Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  Turning away with a curse under his breath, Alec sat down on the nearby bench and stared at his well-groomed hands where they lay on his lap. “I was a fool.”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I supposed to do without you? I can’t lose you, Lizzie. I’m here now. I’m trying, aren’t I? That’s got to count for something.”

  She sat down beside him with a sigh. “Oh, Alec. Be truthful—with yourself and with me. Your attachment to me is akin to what your little nephew, Harry, feels for his favorite blue blanket. I need to mean more to a man than mere safety, security. I need—no, I deserve—to be loved for myself, hang it!”

  “Was it any wonder I ran, with you always trying to change me, save me, fix me?” He scowled. “I know I’m not perfect, but can’t you love me as I am, flaws and all?”

  “Alec, if I tried to change you, it was only because I don’t want to see you end up ruined by your gambling.”

  “For your information, I have not so much as shuffled a deck of cards since what happened between us, and that’s the gods’ honest truth.”

  “What?”

  “You might say I lost my taste for it. After that debacle, sitting down at the tables made me physically ill. Every time I picked up the dice, all I could think of was the hurt in your eyes. I just didn’t have the heart for it anymore. On my honor, I learned my lesson. I haven’t gambled since.”

  She stared somberly at him. It really was almost too much to absorb. The Prince Charming of her girlish dreams, her darling Alec, sat here telling her he was ready to make a life with her now. He had even conquered his dangerous penchant for gambling.

  She could be a real part of the Knight family at last. All she had to do was hang Devlin out to dry.

  She shook her head. Never. “Devlin cares for me, Alec. What’s more, he needs me.”

  “I need you, too.” He studied her for a long moment. “Have your whirlwind affair,” he concluded softly. “I deserve that. But when it comes down to it, we both know it’s me you love. Always have. Always will. Don’t throw it away, Lizzie.”

  “You did that.” She glanced away, her heart pounding. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to Lady Campion?”

  His jaded smile did not reach his blue eyes. But as he stood and walked past her, he caressed her face for a moment, trailing his finger gently down her cheek. “I won’t give up without a fight,” he murmured, then kissed her brow and left her standing alone in the garden.

  Lizzie’s life took such a strange turn after Alec’s visit that, within a month, it had become all but unrecognizable. With Mrs. Hall’s begrudging permission, she continued to sample the delights of the Season with Jacinda each Saturday night and many Sundays, too. There were balls, routs, at homes, after-theater dinners, nights at Vauxhall, concerts, drives in the park; and, all the while, she had Alec and Devlin on either side of her, each trying to outdo the other in sheer charm.

  The ton took note.

  Between Devlin’s “proper” courtship and Alec’s determined effort to win back her affections, both men showered her with so much attention and gallantry, flowers, candies, an array of pretty gifts and baubles, and made, in all, such a fuss over her, that at last Lizzie walked into the annual May garden party at Devonshire House and discovered that she had become all the rage. She—Lizzie Carlisle!—bluestocking, spinster, land agent’s daughter.

  Thanks to Alec and Devlin, all the highborn young rakes who had never noticed her existence when she had been merely Jacinda’s quiet companion suddenly caught on to the notion of falling in love with her.

  It was all due to the racy glamor of her two leading suitors, but suddenly courting Lizzie Carlisle was the fashionable thing to do. Now the girl who a few short months ago could not stand the sight of a London rake was hemmed in by them on all sides. It was absurd enough to make her and Jacinda collapse in gales of laughter.

  Dev tolerated his lady’s triumph with philosophical good humor, pleased that it was finally her turn to be placed on the pedestal he always knew she deserved. He was unselfish enough to wait patiently, watching with quiet pleasure as she basked in the glow of her admirers’ worship.

  After all, it kept her safer from his enemies’ notice if he appeared to be only one of the gang paying court to the newfound belle of the Season.

