Devil's Own Bargain (London Lords)

by Mary Gillgannon

  He followed the man up a narrow stair to a parlor with an adjoining bedchamber. Devon took little notice of the shabby furnishings of the room. At this moment, a warm fire and hot drink anywhere sounded sublime.

  He took a seat on a battered horsehair chair by the grate and sighed. Beaumont had better show, he thought irritably.

  A servant brought up a bowl or steaming punch and some cups. Devon took a deep draught of the beverage and felt warmth seep down his body. He sighed deeply. What was Caroline doing now? he wondered. Had she been disappointed when she found he’d left for London?

  The thought made him melancholy. Where the hell was Beaumont? Why had the damned merchant dragged him out on this wild goose chase?

  Gads, but he was getting groggy. He stared at his cup. The punch was damned strong stuff. He’d only had a few swallows and already he felt strange. The flames in the fireplace seemed distorted and blurry.

  Good God, Beaumont wouldn’t try to poison him, would he?

  Devon tried to stand up, but his limbs wouldn’t function. His sense of panic was drowned out by a strange buzzing in his ears. He tottered, then sank back into the chair. Helplessly, he watched the flames of the fire recede and gradually go black.

  Eight

  Devon licked his dry lips and struggled to open his eyes. Bare brick walls and a smoldering fire came into view. From the one small window came hazy daylight. Groaning, he put a hand to a temple. He felt as if he had imbibed a whole lake of brandy.

  A creeping unease came over him, working its way through the misery. He remembered coming here to meet Beaumont, but he must have passed out before the merchant arrived. Why had Beaumont summoned him here, and then failed to appear? Or, had he come, and found Devon so disgustingly foxed that he forbore to remain?

  Devon frowned in pain and confusion. He barely remembered touching the punch. What had happened to him?

  Gingerly, he flexed his stiff muscles, trying not to jar his aching head, and then shakily stood. He had to get out of this squalid chamber. Daylight had not improved its aspect.

  He took an unsteady step, and the toe of his Wellington bumped into something. He looked down and started. A body sprawled at his feet; the grotesque posture of the figure made it clear that the man was dead.

  He took a deep breath, then carefully leaned over to examine the corpse’s face. One glimpse of the short neck and jowly face and he knew. Beaumont.

  He jerked back, shock and dread clawing at his mind. Searching the void of the night before, he recalled nothing. He had come to meet Beaumont; was it possible...?

  Devon looked down at his hands, as if expecting to see them stained with blood. Absurd. The man’s neck had been broken. A brutal but bloodless form of murder.

  He continued to stare at his hands. Long fingers, well-manicured nails. The hands of a gentleman, not a killer. But they were strong hands, too, well capable of snapping a man’s neck. In a fit of rage, they could be deadly weapons.

  But surely if Beaumont had fatally aroused his anger, he would remember some of it. He gazed down at his father-in-law’s gruesome countenance. The light from outside was brightening, and he could see that Beaumont’s face wore a stunned look, as if death had taken him utterly by surprise. Strong as he was, Devon did not think that he could break a man’s neck while he struggled. And Beaumont was no weakling, despite his soft belly and jowly face. A ruthless man like Beaumont would have fought to the death; there would be some evidence of a brawl. Beaumont had been killed quickly and by stealth.

  And not by him. Relief washed over Devon as realized that he could not be the murderer. But who was? Had the killer set up this meeting intending to implicate him? The hair prickled on Devon’s neck as he looked around for the pitcher of punch. It was missing, as was the cup he drank from. Someone had deliberately drugged him so he would be the one to find the body.

  Stunned by the thought, Devon struggled to reason out the killer’s plan. As far as he knew, Caroline was her father’s sole heir. As her husband, he would benefit from her wealth. Did someone intend to use this murder to blackmail him?

  On the other hand, perhaps money was not the motive. With Beaumont’s coercive business methods, there must be many who hated the merchant. Any one of them could have plotted to kill Beaumont and use Devon as a convenient scapegoat.

