Devil's Own Bargain (London Lords)

by Mary Gillgannon

  “Here now, Quentin,” Christian said. “It’s not your place to decide who deserves to live or die. No one but the magistrates who mete out punishments for crimes have that right, and I’m not certain even they are always justified in their decisions.”

  Quentin’s mouth twisted. “Be reasonable. We’re not talking about people like us. We’re speaking of the despicable rabble. They’re like insects, contaminating London with their filth!”

  “Rose was not some sort of vermin!” Devon said fiercely. “She might not have been of the nobility, but her people were very respectable and she acted the lady in the ways that mattered.”

  “An Irish slattern who let you lay her in the woods like a peasant!” Quentin gave him an incredulous look. “And you try to tell me that she was a lady!”

  “I know duchesses who don’t have as much true quality as Rose did! She was faithful to me. And she gave me a son I am proud of!” Devon felt himself losing control. If Quentin said anything against Rafe, he would not be able to restrain himself.

  Christian stepped between them. “Even putting aside the matter of Rose’s murder, Quentin, you can’t deny that you went too far in killing Beaumont.”

  “Devon’s to blame for that,” Quentin said. “He hated Beaumont, wanted him out of the way. I simply obliged him.”

  “Leave me out of your disgusting justifications,” Devon warned. “I never suggested that Beaumont be killed.”

  “Oh, no, you merely said at your wedding that the bastard ought to be drawn and quartered.”

  “I believe Devon was exaggerating,” Christian said calmly. “We could spend all day discussing this, but the cold fact is that murder is against the law.”

  Quentin snorted. “Laws are made for the rabble, not gentlemen. We have our own code.”

  Christian shook his head. “I’m backing Langley in this.”

  Quentin looked startled, then shot Devon a bitter look. “You always did have the touch. As hard as I tried to ingratiate myself with the older boys, they wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Since we’ve left Eton, it’s the same. When you came back from Ireland, the beau monde fawned all over you, despite the fact that you barely had a guinea to your name.”

  “Is that what this is about?” Devon demanded. “All these years, you’ve envied me?”

  “Here now,” Christian interrupted before Quentin could answer. “It doesn’t matter what’s between the two of you. The murdering has to end, Harberry.”

  “And if I refuse to be coerced?”

  Devon stepped toward him. “I’ll kill you myself.”

  Quentin sneered at Devon. “I doubt you have the courage. You’re too weak. Too spineless. Your father said as much. You don’t deserve the title you carry. It ought to die with you, lest you try to pass it on to that Irish brat.”

  Devon had had enough. He grabbed Harberry’s neckcloth and twisted. He could feel the rage building inside him. It would be fitting if he broke his neck. Gave him a taste of the brutality he’d meted out to others.

  Harberry’s face reddened and he made a choking sound. Christian jerked on Devon’s arm. “Stop! Don’t do it, Dev! If you kill him like this, you’re no better than him!”

  Devon drew a strangled breath. He saw Rose’s face. Then Rafe’s. “Die, you bastard,” he whispered.

  “No, Devon! Remember Caroline! She wouldn’t want you to do this!”

  Christian’s voice slowly penetrated the haze of fury surrounding him. Caroline. Soft, lovely, laughing Caroline. His grip loosened. Harberry jerked away and doubled over, coughing.

  Christian exhaled in relief. “Lud, Dev, I’ve always said you had a devil of a temper.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” Devon asked in disgust. “We can’t let him go. He’ll kill someone else.”

  “We’ll force him to make a full confession to Bow Street. Tell them exactly what he told us.”

  “And how will you do that?” Quentin sneered.

  Christian smiled tightly. “It seems that you’ve been cheating on your wagers, Quentin.” He nodded to Devon. “We both agree that on several occasions you used a marked deck.”

  Quentin looked aghast. “You can’t mean that!” He stared at Christian. “You’re going to lie, tell everyone that I’m a dirty player?”

  “I don’t see that I have much choice. If Devon kills you in a rage, he’ll have to flee the country or face the gallows. I’ll lose both my friends. Whereas, if you confess and plead insanity as an excuse for your actions, you might be put away for a time, but at least you’ll live.”