  He was reasonably certain he was first in her affections, after all. He was the only one with whom she took long drives in Hyde Park, where Dev gave her more lessons on the fine art of handling the ribbons of a coach-and-four; more important, he was the only one she exchanged hungry kisses with whenever they could snatch two minutes alone. Assured of his place as her favorite, he let her have her fun and smiled when Society pronounced his future bride an Original, an Incomparable, a Toast.

  He had plenty of time to fulfill the terms of his aunt’s will, so why rush the girl? It was too delightful to see her blossom like this, no longer hiding her light beneath the proverbial bushel-basket. And so, biding his time, Dev split his attentions between amour and revenge.

  The darker matter progressed apace as the month of May fled by.

  Now that he had been accepted as a full-fledged member of the Horse and Chariot Club, he moved forward in a systematic effort to pare down his list of possible suspects by a process of elimination. With the utmost finesse and calculation, he got a number of them drunk and contrived to turn the conversation to a casual topic of discussion: Where were you when you heard the news about the great Lord Nelson’s glorious death at Trafalgar?

  The epic sea battle, after all, had happened on 21 October 1805, but word had not traveled to England until early November, at about the same time as the fire. He watched their dissipated faces closely as they each related their alibis. By the end of the night, he was convinced that neither Dr. Eden Sinclair, Dog Berkeley, Nigel Waite, nor Big Tom had had anything to do with it. He crossed them off his list, then searched for another means by which to jar some more of them into showing their cards.

  A few nights later at his gaudy pavilion, he took young Dudley, “the Booby,” aside, since he was sure the vapid fop was innocent. Forcing Dudley to concentrate on his words, Dev sought to plant in him a similar, revealing question. He knew he was getting closer to the real killer or killers, so, for the sake of allaying their suspicions, he instructed Dudley to ask their gathered company later that night if anyone had ever seen the shows held years ago at the pavilion.

  “Ask them if they remember any of the theater girls depicted on the walls,” he murmured. “I want to know who was their favorite. But you say it as if it’s your idea.” No one would ever suspect if Dudley asked. “Will you do that?”

  “Cheerio, Dev, will do. But why?”

  He flashed the lad a reassuring grin. “Just for a lark.”

  “Should I ask about any of the lasses in particular?”

  “I think not,” a voice interrupted.

  They both looked over as Dudley’s cousin, Alastor Hyde, came slithering into the ballroom where Dev had been showing the young duke the pictures of the long-forgotten actresses.

  The pale, balding man pinned Dev in a cold-blooded stare. “Why do you trifle with His Grace, my lord?”

  “It’s just a bit of fun, old boy. I had a notion we’d hunt down a few of these faded roses for a lark. If they could be found,” he added. “Likely, they’re all dead of the French disease.”

  “The French disease! Oh, Strathmore, that’s frightfully funny!” Dudley tittered.

  “Shut up,” Alastor snapped at the lad. “You will not ask the foolish question Lord Strathmore has suggested, Your Grace. Forget all mention of it.”

  “Yes, cousin,” Dudley said, contritely swallowing his laughter.

  “As for you, Lord Strathmore, you would be well advised to quit asking questions altogether.”

  “Why?” he murmured. “What do you know of it?”

  “Only that there is danger for those who would dig into a past that others have gone to great lengths to bury. Leave it be.�
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  Dev fell silent as Alastor hurried his young cousin off. Though he seethed with tantalized longing for more knowledge, he dared not press Alastor, lest he drive the unpleasant fellow to tell the others about the questions he’d been asking. For now, he would take Alastor’s advice and leave well enough alone.

  After waiting a few days to make sure there would be no repercussions from that confrontation, he tried yet a different approach. He showed up one night on Big Tom’s doorstep, presented the secretary of the club with the most beautiful and obliging harlot Dev had ever encountered.

  “You never call on me anymore,” she complained under her breath while they waited for Sir Tommy’s butler to answer the door. “What’s wrong, love? Did it quit workin’?” She eyed his crotch in question. “I should find that hard to believe.”