  Finally, there was the possibility that Beaumont had discovered who killed Rose, and that person meant to silence Beaumont before he could share his information with Devon.

  Of all the explanations, the last seemed the least likely. His father had arranged Rose’s death. Even if Beaumont had discovered the man who actually strangled her, that kind of crude brute would not have the resources to plan this elaborate scheme.

  Blackmail was more likely. All of London knew of the wealth he had acquired by this marriage—and of his hatred of Beaumont.

  A sound on the stairs outside the room made Devon start. At any moment, a servant might come up to relight the fire. The tapman would remember that Devon had been expecting someone. He might also recall escorting Beaumont to the room.

  Leaving by the back way wouldn’t answer. It appeared cowardly, almost an admission of guilt. Besides, he couldn’t leave Beaumont lying there like a slaughtered animal. Poor bastard. At this moment, he could almost feel sorry for the scheming tradesman. And then there was the thought of what Beaumont’s death would do to Caroline.

  What if Caroline thought he was the murderer? No, he couldn’t let her think that. Even if he acknowledged to the authorities that he had found the body, he would have to bide the truth from Caroline. He dare not even let her suspect that he had intended to meet Beaumont when he came to London. He would explain it as coincidence. Tell her he had gone to London for other reasons, and while he was there, heard about Beaumont’s murder. Of course, he must go home to tell her. She would need him.

  Devon strode purposely to the doorway and opened it, then called down the stairs for a servant.

  ~ ~ ~

  “No news of his lordship?” asked Mrs. Butterly.

  Caroline shook her head then turned her attention back to the crewelwork in her lap. She had asked the housekeeper to join her in the music room after dinner. With Jeanette off at the blacksmith’s visiting Ned, and Devon in London, she was desperate for any sort of companionship.

  “If he meant to have an extended stay in London, I’m certain he would have sent a letter by now,” Mrs. Butterly suggested.

  “Perhaps I’ll see him there,” Caroline said. “I intend to go to London myself in a day or two. There are things I must order, purchases I must make. Now that I have my husband’s permission, I plan to begin renovations as soon as the materials can be obtained. With hard work, I think we can have the public areas of the house done by Christmas:’

  “Are you planning to entertain then, my lady?”

  Caroline nodded. “At the very least, we must invite the local gentry for a supper party. It’s only proper that we host them if we spend Christmas here.”

  “Oh, to hear the swish of silk and the clink of glasses at Darton again.” Mrs. Butterly sighed. “After all these years the place has stood neglected and lonely, it will do my heart good to see the manor being used for a Yuletide celebration. Christmas used to be Devon’s favorite time of year,” she continued, too caught up in nostalgia to recall the inappropriateness of calling the earl by his given name. “When he was just a wee boy, he loved to go out to the woods and cut the pine boughs, and bring them home and hang them over the mantle and around the wainscoting. I think it was his mother who instilled in him a love of holidays.”

  “How old was his lordship when his mother died?” Caroline asked.

  “Near ten he was. After that...” Mrs. Butterly shook her head. “The old earl was in London, sinking deeper and deeper into debt. Devon was in school. Once or twice, he brought home some friends for hunting and horseracing. Then he stopped coming back at all. Next I heard, he was in Ireland.”

  Caroline frowne
d at the pillow cover she was embroidering. What a grim, loveless life her husband had known. No wonder it was so difficult for him to open up to her, to share any part of himself. The one person he might have loved had been taken from him when he was only a child.

  “Madam.” Ginter appeared in the music room doorway, his expression dour as always. “His lordship has arrived home. He awaits you in the library.”

  Caroline forced herself not to leap out of her chair. Don’t act too eager or familiar, she told herself. She smoothed her gown, wondering how she looked, then followed Ginter out of the room. Before the library door, she paused a second then went in.

  Devon stood before the fire. His long black hair hung in damp strands, and the smell of wet wool filled the chamber. Caroline’s heart did a little flutter. At the sound of her silk slippers on the carpet, he turned toward the door. The uncustomary pallor of his face alarmed her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  He gave her a pained look. “It’s not right that you hear this from me.” He turned away from her for a moment then wheeled back around. “I’m sorry, Caroline. Your father is dead.”

