Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  Dev folded up his hatred and hid it away, idly twirling his favorite walking stick with its concealed knife inside as he ambled down the stairs, bracing himself for his hard-won role of master of ceremonies on this crucial night. God knew it had cost him enough.

  He had stopped sending his bills to Aunt Augusta’s after his visit to her villa all those weeks ago; having realized Miss Carlisle was monitoring his expenses, he had not wanted to damage her opinion of him with his ongoing profligacy. Instead, the bills now sat in a growing mound on the escritoire in his study, awaiting the day that the papers were signed and his aunt’s fortune officially became his. The reading of the will was scheduled to take place in a fortnight at tidy little Charles Beecham’s office. As far as Dev could tell, the lads of the Horse and Chariot Club were more excited about his inheritance than he was.

  Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase, he sprang up with an agile leap onto the wrought-iron handrail and curled his arm jauntily around the lamppost, greeting the arriving men while a score of liveried grooms marched out to attend their horses.

  In another moment, the courtyard began filling up with flashy vehicles from which the most notorious rakes of London alighted. They glanced around in wary fascination at their strange surroundings. He lifted his hand to them in a cordial wave.

  Over by the mounting block, Julian, Lord Carstairs stepped down from his racing drag and drew off his driving gauntlets, passing a haughty glance over the building. With flaxen hair and sharp, fine features, the elegant earl looked a decade younger than his forty years. He had a neat, lean build, impeccable clothes, and was joined this evening, as he often was, by his handsome young plaything known to the rest of them only as Johnny.

  Johnny, Dev had noticed, was a jealously devoted lover. The fiery-eyed young man did not appear to care at all for the speculative way Carstairs often smiled at Dev.

  Next, Dog Berkeley, Nigel Waite, and Raskell Bainbridge came tumbling out of a large black coach amid riotous laughter with the thin, emaciated Dr. Eden Sinclair in their midst, his ubiquitous black bag in hand. It appeared the obliging doctor had treated each of them to one of his specially concocted injections in a back room of the gambling hell they had just left.

  Dev’s sharp gaze swung next to the enormously rotund Sir Tommy Fane, a cutthroat financier who had gained power by making huge donations to the Tory party, then more or less extorted a baronetcy out of his friends in the government. His light carriage tilted dangerously as the man struggled to squeeze his great girth out of the driver’s seat, cursing up a storm at the indignity of it. Big Tom was the secretary of the club, and possibly the richest member, though Carstairs was also fabulously wealthy.

  The feared duelist, Sir Torquil aka Blood Staines was the next to join them, eyeing everyone mistrustfully and stroking his small devil’s beard as he sauntered over. He was joined by the Holy Rotter, the ex–Reverend James Oakes, the disgraced younger son of a marquess, who had recently written his way out of debtor’s prison by composing pornographic poems that were all the rage in the gentlemen’s clubs of Saint James’s. The drunken, zigzag pattern of Oakes’s walk nearly got him run over by the handsome curricle that bounded in behind the men, but Staines grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out of the way before he was run down.

  The newly arrived curricle had barely stopped when young Dudley, “the Booby,” leaped out, full of his puppyish, fresh-faced enthusiasm.

  “Dev! Hullo, Dev! Cheerio, lads!”

  Dev nodded. “Your Grace.”

  The naive young duke was the only one Dev did not consider a possible suspect. Poor empty-headed Dudley hadn’t the slightest inkling of just how far out of his depth he was among these men; fortunately, he had his cold-blooded cousin, Alastor Hyde, looking after him, and slowly bilking the cheery young Dudley out of his vast fortune.

  Last of all came Quint Barnes, Baron Randall, who leaped out of his phaeton with a style much imitated by the rest. A flask in one hand, the stump of a cigar clamped between his teeth, Quint swaggered toward the pavilion. The others parted to let him pass. Damage Randall, as he enjoyed being called, had a flashing grin and a manly sort of vulgar charisma. He had taken a particular liking to Dev on account of his inheritance and his bold adventures, and this had proved most advantageous, as the others all seemed to do exactly as Quint said.

