Devil's Bride (48 page)

His arm about her, Devil held her close. “I'm still here.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I told you I won't leave you.”

Dragging in a breath, Honoria snuggled closer, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

Devil waited until she'd drained her glass, then carried her to their bed, divesting her of her
peignoir
before putting her between the sheets. Moments later, he joined her, drawing her into his arms. And set about demonstrating in the most convincing way he knew that he was still hale and whole, still very much alive.

Honoria slept late the next morning, yet when she awoke she felt far from refreshed. After tea and toast on a tray in her chamber, she headed for the morning room. Her head felt woolly, her wits still skittish. Settling on the
chaise
, she picked up her embroidery. Fifteen minutes later, she'd yet to set a stitch.

Sighing, she put the canvas aside. She felt as fragile as the delicate tracery she should have been creating. Her nerves were stretched taut; she was convinced a storm was brewing, roiling on her horizon, poised to sweep in and strike—and take Devil from her.

He meant so much to her. He was the center of her life—she couldn't imagine living without him, arrogant tyrant though he was. They were
growing
together so well, yet someone was not content to let them be.

The thought made her frown. She might think of the murderer as a black cloud, billowing ever higher, yet he was only a man.

She'd woken early to find Devil sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. “Rest,” he'd said. “There's no reason you need be up and about.” He'd searched her face, then kissed her. “Take care. I won't approve if I find you peaked and wan.” With a twisted smile, he'd stood.

“Will you be about?” she'd asked.

“I'll be back for dinner.”

Which was all very well, but dinner was hours away.

Honoria stared at the door. Something was about to happen—she could feel it in her bones. A chill stole down her spine; she shivered, but didn't let go of her disturbing thoughts. Yet she could identify no action, nothing she could do to avert the impending doom. She was impotent. Helpless.

A tap on the door interrupted her dismal reverie. Sligo entered, balancing a tray. “Mrs. Hull thought as you might like her special tea. Makes it up herself, she does.” He set the tray on the sidetable and deftly poured a cup.

Honoria's instant reaction was a definite veto—her stomach felt as fragile as her mental state. The soothing aroma that rose with the steam changed her mind.

“Chamomile, it is.” Sligo handed her the cup.

Honoria took it and sipped, then remembered the groom. “How is Carter?”

“Better. Got a lump the size of an egg, but the Cap'n thanked him special this morning—Carter says as how he hardly feels it now.”

“Good. Please convey my thanks to him as well.” Honoria sipped. “Did Carter have any idea where the men who attacked His Grace hailed from?”

Sligo fiddled with the doily on the tray. “Not as such. He did say they looked like sailors.”

Honoria fixed her gaze on his face. “Sligo—did Carter overhear anything?”

Sligo shifted. “He heard the two he followed agree to meet up later at the Anchor's Arms.”

“The Anchor's Arms?”

“A tavern by the docks.”

A demon prodded Honoria to act; she ignored it. “Has His Grace been informed of Carter's recollections?”

“No, ma'am. Carter only fully came to his wits an hour ago.”

Honoria chose the course of wisdom. “Inform His Grace immediately of Carter's information.”

Sligo bit his lip and shifted his weight.

Honoria studied his unprepossessing features in dawning disbelief. “Sligo—where is he?”

Sligo straightened. “The Cap'n must've fallen to our plan. When the lads set out to follow 'im this morning, he lost 'em. Neat as you please.”

“
Neat!
” Honoria sat bolt upright. “There's nothing neat about it.”

Here they were, with a potentially valuable avenue to explore, and her husband had taken himself off. Away from their watchful eyes. She handed Sligo her teacup, inwardly congratulating herself on not having thrown it. She wasn't so lost to all sense as to wax hysterical over someone trying to kill Devil in the middle of London during the day. She did, however, want his would-be-murderer caught without delay. Narrow-eyed, she considered Sligo. “Where does His Grace normally lunch?”

“One of his clubs, ma'am—White's, Waitier's, or Boodles.”

“Send footmen to wait at all three. They are to inform His Grace immediately he arrives that I wish to speak with him as soon as may be.”

“Very good, ma'am.”

B
y two, Honoria had started to pace. At four, she summoned Sligo.