  “I won’t rot in the Fleet!”

  “I’ve heard the accommodations aren’t too awful for those who can pay. Devon and I would make certain you were well taken care of, wouldn’t we, Dev?”

  Devon fought back the furious retort that Harberry deserved no better than the gruesome death Rose had known. But Christian’s plan was reasonable, even if it didn’t satisfy his vengeful instincts. And in truth Harberry was insane. Perhaps he could not really be held accountable for his actions. “Yes,” he said, “we’ll make certain you’re comfortable.”

  Quentin paced the room, looking thoughtful. Devon watched in amazement. Would Christian’s plan really work? Would Quentin turn himself in, without bloodshed or argument?

  Quentin went the mantel and bowed his head. Devon held his breath.

  Quicker than either of them could respond, Quentin whirled around, a pistol in his hand. He smiled. “Gentlemen, I rather think you miscalculated. I’m not an utter fool.”

  “Nor are you such a crack shot that you can kill both of us with one ball. Whichever one of us you leave alive will testify against you. Besides,” Christian said imperturbably, “the game has already been set in motion. Devon and I have signed a paper accusing you of cheating. If one or both of us fails to return to Bedlington House tonight, my solicitor will dispatch the accusation to every club and gambling hell in the city. You won’t be received anywhere, Quentin.”

  Quentin’s look of defiance turned to fury. “You bloody bastards! You’d ruin me! And for what? A corrupt merchant and a pair of whores! The world is a better place without the lot of them!”

  “That was not your decision to make.” Devon edged slightly away from Christian, and fingered the firearm in his pocket. If Quentin were fool enough to shoot, he would be ready for him. “Indeed, I think London would be much improved without your foul carcass littering it. But Christian has prevailed upon me to see that I don’t have the right to order your death.”

  Quentin threw him a .look of hatred. Devon’s body went rigid. If Harberry decided to shoot, he would likely be the first target.

  Quentin aimed the pistol at first one man, then the other. Christian’s lazy stance didn’t change, but Devon felt sweat break out on his forehead. Quentin was also feeling the strain. The flesh around his mouth went white.

  Devon withdrew his hand from his pocket. If Quentin fired, he wouldn’t have time to pull out his pistol and shoot. But if Barberry were distracted, he might be able to lunge at him and knock him down before he got off a shot.

  “Be reasonable,” Christian said softly. “You can’t kill both of us. Even if you do, your reputation is finished.”

  Quentin focused on Christian. In that second, Devon leaped the ten feet separating him and Quentin and the pistol went off in a flash of fire.

  It took Devon a moment to realize that Harberry was pinned beneath him. Then he grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted the gun away. With his free hand, Quentin seized Devon’s throat, digging his fingers into his windpipe.

  Devon choked, clawing at the brutal hand on his neck. A pistol fired again, nearly in his ear. The deafening echo knocked him senseless. When he came to, the crushing grip on his gullet was gone. He lifted his head and stared into Quentin’s sightless eyes.

  “Good God, Christian,” he rasped.

  “Dashed messy, I know, but it couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t take a chance that he might break your neck. H
e’s had a fair bit of practice with that sort of thing.”

  Still dazed and breathless, Devon lifted himself off of his adversary’s corpse. Quentin’s immaculate blond brutus remained intact, but there was a puddle of blood beside his head where the bullet had exited.

  “What happened?” Devon asked. “How did he miss both of us?”

  “I said he wasn’t much of a shot. Never should have tried to face us both down. When you leapt at him, it drew off his aim.

  Devon grimaced. “I suppose it ended well enough. We’ll call it self-defense. If we both tell the same story—”

  “It won’t answer,” Christian said. He reached down and placed the recently fired pistol in the dead man’s hand, then returned the other to his pocket. “While I don’t care a fig for the scandal, we’ve already agreed you don’t need any more notoriety. It’s simple, really. When we confronted Shefield about a gaming debt, he became distraught. Before we could stop him, he’d drawn his pistol and shot himself.”

