Charming the Devil

by Lois Greiman

  “Why do you allow them to come here?” Shaleena hissed, and took a step toward Madeline, but at that moment, Lord Gallo rose. He was not a tall man, not a broad man, but in that moment there was something about him that spoke of power just barely leashed.

  “They come because I ask them to. Because they are of assistance to us.”

  “Assistance!” She spat the word. “What can they do that I cannot?”

  “Cur seems to have an uncanny ability to find people,” Madeline said. “Indeed, he found us.”

  “Why?” Shaleena asked, teeth gritted.

  “I have been meaning to ask you that,” said Gallo.

  “Me! Why would you think to question me? I’m nothing to him. Less than nothing.” Her voice sounded frantic. “I’ve not seen him…” She stopped, gaze snapping about the room, fists tightening and relaxing. “I had not met him before his arrival here. I’m certain I had not.”

  A twinge of pain stabbed Faye’s head, and Shaleena twisted toward her.

  “I do not lie,” she hissed “And I’ve not got the witch’s madness.”

  “No one suggested you were mad,” Gallo said, tone level, but at the mere mention of the words, Faye’s skin prickled. More than a few of the most gifted were locked away. More still had taken their own lives. “All we ask is that you—”

  But at the moment, there was the slightest suggestion of noise from the front of the house.

  “I believe that may be he now,” Gallo said.

  Something shone in Shaleena’s eyes, something almost akin to fear. Then she left, breezing from the room and up the stairs to her own private chambers.

  The room went quiet, pulsing with uncertainty. Lord Gallo spoke first.

  “Cur,” he said though the doorway was still empty. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  A young man stepped into view. He was tall and narrow, with sharp, dark eyes that spoke of wit and caution and foreign bearing.

  “How do you do that?” he asked.

  “I heard you coming.”

  “I might have been another.”

  “But you’re not,” Gallo said.

  This ability to feel the powers of the gifted was his one talent. Or so he said. But Faye suspected there was a great deal he did not say. A great deal she did not understand about how he had found her. How he had found the others. Had understood their oddities, had honed their crafts.

  “Are you?” Gallo asked.

  “Not yet,” Cur said, just hinting at that oddness Shaleena had spoken of. And Gallo smiled with his eyes, a rare show of good humor.

  “Perhaps you should wait a bit. Shaleena is a mite upset,” Madeline said.

  And now it was Cur’s turn to smile, showing sharp canines and a predatory bent. “I believe I have waited long enough,” he said, and, bowing shallowly, evidenced a strange, regal grace. “Worry not, she’ll do me no real harm,” he said, and left them, following the other’s trail silently up the stairs.

  Moments ticked quietly away. Madeline scowled. “Some might think it foolhardy to throw two such powers together,” she said, voice soft.

  “Three powers,” Gallo mused.

  Maddy turned toward him. “I thought Joseph was not particularly gifted.”

  “I don’t believe he is. Which causes me to wonder what brought him here. The one man who seems to raise her ire more than her interest.”

  Madeline’s scowl deepened. “You don’t suppose…”

  Gallo merely glanced at her.

  “I’ll speak to my sister,” Maddy said, and her husband nodded slightly before turning to Faye.

  “My apologies. We called you here to hear progress of your mission,” he said, but she shook her head.

  “No.” She tried to keep from fidgeting. “Perhaps she’s right.”

  “Shaleena.”

  “Yes. Perhaps I am not the one for the job.”

  “If not you, then who?” Madeline asked.

  No one spoke.

  “The committee has used the conventional methods to learn what it could about Brendier’s death, but little was discovered. The truth now must be drawn out by other means.”

  Faye felt her heart knock restlessly against her ribs.

  “We’ve no murder weapons for Ella to lay hands on to discern the killer. No ashes for Rosemond to sift through. Though Cur studied the scene, the scents were too old to firmly discern one from the other. There were no witnesses. No clues. Drawing the truth from those most likely to be the culprits is our only hope.” She paused, smiled. “And you are the truth seeker, Faerie Faye.”