  She couldn’t quite comprehend his words. His voice seemed to come from far away. “Your father was murdered. He was found in a tavern near one of his warehouses. His neck was broken.”

  She started to sway. Devon crossed the room and grasped her arm. He led her to a chair and helped her sit down. She was intensely aware of his damp, outdoorsy smell. Of the warmth of his hand where it rested on her arm. Of the tracks his still-wet boots made on the Turkish carpet. A dozen inconsequential details filled her consciousness as her mind sought to blot out his terrible words. All at once they struck her. She saw her father’s face and wondered what he had looked like at the end.

  She raised her gaze to Devon. “Did he...” she swallowed. “Did he suffer?”

  He shook his head, then knelt by the chair and put his face close to hers. “They said it was a swift, painless death.”

  “Who found him?”

  “The tavern owner apparently discovered his body the next morning. A Bow Street officer was called, of course.”

  “How... how did you learn of it?” Caroline couldn’t stop herself from watching her husband intently. She needed to know if there was any possibility that... No! She wouldn’t think it!

  “A friend of mine told me. Lord Weston. He apparently has an acquaintanceship with a magistrate in the Wapping parish. The man knew I was married to Beaumont’s daughter and thought I should be informed.”

  A blatant lie, but necessary, Devon thought grimly. He scrutinized Caroline. Thank God, he had come up with a plausible story to tell her. If she knew that he’d planned to meet Beaumont that night and that he was the one who’d discovered the body... Dread suffused him. If Caroline believed he was the murderer, he would not be able to live with himself.

  She jerked her hand from his grasp. “I must leave for London at once. There are arrangements to be made.” She got to her feet.

  He rose beside her, almost disappointed that he hadn’t had a chance to comfort her more. But at least she hadn’t dwelled too long on the circumstances of her father’s death. “I’ve asked Butterly to have the brougham brought around. We’ll change horses at every posting station and travel straight through.”

  She stared at him in dismay. “You’re exhausted. You’ll become ill if you set out again without food or rest.”

  “I’ll have a bite to eat and change before we go. You should, too, Caroline.”

  “I’ll go alone,” she pronounced resolutely. “With Thomas to drive and two footmen to relieve him, I will be fine. There’s no need for you to come.”

  “Of course there is. I’m your husband.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed, startled look. Devon felt a sharp pang. He hadn’t been much of a husband to her so far. “I’ll go with you,” he said. “I can’t send you on such a journey with only servants for protection.”

  She still looked perplexed. Devon wondered if she were suspicious of his sudden solicitousness. If his attitude toward her changed too dramatically, she might begin to think on the reason for his newfound sympathy. Then it was only a short leap to suspecting him of her father’s murder.

  He made his voice stern. “I insist, Caroline. I’ll tell Mrs. Butterly to have a meal prepared for us while you pack. As soon as we’ve eaten, we’ll leave for London.”

  Caroline nodded. She appeared to collect herself then walked stiffly from the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  They traveled through the night. Caroline dozed off and on, but the sleep hardly refreshed her. Some horror seemed to hover in the back of her consciousness. Every little while, she would wake with a start and know the awful pain of remembering that her father was dead.

  The manner of his death especially disturbed her. Someone had hated her father enough to murder him. Devon had told her that the murder appeared to have been planned. Someone had lured him to the tavern, then broken his neck.

  Just thinking about it made her feel ill. She took a sharp breath, and Devon, sitting across from her, abruptly roused. “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” she lied. In fact, she very much wanted her husband to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. But she couldn’t ask for that. Devon had been tender and concerned immediately after he told her about her father, but now his demeanor was politely formal. It was hard to imagine that a few days ago, he had kissed her, caressed her, put his body inside hers. It all seemed a lifetime away.

  She dozed again. When she awoke, she found herself in the familiar bedchamber of her childhood. A servant must have carried her in and put her to bed. For a few moments, she indulged in nostalgic contentment, then awareness of her circumstances came rushing back. No longer was the room a haven against the harsh realities of life. Her father was dead. She was alone.

