Leaving room for his feet, he straightened immediately, sword flicking back and forth, steel tip scenting blood. In his other hand, he held the empty scabbard, the rigid rod a foil against another weapon. With a feral grin, he gestured with the scabbard. “Well, gentlemen? Who’ll be first?”
His challenging glance swept the faces of the men sent to kill him. They’d waited until he was in the alley, striding along, thinking of other things. Two had followed him in, the third had closed from the other end. All three were brawny, hulking brutes—sailors from their ill-fitting garments. All three carried swords—not slim blades like the one keeping them at bay but long, straight, single-sided weapons.
His gaze steady, his expression taunting, Devil mentally searched for escape. And found none. Chance—in the form of two large barrels left in the usually empty alley, and a man who’d chased the sailors into the dimly lit passage—had kept him alive this far. With a yell, the man had thrown himself at the pair, alerting him to their presence. The man’s intervention had been more heroic than wise; after momentarily grappling with him, one sailor had raised his arm and, with his sword grip, struck him down.
But by then he’d had his back against the wall, unsheathed sword and scabbard in his hands, the barrels immediately to his left restricting the front he had to defend. “Come along,” he taunted, waving them forward. “No need to feel reticent about dying.”
Their eyes shifted one to the other, each waiting to see who’d be first. It was his only hope—to keep them hanging back in indecision. From the corners of his eyes, he kept watch on the ends of the alley, lit by the flares in the street and square beyond. If anyone passed, their shadows would be thrown in—he’d have to hold his attackers back until that happened, and he could call for help. Unfortunately, it was past midnight in an area of fashionable residences with the Season yet to start. There were few people abroad.
Feet shifted on the cobbles; the largest of the sailors, the one directly in front, tried a slashing thrust. Devil blocked, catching the blade on his scabbard, sword hissing forward to slice the man’s forearm. With a curse, the man jumped back, scowling, piggy eyes considering.
Devil prayed he wouldn’t consider too hard—one on one, he could win, or hold them off forever. They were all heavier, but he was taller and had a longer, more flexible reach. If they rushed him all at once, they’d have him. Indeed, he couldn’t understand why they hadn’t already overwhelmed him; despite his black coat, his snowy cravat and white cuffs marked him clearly. Then he saw all three exchange another wary glance; inspiration dawned. He smiled, devilishly. “Hell’s not such a bad place—take my word for it. Fiendishly hot, of course, and the pain never ends, but I can guarantee you’ll all be found a place.”
The three exchanged another glance, then the leader tried a less-than-successful sneer. “You may look like Satan, but you ain’t him. You’re just a man—your blood’ll run free enough. ’Tisn’t us slated to die tonight.” He glanced at the others. “C’arn—let’s get this done.”
So saying, he raised his sword.
His warning, of course, was not wise. Devil met them, front and right; the man on his left, impeded by the barrels, predictably hung back. Sparks flew as one sword met the sweetly tempered steel of the swordstick and slid away; blocking the leader’s stroke with his scabbard, Devil followed up with a swift thrust that pierced flesh.
He disengaged, simultaneously blocking the leader’s second blow; the sword, wielded with force, sheered along the polished wood and struck his hand, clenched around it. The cut was not serious, he’d been pulling back at the time, but the scabbard quickly turned sticky beneath his fingers. Suppressing all reaction to the wound, Devil sent his thin blade reaching for the leader. The man jumped back as the fine point pricked his chest.
Devil cursed; the man to his left pressed closer, anxious to be in on the kill. The three assassins regrouped, all raising their weapons.
“Hi! Hold hard!”
A tall figure blocked out the light from Hays Mews. Running footsteps echoed from the walls; a second figure followed the first.
Devil grabbed the moment, striking cleanly at the leader.
The man yelped, then staggered back, clutching his right arm. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. The clatter shocked his comrades—they looked around, then dropped their weapons. All three turned and fled.
Devil started in pursuit—and tripped over the slumped form of his would-be savior, still lying at his feet.
