Devil's Bride (20 page)

She was driving him demented. What power had goaded him into declaring his hand so forcefully, there, on the terrace in the moonlight? It had been sheer madness to act the tyrant as he had—yet he could feel the same emotion, the urge to conquer, to seize, to hold, flaring even now, simply at the thought of her.

Luckily, her stubbornness, her defiance, her unquenchable pride had forbidden her to flee before his heavy-handed declaration. She'd let Michael depart alone. Now, with her nose in the air, wrapped in a cloak of chill civility, she held him at a distance.

After learning of her past, common sense suggested he at least reconsider. Common sense stood not a chance against the deep-seated conviction that she was his. Where she was concerned he felt like one of his conquering ancestors preparing to lay siege to a much-desired prize. Given what he now suspected, her surrender, when it came, would need to be proclaimed from the battlements.

He'd wondered how she'd reached a succulently ripe twenty-four still unwed. Even hidden away as a governess, not all men were blind. Some must have seen her and appreciated her worth. A determination on her part to remain a spinster, childless, could, in this case, explain the inexplicable. Her stubbornness was a tangible thing.

In this case, her stubbornness would need to surrender.

He wasn't going to let her go. Ever.

At least she couldn't later say that
he
hadn't warned
her
.

His gaze, still on the summerhouse, sharpened; Devil straightened and reached for the handle of the French doors.

Honoria saw him coming; her hand froze in midair, then she looked down and resumed her stitching. Devil climbed the steps two at a time; she looked up and met his gaze squarely. Slowly, she raised her brows.

He held her gaze, then glanced at the seat beside her.

She hesitated, then carefully gathered up her strewn silks. “Did your man learn anything in Chatteris?” Devil stared at her.

Honoria laid the silks in her basket. “I saw him ride in.”

Swallowing his irritation, Devil sat beside her, angling his shoulders so he faced her. “Nothing—no horseman came by way of Chatteris.” Perhaps he should grow screening hedges about the summerhouse? She'd adopted it as her lair; he could see a number of pertinent advantages.

Honoria frowned. “So that's all the towns 'round about—and no gentleman hired a horse anywhere.”

“Except for Charles, who came by way of Cambridge.”

“Is there any other place—a tavern, or some such—where horses might be hired?”

“My people checked all the hedge-taverns within reach. Short of borrowing a horse, something we can't rule out, it seems likely the murderer rode away on his own horse.”

“I thought you said that was unlikely?”

“Unlikely but not impossible.”

“The storm came up shortly after. Wouldn't he have had to take shelter?”

“The others checked all the inns and taverns on their way back to London. No likely gentleman took refuge anywhere. Whoever shot Tolly was either exceedingly lucky or he covered his tracks exceptionally well.”

“Riding his own horse, he could have come from anywhere, not just London. He might have been a hired assassin.”

Devil looked at her, silently, for a full minute. “Don't complicate things.”

“Well, it's true. But I had
meant
to ask you . . .” She paused to snip a thread; in the silence that followed, Devil got her message. She'd meant to ask him
before
he'd acted the despot. Setting aside her shears, she continued: “Was it common knowledge that Tolly habitually took the lane through the wood?”

Devil grimaced. “Not
common
knowledge, but widespread enough to be easily learned.”

Honoria set another stitch. “Have your cousins discovered anything in London?”

“No. But there must be something—some clue—somewhere. Young gentlemen don't get murdered on country lanes for no reason.” He looked out across the lawns—and saw his mother approaching. With a sigh, he uncrossed his legs and stood.

“Is this where you are hiding, Sylvester?” The Dowager came up the steps in a froth of black lace. She held up her face for a kiss.

Devil dutifully obliged. “Hardly hiding,
Maman
.”

“Indeed—you are a great deal too large for this place.” The Dowager prodded him. “Sit—don't tower.”

As she promptly took his place beside Honoria, Devil was reduced to perching on a windowsill. The Dowager glanced at Honoria's work—and pointed to one stitch. Honoria stared, then muttered unintelligibly, set down her needle, and reached for her shears.

