Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  With a resolute nod, the big Irishman closed the door. As they pulled away from the stately brick academy, Mary cast one last, longing look out the carriage window.

  It was difficult for her to leave Sorscha, for they had scarcely been separated for twelve years, but she assured herself the young teacher, Miss Carlisle, had seemed most solicitous of her adopted daughter’s happiness and well-being. She instinctively trusted the young woman’s honest gray eyes and kind smile. The older lady, Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, struck her as naught but a pompous termagant.

  Mary knew her kind all too well, having spent her misguided youth defiantly pretending that she did not feel the sting of such prim ladies’ condemnation. What the school’s founder would have said if she knew there had never been a Mr. Harris—let alone that the respectable widow had once been the theater diva known as Ginny Highgate—Mary scarcely dared contemplate. But it mattered not, for after all these years, hidden away in Ireland, she had left her old life behind to achieve a veneer of respectability—for Sorscha’s sake.

  Sorscha was all that mattered.

  Her precious foundling was, in truth, the only part of her life that Mary was proud of. The child’s presence in her life had filled such an empty hole in her. Her love for the little one had kept Mary alive when she had wanted to die from the sheer hellish pain of her wounds. But now, however much it hurt to give her up, Sorscha Harris—Sarah—deserved the chance to claim her rightful place in life. She owed the girl that.

  Doyle drove on to the city and soon halted before the genteel boarding house where Mary had taken rooms. When he came around and opened the door for her, Mary murmured her instructions to him: “Fetch me at midnight. Have the carriage ready. I don’t want to waste any time. Best to get this over with.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “I shall rest till then. I suggest you do the same,” she added with a smile behind her veil.

  “No desire to have a look around at the great city, ma’am?” Doyle asked with a twinkle in his dark eyes, but Mary cast a bitter smile at the countless church spires and smoking chimneys of London.

  She shook her head. “I had my fill of this place long ago.” Gathering her skirts, she strode into the boarding house.

  For the next several hours, she did her best to relax; read her Bible; took her meal alone in her room; and lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, imagining Sorscha taking the ton by storm. First, there would have to be a glittering coming-out ball. Ah, she could just picture her, a demure debutante in white. She would be awash in suitors who would treat her with the utmost chivalry and reverence—a real lady. There would be dancing and balls. Almack’s. If all went well, she might even be invited to make her curtsy to the queen.

  With so much advantage for Sorscha to gain, Mary would somehow find the strength for what she must do: She had come back to England to return the long-lost child to her elder brother and rightful guardian, the present Lord Strathmore.

  Mary only hoped that when the siblings were reunited, Sorscha’s memory might be jarred, for as it stood, the girl had no recollection of her prior life and family, nor had she any memory of the fire. In truth, Mary was grateful for that. Herself, she recalled every detail with horrid clarity.

  Soothing her distress by more hopeful imaginings of a better future for Sorscha, she managed to drift off to sleep for several hours, until Doyle’s light knock at the door alerted her that the hour was at hand.

  She came sharply awake in an instant. Opening the door just a crack, since she wasn’t yet wearing her veil, she told Doyle she would be right down. Soon, she glided quietly down the stairs of the boarding house and hurried outside, wrapping her black cloak more securely around her to keep out the chill of the late March night. The street was quiet, Doyle waiting stoically near the carriage by the feeble glow of a street lamp. Moonlight reflected in a silver streak across the vehicle’s shiny black top.

  “Portman Square,” she reminded him as she stepped once more into the coach.

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  Her heart pounded with trepidation as they set off, moving northwest toward one of London’s most fashionable neighborhoods.

  What sort of man would he be? Would he look at all like Sorscha? Would the two bear a family resemblance?