Vane, his own scabbard and unsheathed sword in his hands, skidded to a halt beside him. “Who the hell were they?”
Side by side, the cousins watched the three burly shadows disappear into the glare of Berkeley Square. Devil shrugged.
“We didn’t exchange introductions.”
Vane looked down. “You got one.” Bending down, he turned the man onto his back.
“No.” Devil peered at his comatose good Samaritan. “He tried to help and got a clout over the ear for his pains. Strange to tell, I think he’s one of my undergrooms.”
Puffing, Sligo clattered up. His gaze swept Devil, then he slumped against the wall. “You all right?”
Devil raised his brows, then sheathed his swordstick, clicking the blade into place. Transferring the innocent-looking cane to his right hand, he examined his left. “Other than a cut, which doesn’t seem serious.”
“Thank Gawd for that.” Propped against the wall, Sligo closed his eyes. “The missus would never forgive me.”
Devil frowned—first at Sligo, then at Vane.
Vane was studying the three discarded swords. “Funny business.” Bending, he scooped them up. “Not your usual backstreet weapon.”
Devil took one of the swords and hefted it. “Odd indeed. They look like old cavalry issue.” After a moment, he added: “Presumably they knew I carry a swordstick and would use it.”
“They also knew they’d need three to get the job done.”
“If it hadn’t been for him,” Devil indicated the man on the ground, “they’d have succeeded.” He turned to Sligo. “Any idea what he’s doing here?”
The tone of the question was mild; Sligo clung to the shadows and shook his head. “Most likely out for the evening and on his way home. Saw you and the others—you’re easy enough to recognize.”
Devil humphed. “You’d better get him home and make sure he’s cared for. I’ll see him tomorrow—such timely devotion shouldn’t go unrewarded.”
Making a mental note to explain to the second undergroom that he’d had the night off, Sligo hefted the man over his shoulder. Wiry and used to such loads, he started off up the alley, plodding steadily.
Devil and Vane strolled in his wake. As they left the alley, Devil glanced at Vane. “Speaking of opportune events, what brought you two here?”
Vane met his look. “Your wife.”
Devil’s brows rose. “I should have guessed.”
“She was frantic when I left.” Vane glanced at him. “She worries about you.”
Devil grimaced; Vane shrugged. “She may jump to conclusions, but too often they’ve proved right. I decided not to argue. The alley was an obvious place for an ambush.”
Devil nodded. “Very obvious.”
Vane looked ahead; Sligo was making his way about Grosvenor Square. Vane slowed. “Did Honoria speak to you about your heir?”
Devil sent him a sidelong glance. “Yes.”
Eyes narrowing, Vane sent the glance right back. “How long have you known?”
Devil sighed. “I still don’t know—I suspect. I can’t say exactly when I realized—I just suddenly saw the possibility.”
“So?”
Devil’s features set. “So I want to find out what I can from this madam—tie up that loose end, if loose end it proves. Bromley confirmed the where and when of the meeting. After that—” He grimaced. “We’ve precious little evidence—we may need to draw him into the open.”
“A trap?”
Devil nodded.
Vane’s expression hardened. “With you as bait?”
They’d reached the steps of St. Ives House. Devil looked up at his door. “With me—and Honoria Prudence—as bait.”
The suggestion stunned Vane; when he refocused, Devil was climbing the steps. Webster opened the door as Sligo, lugging his burden, reached it. Setting the door wide, Web-ster called for assistance, then helped Sligo.
Pacing in the gallery, wringing her hands with frustrated impotence, Honoria heard the commotion. In a froth of silk and feathers, she rushed to the balustrade. The sight that met her eyes was not designed to reassure.
Webster and Sligo were carrying a body.
Honoria paled. For one instant, her heart stopped; her chest squeezed so tight, she couldn’t breathe. Then she realized the body wasn’t Devil’s—relief hit her in a dizzying wave. The next instant, her husband strolled over his threshold, ineffably elegant as always. Vane followed.