Devil grabbed the opportunity. “I wanted to speak to you,
Maman
. I'll be leaving for London tomorrow.”

“London?” The exclamation came from two throats; two heads jerked up, two pairs of eyes fixed on his face.

Devil shrugged. “Purely business.”

Honoria looked at the Dowager; the Dowager looked at her.

When she turned back to her son, the Dowager was frowning. “I have been thinking,
che´ri
, that I should also go up to London. Now that I have dear 'Onoria to keep me company, I think it would be quite
convenable
.”

Devil blinked. “You're in mourning. Full mourning.”

“So?” The Dowager opened her eyes wide. “I'll be in full mourning in London—so appropriate—it is always so grey there at this time of year.”

“I had thought,” Devil said, “that you would want to remain here, at least for another week or so.”

The Dowager lifted her hands, palms upward. “For what? It is a little early for the balls, I grant you, but I am not suggesting we go to London for dissipation. No. It is appropriate, I think, that I introduce 'Onoria, even though the family is in black. She is not affected; I discussed it with your aunt 'Oratia—like me, she thinks the sooner the
ton
meets' Onoria, the better.”

Devil glanced, swiftly, at Honoria; the consternation in her eyes was a delight to behold. “An excellent idea,
Maman
.” Silver glinted in Honoria's eyes; he hurriedly looked away.

“But you'll have to be careful not to step on the tabbies' tails.”

The Dowager waved dismissively. “Do not teach your mother to suck eggs. Your aunt and I will know just how to manage. Nothing too elaborate or such as will . . . how do you say it?—raise the wind?”

Devil hid his grin. “Raise a dust—the wind is money.”

The Dowager frowned. “Such strange sayings you English have.”

Devil forebore to remind her that she'd lived in England for most of her life—and that her grasp of the language always deteriorated when she was hatching some scheme. In this case, it was a scheme of which he approved.

“Everything will be
tout comme il faut
,” the Dowager insisted. “You need not concern yourself—I know how conservative you are growing—we will do nothing to offend your sensibilities.”

The comment left Devil speechless.

“Indeed, just this morning I was thinking that I should be in London, with your aunt Louise. I am the matriarch, no? And a matriarch's duty is to be with her family.” The Dowager fixed her undeniably matriarchal gaze on her silent son. “Your father would have wished it so.”

That, of course, signaled the end to all argument—not that Devil intended arguing. Manufacturing an aggravated sigh, he held up his hands. “If that's what you truly wish,
Maman
, I'll give orders immediately. We can leave tomorrow at midday and be in town before nightfall.”

“
Bon!
” The Dowager looked at Honoria. “We had best start our packing.”

“Indeed.” Honoria put her needlework in her basket, then glanced briefly, triumphantly, at Devil.

He kept his expression impassive, standing back as she and his mother exited the summerhouse. Only when they were well ahead did he descend the steps, strolling languorously in their wake, his gaze on Honoria's shapely curves, smug satisfaction in his eyes.

St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square was a great deal smaller than Somersham Place. It was still large enough to lose a battalion in, a fact emphasized by the odd individual of military mien who presided over it.

Honoria nodded at Sligo as she crossed the hall, and wondered at Devil Cynster's idiosyncracies. On arriving at dusk two days before, she'd been taken aback to find the stoop-shouldered, thin, and wiry Sligo acting as majordomo. He had a careworn face, moon-shaped and mournful; his attire was severe but did not quite fit. His speech was abrupt, as if he was still on a parade ground.

Later, she'd questioned the Dowager; Sligo, it transpired, had been Devil's batman at Waterloo. He was fanatically devoted to his erstwhile captain; on disbanding, he'd simply continued to follow him. Devil had made him his general factotum. Sligo remained at St. Ives House, acting as its caretaker when the family was not in residence. When his master
was
in residence, Honoria surmised, he reverted to his previous role.

Which, she suspected, meant that Sligo would bear watching. A footman opened the breakfast-parlor door.

“There you are, my dear.” The Dowager beamed gloriously from one end of the elegant table.

Honoria bobbed a curtsy, then inclined her head toward the head of the table. “Your Grace.”