  Dev waited for the rest of them with the patience of a spider, his features schooled into a slight, enigmatic smile.

  “Well, Strathmore,” Quint drawled as the others gathered around the bottom of the steps, “you’ve got us here. I admit we are intrigued. What is this place?”

  Dev paused for effect, letting them wait; then he jumped down abruptly from the railing and into their midst.

  “Follow me,” he murmured with a wily smile. He dashed ahead of them up the stairs like the pied piper with so many rats in his thrall. At the top, he strode to the pavilion’s double doors and threw them open wide.

  The bright illumination from inside spilled out, luring them in. With looks of wonder and puzzlement, the rakes filed into the octagonal foyer with its red-painted ceiling and touches of gilt. Its tall, mirrored walls scattered the brilliance of the lavish chandelier hanging above them, but the interior doors to all the various galleries and salons were firmly closed. The night itself seemed to be holding its breath.

  Dev walked in last and pulled the doors shut. As he strode through their midst, he caught a brief glimpse of his reflection in the surrounding mirrors and was secretly bemused at how convincingly he had assimilated his role as a decadent fiend among the damned: the candle glow played over the rich red velvet of his coat; his unbound hair spilled over his collar. He wore no cravat but a black silk neckerchief carelessly knotted around his throat—even the wicked sparkle in his eyes was disturbingly authentic. But it was no wonder. The role he played was merely a reflection of the debauched roué he would indeed have become if Aunt Augusta had not sent him away all those years ago.

  That was precisely why they believed it.

  Carstairs eyed him appreciatively as he brushed past. Dev sent him a veiled smile, willing to use whatever it took to obtain the answers he sought.

  He leaned against the interior double doors of dark mahogany and faced his companions with a devious hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Gentlemen, my lords, assorted nasty bastards: You have for some time now been apprised of my desire to be found worthy of your esteemed company. Having passed the first round of requirements to your satisfaction, I now submit to you my offering to the club. Exclusively for the members of the old Horse and Chariot, specifically rendered to cater to each of your various…needs.” He glanced from man to man with a knowing smile, for he had studied them well. “I trust you shall find everything within to delight and stimulate whatever—urges may come upon you.”

  “Hear, hear,” some murmured, laughing softly, their grins widening as they caught wind of a first-rate orgy brewing.

  “And so, gentlemen,” Dev went on smoothly, “without further ado, allow me to present your new den of delectations, your paradise of pleasures—” He laid it on thick with flamboyant showmanship. “Esteemed members of the Horse and Chariot, I give you—the new lodgings for your club!” With a sharp, sudden rap from his walking stick, he banged open the mahogany doors.

  They stared into the pavilion, slack-jawed.

  No one moved or spoke.

  Quint was the first to break their spellbound silence, letting out a low, hearty laugh that built and grew in volume. “Devil, you mad son of a bitch.” Slapping Dev affectionately on his cheek, the brawny baron sauntered past him and through the open doorway, leading the others inside.

  They followed warily, gazing all around them at the disorienting swirls of the restored color murals and candy-cane columns. At once, the orchestra struck up a fast tune that reverberated out across the marshes, but the festivities only began in earnest when the whores flitted out to greet the men, scantily costumed as wood nymphs with si
lver net wings and crowns of ivy twined around their hair.

  The giggling girls pressed glasses of wine to the men’s lips, luring them farther into the pavilion. Upstairs, each themed chamber featured women appropriately costumed to suit the setting, be it Egypt, Jungle, or Ancient Rome—a nice touch, he thought, that had been suggested to him by Mother Iniquity, the rakes’ favorite London procuress of fine female flesh.

  Dev smiled indulgently at the girls. Strolling along after the others, he clasped his hands behind his back in aloof and rather worldly satisfaction. A wan smile curved his mouth when he saw Big Tom’s gluttonous joy upon discovering the sumptuous banquet table laden with meats, puddings, plump steaming rolls, exotic cheeses, fruits and cakes, and rich desserts of every description. An entire wall of the dining room was dedicated solely to the selection of ports and sherries.