Vane was carrying three swords and his walking cane. Devil was carrying his silver-topped cane. The cane was streaked with blood; the back of his left hand was bright red.
Honoria forgot everything and everyone else. In a whisper of silk, feathers scattering in her wake, she flew down the stairs.
Sligo and two footmen had the unconscious groom in charge; Webster was closing the door. It was Vane who saw her first; he jogged Devil’s elbow.
Devil looked up—and only just managed not to gape. His wife’s peignoir was not transparent but left little to the imagination; the soft, sheer silk clung to gently rounded contours and long sleek limbs. Abruptly, his face set; biting back a curse, he strode for the stairs. He only had time to toss his cane to Webster before Honoria flung herself against him.
“Where are you hurt? What happened?” Frantic, she ran her hands across his chest, searching for wounds. Then she tried to draw back and examine him.
“I’m fine.” With his right arm, Devil locked her to him. Lifting her, he continued up the stairs, his body shielding her from the hall below.
“But you’re bleeding!” Honoria wriggled, trying to pursue her investigation of his hurts.
“It’s just a scratch—you can tend it in our room.” Devil gave the last three words definite emphasis. Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced down at Vane. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Vane met his gaze. “Tomorrow.”
“Is the wound on your hand or your arm?” Honoria half tipped in Devil’s hold, trying to see.
Devil swallowed a curse. “On my hand. Stay still.” Tightening his hold, he headed for their chamber. “If you’re going to work yourself into a frenzy waiting up for me, you’ll need to invest in more suitable nightwear.”
The terse comment didn’t even impinge on Honoria’s consciousness.
Resigned, Devil set her down in their room and surrendered to the inevitable. Obediently stripping off his shirt, he sat on the end of the bed and let her bathe his cut. He answered all her questions—truthfully; she’d hear the details from her maid tomorrow anyway.
Mrs. Hull appeared with a pot of salve and bandages. She joined Honoria in clucking over him. Together, they bandaged the cut, using twice as much bandage as he deemed necessary. However, he kept his tongue between his teeth and submitted meekly; Mrs. Hull cast him a suspicious glance as she left. Honoria rattled on, her voice brittle and breathless, her gaze skittish.
“Swords! What sort of ruffians attack gentlemen with swords?” She gestured wildly. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”
Devil stood, caught her hand and towed her across the room. He stopped before the tallboy, poured two glasses of brandy, then, taking both in one hand, towed Honoria, her litany of exclamations gradually petering out, to the armchair before the fire. Dropping into the chair, he drew her down onto his lap, then handed her one glass.
Taking it, she fell silent. Then she shivered. “Drink it.” Devil guided the glass to her lips.
Cradling the glass in both hands, Honoria took a sip, then another. Then she shuddered, closed her eyes and leaned against him.
His arm about her, Devil held her close. “I’m still here.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I told you I won’t leave you.”
Dragging in a breath, Honoria snuggled closer, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
Devil waited until she’d drained her glass, then carried her to their bed, divesting her of her peignoir before putting her between the sheets. Moments later, he joined her, drawing her into his arms. And set about demonstrating in the most convincing way he knew that he was still hale and whole, still very much alive.
Honoria slept late the next morning, yet when she awoke she felt far from refreshed. After tea and toast on a tray in her chamber, she headed for the morning room. Her head felt woolly, her wits still skittish. Settling on the chaise, she picked up her embroidery. Fifteen minutes later, she’d yet to set a stitch.
Sighing, she put the canvas aside. She felt as fragile as the delicate tracery she should have been creating. Her nerves were stretched taut; she was convinced a storm was brewing, roiling on her horizon, poised to sweep in and strike—and take Devil from her.
He meant so much to her. He was the center of her life—she couldn’t imagine living without him, arrogant tyrant though he was. They were growing together so well, yet someone was not content to let them be.
The thought made her frown. She might think of the murderer as a black cloud, billowing ever higher, yet he was only a man.