The devil nodded back, his gaze roving over her. “I trust you slept well?” With a wave, he summoned Webster to hold a chair for her—the one beside his.

“Tolerably well, thank you.” Perforce ignoring the nine other empty chairs about the immaculately laid table, Honoria settled her skirts, then thanked Webster as he poured her tea. The previous day had gone in unpacking and settling in. A rain squall had cut short the afternoon; she'd got no closer to the park in the Square than the drawing-room windows.

“I have been telling Sylvester that we plan to visit the modistes this morning.” The Dowager waved a knife at her. “He tells me that these days the
ton
selects modistes by age.”

“Age?” Honoria frowned.

Busy with toast and marmalade, the Dowager nodded. “Apparently, it is quite
convenable
that I continue with my old Franchot, but for you it must be . . .” She glanced at her son. “
Qu'est-ce que?
”

“Celestine,” Devil supplied.

Honoria turned her frown on him.

He met her look with one of ineffable boredom. “It's simple enough—if you want bombazine and turbans, you go to Franchot. If frills and furbelows are your fancy, then Madame Abelard's is more likely to suit. For innocent country misses,” he paused, his gaze briefly touching Honoria's fine lace fichu, “then I've heard Mademoiselle Cocotte is hard to beat. For true elegance, however, there's only one name you need know—Celestine.”

“Indeed?” Honoria sipped her tea, then, setting down her cup, reached for the toast. “Is she on Bruton Street?”

Devil's brows flew. “Where else?” He looked away as Sligo approached, carrying a silver salver piled with letters. Taking them, Devil flicked through the stack. “I daresay you'll find any number of modistes that might take your fancy if you stroll the length of Bruton Street.”

From the corner of her eye, Honoria watched him examine his mail. He employed a small army of agents; one had followed on their heels from the Place and spent all yesterday closeted with his master. Running estates as extensive as those of the dukedom of St. Ives would keep any man busy; thus far, from all she'd seen, business had prevented Devil from pursuing his investigations.

Reaching the bottom of the pile, he shuffled the letters together, then glanced at his mother. “If you'll excuse me,
Maman
.” Briefly, his eyes touched Honoria's. “Honoria Prudence.” With a graceful nod, he stood; absorbed with his letters, he left the room.

Honoria stared at his back until the door hid it from view, then took another sip of her tea.

The St. Ives town carriage had just rumbled around the corner, bearing the Dowager and Honoria to Bruton Street, when Vane Cynster strolled into Grosvenor Square. His stride long and ranging, he crossed the pavements; cane swinging, he climbed the steps to his cousin's imposing door. He was about to beat an imperious tattoo when the door swung inward. Sligo rushed out.

“Oh! Sorry, sir.” Sligo flattened himself against the door-jamb. “Didn't see you there, sir.”

Vane smiled. “That's quite all right, Sligo.”

“Cap'n's orders. An urgent dispatch.” Sligo tapped his breast—rustling parchment testified to his cause. “If you'll excuse me, sir?”

Released by Vane's bemused nod, Sligo hurried down the steps and ran to the corner. He flagged down a hackney and climbed aboard. Vane shook his head, then turned to the still-open door. Webster stood beside it.

“The master is in the library, sir. I believe he's expecting you. Do you wish to be announced?”

“No need.” Surrendering his cane, hat and gloves, Vane headed for Devil's sanctum. He opened the door, instantly coming under his cousin's green gaze.

Devil sat in a leather chair behind a large desk, an open letter in one hand. “You're the first.”

Vane grinned. “And you're impatient.”

“You're not?”

Vane raised his brows. “Until a second ago, I didn't know you had no news.” He crossed the room and dropped into a chair facing the desk.

“I take it you have no insights to offer either?”

Vane grimaced. “In a word—no.”

Devil grimaced back; refolding his letter, he laid it aside. “I just hope the others have turned up something.”

“What's Sligo up to?” When Devil looked up, Vane elaborated: “I bumped into him on the steps—he seemed in a tearing hurry.”

Devil waved dismissively. “A small matter of forward strategy.”