  Mary had never stopped following the news from London, though granted, the Times took a month to reach her thatched cottage tucked away in the sleepy emerald hills of Tipperary. One day, cynically skimming the gossip column for news of the blackguards she had once known, she had come across the single paragraph that had turned her life upside down:

  Lord Strathmore is welcomed back to England after several years of journeying about the globe aboard his private vessel, the brig, Katie Rose. Most lately come from India and the jungles of Malaysia, His Lordship tells us his adventure was part holiday, part scientific expedition. We are happy to report, however, that this esteemed, handsome, and popular Viscount has no plans for further travel at this time, but seems to exhibit an interest in settling down on England’s fair shores. This Season, all Society will be wondering if the noble captain of the Katie Rose will next begin to contemplate embarking on a new adventure—of the matrimonial variety?

  Mary had known upon reading it what she must do, though she could hardly bear it. There was so much she had to tell Lord Strathmore about that awful night, what exactly had happened to his parents, but would he be ready to hear it? Would he shrink from what must be done to ensure Sorscha’s safety from those who would do her, indeed, both of them harm?

  Would he even believe her strange tale? she wondered as she stared up at the face in the large, misshapen moon. It was imperfect, like her own: not round, but an ill-formed gibbous, its ominous dark side pitted and smeared with clouds.

  Perhaps she was overly worried that her old lovers might recognize her, she thought with a trace of bitter humor. After the jungles of Malaysia, she at least hoped that her face, scarred by burns, would not scare Lord Strathmore. The first newspaper article reporting his return to England had led Mary to believe that the present viscount might prove as fine a man as his poor gallant father, but upon arriving in London and glancing over fresher issues of the Times, Mary had begun to worry. She was no Society insider and could not be sure if Sorscha’s adventurous elder brother was the same “Devil S——” whose rakish misbehavior was gazetted in the gossip columns every other day. She prayed he was not, for he would need to have his wits about him once he knew the sort of creatures he was dealing with.

  When her carriage halted in Portman Square, Mary let herself out and sent Doyle a grim nod. From the driver’s box, he returned her salute, touching his gloved fingertips to the brim of his hat. He already had his instructions to wait there until she returned.

  Her heart pounded and her breath misted around her as Mary slipped away into the darkness and hurried down Portman Street, ducking deeper into the shadows when a carriage went clattering by. The fashionable road was lined with tall, elegant town houses. Some had small, curved, stately white porticoes in front; others had three or four steps leading up to the door. Most had large upper windows, handsome brass lanterns by the door, and black wrought-iron fences in front.

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to read the brass house numbers in the darkness, when a second carriage, this time a flashy curricle, went tearing past, hell-for-leather. She turned and watched it pull to a halt before one of the largest homes on the street. She could just make out a servant hurrying out to take the horses’ heads.

  The silhouette of a man jumped out of the curricle and strode into the house, which sat on the other side of the street several doors down. She took a step in that direction, staring.

  When the front door opened to admit the curricle’s driver, the sounds of a raucous party tumbled out into the street, and were promptly muffled again when the door closed. With a sinking feeling, she recalled the recent accounts in the gossip pages. Could it be? A glance at the house number implied that, indeed,
it was.

  Drawn toward the house with a foreboding sense of fascination, she kept to the other side of the street, lingering in the shadow of the spindly plane trees planted at intervals. It was a handsome brown-brick town house with white trim and three bays of windows, a slim wrought-iron balcony lining the upper floor. Against the drawn shades of the front windows, the wild crowd’s dark silhouettes played.

  She could make out the shape of a curly-headed woman throwing her arm around the neck of a man; a squeal of delight followed as the man swept her up off her feet and playfully tossed her into another man’s arms.

  Mary stared in astonishment, memories of her own such days flooding with bitter nostalgia back into her mind. Inexorably drawn, she waited as another racing drag tore down the otherwise quiet avenue and more guests leaped out—two men and two drunkenly giggling girls who could not be mistaken for ladies.

  When the quartet had rushed into the house, Mary left the shadows beneath the plane tree and darted down the street, slipping around the corner. She ducked into the back alleyway of the mews tucked behind the elegant town houses, where the gardens, stables, and carriage houses were situated.