  Quint swaggered into the dining room a while later and greeted Dev with a laugh.

  “Ah, there he is, sly fox!” Quint slung his arm around Dev’s neck and steered him toward the liquor. “You know, Strathmore, I must admit, life has become much more interesting since you’ve been around. Something like this would never even have occurred to the others. They’re such a bore. But you, my lad, you are the genuine article.” Quint slapped him on the back. “Daresay you remind me of me as a younger man.”

  “Do I, indeed?” he answered, none too pleased, though he forced a smile.

  Quint summoned the uniformed waiter behind the bar to pour them both a drink.

  “So, when will I know the club’s decision?” Dev prompted.

  “Not so fast, old boy,” Quint replied with an immoral gleam in his eyes. “You haven’t yet fulfilled the third requirement.”

  “Which is?”

  Quint laughed and leered at him.

  Dev gave him a shrewd look of question.

  “You’ll soon find out, won’t you? Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Dev murmured a trifle uneasily; then they both tossed back their scotch in one gulp.

  An hour later, Quint had gathered the others into the largest salon. The carpet was scarlet, the ceiling draped in swathes of gold silk like a sultan’s tent. When all the club members had arrived in the room, Quint swaggered into the center, idly swirling another draught of scotch in his glass. “Right, then. Shall we call this meeting to order?” he bellowed.

  The company let out a raucous cheer and thumped their glasses on the tables.

  Grinning, Quint turned to Dev.

  He noticed the snickers and sly glances the men were exchanging and began to wonder what he had gotten himself into this time.

  “We’ve had many members over the years,” Quint addressed them. “And, as you know, one of the constant requirements is a worthy gift to the group. You, Strathmore, have accomplished that tonight in spades. Hear, hear,” he added, offering Dev a toast.

  The others held up their glasses, as well.

  “Hear, hear! Good man!”

  “To Strathmore!”

  Dev sketched a sardonic bow.

  “And so, having collected the votes,” Quint continued, holding up his hand to quiet the others, “we have an answer for you, Devil. You’re in.”

  “Huzzah!” cried young Dudley.

  “Well, that is bloody good news,” Dev said, exhaling.

  “There is just one more little…test,” Carstairs spoke up with a mysterious half-smile.

  Quint let out a low, rough laugh and gestured to a couple of the men. They strode out of the room and returned a moment later.

  Dev’s sardonic smile faded as they dragged in a terrified country lass who could not have been more than fifteen.

  She fought and shrieked and tried to pull free of the men’s hold, to no avail. Then she gave up and hung her head, crying.

  His heart pounded with building wrath.

  “Her name is Susannah,” Quint informed him, his lewd gaze running over the youngster. “We picked her up in Hertfordshire yesterday afternoon taking her little herd of geese to market. Lovely specimen, ain’t she? Plump and soft and squirming with fright—just the way I like ’em!” Quint laughed. “She thought she’d flirt with us a little, but you got more than you bargained for, didn’t you, Suzy?”

  Their hapless victim sobbed.

  “You must be blooded, dear boy,” Carstairs murmured.

  Dev looked at him, not entirely able to hide his stunned reaction.

  “Take her, Strathmore,” Quint murmured, turning to stare hard at him, a lawless challenge in his eyes. “Take her maidenhead.”

  Dev glanced around at the men’s flushed faces and fevered eyes. He could feel the unspoken question hanging over his head like a very sword of Damocles: Are you one of us or aren’t you?

  “How bad are you, Devil?” Carstairs inquired.

  Dev looked again at the terrified girl. Little more than a child, really.

  Despoiling a virgin.

  But of course. He should have known.

  Deflowering virgins was as common a hobby to men of his class as attending the races at Ascot, God knew, but usually they were hardened young creatures from the rookery who sold themselves willingly at the launch of a possibly lucrative career servicing the wealthy men of London. This poor creature, bamboozled, abducted, had probably never even seen the great metropolis before, and had surely never dreamed that men like this existed in the world. God, he hated them.

