Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Who’d very nearly murdered his wife.

  He looked up as Vane turned, fixing him with a worried look. “This is more than serious.” Vane started to pace. “Why only in London?” He shot a glance at Devil. “There weren’t any other suspicious happenings at the Place?”

  Devil shook his head. “London because it’s safer—more people about. Cambridgeshire is open country, and my fields are rather full of my workers.”

  “That didn’t help us locate Tolly’s killer.”

  Devil looked down, swirling the ale in his tankard.

  “To sabotage your phaeton, they had to get into your stables undetected, know which carriage, and how best to make it look like an accident, which presupposes some knowledge of your driving habits. Whoever shot at you in the park must have known you make a habit of riding that early. And whoever put the poison in the decanter”—his expression grim, Vane met Devil’s eye—“whoever did that had to know where the ducal appartments lie as well as your peculiar method of drinking.”

  Devil nodded. “If they hadn’t known that, they’d have been far more circumspect in their dosage—there was enough in one mouthful to fell an ox, which was why Honoria detected it so easily.”

  “So,” Vane said, “whoever it is knew all the above, but—” He broke off and looked at Devil.

  Who grimaced. “But didn’t know that Honoria shares my brandy as well as my bed.”

  Vane grimaced back. “Even I didn’t know that, so it doesn’t help us thin the ranks.” He paused, then asked: “So was Tolly killed because he was coming to warn you?”

  Slowly, Devil nodded. “That scenario makes sense of what he said at the cottage as well as, if not better, than any other.”

  Both fell silent, then Vane asked: “What will you do?”

  “Do?” Devil raised his brows. “Precisely what I was planning before, only with both eyes fully open.”

  “And with me to cover your back.”

  Devil grinned. “If you insist.”

  It was a familiar sally between them; some of Vane’s tension eased. He sat in the chair opposite Devil’s. “So, has Bromley finally turned up trumps?”

  “Not yet—but he thinks he’s laid his hand on a winning card. He came by yesterday with the offer of a meeting—the madam in question wanted certain guarantees. I told him what she could have—he’s gone off to negotiate time and date.”

  “Place?”

  “The palace itself.”

  Vane frowned. “You’ll go?”

  Devil shrugged. “I can see why she’d want it that way.”

  “It could be a trap.”

  “Unlikely—she’s got more to lose by siding against me rather than with me. And Bromley’s too enamored of his comforts to encourage any double-dealing.”

  Vane didn’t look convinced. “I don’t like any of this.”

  Draining his tankard, Devil shook his head. “No—but I’d rather not miss any clue for want of looking.” He glanced at Vane. “I still haven’t remembered that something I’ve forgotten about Tolly’s murder.”

  “You’re still positive it’s something vital?”

  “Oh, yes.” His expression grim, Devil rose. “It was something so vital I noticed it particularly, but Tolly dying wiped it from my mind.”

  Vane grimaced. “It’ll come back.”

  Devil met his eyes. “But will it come back in time?”

  Firm footsteps approached the morning room; Honoria left the window and sat on the chaise. She’d spent the day methodically analyzing the attempts on Devil’s life. And had reached the only logical conclusion. While her immediate impulse was to lay her findings before Devil, further consideration had suggested he might not, in this case, accept her conclusion readily. After considerable cogitation, she’d sent a message to the one person she knew he trusted without question.

  Her “Come in” coincided with a peremptory knock. The door opened; Vane strolled in. His gaze found her; closing the door, he strolled forward, his gait reminiscent of Devil’s prowl. “How are you?”

  Honoria grimaced. “Distracted.”

  He nodded and sat in the chair facing her. “How can I help?” One brown brow rose. “Your note said the matter was urgent.”

  Lips compressed, Honoria studied his face. “I’ve been thinking over all that’s happened. There has to be a reason someone’s trying to kill Devil.”

  His gaze on her face, Vane nodded. “Go on.”

  “There’s only one compelling reason I know of connecting Devil and a person who would know enough to tamper with his phaeton and put poison in his brandy. The inheritance—which, after all, is more than considerable. That might also explain why the attacks only started after it became obvious we would wed.”

