Devil's Bride (45 page)

Time fractured. A crystal moment, it hung between them, quivering, invested with sensation. Gazes locked, they both held still, then Honoria let her lids fall. Heart thundering, hearing—feeling—his heartbeat deep within her, she savored the strength that had invaded her, silently acknowledging the power that held her in its coils. Beneath her, Devil closed his eyes, his mind awash with the softness that had accepted him, that now held him so powerfully he could never break free.

Then they moved, their bodies in perfect communion, their souls committed beyond will or thought. Too experienced to rush, they savored each step down the lengthy road, until the gates of paradise opened before them. Together, they entered in.

“Under no circumstances is Her Grace to be left unattended at any time.” Devil reinforced that edict with a flat look, trained impartially on the three retainers ranged before him on the library rug.

All three—Webster, poker-straight, his expression more impassive than ever, Mrs. Hull, rigidly upright, lips pinched with concern, and Sligo, his face more mournful than ever—looked uncertain.

Grudgingly, Devil amended: “Other than in our apartments.”

That was where Honoria presently was and, if experience was any guide, where she'd remain for a good few hours yet. She'd been deeply asleep when he'd left her—after fully sating his senses and hers; the exercise had left him feeling more vulnerable than he'd ever felt before. But she was safe in their rooms, given the burly footman stationed within sight of the door.

“When I'm absent from the house, Webster, you'll admit no one other than one of my aunts or Vane. If any call, Her Grace is indisposed. We will not be entertaining in the immediate future—not until this matter is resolved.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

“Both you and Mrs. Hull will ensure no one has any chance to tamper with any food or provisions. Incidentally,” Devil's gaze fixed on Webster's face, “did you check the rest of that brandy?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The rest of the bottle was uncontaminated.” Webster straightened. “I can assure Your Grace I did not fill that decanter with poisoned spirits.”

Devil met his gaze directly. “So I had assumed. I take it we've hired no new staff lately?”

Webster's stiffness eased. “No, Your Grace. As is our habit, we brought up more of our people from Somersham to assist last night, hands already familiar with our ways. There were no strangers amongst the staff, m'lord.” Fixing his gaze on a point above Devil's head, Webster continued: “Last night, every member of the staff had some prescribed activity they had to perform at virtually any given time.” Webster let his gaze drop to meet Devil's eyes. “The long and the short of it is that none of our staff were missing from their duties long enough to have reached your apartments and returned undetected. We must assume, I believe, that some guest aware of the location of the ducal apartments introduced the poison, my lord.”

“Quite.” Devil had already thought through that point, that and a great deal more; he shifted his gaze to Sligo. “You, Sligo, will accompany Her Grace wherever she goes. If she should decide to walk in public, you will be by her side—not behind her.” He met Sligo's gaze levelly. “You're to guard her with your life.”

Sligo nodded; he owed Devil his life several times over and saw nothing odd in the request. “I'll make sure no one gets to her. But . . .” He frowned. “If I'm to be with Her Grace, who's to be with you?”

“I've faced death before—this is no different.”

“If I could suggest, Your Grace,” Webster intervened. “At least a footman—”

“No.” The single word cut off all protest. Devil eyed his servitors straitly. “I'm more than capable of protecting myself.” His tone dared them to contradict him; naturally, none of them did. He nodded a dismissal. “You may go.”

He stood as they filed to the door; Webster and Sligo left, but Mrs. Hull hung back. When, tight-lipped, she looked at him, Devil, resigned, lifted a brow.

“You're not really invincible, you know.”

Devil's lips twisted wryly. “I know, Hully, I know. But for God's sake, don't tell Her Grace.”

Mollified by his use of his childhood name for her, Mrs. Hull sniffed. “As if I would. You just busy yourself finding whoever was so lost to all proper feeling as to put poison in that decanter—
we'll
look after Her Grace.”

Devil watched her leave, and wondered if any of the three had any idea how much he was entrusting to their care. He'd told them true—he'd faced death many times. Honoria's death he couldn't face at all.

“I'm putting my trust in you to ensure that no harm comes to His Grace.” Pacing before the morning-room windows, Honoria sent a raking glance over the three servitors lined up on the rug—Webster, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo. “I assume he's already spoken to you regarding the incident last night?”

All three nodded; Webster acted as spokesman. “His Grace gave us orders to ensure no repetition of the incident, ma'am.”

“I'm sure he did.” Devil had left the house before she'd awoken, an occurrence delayed by him. He'd kept her awake into the small hours—she'd never known him so demanding. When he'd stirred her awake at dawn, she'd applied herself wholeheartedly to appeasing his considerable appetite, assuming, with what little wit she'd been able to command, that it was some long-overdue realization of his mortality that made him so hungry for life.

She'd expected to discuss the shocking incident of the poison with him over breakfast—instead, she'd missed breakfast altogether.

“It is not my intention to counteract any of His Grace's orders—whatever he has decreed must be done.
However
”—pausing, she glanced at the three faces before her—“am I right in assuming he gave no orders for his own protection?”

Webster grimaced. “We did make the suggestion, ma'am—unfortunately, His Grace vetoed the idea.”

“Flat,” Sligo corroborated, his tone making it clear what he thought of that decision.

Mrs. Hull's lips thinned to a prim line. “He always was exceedingly stubborn.”

“Indeed.” From the way all three were watching her, Honoria knew she had only to say the word. The context, however, was somewhat delicate—she could not, in all conscience, contradict her husband's edicts. She looked at Webster. “What was the suggestion His Grace vetoed?”

“I suggested a footman as a guard, ma'am.”