  She climbed out of bed and rang for a servant. A dozen urgent tasks immediately came to mind—the funeral, the reading of the will, the financial workings of her father’s empire. The weight of the world seemed to descend on her shoulders. She was an heiress now. An heiress.

  You know, the girl’s Beaumont’s only heir. If something untoward should happen to the old man, Devon would suddenly have very deep pockets. The chilling words came back to her. No, she would not think such a thing. But was it not rather a coincidence Devon happened to be in London at the very time her father was murdered? He’d never told her what business took him there. Perhaps she should ask him to explain, to put her mind at ease.

  And insult him with her terrible suspicions? She could hardly do that. Not if she was to have any hope of building a relationship of trust and respect between them.

  She paced in agitation. Her father had already paid Devon 100,000 pounds, and offered him an additional 50,000 to sire a grandson. Even if her husband found that offer morally abhorrent, he certainly wasn’t the sort to kill for money.

  “But what if Papa provoked him?” she mused aloud. “What if he killed him in a fit of rage? Devon’s never made it a secret what he thinks of Papa. What if he simply pushed him too far?”

  Her stomach started to churn. Was she married to a murderer?

  “No, you can’t do this. You can’t think these things.” She went to the dressing table and began to brush her hair. “He’s not some sort of monster. He’s not.”

  The arrival of the maid distracted her from her thoughts. By the time she started down the stairs, she felt much calmer.

  Devon met her in the hallway. His mouth was bracketed with lines of tension, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept much either. “The solicitor’s here. Perhaps you should have breakfast before you meet with him.”

  “No, no, I really have no appetite.” Caroline followed her husband down the hallway to the drawing room. The sight of his powerful, graceful body stirred provocative, sensual memories. The breadth of his shoulders, those long, lean legs entwined with hers, the feel of his body against hers. I�
��m going mad, she thought. My father’s dead and all I can think about is going to bed with my husband.

  “My condolences, Lady Northrup.” The solicitor, Mr. Barton, bowed as she entered the drawing room. He took a seat and Caroline and Devon sat across from him. “An awful thing it is,” he continued. “That a man can be murdered in such a fashion and no one have a clue as to the brute who did it.”

  Devon cleared his throat. “I’m certain her ladyship doesn’t wish to dwell on the particulars.”

  “Quite right,” Mr. Barton agreed. Caroline gave Devon a thankful glance.

  “Well, then, in the matter of the will,” the solicitor continued. “Not surprisingly, except for a few small bequests to certain long-term employees, your father left his entire estate to you, Lady Northrup. The assets involved are extensive and scattered throughout the country...” The solicitor droned on. Caroline tried to force herself to concentrate, though her head ached with the effort.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What a crush!” Caroline gasped as the brougham reached the street in front of St. Paul’s. Elegant curricles, phaetons and coaches crammed the square in front of the church, horses stamping restlessly as the vehicles waited to unload their passengers. “Why is there so much traffic?” she asked.

  “Your father’s funeral.”

  Caroline gave her husband a startled look. He returned her glance with a rueful one. “Ironic isn’t it, that in death your father should finally receive the attention he craved all his life?”

  “They’ve come because of the way he died.”

  Devon nodded. “Thrill-seekers and scandalmongers. In life, they would have cut Beaumont. But here they are at his funeral.”

  “No doubt. They’re gloating that he’s dead,” Caroline said bitterly.

  “No, I rather think they’re remembering him with fondness. After all, he did furnish them with this delicious entertainment.”

  She gave a choked laugh. “You’re right, of course. Having been away from London, I almost forgot how the ton are. The irony of ironies is that my father would not care why they came, only that they are here. His funeral a social event—how delighted he would be.” She sighed faintly. “He was such a child in some ways. Like a street urchin with his face pressed against the cookshop window. He thought the beau monde were so wonderful—glamorous, elegant, dazzling. While I, who was admitted to at least the edges of that world have come to see that they are often anything but those things.”