  As she crept up to the wooden fence behind Lord Strathmore’s house, it did not surprise her that the back windows and doors were open. She had an unobstructed view into the raucous party; the smell of the young lords’ expensive cigars and the whores’ cheap perfume floated out to her, unleashing a flood of unwelcome memories.

  But then her blood ran cold. For as her searching stare scanned the house, she could see into what appeared to be the dining room, and that’s when she saw Quint.

  She drew in her breath in a sudden shock of recognition. Half a dozen men were sitting around the dining room table playing cards.

  Carstairs!

  Her heart was slamming in her chest, dread unfurling in the core of her heart.

  Good God, they’ve already gotten to him. The younger man sitting between the two of them had black hair and a lazy smile. His gesture to one of the liveried footmen marked him as the host of the evening—none other than Devil Strathmore. The footman stepped forward with a bottle of some sort of liquor, pouring libations into all their glasses.

  Mary turned away, feeling sick with panicked confusion. What am I going to do now? Silently, she left her hiding place and glided back through the chilly darkness to her waiting carriage in Portman Square, wondering in a daze if she had come all this way for nothing.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  On the appointed morning, Lizzie set out for the reading of the will in the two-wheeled governess-cart that Mrs. Hall occasionally made available for the teachers’ personal use. Though not an experienced driver, she remembered Devlin’s instructions from their one driving lesson; thankfully, the staunch little pony in the traces was so docile as they trotted along the road that one of Wellington’s cannons firing overhead would probably not have spooked the creature. For her part, she was not feeling quite so steady.

  The prospect of facing him again had her tied up in knots. She was still stung by his curt dismissal of her from his life, but there had been another lurid innuendo about his deviltry in the social column of the Morning Post, and she was beginning to think that if someone did not reach out to him, the man would kill himself for certain. Lady Strathmore had left no doubt as to whom she thought that someone should be. Lizzie shook her head to herself in dismay. Like it or not, she cared enough for that troubled man to try yet again. Perhaps his lashing out at her had been a mere aberration born of grief. If he was prepared to apologize, she decided, she was prepared to accept.

  She drove on through the fresh, brightening morning, the earthy fragrance of fertile fields, new grass, and young plants wafting on the wind and heralding a fine spring day. Here and there a few cows lowed in the pastures that surrounded London’s outer borders, but soon, rural simplicity gave way to the hustle and bustle of Town.

  The pony remained unflappable, barely breaking stride from his cheerful seesaw trot as Lizzie negotiated the little wood-and-wicker cart down the busy thoroughfare. She passed street vendors belting out their singsong chants, dray carts making their morning deliveries, mail coaches pulling out from the station to fan out to every corner of the realm. There was a hair-raising moment when three rambunctious children darted under the passing horses’ hooves, chasing a ball across the street, but at last, her adventure ended when she reached Fleet Street and saw the hanging sign for the law offices of Charles Beecham, Esquire.

  The solicitor’s name was painted in large gilt letters on a dark green ground. She guided the pony over to the side of the hectic street, looking around in growing distress as she considered the problem of where to put her vehicle. Like an answer to a prayer, Bennett Freeman came out of Mr. Beecham’s office, greeting her with an affable grin.

  “I see you made it, Miss Lizzie!”

  “Yes, in one piece—miraculously. Do you happen to know where I might find the mews, Mr. Freeman?”

  “Just around the corner. Would you like me to take your cart there for you? It might be best if you went in straightaway. They’re nearly ready to start.”

  “Oh, you are an angel! Would you?”

  “Glad to.” He laughed at her profuse thanks as she set the brake and climbed down to the pavement, hooking her reticule over her arm. Her knees were a bit wobbly after her ordeal, but she could have hugged the gray pony for being such a stouthearted little soldier. Ben climbed up into the cart and pushed the brake forward. Clapping the reins lightly over the pony’s rump, he drove off toward the mews.

