Devil Takes A Bride (31 page)

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 be 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.

His hairs stood straight up; his heart leapt into his throat. He had been stalked by that mountain lion for two full miles in the mountains, but even that had not filled him with the horror he felt now. At least a mountain lion was a flesh-and-blood creature.

He saw a ghost.

She was just discernible amid the swirling fog down by the street lamp, a spectral widow all in black. She just stood there, staring at him, like a messenger from beyond the grave.

And he realized she had been watching him for some time.

He did not know whether to run at her or away.

Both of them were motionless. Having never been one to flee from danger, Dev took one chancy step in her direction—and the ghost ran.

Ghost? Damn it, no ghost made such distinct footfalls when it fled. Cursing himself and the moonlight and fog that had made sport of his reason, he plunged into motion, chasing the very mortal woman.

Whoever she was, Dev realized grimly, she had seen him breaking into Quint's property.

Not good.

 

Mary fled in a panic, bewildered by this sudden reversal. Calling up all her girlhood street smarts from a lifetime ago, she hitched up her jet-black skirts and dashed through the winding back alleys.

“Show yourself!” Lord Strathmore bellowed after her, his deep voice bounding off the buildings, echoing oddly in the fog. “I won't hurt you, dammit! I just want to talk to you!”

She ignored him, cutting through a dark shopping arcade, still cursing herself for letting him see her. Now he would be on his guard—just when things had begun getting interesting!

She had been watching him frequently as he went about Town, had been watching all of them. The last thing she had expected Devil Strathmore to do tonight was to break into his great chum's carriage house. His bizarre break-and-entering had turned the whole equation upside down. All of a sudden, Mary was no longer sure who was manipulating whom. Was the young viscount indeed under Quint's and Carstairs's thumbs, or was there more to it than met the eye?

She could not risk asking him face-to-face. She did not yet know his nature; if he turned out to be an evil man, evil as his companions, then she could not risk speaking to him. She could not risk him finding out about Sorscha.

Mary knew full well it was his right to demand custody of his little sister, as it would be her legal duty, in that case, to hand the girl over to her rightful guardian, her only kin.

She lost him amid the traffic on the first busy street she came to, diving onto the back of a passing dray cart. She kept her head down and went by him, unnoticed.

“Come back!” he howled into the darkness, a furious note of despair in his voice.

Concealed amid crates of produce, she saw him standing in the street in the area she had just vacated. He turned wildly this way and that, then dragged his hand through his hair.

He doesn't look evil,
she thought, and heard him bite out a curse, saw him rake his fingers again impatiently through his long, black hair, then watched him grow smaller as he stood in the street while the dray cart carried her off toward safety.

Until she could be sure that he possessed at least an inkling of his father's noble nature, she would tell him nothing.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

“
Hang
these blasted bill collectors!” Ben cried upon hearing the insistent knocking at the front door.

“I'll handle this,” Dev growled as he came stalking down the corridor.

It was Saturday evening, and he was on his way out for the night, bound for Vauxhall and another intoxicating dose of Miss Carlisle's company, which he well could use after the unsettling events of last night. Knowing that his long-suffering valet had already chased off a score of his blasted duns throughout the day, Dev emerged from the corridor, deciding it was time he handled the impertinent vermin personally. “Now, look here!” he roared, scowling blackly as he threw open the door with a bang. He stopped abruptly, taken aback. “Charles!”

His little man-of-business had nearly jumped out of his skin at Dev's reception, but he gulped and stuttered a greeting. “M-m-my lord.”

“I'm so sorry, Charles. Do come in.” He gave his pudgy little lawyer an affectionate slap on the back as Charles Beecham ventured cautiously into the house. “Beg your pardon, old boy. These scurvy duns have been hounding me.”

“Y-yes, sir. That is what I came to discuss.” Charles tugged at his cravat and struggled to gather his composure after his sudden fright.

“Can I get you a drink? You look a bit pale.”

“No, sir. Thank you very much. I just—need a moment, ah.” He swallowed hard, regaining his composure. “I've come with some most excellent news, Lord Strathmore.”

“Indeed?”

Charles nodded slowly and emphatically, his mouth pursing into a tight little smile like that of a winning chess player.

“Well?” Since the solicitor looked like he might bust if he did not speak his piece at once, Dev gestured to him to do so.

Charles puffed out his chest and beamed. “Sir,” he announced proudly, “after weeks of unceasing work, I have found the means to free you from the outrageous terms of your aunt's will.”

Dev's jaw dropped. “You
have
?”

“Yes! You ordered me to find a way, and I did—I did it! My lord, you no longer have to marry Miss Carlisle! The money is yours, sir. Yours alone! Er, minus my commission, of course.”