  Her chin trembled, but by now the country lass looked too scared to cry. Though pale from her ordeal, she was sturdily built, a farmer’s daughter with a disheveled mop of reddish-blond curls, apple cheeks, and liquid brown eyes that reminded him of a panicked calf that somehow knew it was destined for a veal fricassee.

  Damn it. Anger filled his veins, but he drew on all his considerable control to summon up his best finesse, for he knew the only way to get the chit out of here unscathed was to appear to go along with their wishes—in spades. Indeed, there was extreme danger to both of them if he failed to play his role as ravisher convincingly.

  “Take her, Dev,” Quint urged in a whisper, smiling slightly, his hard, lustful gaze running over every inch of the girl’s body. “If you don’t, you’re out. If you don’t,” he added, “I will.”

  Susannah let out a cry of fright at this; the men laughed at her terror. The sound jolted Dev out of his frozen rage. Launching smoothly into action, he let out a wicked-sounding snicker and sauntered toward the girl.

  “I daresay I shall enjoy this. You nearly had me worried for a moment, boys, but if this is your idea of a test,” he drawled, “by all means, set the bar as high as you like.” Dev cupped her chubby face tenderly. “There, there, little pumpkin,” he said indulgently, “no one is going to hurt you. You will enjoy this almost as much as I will. I promise.” With a sharp, wolfish glance, he caused the two men holding her arms to release her.

  The moment they stepped back, she tried to run. Dev grabbed her around her waist and hauled her in close to his body. He hated scaring her, but he knew he had to give them a show or they would be too suspicious to leave them in privacy.

  “Perhaps we’ll watch,” Quint suggested.

  “Perhaps you’ll learn something,” he retorted. A few of them laughed at his insolent quip. “Never fear, gentlemen,” he assured them. “I can handle this little dumpling on my own.”

  “We shall require proof afterwards that the deed has been done.” Leaning in an elegant pose by the wall, Carstairs studied him in his cold, calculating way, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Then you shall have it.” Dev caught the girl’s face in his hand, tipping her head back none too gently. “Shan’t he, dearie?” He swooped down and kissed her neck.

  Susannah pushed wildly against Dev’s chest. Without warning, he heaved her up onto his shoulder amid delighted laughter from the men. They laughed harder as the girl fought with renewed terror.

  “Ow! Be still, damn you!” he bellowed in a jovial tone when she kneed him in the ribs. Then he clapped his hand ove
r her round rump and carried her off down the hallway.

  “Be quiet!” Dev ordered her as he opened the door to one of the low-lit chambers. He glanced warily into the room. It was painted scarlet and had a large bed piled with black satin pillows. A swath of thick, sable fur served as a coverlet. Good Lord, had he paid good money for such sleazy decor? he wondered, though it was hard to think above Suzy’s copious weeping.

  “Oh, please, don’t hurt me! Please, sir, have pity! I’m a good girl—”

  “Calm down, for God’s sake! I’m not going to touch you,” he muttered as he stalked into the awful room and dumped young Suzy off his shoulder and onto the bed.

  At once, she scuttled across it, fleeing to the other side to escape him. Dev rolled his eyes, stalked back to the door, and locked it. For a moment, he listened to make sure no one was eavesdropping; then he turned around, scowling with fury over the situation the bastards had put him in.

  “Oh, please let me go, sir! Don’t hurt me! I want to go home—”

  “Would you please shut up for two seconds so I can think?”

  She stopped abruptly, gazing vacantly at him.

  “I am not going to touch you. I give you my word.”

  “But y-you k-kissed me, and you said—”

  “For show, all for show!” he whispered harshly. “I did it to fool them; otherwise, they would have insisted on watching, and that would have made things a good deal worse.”

  “But—”

  “I already have a lady, Susannah. Trust me, if I am feeling amorous, I will go to her. You’re just a—a child. For God’s sake, I had a sister once. I’m not going to touch you. I know you’ve had a terrible fright, but try to calm down. My name is Lord Strathmore, and I give you my word of honor that I will get you out of here safely and back to your family.”