  Lizzie turned and fixed her gaze on the door to the lawyer’s office. Her heart hammered as she gathered her nerve to face Devlin again. Squaring her shoulders, she marched in, pink cheeked and slightly windblown.

  Quickly unbuttoning her pelisse, she was greeted by the solicitor’s bespectacled clerk, who took her coat and hung it on a peg. She smoothed the skirts of her lavender promenade gown; only her black gloves and black silk fichu tucked into the neckline of her gown signified her mourning. To wear all black when one was not a member of the family would have been, in her view, outrageously presumptuous.

  The young clerk showed her into a sober, oak-paneled meeting room. “This way, miss.”

  She followed him, catching a hint of Devlin’s familiar clove-and-rosemary cologne on the air. She was unprepared for the pulse of longing his scent instantly aroused in her. Then she saw him. He was standing by the corner bookshelf, conservatively dressed, engaged in a low-toned conversation with the tidy Charles Beecham.

  Devlin paused midsentence and stared for a second when she walked in. She gave him a reserved nod of the utmost dignity and sat down as the clerk offered her one of the heavy, carved-wood chairs surrounding the glossy mahogany table. “Thank you.”

  Venturing a discreet glance around, she saw they were not the only two beneficiaries who had been summoned. Mrs. Rowland and Cook nodded to her, both looking nervous and out of place in the stately office. They had chosen chairs against the wall, away from the table. Margaret sat next to them with a pretty ruffled bonnet on her head. Dressed in her Sunday best, the chambermaid sent Lizzie a cheery smile.

  Three respectable-looking strangers were also present, two men and a woman. Lizzie guessed these were the distant cousins Lady Strathmore had sometimes mentioned, but they must have been on the middle-class side of the dowager’s kin, for they lacked the cool superiority of the only aristocrat in the room.

  Presently, he sauntered around the table and took his seat beside Mr. Beecham’s chair at the head of the table. He acknowledged her with a guarded nod as he sat down.

  Mr. Beecham gestured to his clerk to shut the doors. When this was done, the pudgy little lawyer took his place at the head of the table and spent a few moments busily shuffling some papers and getting his presentation into order. He glanced at his watch at the exact moment that the clock struck nine, and after waiting for the noisy chimes to end, he politely cleared
his throat, signaling that the meeting was about to begin.

  Lizzie sat up straighter and fixed her gaze on the solicitor, but inwardly, all her awareness was focused on Devlin. He was remote, withdrawn. She could feel the stony wall of his defenses barring out the rest of the world. His arms were folded across his chest, his eyes hooded, careworn lines showing around them. Was he not eating properly? she wondered, noticing that the fine, sharp angles of his high cheekbones seemed more pronounced, as though he had lost a few pounds. With his much-vaunted appetite, this was indeed a bad sign. Lost in his brooding thoughts, his face wore a dark and saturnine look. He did not seem at all like a man moments away from inheriting half a million pounds.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Mr. Beecham began. “Today we remember a grand lady who will live long in our memories, Augusta Kimball, the eighth Lady Strathmore. If no one has questions, we shall proceed with the reading of the will.” Mr. Beecham sent an inquiring glance around the table, but no one spoke up, so he continued with a nod. “We’ll begin with Her Ladyship’s charitable endowments, then her retainers, and finally, relatives.”

  The solicitor picked up his folio. As he began reading off the very generous donations Lady Strathmore had left to her parish church, the almshouse her father had founded for ironworkers, and an art gallery in Bath, Lizzie glanced at Devlin and found him staring coolly at her.

  The wary hunger in his gaze stole her breath. For a moment, they were both oblivious of the proceedings under way. She felt his desire for her running like a lightning bolt down her spine, though he was obviously fighting it. He did not even smile at her. It was as if he was purposely hardening his heart against her, willfully denying the bond between them.

  She searched his crystalline, blue-green eyes, trying to understand. If he was grieving, why didn’t he seek her help? Why must he push her away?

  He lowered his lashes and turned away, forcing his attention back to Mr. Beecham’s monotonous reading.