  But I am weak, Faye thought.

  “If we fail, the committee may no longer be willing to fund us. It is conceivable that Les Chausettes will have to disband,” she said. “But if you feel you cannot—”

  “No,” Faye said, and felt her stomach twist. “No. I’ll not fail.”

  “You’ll see to the task set before you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well,” Madeline said. “Then I think you should attend the annual fete at Inver Heights. We shall obtain an invitation in your name.”

  Faye almost winced. “But why?”

  “Inver Heights is Lord Lindale’s estate.”

  “Lord Lindale,” Faye said. “Brendier’s cousin.” The English peerage was as inbred as lapdogs.

  “And debtor,” Madeline added.

  “Lindale was in debt to his cousin? I thought he was quite well-fixed.”

  “That seems to be the common belief, but there are rumors suggesting otherwise. We have reason to believe the debt was considerable, and there are few things that make enemies faster than unreturned coin.”

  “You think Lindale might be Brendier’s killer?”

  Madeline rose smoothly to her feet. “That is for you to discover.”

  Jasper rose with her, placing a gentle hand to the small of her back, as if he only needed to touch her to feel whole.

  Faye watched the movement, felt the feelings.

  “Oh, and, Faerie Faye,” Madeline said, turning back.

  “Yes?”

  “You are stronger than you think.”

  “I fear you might be—”

  “We all fear,” Madeline said. “That does not make us weak. It only makes us wise.”

  “Then I am practically a genius.”

  Madeline laughed, looking surprised. “Wiser than most,” she said, and sobered. “And stronger than Shaleena.”

  Faye felt the compliment in her gut. “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  “So is Shaleena,” Madeline said. “Won’t you both be surprised when you realize the truth?”

  Chapter 9

  Lord Lindale was wealthy, refined, and respected. At least that is how he portrayed himself to the world. And this lavish fete certainly made it seem so. Though Faye knew as well as any that appearances were often an illusion. After all, she herself looked quite refined in the mint green gown that flowed, lightly pleated, to her satin dancing slippers.

  She glanced about. The food was plentiful. The trappings expensive. The company…Well, the company was the same, making her feel out of place, like a flea-bitten cur in a diamond collar.

  From the front of their elegant home, perfectly centered in the arched doorway, the lord and lady greeted their guests. They were dressed in French designs that might have just stepped off the fashionable pages of Le Bon Ton or Corriere delle Dame, she in a white satin ball gown embellished with gold metal embroidery, he in a blue tailcoat and white pantaloons. But though his erect stance hinted of a corset hidden beneath his silver-shot waistcoat, neither his age nor his belly was completely disguised. They were a well-aged couple, neither particularly arresting. But there was obvious affection between them, evidenced by the way she touched his arm and leaned in as she spoke.

  Faye watched the exchange and felt a little barb of jealousy twist in her heart even as an ache twitched in her brow. She was grateful for her life at Lavender House, and yet she hungered for something she did n
ot quite understand but knew she would never have. Uncle Max had made certain of that much. She would not love. Would not trust.

  The morose emotions flared through her, but she tamped them down, for she was being silly. She had Les Chausettes, and she would not fail them.

  “Mrs. Nettles,” said someone. She turned, keeping her movements fluid, only to find Lord Rennet at her elbow. He bowed. She managed, with some pride, to refrain from bolting toward the nearest exit. “We meet again.”

  “Yes.” Memories of their last encounter loomed large and dark in her mind, but she kept her hands steady. Naught would happen here amongst the gentry, she told herself. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it untrue. London was ever a place of danger, for while its jaded denizens glittered with hard gems and dry wit, they were as likely to bet on the outcome of an altercation as to interfere with one. Especially if the threatened party was not one of their own, and she had never felt the chasm between herself and the bon ton more strongly than she did that night.

  Still, she was not alone here. Indeed, Lord and Lady Gallo had accompanied her. Shaleena, too, had intended to come, until she realized Joseph would be at the ribbons. Joseph, who carried himself like royalty but lived like a stableboy, refusing to take a room in Lavender House.