  Dev smirked. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  They were shown in to the dining room, where Sir Tommy was taking his prodigious supper alone. “Strathmore. Join me?” he asked, spewing crumbs everywhere as he spoke, as usual, through a mouthful of food, but his welcoming gesture halted in midair as the blonde sidled into the room behind Dev, wearing nothing but his greatcoat.

  “I’ve brought you a present, old boy,” Dev drawled. When Tom’s servant withdrew, Dev gave the blonde a nod; on his order, the greatcoat dropped to the floor.

  Big Tom nearly choked on his food.

  “I wonder if I might have a look at the club’s books for a moment while you get to know Miss Felicia?”

  “Y-y-yes, of course,” the fat man stammered, struggling to his feet. He pointed Dev toward his study while beads of sweat popped out on his eager face.

  “Excellent,” Dev murmured. “I need to certify a bet I made last month in the wager book. I’ll just be a moment.”

  “Help yourself, old boy. No hurry at all,” Tommy breathed, wide-eyed as the blonde stuck her finger in the jelly he had been eating and smeared it on her breast, sending the baronet a fetching glance.

  Clever girl, and not a wee bit squeamish, Dev thought, leaving the dining room as the great glutton scurried around the table to indulge. Once inside the baronet’s oak-paneled study, Dev wasted no time on the wager book but dug through the box of old ledgers until he found the earliest one, dated 1805, the year the club had been founded. The handwriting was different from Sir Tommy’s big, round scrawl. The earliest books were written in a neat small hand with a left-leaning slant. The first page stated Carstairs as the president and secretary of the club.

  Dev scanned the pages as quickly as possible. Most of it was inanity, expenditures for a hire of the Argyle Rooms, for example, sums spent on liquor, food, musicians, whores. Nothing much had changed in twelve years, it seemed. But there was one curious entry in December of 1805: two hundred pounds for passage across the Channel for one Signor Rossi, dancing master.

  Dancing master, indeed, Dev thought, remembering the murdered cook who had been on duty that fateful night at the Golden Bull Inn, the man they had tried to pin the start of the fire on, saying the blaze had started in the kitchens. The cook had been found hanged presumably by his own hand in a seeming admission of guilt for the fire that had killed forty-seven people.

  Dev wondered now if the “dancing master” had in fact been a practitioner of a darker art. It was no mean trick sending a man to the Continent in 1805 at the height of the Blockade, after all. And if, indeed, someone had arranged for an Italian assassin to make short work of the cook—the only person who could have successfully disputed the official story of a kitchen fire—Dev had one way of learning who might have hired him.

  He reached into his vest pocket and took out a scrap of paper given to him by the coroner who had handled the case all those years ago. It was an anonymous death threat ordering the coroner to conceal his true findings after the fire.

  The intimidated coroner had complied.

  The ominous note had not been signed, but as Dev compared the handwriting to Carstairs’s script in the 1805 logbook, he found an exact match.

  It was a long moment before he could absorb it. Then he tucked the scrap back into his waistcoat, put the book away, and drove off in his carriage, leaving the blonde in the fat voluptuary’s clutches. Big Tom sweated and grunted over her on the dining table. Dev did not worry about Miss Felicia. She was used to such things, and after all, he had paid her in advance.

  His mind was in a whirl. What about Quint? All this time he had thought it was Quint! Now he did not know if old Damage Randall would be cleared of guilt or if he shared it with Carstairs. Was there no way to lay hands on evidence of Quint’s whereabouts on the night of the fire?

  Half an hour later, he broke into Quint’s carriage house.

  Easing in through a window of the squat brick stable, Dev smelled alfalfa hay and the ripe odor of manure, heard the gentle snuffling of the horses in their box stalls. Making not a sound—for half a dozen grooms or more were sleeping in the loft above—he crept down the main aisle of the barn, passing drowsing horses on each side. He peered into the silent tack room, but abandoned it, finding the head coachman’s office behind the next door.

  Here, he let himself in and closed the door behind him. One small, high window let in a little moonlight. By its feeble silvery illumination, he hurried to find the item he had come for.