  Light dawned in Vane’s face. “Of course. I’ve been concentrating on Tolly—I didn’t think of that angle.”

  “You agree?” Honoria leaned forward. “You agree it must be Richard?”

  Vane stared in blank astonishment. “Richard?”

  Honoria frowned. “Devil’s heir.”

  “Ah.” Swiftly, Vane searched her face. “Honoria, your logic’s impeccable—unfortunately, Devil’s neglected to give you all the details necessary to arrive at the correct outcome.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not my place to explain—you’ll have to ask Devil.”

  Honoria eyed him straitly. “Ask him what?”

  Vane’s eyes turned hard. “Ask him who his heir is.”

  “It’s not Richard?”

  Lips compressed, Vane rose. “I must go—but promise me you’ll tell Devil your conclusions.”

  Honoria’s eyes flashed. “I can give you an absolute assurrance on that point.”

  “Good.” Vane met her gaze. “If it makes it any easier, I’d wager he’s already followed the same train of thought.”

  “You think he knows?” Honoria held out her hand.

  “He knows, but, as he does with such matters, he won’t say until he’s sure—until he has proof.” Vane released Honoria’s hand. “By your leave, I’ve an idea to pursue—the sooner we get your husband the proof he requires, the sooner we’ll be free of this murderer.”

  Unwilling to do anything to delay that outcome, Honoria nodded and let him go. Long after the door had closed behind him, she sat staring at the panels, unable to make head or tail of what was going on.

  Cynsters—a law unto themselves. With a disgusted humph, she stood and headed upstairs to change.

  His Grace of St. Ives dined at home that evening. Honoria waited until they retired, then stripped off her gown, donned her nightgown, scurried like an eager chambermaid into the ducal chamber, dropped her peignoir, kicked off her slippers, and scrambled beneath the covers.

  From the other side of the room, engaged in untying his cravat, Devil watched her performance with interest—an interest she ignored. Propped against the pillows, she fixed her gaze on his face. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Devil’s hands stilled, then he drew the white linen from about his throat. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he approached the bed. “What about?”

  “About who would want you dead.”

  He shrugged out of his waistcoat, then sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “Did you reach any conclusion?”

  “Yes—but Vane told me my conclusion wasn’t right.”

  Devil looked up. “Vane?”

  Honoria explained. “Naturally, I thought your heir was Richard.”

  “Ah.” Devil dropped his second boot. He stood, stripped off his shirt and trousers, then slid beneath the covers. Honoria tumbled against him; he settled her beside him. “I suppose I should have told you about that.”

  Honoria squinted through the shadows; she was almost sure he was grinning. “I suspect you should have. What is it I don’t know?”

  Devil lay back against the pillows. “You know Richard’s nickname?”

  “Scandal?”

  Devil nodded. “Like mine being a shortened form of �
�That Devil Cynster,’ Richard’s is also a truncation. His full sobriquet is ‘The Scandal That Never Was.’ ”

  “He’s a scandal?”

  “Richard’s my brother, but he’s not my mother’s son.”

  Honoria blinked. “Ah.” Then she frowned. “But you look so alike.”

  “We look like my father—you’ve seen his portrait. Only our coloring, and in my case my eyes, come from our respective mothers—Richard’s was also dark-haired.”

  This was scandal on a major scale—Richard was younger than Devil. Yet Honoria had detected not the slightest whiff of disapprobation in any of the ton’s dealings with Richard Cynster. “I don’t understand.” She looked up in time to see Devil’s teeth gleam.

  “The truth of Richard’s birth has been an open secret for three decades—it’s very old news. Maman, of course, is the key.”

  Honoria crossed her arms on his chest and fixed her gaze on his face. “Tell me.”

  Devil settled his arms about her. “When I was three, my father was asked to undertake a diplomatic mission to the Highlands. There’d been an outbreak of dissaffection and the Court boffins wanted to rattle sabers without sending troops. Sending a Cynster was considered the next best thing. Maman decided not to accompany him. She was told at my birth that she wouldn’t be able to have more children, so she was hideously overprotective of me, much to my disgust. So m’father went north alone. The laird he was sent to . . .” He paused, searching for words.