Honoria raised her brows. “We have other suitable men in our employ, do we not—men who are not footmen?”

Webster blinked only once. “Indeed, ma'am. From underbutlers to scullery boys.”

“And there's the grooms and stablelads, too,” Sligo added.

Honoria nodded. “Very well.” She met each pair of eyes. “To preserve my peace of mind, you will ensure you are always in a position to tell me where His Grace is at any time while he is absent from this house. Nothing, however, must be done against His Grace's expressed wishes. I trust that's clear?”

Webster bowed. “Indeed, ma'am. I'm sure His Grace would expect us to do all possible to keep you from fretting.”

“Precisely. Now, do you have any idea where he is at present?”

Webster and Mrs. Hull shook their heads. Sligo looked at the ceiling. “I believe” he said”—he rocked slightly on his toes—“that the Cap'n's with Mister Vane.” Lowering his gaze, he met Honoria's eyes. “At his lodgings in Jermyn Street, ma'am.” When Honoria, along with both his peers, looked their question, Sligo opened his eyes wide. “A lad from the stables had to go that way with a message, ma'am.”

“I see.” For the first time since smelling bitter almonds, Honoria felt a touch of relief. She had allies. “Do you think this stablelad might still be about his business when His Grace leaves his cousin?”

Sligo nodded. “Very likely, ma'am.”

Honoria nodded back, decisively, dismissively. “You have your orders, from both myself and His Grace. I'm sure you will carry them out diligently.”

Sligo nodded; Mrs. Hull curtsied. Webster bowed low. “You may rely on us, Your Grace.”

V
ane stared at Devil, unfeigned horror in his face. “Just how many attempts on your life have there been?”

Devil raised his brows. “If Honoria's supposition is correct, three. There's still nothing to suggest my phaeton was tampered with, but, given these other two episodes, I'm inclined to think she may be right.” They were in Vane's parlor; seated at the table, Devil raised a tankard of ale and took a long sip.

Standing before the windows, Vane was still staring. “The phaeton, the poison—what was the third?”

“Someone took a shot at me in the park yesterday morning.”

“You were out early?”

Devil nodded. Vane's gaze blanked; he turned to stare, unseeing, out of the window. Devil waited. After the dramatic events of the night, he felt deadly calm. In between making love to his wife, he'd spent the night thinking. Near death was a wonderful focuser—nearly losing Honoria had eradicated all pretense, exposed all the logical reasons he'd used to justify their marriage as the facade they actually were. What he felt for his wife had nothing to do with logic.

Abruptly, he shifted, and glanced at Vane—then inwardly, mockingly, shook his head. At himself. Whenever his thoughts even touched on that point—that emotion he could not, would not, define—he pulled back, edged away. That unnameable emotion left him feeling so vulnerable he found it near impossible to countenance, to even admit its existence. It opened up a gaping hole in his defenses; his instinctive response was to rebuild his walls with all speed.

But he would have to face it soon. Insecurity lay, a leaden weight in his gut; the uncertainty was driving him insane. Honoria cared for him—last night had proved that. She might even care in the way women sometimes did, at some different level from any sexual interest. On some other plane. He desperately needed to know.

Finding out without asking, without revealing his intense interest in the answer, was a challenge he intended to devote his entire attention to—just as soon as he'd dealt with his would-be murderer.

Who'd very nearly murdered his wife.

He looked up as Vane turned, fixing him with a worried look. “This is more than serious.” Vane started to pace. “Why only in London?” He shot a glance at Devil. “There weren't any other suspicious happenings at the Place?”

Devil shook his head. “London because it's safer—more people about. Cambridgeshire is open country, and my fields are rather full of my workers.”

“That didn't help us locate Tolly's killer.”

Devil looked down, swirling the ale in his tankard.

“To sabotage your phaeton, they had to get into your stables undetected, know which carriage, and how best to make it look like an accident, which presupposes some knowledge of your driving habits. Whoever shot at you in the park must have known you make a habit of riding that early. And whoever put the poison in the decanter”—his expression grim, Vane met Devil's eye—“whoever did that had to know where the ducal appartments lie as well as your peculiar method of drinking.”

Devil nodded. “If they hadn't known that, they'd have been far more circumspect in their dosage—there was enough in one mouthful to fell an ox, which was why Honoria detected it so easily.”

“So,” Vane said, “whoever it is knew all the above, but—” He broke off and looked at Devil.

Who grimaced. “But didn't know that Honoria shares my brandy as well as my bed.”

Vane grimaced back. “Even I didn't know that, so it doesn't help us thin the ranks.” He paused, then asked: “So was Tolly killed because he was coming to warn you?”

Slowly, Devil nodded. “That scenario makes sense of what he said at the cottage as well as, if not better, than any other.”

Both fell silent, then Vane asked: “What will you do?”

“Do?” Devil raised his brows. “Precisely what I was planning before, only with both eyes fully open.”

“
And
with me to cover your back.”

Devil grinned. “If you insist.”

It was a familiar sally between them; some of Vane's tension eased. He sat in the chair opposite Devil's. “So, has Bromley finally turned up trumps?”

“Not yet—but he thinks he's laid his hand on a winning card. He came by yesterday with the offer of a meeting—the madam in question wanted certain guarantees. I told him what she could have—he's gone off to negotiate time and date.”

“Place?”

“The palace itself.”

Vane frowned. “You'll go?”

Devil shrugged. “I can see why she'd want it that way.”

“It could be a trap.”

“Unlikely—she's got more to lose by siding against me rather than with me. And Bromley's too enamored of his comforts to encourage any double-dealing.”