  Devon nodded. “Thank you, Christian. I don’t know how I would have managed this without you.”

  “You’d have killed the bastard out of hand and had to flee the country.” Christian smiled his lazy smile. “No thanks necessary, Dev. After all, what are friends for?”

  A knock sounded at the door. They looked at each other. Christian raised a brow. “The servants, I suppose. Drawn by the noise. Are you ready?”

  Devon took a deep breath, and straightening his waistcoat, nodded.

  “Come in,” Christian called.

  The door opened. A bulky, lantern-jawed man appeared, followed by a woman.

  “Caroline!” Devon exclaimed.

  Their eyes met then Caroline’s glance went to Harberry’s body. “My word!” she gasped.

  Devon hurried to her side. “Don’t look, love!”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late.” She leaned against him, sighing weakly. “At least you are safe. I was so worried.” She nodded to her companion. “When Mr. Attersby came to see me after you’d left, I decided to bring him here, in case there was trouble. He’s from Bow Street.”

  The beefy man leaned down and carefully inspected the corpse, then looked up and said, “Died at his own hand?”

  Devon didn’t respond. Faced with baldly lying about Harberry’s demise, he couldn’t seem to make his mouth work.

  Christian stepped toward the body, tsk-tsking under his breath. “A pity, isn’t it? Another young gentleman who got himself deep into dun territory. We were trying to convince him to leave London and join a regiment, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Then, before we knew it, he’d drawn a pistol and done the deed.”

  Attersby’s eyes narrowed. “And you would be, sir?”

  “Christian Faraday, Earl of Bedlington.” Christian shook the runner’s hand. “Glad you’re here, Mr. Attersby. You can make a full report. It’ll simplify things enormously.”

  “Did you know, my lord, that this man was under suspicion for murder?”

  “Really? I’d no idea. Haven’t been in touch much lately. What sort of murder? A duel at Chalk Farms perhaps?”

  Attersby frowned. “Not dueling, my lord, but cold-blooded killing.” He jerked his thumb at Caroline. “He murdered Miss Beaumont’s—that is—her ladyship’s father.”

  “Have you proof?” Christian asked.

  “Yes. His accomplice came to us and confessed. Guess he was afraid Harberry was going to kill him, too.”

  “His accomplice?” Devon demanded. “Who might that be?”

  “A man named Elijah Hopper. Worked for Mr. Beaumont. I believe he tipped off the baronet as to where Beaumont would be that night. Hopper figured to get rid of the old man so he could run the company as he wanted.”

  Devon looked at Caroline. “Do you think it’s true?”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so. When I went to see Mr. Hopper, searching for clues about my father’s death, he alerted Harberry. That’s why he had his thugs attack my coach.”

  “What’s going to happen to Hopper?”

  “Since he came to us on his own and had no part in the actual crimes, he won’t swing. But the magistrate will probably have him deported.”

  Devon breathed a sigh of relief. With Hopper out of the country and Quentin dead, Caroline was finally safe.

  Attersby approached the body once more. “Good twig that he’s dead,” he said. “Didn’t know how I was going to get him to patter. It’s difficult to prosecute a lord, you know. Even with Hopper speaking against him.”

  “I can imagine,” Christian said.

  Attersby turned around and regarded Christian searchingly. “The bastard thought he was above the law, that he could kill where he pleased. Glad to see that justice was done, even if it came about in an unusual manner.”

  “Indeed,” Christian agreed. “Now I think it’s time for you to be off to the magistrate to make your report. I’ll have the servants take care of things here.”

  Attersby left, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that turned out for the best, I suppose,” Caroline said. She gave Shefield’s corpse a shuddering glance. “He won’t be able to hurt anyone else. I guess it doesn’t matter how it came about.” She gave Devon an uneasy look.

  Christian smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Caroline. Your husband didn’t kill Quentin.”

  “You mean, it’s true? You threatened to expose him and he took his own life?”

  “Not exactly.” Christian’s dimples showed as his smiled widened. “After all, you couldn’t expect me to stand idly by while my friends killed each other.”

