretion. That much, at the very least, he would owe to Freddie. And so Bentley strode up the rest of the hill, imagining himself to be a very magnanimous and put-upon fellow.

  Winnie Weyden folded her newest letter neatly and laid it in the center of the drawing-room tea table. “Five weeks!” she exclaimed, gazing absently at the crackling hearth. “Oh, dear! So much to be done! I think we must take on another laundry maid. And notify the dressmaker, too. We’ll want a bolt of ice-blue silk put back for Zoë. And the hats and gloves…”

  At the pianoforte, Theo stared across the room at his brother and rolled his eyes without missing a note. Gus lifted his gaze from the chessboard which he and Frederica shared. “Five weeks until what?” he asked lightly. “Really, Mama, you are beginning to have entire conversations with yourself.”

  Already hopelessly beaten, Frederica fell back into her chair. “She’s reading a letter from Cousin Evie,” she said in a low tone. “Evie and Elliot are coming home from Scotland.”

  “And then we’re to go straight to town,” added Winnie in a suffering tone. “There is Zoë to be got ready for the season, and in so little time! And you, Freddie! Last year’s ball gowns simply will not do.”

  Freddie turned from the chess table in horror. “My gowns?”

  But Winnie was already calculating. “At least six new ones,” she murmured, ticking them off on her fingers. “Unless we can take the ruching off the neckline of your ivory s
ilk. You are not, after all, a debutante now.”

  Gus slid his knight dangerously close to her queen, but Freddie paid it no heed. “Winnie, surely I need not attend another season?”

  Winnie lifted her brows. “You are out now, my love,” she responded tartly. “Surely you wouldn’t see poor Zoë launched without your support? Besides, Squire Ellows and his family are going this year.” This last was said suggestively.

  Dramatically, Theo banged out the last three notes of his sonata. “We! Are! Doomed!” his beautiful baritone voice proclaimed.

  “Aye, Freddie, we are,” agreed Michael, stirring from his position by the hearth. The young Earl of Trent let his foot slide from the brass fender and drained the last of his sherry. “We’ll all go, or my sister Evie’ll know the reason why. At least you ain’t cursed with a standing order to dance with all the wallflowers.”

  “No, because I’m one of them!” Freddie jerked from her chair, almost upsetting the board. “And I can’t go, do you hear? I just can’t!” And with that, she hastened from the room.

  “Dash it, there she goes again!” she heard Theo mutter. “What’s got into old Freddie?”

  A cavernous silence settled over the drawing room, but Frederica did not stop. Instead, she rushed up the main staircase and down the passageway until she reached the stone steps which led to the old tower. Around and around she went until at last she reached her door, pushed it open, and flung herself across her bed.

  She hated this. Hated to behave so appallingly. So childishly. She certainly wasn’t a child any longer, if ever she had been. But lately, she seemed unable to get a grip on her emotions. A bad hangnail could make her cry. What on earth was wrong? Since the night Johnny had broken off with her, life had seemed as if it would never be normal again. On a sob, Frederica buried her face in a bed pillow.

  She wished she had someone to talk to. She missed Zoë. They had been best friends for almost ten years. When Cousin Evie had married Zoë’s father, Lord Rannoch, Frederica had been thrilled. Her older cousins—Evie, Nicolette, Gus, and even Theo—had always seemed so grown up. But when Zoë had come into their lives, for the first time Frederica had had another girl to share her secrets with. Yet she now had a secret she was not comfortable in sharing with anyone, certainly not with Zoë.

  Bentley Rutledge.

  He was her secret. Her sin. Her shame. What she had done with him in the dark that night had been wrong. And dangerous. She was appalled by what she had done. By what she had asked for. And yet, given the opportunity—and this was the most appalling part—Frederica was not at all sure she wouldn’t do it again. And this time, it wouldn’t be for spite.

  Frederica did not understand how she could think of Bentley Rutledge and still feel that incredible yearning deep in her belly, when he had treated her so shabbily. But what had she expected? That she would awaken in his arms to hear his vow of undying love? Ha! She knew him better than that. Thank God she’d never been fool enough to fancy herself in love with him.

  Still, there was no doubt that he could light up a room with his warmth. And it was hard not to notice the way he could throw back his head and laugh—really laugh—and often at himself. He was sweet to everyone, especially women. And especially when he wanted something. Once she’d caught him in the kitchen trying to kiss Mrs. Penworthy, who was sixty if she was a day, and all of it over a raspberry tart he’d wanted made for supper. Mrs. Penworthy had taken a wooden spoon to his skull. But they’d had raspberry tart—enough to last a week.

  Lord, what a scoundrel, thought Frederica, dashing her hand beneath her damp eyes. And now, she was stuck with the memory of how comforting it had been to drift off to sleep in his arms. Even worse, Evie and her husband, Elliot, Lord Rannoch, had commanded that the family return to London soon. It would look to all the world as if Frederica were back for a second go at the marriage mart.

  Suddenly, her heart dropped from her chest into her stomach. Good Lord, what if someone actually did offer for her? She had always dreamed of having a home and a family of her own. It was the hope, no doubt, of most orphans. But she could not in good faith wed a man without telling him the truth. And she had not the courage to do that. And how would she explain such a refusal to her cousin Evie? Or to her guardian, Lord Rannoch? But there was one thing worse, even, than that. What if she went to London and came face to face with Bentley Rutledge? Oh, God! How humiliating. She would never be able to face him again.