  “You look quite as devastating as you did last we spoke.”

  “And you look…” She arched a brow at him. “More upright,” she said, and did her best to maintain her breathing, to control both her emotions and her bearing, as she’d been taught. There would be no flying flowerpots this night.

  “Yes.” He smiled at her jest, but there was the hint of anger in his eyes.

  Her stomach churned.

  “Someone planted a facer on me. Had I not been on the cut, however, I’m certain I would have bested the bloody bastard. Demmed low of him to strike when I was drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

  “Those barrows are indeed tipsy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I fear I must away,” she said, and turned with regal aplomb; but he grabbed her arm, fingers hard just where her full glove ended near her lace-edged cap sleeve.

  She froze. He smiled and pulled his hand away, lifting it high as if to show that he meant no harm. “I had no wish to vent my spleen. Indeed, I intended to apologize for my conduct.”

  It was all she could do to remain as she was.

  “I did not mean to be so…zealous,” he said, and leaned close. Perhaps his grin was meant to be boyish and amiable. But to her skittish mind it looked malicious and sly. Stray thoughts of flying potted palms splashed through her mind, but she banished the notion, locking it carefully away. “I fear your loveliness overcame my good sense. Indeed, I only meant to tell you how comely you looked in the moonlight, but I fear I had had a bit much to drink. Believe me when I say that I would have done you no harm.”

  Her head was beginning to ache from his lies. “My apologies,” she said, “but I promised…” For a moment she could not think of a decent fabrication. “…. my friend that I would save this dance for him.”

  “Your friend?” His lips twisted into a smile, but there was malice in his eyes. She was certain of it. “Tell me, Mrs. Nettles, is your friend the beast that interrupted my friendly overtures at Mrs. Tell’s?” His tone was wry, his handsome face cynical as he took a sip of port from a crystal cup, pinky raised just so. And suddenly the difference between him and McBain shone sharp as a beacon in her mind.

  “Tell me, Lord Rennet,” she said, emotions stirring slowly in her mind. “Do you call him a beast to his face?”

  “I surely would if he were so bold as to show himself again,” he said and smiled.

  She raised a dubious brow, and his face colored peevishly.

  “Some think it somewhat unwise to strike a peer of the realm,” he said.

  Emotion flared inside her, but she could not quite recognize it, for it felt more like anger than fear. “Perhaps he mistook you for a drunken molester,” she said.

  He stared at her a moment, then smiled and bowed.

  “Just so long as you did not make the same mistake. I could not bear to frighten someone as lovely as you.”

  “I didn’t say I was frightened.”

  “No. You don’t look the type to frighten easily. Indeed, you appear ever so…” He let his gaze slip over her, and with his attention, she felt her breath come faster. “So cool. So controlled. But then, I suppose it is a simple enough thing to remain calm when you have a beast at your beck and call.”

  Behind her, laughter burst out, frazzling her nerves.

  “That would indeed be convenient,” she said, and turned away.

  But he snagged her arm once more.

  “You’d best warn him not to try something so foolish again.” Anger drifted off him.

  She dipped her gaze to his hand and raised her brows as she met his gaze. “Warn him?”

  “He might be interested to know that I’ve danced with the likes of Salvage Shelton and Tommy Cribb.”

  She shook her head, hoping she looked haughty; but fear was mingling with a dozen confusing emotions, causing her hands to shake, her heart to stutter. She knew the singsong lyrics of the ton’s mercurial cant. Indeed, she oft tried to speak it herself, to meld with the flash morts and swell coves of the rarefied upper crust, but just now she was unable to decipher the jargon.

  “Boxing,” he explained. “I can hold my own in—”

  “Lass,” rumbled a voice.

  Faye jerked her gaze from her captor.

  Rogan McBain stood only inches away. Towering over both her and Rennet, his dark brows were lowered over stormy-sea eyes, his endless shoulders tense as he found her with his gaze.

  “Is aught amiss?”