  Caroline whirled to face Devon. “So, you were in danger!”

  “I had him by the throat when Christian intervened.”

  Christian shrugged. “I chose the lesser of two evils. If I let Devon kill him, I would have lost both of them. This way, at least I come out of it with one friend intact.”

  Caroline approached Christian. She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for helping Devon. I will never forget this.”

  Christian held a hand to his chest and pantomimed a swoon. Caroline poked him in the ribs. “Stop that! Can’t you be serious? Ever?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Christian laughed. “I don’t seem to have it in me.”

  Caroline went to Devon and put her arms his neck. “Oh, love, it’s finally over.”

  Devon nodded. “I believe it is. At last.”

  Sixteen

  “Shouldn’t they be back soon?” Jeanette asked.

  “Soon.” Caroline stood back and scrutinized the pine boughs draped over the massive looking glass at the end of the ballroom. “Perhaps you should have gone with them. You and Ned could have ridden in the other sleigh.”

  Jeanette blushed. “Oh no, ma’am. We’ve so much to do here. I couldn’t leave it all to you.”

  Caroline smiled in satisfaction. Ned, the Derlingham blacksmith’s son, had come to work for them a few weeks ago, and Caroline fully expected that her maid would be asking for permission to wed before the New Year. Love was a wonderful thing, and Darton House would be filled with it this Christmas.

  Climbing on a stool, she made another adjustment to the fragrant boughs, then stepped down and surveyed her work. Even without new draperies, the ballroom fulfilled her expectations. Amazing what hours of scrubbing, waxing and polishing could accomplish. The winter sunlight shining in the high windows made the crystal chandelier sparkle and reflect off the burnished patina of the parquet floor. With fresh pine boughs and holly festooning the walls, the room already had a festive air.

  The renovations were progressing nicely, and she anticipated that the public areas of the house would be finished in time for their house party during the holidays. If the guests from London didn’t find the decor “all the crack,” she didn’t care. After all, she was a countess now and didn’t always have to concern herself with the latest mode in decorating.

  “I think I hear sleigh bells,” Jeanette said. “They must be back.” The two women left
the ballroom and hurried through the house. As they reached the back entrance, the door swung open and a ruddy-faced apparition appeared. “Cold out there,” Devon said as he stomped his feet to loosen the snow from his boots.

  “Cold,” echoed Rafe in his baby voice as he came in behind his father. “We saw a fox and a rabbit!” he expounded as Caroline helped him out of his layers of garments. “Do you think the fox will eat the rabbit?”

  “Well, I don’t know!” Caroline laughed as she smoothed the child’s unruly red hair. “I suppose he would if he could catch it.”

  “Horace could catch him,” Rafe said, referring to one of Devon’s hounds. “Horace can catch anything. Even Thunder, my papa’s horse.”

  “Did you get the tree?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes, and a right bang-up tree it is, too. Mr. Butterly and Ned are bringing it on a cart.”

  “It’s huge!” Rafe exclaimed. “The biggest one in the forest!”

  Devon gave Caroline a rueful smile. “I suspect that we’ll have to trim off a bit or it will scarcely fit in the doorway.” He shrugged. “Rafe insisted on this one.”

  “I’m certain it’s perfect,” Caroline said. She smiled at him, drinking in the sight of his cold-flushed cheeks and windblown black locks.

  Jeanette rejoined them in the hallway. “Mrs. Butterly says the chocolate is ready. Who wants some?” Rafe erupted with a squeal of delight. Jeanette took his hand and guided the skipping child down the hall.

  Devon looked at Caroline quizzically. “This is the first time I’ve know you to refuse chocolate, madam.”

  “It doesn’t agree with my digestion these days.”

  “Ah, and why is that?” He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You know why,” she giggled. She was only two weeks late for her monthly courses, but her sickness in the morning made her condition clear. She had just told Devon the night before.

  “My heir,” he whispered, caressing her still-flat stomach and kissing her neck below her chignon.

  “And my father’s longed-for grandson,” she teased, “unless fate surprises all of us and it turns out to be a girl.”