  As driving enthusiasts, the rakish members of the Horse and Chariot took more pride in their vehicles than they took in themselves. Their lives were in disarray, but when it came to their horses, carriages, and, for the dandyish few, their clothes, they were meticulous.

  The club preferred highway driving and the long, smooth toll roads outside the city, for London’s cobblestone streets and poor byways subjected the carriages—which were often works of art—to considerable wear and tear. As a result, the club members were fanatical, Dev had observed, about keeping their equipages in pristine condition—regular maintenance for wheels and axles, the oiling of springs, the checking of wiffletree joints, the keeping of harness in tiptop shape. The number of miles put on each vehicle served as a marker for when the springs and other parts would need replacing. In order to manage it all efficiently and to help track expenses, every head coachman was responsible for keeping a logbook in which all repairs were marked down along with a notation for each journey the vehicle had made—destination, date, and miles traversed.

  It was perhaps a long shot, but he was getting desperate to separate the innocent from the guilty, and at least the coachman’s log offered a chance to learn if one of Quint’s vehicles had traversed the long, fine Oxford Road in November of 1805.

  His pulse pounded, but his hands were steady as his finger trailed across the dusty row of annual logbooks on the shelf. Each book had the year engraved in gilt on the spine. His heart beat faster as he came to the book for 1805. Silently, he pulled it off the dusty shelf and took it over to the window, where he thumbed through the pages, holding his breath. The coachman’s neat rows of handwriting fanned across the pages. Dates. Expenses. Repairs after His Lordship had backed the drag into the corner of a house. August, September, October. He came to November and turned the page. Then stopped.

  It was gone. December was the next month logged. All records for November, ’05 had been torn out. His eyes narrowed with fury.

  A distant sound snagged his attention. He looked up.

  Someone’s coming.

  The barking of a dog suddenly sounded the alarm; a moment later, a carriage rumbled down the quiet street. The sound of mad, booming laughter and drunken singing confirmed with grim certainty that it was Damage Randall himself rolling homeward, no doubt having just returned from his favorite brothel. Nor was he alone, by the sound of it. A raucous female voice crowed the bawdy lyrics of the alehouse tune right along with him.

  In the blink of an eye, Dev had shoved the 1805 logbook back in its slot on the shelf and slipped out of the coachman’s office, his heart pounding. He had to get out of here. Two grooms or more would b
e accompanying the baron. Quint would probably rush his harlot into his bed, but the grooms would be here in a trice to put the horses away.

  Sneaking into a docile bay’s stall, Dev pressed his back to the wall as the drag clattered past going up the mews alley. He waited, watching through a sliver between the heavy wood shutter and the wall as Quint leaped unsteadily out of the coach, then lifted the drunken girl down and swung her around once.

  “Stop it, milord!” she slurred. “I’ll be sick!”

  “I’ll still kiss ye, m’dear,” Quint boomed with a laugh.

  “You brute.” She shoved at him affectionately when he put her down, then lifted her skirts a bit and dashed up the garden steps to his house. “Catch me if you can!”

  Quint laughed heartily and disappeared from Dev’s narrow line of vision. Their rowdy voices went quiet when the back door shut with a cheerful bang.

  A moment later, he heard the carriage wheels grinding over the alley again. The pair of grooms exchanged remarks too low for him to hear. Wasting no time, Dev climbed out the stall window and jumped down in the alley. With broad, stealthy strides, he slipped away through the night.

  A fog had begun rolling in off the river. It blurred the orange ball of light around the quaint iron lamppost that stood on the distant corner.

  As Dev hugged the shadows, starting in the opposite direction, something triggered his keenly honed instincts with an almost imperceptible warning, naught but a light prickling sensation down his nape. He froze, held his breath, pretended to glance at his pocket watch.

  He was being watched. He could feel it with a visceral awareness.

  Slowly, furtively, ready to attack anything that moved, he looked out of the corner of his eye.