The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  Grace blinked.

  Jeffrey looked over his shoulder at her. He was smiling. “It was a jest.”

  “But you don’t jest.”

  He chuckled at that. “I suppose I don’t,” he said, and turned back to the basin.

  Grace wrapped herself in a sheet and came up on her knees. “Are you certain?”

  “I am certain. You want me to meet them, don’t you?”

  More than anything. More than air, more than food, more than even Jeffrey, she wanted him to meet her family. “Yes, I do. Very much.”

  He resumed his toilette, washing his face and toweling it dry. Grace fixed her gaze on the sheets, her mind whirling around the very idea of it.

  “Grace...darling,” he said. The word sounded strange coming from him, as if he had never used the endearment, and was testing the weight of it on his tongue. He had turned from the basin to her again. “No more secrets between us. Will you promise me this?”

  “I promise,” she said. “No more secrets.”

  He turned back to the basin.

  Grace climbed out of his bed, gathered her clothes and donned them. She was tying the dressing gown around her when Jeffrey suddenly reached for her. He pulled her into his embrace and kissed the top of her head, shocking her with the sudden rush of affection for her. “I am trying,” he said, and bent to kiss the corner of her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled. “Go now.”

  Grace pulled away from him and walked to the door. But she paused there and looked back.

  Jeffrey was splashing water on his face again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS AN embarrassment of staggering proportions that John did not appear at the appointed time to meet with Admiral Hale, particularly considering that the admiral had only agreed to meet as a favor to Jeffrey, for the sake of his father’s memory, with whom the admiral had been closely acquainted.

  At first, Jeffrey had believed that perhaps John had been detained somehow. After yesterday’s bruising argument, he didn’t believe for a moment that John would defy him in this. But as the minutes dragged by, and the admiral checked his pocket watch for what seemed the tenth time, Jeffrey had to accept that John had purposely missed the meeting. He had no intention of accepting the commission Jeffrey had paid dearly to give him.

  The interminable wait left Jeffrey feeling as if his insides had twisted around on him. He wanted desperately to count, but had to make do with tapping his finger against his knee.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jeffrey said when the admiral stood to leave. “I can offer no excuse for my brother’s absence.”

  “Yes, well, a life at sea is not for every man,” the admiral said. He fit his hat on his head. “I understand congratulations are in order on your recent nuptials.” He did not smile when he offered the congratulations, but eyed Jeffrey curiously, as if he expected him to confirm whatever rumor the admiral had heard.

  Jeffrey could only imagine the things that had been said, the gossip having had time to percolate and morph into whatever it was that society found amusing in another’s folly. He could feel the pressure of his compulsion to count building up in him like a head of steam. He smiled thinly and said, “Thank you.”

  The admiral eyed him closely for a few moments. “Well,” he said, apparently convinced that Jeffrey would not divulge more than a thank-you, “happiest of tidings to you and your bride.”

  Jeffrey accompanied the admiral out into the rain. He stood there after the admiral’s carriage had left, the rain pouring down on him as his chest rose and fell with each furious breath.

  Nothing had happened.

  Jeffrey had to see it, to accept it. The admiral had clearly heard the rumors of his unconventional marriage. He had congratulated him. He had waited for him to say more, which Jeffrey had politely refused to do. And nothing had happened. He’d not been made to stand on a black square in the foyer for hours. He’d not been put in a cupboard, left to cry out for a mother who would not come. He’d accepted the congratulations and the admiral had wished him a happy life and a good day. He had not made a single disparaging remark.

  “Milord!” A footman from the club where Jeffrey had met the admiral suddenly appeared at his side, holding an umbrella high overhead. “Milord, will you come in?”

  “No, thank you,” Jeffrey said, and actually smiled at the footman. “I am leaving.”

  His search for John was fruitless. His brother had not been seen at White’s Gentlemen’s Club. Nor had he been in the infamous Southwark gaming hell that all the young Corinthians found so diverting, and where, so the story went, Honor Cabot had made an infamous proposal for the hand of George Easton. No one had seen John, no one knew where he might be. It was as if his brother had vanished into London’s thick air. Again.