  “Intimidate?” Honoria suggested.

  Devil nodded. “This laird, a redhead, had recently married—an arranged marriage with a lowlands beauty.”

  “She would be a beauty,” Honoria muttered.

  Devil glanced at her. “We Cynsters have standards, you know.”

  Honoria humphed and poked his chest. “What happened next.”

  “Strangely enough, we’re not entirely sure. We do know my father’s mission was a success; he was home within four weeks. Richard appeared twelve months later.”

  “Twelve months?”

  “His mother died a few months after his birth. Whether she confessed or whether her husband simply assumed from his coloring that Richard was none of his, we don’t know. But there was no doubt, even then, that Richard was my father’s—he looked exactly like me at the same age, and there were enough about who remembered. Whatever, Richard’s fate was sealed when Webster picked him up from before the front door—a carriage had driven up, the wrapped bundle deposited, and the horses whipped up immediately. No message—just Richard. Webster carried him in and Richard immediately started squalling.”

  “The sound was horrendous—I remember because I hadn’t heard it before. Maman was brushing my hair in the nursery—we heard it all the way up there. She dropped the brush and rushed downstairs. She beat me down. I reached the last landing to see her descend on Webster and my father, who were trying to hush Richard. Maman plucked him out of their arms—she cooed and Richard stopped crying. She just smiled—brilliantly—you know how she can.”

  Her chin on his chest, Honoria nodded.

  “I realized immediately that Richard was a godsend—Ma-man was so caught up with him she forgot about the knots in my hair. From that moment, Richard had my full support. My father came up—I think he was about to attempt an explanation—in retrospect I’m sorry I didn’t hear it, even if I wouldn’t have understood it then. But Maman immediately told him how immensely clever he was to have provided her with the one, truly most important thing she wanted—another son. Naturally, he kept quiet. From there on, Maman rolled over any objections—she’d been my father’s duchess for five years and was an eminent social power. She publicly decreed Richard was her son—none were game, then or now, to contradict her.” Honoria heard the smile in his voice.

  “There’s no doubt that having Richard to rear really did make Maman happy. The matter caused no one any harm; my father acknowledged him and made provision for him in his will.” Devil drew a deep breath. “And that’s the story of the Scandal That Never Was.”

  Honoria lay still; Devil’s hand stroked her hair. “So now you know Richard’s not my heir.” His hand slid to her nape. “He’s not the one trying to kill me.”

  Honoria listened to the steady thud of his heart. She was glad it wasn’t Richard—she liked him, and knew Devil was fond of him. Without lifting her head, she murmured: “Your mother’s a fascinating woman.”

  Devil rolled, rolling her under him; on his elbows, he brushed her hair from her face. “She certainly fascinated my father.” Honoria felt his eyes on her face, then his head dipped. His lips brushed hers. “Just as my duchess fascinates me.”

  They were the last logical words said that night.

  She needed to have a long, serious talk with her husband. Clad in a translucent ivory peignoir trimmed with feathers, Honoria paced the ducal bedchamber and waited for him to appear.

  They’d met at breakfast and again at dinner, but she could hardly interrogate him in front of the servants. He was presently at White’s, meeting with Viscount Bromley. That much she knew, that much he’d told her. What he hadn’t told her was what he thought, who he suspected.

  As Richard was illegitimate, he couldn’t inherit, not with so many legitimate males in the family. After learning how Scandal had come by his name, she hadn’t needed to ask who Devil’s heir was. In the weeks before their marriage, she’d questioned Horatia about Devil’s father—in passing, Horatia had mentioned that George, her husband, Vane’s father, was a bare year younger than Devil’s father. Which meant that, with Richard ineligible, George was Devil’s heir, with Vane next in line.

  Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George as the villain of the piece. Devil treated him as a surrogate father, an affection George openly returned. And Vane’s devotion to Devil was beyond question. So the killer wasn’t Devil’s heir, but as soon as she’d drawn Vane’s attention to the point, he’d seen a blinding light.

  With a frustrated growl, Honoria kicked her feathered hem aside. “So what is it about the heir that makes all obvious?”

  Devil knew; Vane was sure he’d followed the same reasoning and come up with an answer. Presumably, as it wasn’t the heir, some process of elimination illuminated the true killer. Who was . . .

  Honoria glared at the clock. And tried not to think of the other reason she was pacing, eager to set eyes on her husband again. Someone was trying to kill him. This house was a safe haven; he was safe here. But outside . . . ?

  She wanted him here, safe in her arms.

  Honoria shivered; she wrapped her arms about her and, frowning, looked at the clock again. Lips setting, she made for the door. Opening it, she listened; as the clock on the mantel had correctly foretold, the clock on the stairs whirred, then chimed. Twelve deep booms resonated through the house. Midnight—and Devil was still not back.

  She was closing the door when the front knocker sounded—a curt, peremptory summons. Honoria paused, her frown deepening. Who would come calling at midnight? Devil had a latchkey, so . . .

  The blood drained from her face. Her heart stuttered, then started to race. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she’d moved. Then she picked up her skirts and flew.

  She raced through the gallery to the top of the stairs. Breathless, she clutched the wide banister and looked down. Webster swung the door wide, revealing a shadowy figure. The figure stepped forward; the light from the hall lamps burnished Vane’s chestnut locks.

  He handed his cane to Webster. “Where’s Devil?”

  Accepting the cane, Webster shut the door. “His Grace has not yet returned, sir.”

  “He hasn’t?”

  Even from the top of the stairs, Honoria heard Vane’s surprise.

  “I believe he went to White’s, sir.”

  “Yes, I know.” Vane sounded vague. “I left before him—I had to call at a friend’s, but he intended leaving on my heels. I would have thought he’d be here by now.”

  He
r heart thumping, Honoria watched the men stare at each other—the black specter she’d held at bay all day suddenly swirled closer. She leaned over the banister. “Vane?”

  He looked up, then blinked. Surprise leached from his face, leaving it curiously blank. Webster glanced up, too, but immediately lowered his gaze.

  Vane cleared his throat, and tried not to focus. “Yes, Honoria?”

  “Go and look for him. Please?” The last word was heavy with latent fear.

  Vane tried an unfocused frown. “He probably fell in with some friends and was delayed.”

  Honoria shook her head violently; inside, a familiar panic was rising. “No—something’s happened. I know it.” Her fingers tightened on the banister; her knuckles showed white.

  “Please—go now!”

  Vane was reaching for his cane before her last words had died—the emotion investing her “please” was compelling. Infected by her concern, her fear overriding the logical excuses his mind freely concocted, he turned to the door.

  Webster, reacting with similar speed, opened it. Swiftly, Vane descended the steps. His stride lengthening, he mentally retraced Devil’s habitual route home from his favorite club. Ten yards from the steps, Vane remembered the alleyway between Berkeley Square and Hays Mews. Cursing, he broke into a run.

  Back inside St. Ives House, Honoria clutched the banister and fought down her panic.

  Closing the door, Webster briefly glanced her way. “By your leave, ma’am, I’ll notify Sligo.”

  Honoria nodded. “Please do.” She remembered she’d ordered Devil watched—with relief, she grasped that branch and hung on. Sligo, protective, watchful Sligo, would have made sure his “Cap’n” was well guarded.

  Beneath her, the baize door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Sligo rushed into the hall, flung open the front door and raced down the steps. As he disappeared, Honoria felt the slim branch she’d clutched ripped from her grasp—and found herself facing the black pit of her fears again.

  “Hah!” Devil didn’t waste breath putting much force into the shout—the alleyway was long and narrow; there were no windows in the tall brick walls. Swinging the thin blade of his swordstick in a wide arc, he grabbed the moment as his three attackers flinched back to reach down and tug the body slumped on the alley’s cobbles within his guard.