  It was only later—days later—that Frederica realized how odd it was that the prospect of running into Johnny did not distress her half so much as the thought of seeing Bentley again.

  Chapter Four

  In which Miss Armstrong is sworn to Secrecy.

  Three days passed at Chalcote. Three days of utter silence. The first—the day of Emmie’s christening—Bentley occupied himself by ambling aimlessly through the house and garnering the strange stares of the servants in return. He could not blame them, he supposed. He had never been much of an indoors sort of fellow.

  On the second day, he packed his niece, Lady Ariane, into his curricle and set off for Aldhampton Manor, where they spent the afternoon with his sister, Catherine, and romping with Anaïs and Armand, her twin toddlers. But Unka Benky could play horsey for only so long before his twisted knee would seize up, leaving him feeling not just old but decrepit, too. Matters did not improve when, over afternoon tea, those black, all-seeing eyes of Catherine’s husband began to send shivers down Bentley’s spine.

  Max de Rohan, Lord de Vendenheim, was a former police inspector, but, his odd background notwithstanding, there was something unnatural in the blood of his family. Not just in Max but in his spooky grandmother, too. Old Signora Castelli was someone a fellow definitely wanted to avoid. She was a crapehanger from hell who could make a man feel as if his soul were being turned inside out and examined for stains, like yesterday’s laundry.

  By the third day, Bentley felt like a caged animal going slowly insane, and so he shrugged on his drab duster, grabbed his gun, and headed toward the stables to set loose his pack of setters. Halfway along the path, however, he met one of the housemaids, fetching up a jar of beeswax from the gardener’s cottage. Queenie paused on the path, set the jar on her hip, and gave him a saucy wink. “And top o’ the morning to you, Mr. B.,” she said, letting her eyes run over him. “Don’t the sight o’ you fair warm a game gal’s heart!”

  And then, because the old girl expected it, Bentley drew up alongside her and gave her a good, solid grope on the arse. “Ah, Queenie,” he answered wistfully. “There’s not a backside so fine in all of London, I’d wager. I wonder I can stay away from Chalcote at all.”

  At that, she actually batted her lashes and blushed. “Oh, go on w’you,” she answered. “You ain’t got the time o’ day for the likes of me.”

  Bentley tossed his gun over one shoulder and smiled. “Now, Queenie love, you know that’s not so,” he said, sauntering backward down the path while holding open his other hand plaintively. “But old Saint Cam would string me up by my clock weights if he caught me trifling with his staff, wouldn’t he? Perhaps, though, it might be worth it, eh? Would you make sure it was, Queenie?”

  He was several feet away by then and secretly praying she didn’t take him up on it. Queenie just laughed, tossed her hand dismissively, and turned toward the house. But suddenly, Bentley was struck with a notion. “Queenie, wait!” he called, hobbling back up the footpath. “Look here—d’you still bring in the morning post?”

  Mystified, she nodded. “Aye, me or one o’ the footmen.”

  Bentley considered his next words. Queenie might be a little too experienced even for his tastes, but he was genuinely fond of her. She was a former prostitute who had once done the family a great service by rescuing Ariane from a terrible danger. They had all been deeply grateful, and afterward, Bentley had persuaded Cam to give her a position, for he had known too well the look of a worn-out trull on the long downhill slide.

  Queen
ie was still looking at him, her round, plump face almost maternal. “Wot is it, now, Mr. B.?” she urged. “Come on, it’s awright to ask Queenie.”

  Bentley felt suddenly embarrassed. “Well, it’s just the post,” he began awkwardly. “If anything comes for me, pull it out, will you? Tell Milford not to leave it on the hall table but to give it to me personally, all right?”

  At that, Queenie’s expression softened. “Aw, poor lovey,” she murmured, patting him on the shoulder. “In a spot o’ trouble again?”

  Somehow, he managed to laugh. “Queenie,” he said, dipping his head to give her a swift, smacking kiss. “You don’t know the half.” And with that, he hobbled on off to the stables.

  The dogs began leaping and wagging before he’d shot back the bolt on the kennel. Suddenly, they were surging around his knees, and as he knelt in the stable yard to ruffle their ears and accept their breathy canine homage, Bentley found himself both surprised and relieved that his dogs had not forgotten him. It was a secret fear of his. A fear of being shut out, cast off from this place he both loved and loathed.

  The setters milled about, yapping and prancing, so he made his way down the hill, over the river, then onto the high wold beyond. Here and there, lazy sheep dotted the fields, tugging resolutely at the drab, wintry grass. The dogs snuffled their way through every little spinney and copse they passed, their white-fringed tails fanning eagerly until the occasional bird burst forth, when they would freeze stock-still to await the shot that never came.

  Instead of shouldering his gun, he praised the dogs quite shamelessly and kept walking. He had not come to shoot, he realized. It was not even the best time of year for it. No, he had come to think. And to consider how they all lived now—Helene and Cam at Chalcote with all the children, Catherine and her brood at Aldhampton Manor. Even his cousin Joan and her rector had settled into a life of blissful domesticity. But Bentley was still just drifting. Though he supposed he was somewhat fixed, at least so far as the Royal Mail was concerned, at Roselands Cottage, Helene’s former home in Hampstead.