  He rode back to Brook Street feeling helpless. He and John had gone around this before—John’s refusal to take his title seriously, Jeffrey’s insistence that he uphold the family tradition of honor and propriety—and it always had the same result. A standoff between brothers. Jeffrey was reminded of what Grace had said, that she couldn’t change her family and didn’t want to. Maybe, he thought, he had tried too hard to change John. Maybe, the sins of his father were being repeated in Jeffrey’s insistence that John be what he thought his father would want him to be. Instead of allowing him to be his own man, with all his flaws. But if Jeffrey didn’t look after him, what would John do? How would he survive? Was it possible that John was entirely satisfied with the life that he lived? Jeffrey feared he would end up in a gutter.

  But another thought occurred to him as he rode along—how much fear inhabited him. Fear of discovery, fear of disappointing his family, fear of scandal—all of them worked to fill in every crevice of his soul. Jeffrey scrubbed one eye with his fingers. It tingled with his exhaustion of being the man he was, of living with nebulous, dark and unformed fears that inhabited his body, rooting into his fiber like a cancer.

  God, how he wished to be free of it. How grateful he was that John didn’t seem to have those fears. And if he didn’t have those fears, who was Jeffrey to instill them?

  Jeffrey was halfway to Brook Street when he turned, and moved toward another part of town. He had an idea of how to find his brother.

  Jeffrey arrived home much later than he’d anticipated. Grace was pacing the foyer and looked relieved when he walked in. She was dressed for the evening, a gown of silver and green that made her look like an angel come down from heaven. His angel.

  “There you are!” she exclaimed, her voice full of relief. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  “I won’t change my mind,” he said confidently, and kissed her. He’d made up his mind about a number of things today, and the idea that he would be married to this woman, and give her children, and meet her family, was first and foremost in his mind.

  “We’ll be late,” she said, glancing at a clock. “Augustine has sent a coach for us. He’s quite pleased that you will grace his home.”

  Jeffrey had very little time, what with his rituals, but he was confident he’d be all right. “Wait in the parlor. I’ll be down soon.”

  He remained confident when he appeared a scant half hour later, dressed in formal attire and clean-shaven. He was so confident that he smiled at Grace as he helped her into the coach, and listened to her list all the things he should know of her family. Mercy, the youngest, was vibrant and curious, prone to ask too many questions in her desire to know more of the world. Prudence, the next sister, would pretend it was the most tedious evening she’d ever spent, when in fact, she would hang on every word Jeffrey uttered. Honor and her husband, Easton, would offer free advice, as Honor fancied herself an expert on most things. Augustine would be gracious; his fiancée, Monica, would be watching closely for anything she might relate to her odious mother, and then, of course, Grace’s mother would not know them and might say things that were inappropriate.

  When the coach rolled up to Be
ckington House, Grace looked worried. “Are you quite all right?” she asked, reaching across the interior to put her hand on his knee.

  “Grace—I am quite all right,” he said. And he meant it. He meant it all the way to the door.

  But then he was plunged into the chaos of the Beckington family, and his confidence began to seep out of him, beginning with the great hue and cry as three young women rushed at Grace, a fourth following behind them. Jeffrey handed their cloaks to a footman as the feminine voices, jubilant and loud, pounded like tin drums in his head. Five women, all dressed in sumptuous gowns, all chattering at once. It made no sense to Jeffrey—how could they speak in that manner? How could they hear what any of the others said?

  “My lord! My lord, you are most welcome!”

  Jeffrey recognized Beckington, having met him a time or two. He was hurrying forward across the expansive foyer to him so quickly that, for a moment, Jeffrey feared he might plow into him. But he managed to draw himself up at the last moment and bow low.

  “Thank you,” Jeffrey said. “Thank you for inviting us—”

  “I am happy to have you!” he said with great eagerness. “Grace is like a sister to me, after all. Oh, allow me, do you know Mr. Easton? He has married Honor, who is also like a sister to me.” He laughed. “I suppose they are all sisters to me, are they not?”