  Relief slouched through her, but she forced herself to glance coolly at her abductor, to push out a steady rejoinder. “I was just about to…” What? Blather like a fainthearted idiot? Pray for a savior? She tugged at her arm, keeping the movement casual, though panic had seized her in its gigantic fist, squeezing her heart. Still, Rennet did not relinquish his hold. “…fetch some refreshment,” she said, and though she tried to resist, tried to be strong, her gaze turned hopelessly back to the Highlander’s.

  Truth stormed between them. His eyes burned hers, and when he spoke he did not look away.

  “Release her.”

  Rennet tightened his hold, but against her skin, his hand felt stiff with fear.

  “Perhaps you do not realize who I am, Scotsman.”

  McBain turned his attention slowly from her face. The movement was steady, utterly controlled, but something in the very air around them seemed to change, to shift. “I believe you’re something of a pugilist,” he said, words little more than a growl.

  “’Tis good to know my reputation—”

  “Is that not a sport better played at with two hands?”

  The atmosphere hung like a stormy cloud around them, charged with electricity, humming with expectation, then; “Are you threatening me, Beast?” Rennet hissed.

  Bain’s expression changed not a whit. Neither did he speak, and yet his intentions reverberated through the room. Rennet held on a moment longer, then released his hold, backed away, and bowed. “There will be repercussions. Believe that,” he said, mouth twisted as he turned away.

  They watched him go, but finally McBain shifted his gaze back to hers. “My apologies,” he said.

  She felt breathless, all but dizzy with relief. Too winded to voice her appreciation.

  “If I misinterpreted the situation,” he added.

  “What?” Her voice sounded raspy.

  He inhaled, expanding his boundless chest, then clenched one hand seemingly subconsciously into a fist. “Perhaps you were enjoying the gentleman’s company.”

  “Do you jest?”

  He scowled down at her. “Rarely.”

  “You think I might have wanted him pawing…” She stopped herself, realizing with sudden lightheadedness that she had lost even the semblance of her arrogant dem
eanor. “You think I welcomed his attentions?”

  He searched her face for several seconds, then lifted his solemn gaze and glanced away, scanning the glistening assemblage. “I will be the first to admit the ways of the nobility are oft a mystery to me,” he said.

  “I am not nobility.”

  “You oft seem too refined for this company.”

  “Now you are jesting.” She knew better than to say such things, but the words came unbidden. It was, it seemed, almost impossible to spew ridiculous untruths in his presence.

  His gaze was piercing, hard and steady and earnest, a bit of sanity juxtaposed against the tittering laughter that wafted up from behind her.

  “Yet you look to be the epitome of this society.”

  “Epitome?” she asked, and almost smiled at the strangeness of such a vocabulary coming from a man who seemed to embody the very essence of the ancient warrior.

  He shuffled his feet. “I am a Tommy, not a beast…” He glanced into the crowd again. If there was anger in his eyes, she could not tell, but there certainly was not happiness. “As some would think.”

  “A foot soldier,” she said, though she knew enough of his reputation to realize he was so much more. A lieutenant at the very least, though he didn’t claim the title. “Why are they called Tommies?”

  He paused for a moment, watching her, then, “Thomas Atkins was a good lad.” He seemed to be far away suddenly.

  She shook her head, at a loss and surprised that she cared. “Thomas…”

  “He died at Boxtel.” There was something in his eyes. Sadness maybe, but more. “Without remorse or blame. Or so Arthur said.”

  “Arthur?”

  He scowled at her as if just remembering her presence. “If you’ll tell me your preferences I shall fetch your refreshments.”

  But she would not be waylaid. “Arthur who?”

  Regret seemed to twitch the corner of his mouth, but he answered. “Wellesley.”

  It took her a moment to realize whom he spoke of. She raised her brows in surprise. “The Marquess of Wellington.”

  He nodded once, but even that seemed regretful.

  “You refer to the Marquess of Wellington by his given name.”

  He glanced away again. “The trifles look…” His brows lowered a scant degree. “…tiny.”