Since Dev could only stare at him in shock, Ben broke the stunned silence.

“How ever did you achieve it, Mr. Beecham?”

“'Twas simple in the end! For the past month, I have been tearing my legal library apart trying to find a way, as you commanded, but then I suddenly remembered to check—Her Ladyship never submitted a copy of her revised will to Chancery. The old version is the only one on record with the courts, and is, thus, the only one that is legal and binding.” Charles burst into giddy laughter.

Ben and Dev looked on in amazement.

Charles endeavored to explain. “You see, some ten years ago, my predecessor filed a copy of Her Ladyship's will with Doctors' Commons. It is not required that one do so, merely a prudent measure to protect the rightful beneficiaries and the intentions of the deceased, especially when a sizable fortune is at stake. Well, I am chagrined to admit it, but I had simply assumed that Her Ladyship had sent in a copy of her revised will herself—you know how headstrong she was, savvy in financial matters, and very much in charge of her own affairs.

“I meant to visit her to discuss the addendum to her will, given the oddity of her request, but I had such a backlog of work here in London that I was detained for some weeks from going to Bath, and then she died. But now my oversight has proved your salvation. I am sorry for not waiting until business hours tomorrow, sir, but I could not wait to tell you. I knew you would want to know right away. My lord, you're in the clear!”

Ben looked at Dev, trying to gauge his reaction, but Dev was not sure himself what he thought. His head was reeling.

On the one hand, he was so relieved he could have collapsed into the nearest chair. But on the other, he wondered if Lizzie would now balk again or even refuse to marry him. There was always Alec, and her loyalty, indeed, her very integrity made her vulnerable to that smooth rogue. An ignoble thought and distressing to admit, but if all else failed, Dev had been counting on her pity as a last resort to persuade her to marry him, ostensibly to keep him out of debtors' prison. Without that threat hanging over his head…

“All that is left to do,” Charles continued, “is to notify Miss Carlisle that Her Ladyship's more recent will is null and void.”

“No!” Dev barked, startling them both.

“Sir?”

Dev furrowed his brow and scratched his jaw in thought. “What other provision did my aunt make for Lizzie in her old will, Charles?”

“Why, none, sir. It was drawn up years ago, before the young lady came into her employ.”

“She gets nothing?” he asked softly.

“No, sir,” Charles informed him. “It's all yours.”

Dev's brooding gaze fell. He rested his hands on his waist. She was so stubborn, so proud. He was afraid of how she might react when she learned all this.

“Shall I write to inform her of this in the morning, my lord? Or would you prefer me to call on her at Mrs. Hall's Academy and break the news in person? I should think the young lady will be aggrieved to hear that her chance to marry into the peerage is lost. Shall I offer her some monetary compensation for her pains?”

“No, no, no, Charles.” He shook his head at his solicitor. “I will reveal all to her myself, when the time is right.”

“Sir?”

“Well, hang it all, Charles, if she hears all this, she might, well, she might say—no.”

Charles bowed his head to hide a knowing smile. “As my lord prefers.”

 

By midnight, they had spent such a lovely time at festive, noisy Vauxhall that Lizzie was quite dismayed to find it was already time to say good night to Devlin. Whenever she was with him, the clock's hands seemed to whirl past the hours like a spinning wheel revolving; and her heightened status in the ton had also meant more eyes on her and thus more difficulty sneaking away to steal a few moments in his arms. Indeed, all evening, it had seemed as if there was something he wanted to say to her, but there were always droves of people around. In truth, she had much to tell him, as well, for it was a momentous night: after several weeks of his “proper” courtship, she was ready to give her heart and hand to Devil Strathmore. She could not wait to share the news with him—but the moment must be right.

Now it was nearly time to leave, and they had finally managed to slip away for a rendezvous down one of Vauxhall's infamous dark, graveled walks. As for talking, however, there was no time for words. Her light-green parasol matched her summery dress, and she used it as a screen to hide them from the prying eyes of the world, while behind it, they consumed each other with unbearable desire.

He made her ache with pleasure as he kissed her again and again, both of them oblivious of the Vauxhall fireworks bursting in the black night sky above the river, and the loud brass band playing on the green beneath the colored paper lanterns, the jolly tuba keeping time.

In the leafy shadows of a small lover's nook, they were in their own world.

“Oh, Lizzie,” he whispered in intoxication, his breath warm and moist against her cheek. “I miss you…so desperately.”

“I miss you, too, Devlin. When can we talk?”