  “Mr. Easton,” Jeffrey said, and extended his hand.

  “My lord,” Easton said politely. He was an inch or two taller than Jeffrey and resembled the late Duke of Gloucester. And like Gloucester, or at least what Jeffrey could remember of him, Easton had a bit of a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “Whiskey or wine?” Beckington said excitedly. “We’ve both.”

  “Ah...thank you,” Jeffrey said. Did he mean to serve it in the foyer? He looked to Grace, who seemed to be showing her shoe to the gathered women.

  “Goodness, you won’t want to wait for them,” Beckington said. “They’ll be nattering about shoes and what-not for another ten minutes.”

  “Augustine!” one of the women cried. “Don’t you dare steal him away!”

  A woman with dark hair and blue eyes appeared on George’s left. She was obviously Grace’s sister, in spite of the difference in color—she had the same expressive eyes as Grace. “How do you do,” she said, sliding down into a perfect curtsy. “I am Honor Cabot Easton, Grace’s sister. You’ve no doubt heard quite a lot about me,” she said, and gave him a slight wink.

  “I, ah...” Good Lord, he had no idea what to say.

  “Pay her no mind,” Easton said low.

  “I am pleased to make your—”

  “What of me?” said another one, jostling in beside Honor.

  “For heaven’s sake, would you all at least pretend to allow me to introduce you?” Grace said, waving them all back. She introduced Jeffrey to Mrs. Easton, who was still smiling at him as if they shared a secret, then Prudence Cabot, and last but not least, in round spectacles, Mercy Cabot.

  “And, of course, a woman who will soon become our sister, Miss Monica Hargrove.”

  “Well...perhaps not sisters,” Miss Hargrove said, and curtsied.

  “Very well, very well, please don’t crowd our guest!” Beckington said, shooing them all back, and ushered Jeffrey into a very grand salon. Jeffrey was certain the salon had the finest quality of furnishings, but all he could see, and feel, was the portrait above the hearth that hung a little lopsidedly.

  He turned his back to it and caught Grace’s eye. She smiled a little anxiously, as if she sensed something was off balance and expected him to collapse.

  “We’ve been very eager to make your acquaintance, my lord!” Beckington said cheerfully. “That is, dearest Miss Hargrove has been eager, for I’ve met you from time to time. My eagerness has been more of a desire to greet you fondly as a member of the family. Miss Hargrove and I will join you in wedded bliss by month’s end.”

  “What I think you mean to say is that we will be enjoying our own wedded bliss by month’s end, dearest,” Miss Hargrove said.

  “Yes, of course, that’s it,” Beckington said.

  “Are you in London long?” asked Easton.

  “No,” Jeffrey said.

  Easton looked at him as if he expected more.

  “We miss Blackwood Hall so,” Grace said suddenly, earning a look of surprise from her sisters. “What?” she said to their unspoken questions. “Well, I do. It’s lovely there. And I have dogs—”

  “Dogs!” cried Mercy. “Hunting dogs?”

  “Not exactly,” Grace said. “Dogs that have been formally rejected from Blackwood’s kennels as being too imperfect to hunt.”

  The young girl gasped. “That’s outrageous!”

  “Now, Mercy, let Merryton manage his kennels as he sees fit,” said Beckington. “We are keen hunters at Longmeadow, my lord. I am particularly fond of the grouse season. I can see them a bit better, you see,” he said, pointing at his eyes. “The hares, well, they’re much too fast, and the deer, I’ve not much luck with. You?”

  “I find them all challenging.”

  “I shall go and fetch Mamma, shall I?” Prudence asked Grace. “I might perish with hunger if we don’t bring her soon.”

  At the mention of Lady Beckington, the room went still. It seemed to Jeffrey that all of them were waiting on tenterhooks to see what he would say or do.

  But Grace smiled and said, “Yes, please, Prudence.”