She’d woken early to find Devil sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. “Rest,” he’d said. “There’s no reason you need be up and about.” He’d searched her face, then kissed her. “Take care. I won’t approve if I find you peaked and wan.” With a twisted smile, he’d stood.
“Will you be about?” she’d asked.
“I’ll be back for dinner.”
Which was all very well, but dinner was hours away.
Honoria stared at the door. Something was about to happen—she could feel it in her bones. A chill stole down her spine; she shivered, but didn’t let go of her disturbing thoughts. Yet she could identify no action, nothing she could do to avert the impending doom. She was impotent. Helpless.
A tap on the door interrupted her dismal reverie. Sligo entered, balancing a tray. “Mrs. Hull thought as you might like her special tea. Makes it up herself, she does.” He set the tray on the sidetable and deftly poured a cup.
Honoria’s instant reaction was a definite veto—her stomach felt as fragile as her mental state. The soothing aroma that rose with the steam changed her mind.
“Chamomile, it is.” Sligo handed her the cup.
Honoria took it and sipped, then remembered the groom. “How is Carter?”
“Better. Got a lump the size of an egg, but the Cap’n thanked him special this morning—Carter says as how he hardly feels it now.”
“Good. Please convey my thanks to him as well.” Honoria sipped. “Did Carter have any idea where the men who attacked His Grace hailed from?”
Sligo fiddled with the doily on the tray. “Not as such. He did say they looked like sailors.”
Honoria fixed her gaze on his face. “Sligo—did Carter overhear anything?”
Sligo shifted. “He heard the two he followed agree to meet up later at the Anchor’s Arms.”
“The Anchor’s Arms?”
“A tavern by the docks.”
A demon prodded Honoria to act; she ignored it. “Has His Grace been informed of Carter’s recollections?”
“No, ma’am. Carter only fully came to his wits an hour ago.”
Honoria chose the course of wisdom. “Inform His Grace immediately of Carter’s information.”
Sligo bit his lip and shifted his weight.
Honoria studied his unprepossessing features in dawning disbelief. “Sligo—where is he?”
Sligo straightened. “The Cap’n must’ve fallen to our plan. When the lads set out to follow ’im this morning, he lost ’em. Neat a
s you please.”
“Neat!” Honoria sat bolt upright. “There’s nothing neat about it.”
Here they were, with a potentially valuable avenue to explore, and her husband had taken himself off. Away from their watchful eyes. She handed Sligo her teacup, inwardly congratulating herself on not having thrown it. She wasn’t so lost to all sense as to wax hysterical over someone trying to kill Devil in the middle of London during the day. She did, however, want his would-be-murderer caught without delay. Narrow-eyed, she considered Sligo. “Where does His Grace normally lunch?”
“One of his clubs, ma’am—White’s, Waitier’s, or Boodles.”
“Send footmen to wait at all three. They are to inform His Grace immediately he arrives that I wish to speak with him as soon as may be.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Chapter 22
By two, Honoria had started to pace. At four, she summoned Sligo.
“Have you located His Grace?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve men at White’s, Waitier’s, and Boodles—we’ll know the instant he shows.”
“Would Carter recognize the ruffians he followed?”
“Aye—he’ll know them again, so he says.”
“How long do ships normally remain at the docks?”
“Two, three days at most.”
Honoria drew a deep breath. “Have the carriage brought around—the unmarked one.”
Sligo blinked. “Ma’am?”
“I presume Carter’s well enough to assist us?”
“Assist us?” Sligo’s expression blanked.
Honoria frowned. “To identify the men who attacked His Grace should they be at the Anchor’s Arms.”
“The Anchor’s Arms?” Horror replaced Sligo’s blankness. “You can’t go there, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“You . . . you simply can’t. It’s a dockside tavern—not the sort of place you’d feel comfortable.”
“At present, my comfort is not of great importance.”
Devil's Bride with Bonus Material Page 35