“Talk? I can barely put two words together when I see you.” He kneaded her back and nibbled her earlobe, making her shiver with sheer thrill. She ran her hand down his wonderful chest and gripped the lapel of his dark blue tailcoat merely to help keep her balance. “Let me come to you tonight. Remember, I know just how to get into your room.”

“Yes, yes, Devlin, visit me tonight, will you, please? I've missed you so, and we've so much to discuss. Climb up by the mulberry tree. I'll leave my window open.”

“Will you wait for me in your bed?”

“Yes.”

“Wearing nothing?”

“If you wish it, yes. Though my clothes never seem to stop you, my Devil. You're so very skilled at undressing me.”

“God, I could go raving mad for want of you, woman.”

“Wait a few hours before you come and see me. The girls stay up late on the weekends. Oh, I could eat you,” she growled, giving his elegant jaw a light, lover's bite. She preferred his neck, but his cravat blocked her way—she could not wait to tear the thing off him, and all his clothes.
Soon.
She caressed him feverishly, the wanton look in her eyes telling him in no uncertain terms that tonight she was ready to give him her all. “Wake me if I've fallen asleep when you arrive.”

His throaty chuckle brimmed velvet promise. “Believe me, I will. Get your sleep while you can, my girl, because I'll keep you up till the morning.”

“I can't wait—”

“Oh, my God,” drawled a deep, coldly insolent voice from the other side of her parasol, interrupting at that moment. “I do believe I shall be
sick
.”

Devlin and Lizzie swiftly stopped kissing and stared at each other. He winced and mouthed a curse while Lizzie turned bright red.

Alec.

Bracing herself, she lowered the screen of her parasol and found her former idol standing there, his flawless face frozen in a mask of hard contempt, his eyes filled with stunned pain. He stared at Lizzie as though she had betrayed him and then he shook his head in wordless reproach.

She looked away, but was steadied by Devlin's arm that came up around her waist.

“Do you mind?” he challenged Alec in a gentlemanly tone.

“Yes, actually, I do, old boy.” He looked at her again. “What do you think you're doing? I'm shocked at you, Lizzie. Have you no care for your reputation?”

She closed her eyes, blushing redder as she realized he had heard every word of their risqué exchange. She supposed she should be glad it was merely Alec who had discovered them rather than one of the ton's matronly gossips. Somehow she had gotten swept up in the moment, as she was wont to do when Devlin held her in his arms.

“Leave us,” Devlin ordered him softly.

Alec turned to her again. “I guess you're no better than me, are you? How many years did you tempt me, follow me around—doting on me, hanging round my neck, sitting on my lap? I never touched you! I could have. I wanted to. But you were too pure to me.” Anguish tinged his insolent rebuke. “Hell, if I had known you were like this—”

“Watch it!” Dev warned him.

“Devlin, please,” Lizzie whispered, holding him back when he started toward Alec. “Alec, this is not the time or place. You are obviously upset.”

“Upset?” he flung back, then he turned away with a curse, his hands propped on his waist. Glaring at the ground, Alec shook his head one more time, then stalked away with a rude, dismissive gesture.

The moment he had gone, Lizzie leaned against Devlin with a shudder and buried her face in his chest. “Oh, that was—too awful.”

“He's lucky he quit while he was ahead. Do you still want me to come to you tonight? I'll understand if you've changed your mind—”

“Of course I still want you to come!” She hugged him. “No one can come between us, darling. Not even him. Kiss me.”

He did, bending his head to press her lips tenderly with his own. The passion between them smoldered at once, but after such a perfectly galling interruption, Lizzie was careful to keep her wild response to him tamely bridled.

“Arrivederci, mi cara,”
he whispered as he gently drew away from her.

With a smile on her lips and stars in her eyes, she watched him slip away through the shadows.

Swinging her folded parasol idly, she drifted back to rejoin Billy and Jacinda, who were saying their final good-byes to their many friends. She glanced around but saw no Devlin and concluded he was probably bound for his club or some other establishment of male camaraderie until the wee hours of the night, when he would come to her and she would tell him,
Yes, I will marry you, yes, have your children, yes, Lady Strathmore was right, right, right, as always.

But as she leaned against the carriage, waiting for Billy and Jacinda, she braced her defenses, for Alec returned, prowling toward her with a wary stare.

She pressed away from the vehicle to meet him and lifted her chin.

He stopped a few inches in front of her, his temper better controlled now, but his taut expression showed he was still struggling with his anger and jealousy. “Well, then, it seems you've made up your mind, but before you do something you'll regret, there's something you should know about your darling Dev.”

“If you have come to malign him to me, you are wasting your time.”

“This is serious, Lizzie. I did not want to resort to this, but my God….” He paused. “Have you ever heard of four-in-hand racing club called the Horse and Chariot?”