  The rest of them chatted amicably while they waited. Jeffrey stood with the gentlemen, nodding at things he thought to acknowledge, but holding one hand at his back, clasped against the rising tide of chaotic thoughts. He was counting, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The only saving grace that his thoughts were not particularly salacious, which, he supposed, given the number of lovely young ladies about him, was something of a personal victory.

  He heard Lady Beckington before he saw her. There was quite a commotion—it sounded as if there was a disagreement. But then she appeared in the salon with Prudence, her eyes wild as she looked about. Lady Beckington looked tired, Jeffrey thought, and a bit haggard. But he could see the beauty in her still, could see where her four daughters had come by their fine looks.

  “My lady, how lovely you look this evening,” Beckington said jovially, and stretched out his arms to embrace her. But Lady Beckington pushed him aside and looked at her sleeve.

  Beckington smiled without conceit. “She rarely allows me a proper greeting.”

  “Mamma, look who has come,” Honor said. “It’s Grace.”

  “Who took my cloak?” Lady Beckington demanded of Honor.

  “No one took it,” Mercy said. “It’s hanging in the foyer with the others.”

  “Mamma?” Grace said. “I should like you to meet my husband, Lord Merryton.”

  He stepped forward, and Lady Beckington turned her head. She smiled at Jeffrey, but her smile was vacant. Her sleeve, he noticed, was unraveling. It reminded him a little of the way he often felt—unraveling into depravity.

  Grace took her mother’s hand and dipped down beside her. “I am married, Mamma. To an earl.”

  “You must be the girl William brought in for cleaning,” Lady Beckington said curiously.

  “Oh, dear,” Prudence whispered, and smiled apologetically at Jeffrey. “William was our father.”

  Lady Beckington stood up. She looked at Jeffrey, her eyes quite clear. She stared at him, as if she thought she might know him. And then she said, “I know who you are. I know all about you, sir.” But she said it with such sobriety that Jeffrey was momentarily confused—it almost seemed as if she was telling him she knew about him.

  And then just as suddenly, her eyes clouded with confusion and she asked him, “Where did the maid get off to? We should have it all cleaned.”

  “Let’s dine instead,” Honor said, linking her arm through her mother’s. “Shall I lead us in?” she asked Beckington.

  “Yes, of course, whatever she likes,” he said congenially.
>
  Jeffrey watched Lady Beckington. She didn’t want to go, but her daughter coaxed her along with some soothing words.

  They gathered in the dining room, and Lady Beckington at first refused to sit, and then sat and began to pick at her sleeve. “Are you in London often?” Beckington asked Merryton, as if there was no chaos in this room. “I’ve not seen you in the club.”

  “I am not often in London, no,” Jeffrey said, and politely continued the conversation, his foot tapping against the floor as quietly as he could manage. Grace put her hand on his knee under the table.

  The evening was quite harsh for Jeffrey, but that was nothing new for him. He often felt the discord rattling in him in large groups. But with two glasses of wine, and an excellent bit of duck, Jeffrey began to see something different in this group. There was a lot of laughter. This family genuinely seemed to enjoy one another. The second thing he noticed was that none of them, not one, seemed to resent or otherwise dismiss Lady Beckington. Even in her madness, she was one of them.

  It was something so foreign to him that it took him an entire meal to accept that was what was happening. Even Miss Hargrove, who said little, was solicitous of Lady Beckington, and helped her to consume her meal without any sign of rancor.

  Grace had told him that no one was perfect. But at the end of that meal, when he and Grace finally took their leave with promises to return, he would privately disagree. That meal, that family meal, where everyone was accepted for who they were, was perfect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AFTER JEFFREY’S UNEXPECTED call to Mr. Ainsley the day before, a messenger arrived the next morning with a note for Jeffrey. True to his word, Mr. Ainsley had discovered the information Jeffrey needed. He went out before Grace had come down leaving word that he would see her at supper this evening.

  He rode across town into a maze of streets with no rhyme or reason. It was very disconcerting, but the steady tap of his leg kept him moving forward.