“Have you located His Grace?”

“No, ma'am. I've men at White's, Waitier's, and Boodles—we'll know the instant he shows.”

“Would Carter recognize the ruffians he followed?”

“Aye—he'll know them again, so he says.”

“How long do ships normally remain at the docks?”

“Two, three days at most.”

Honoria drew a deep breath. “Have the carriage brought around—the unmarked one.”

Sligo blinked. “Ma'am?”

“I presume Carter's well enough to assist us?”

“Assist us?” Sligo's expression blanked.

Honoria frowned. “To identify the men who attacked His Grace should they be at the Anchor's Arms.”

“The
Anchor's Arms?
” Horror replaced Sligo's blankness. “You can't go there, ma'am.”

“Why not?”

“You . . . you simply can't. It's a dockside tavern—not the sort of place you'd feel comfortable.”

“At present, my comfort is not of great importance.”

Sligo grew desperate. “The Cap'n wouldn't approve.”

Honoria transfixed him with a look as baleful as any of his master's. “Sligo, your ‘Cap'n' isn't here. He's slipped his leash and taken himself off God knows where. We are presently in receipt of information which, if acted on promptly, might identify his would-be killer. If we wait until your Cap'n deigns to return, our opportunity might have sailed with the evening tide. In His Grace's absence, we—you and I—will accompany Carter to the Anchor's Arms. I trust I've made myself clear?”

Sligo opened his mouth—then shut it.

Honoria nodded. “The carriage. I'm going to change.”

Ten minutes later, attired in a deep brown carriage dress, she crossed the gallery. Mrs. Hull was standing by the stairs. “Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I heard as you were planning to visit that inn by the docks. A terrible rough area, it is. You don't think, perhaps, that it would be better to wait . . . ?”

“Mrs. Hull, you can't expect me to allow my husband's would-be murderer to continue to stalk him for want of a little courage. The Anchor's Arms may be all you fear, but I'm sure I'll survive.”

Mrs. Hull grimaced. “I'd do the same meself, ma'am—but the master's not going to like it.”

Honoria started down the stairs. Webster was waiting on the landing; he fell into step beside her. “I would like to suggest, ma'am, that you permit me to go in your stead. If we discover the blackguards who attacked His Grace, Sligo and I will persuade them to return here and speak with His Grace.”

“There!” Mrs. Hull, following on Honoria's heels, leaned forward. “That's another way to scour the pot.”

Honoria stopped on the last stair. Sligo stood waiting by the newel post. “Webster, neither you nor Sligo can offer sufficient inducement to secure such men's cooperation. Should we discover them at the Anchor's Arms, it is my intention to offer them a sizeable reward if they will swear to the name of the man who hired them. They will not fear me because I'm a female—they'll consider my proposition. When they ask for the reward, it's my intention to repair to Child's Bank. Mr. Child will assist me in any negotiations.”

She paused, her gaze touching each concerned face. “While His Grace is unlikely to approve of my involvement, I do not approve of someone trying to kill him. I would rather face His Grace's displeasure than risk His Grace's death.” She stepped down from the stair. “I'm taking you into my confidence because I appreciate your concern. I am, however, determined on my course.”

After an infinitesimal hesitation, Webster followed her. “Indeed, ma'am. But please—take care.”

With a haughty nod, Honoria swept out of the door and down the steps. Sligo had to scurry to open the carriage door because, at that moment, there was not a single footman, or groom, left within St. Ives House.

The hitch in Honoria's plan became apparent the instant they reached the Anchor's Arms, in a mean, narrow street close by the docks. Sulfurous fog, dense and thick, wreathed the inn's low eaves. A rumble of male voices rolled out through the open door, punctuated by occasional female shrieks.

Sligo and Carter had traveled up top; descending nimbly to the cobbles, Sligo glanced around, then eased open the carriage door.

Her face lit by one of the carriage lamps, Honoria raised a brow.

“There's a problem.”

“Problem?” Honoria glanced through the door at the inn beyond. The carriage's leather window flaps were down. “What problem?”

“This area's not safe.” Sligo scanned the shadows. ‘We should have brought more men.”

“Why? I'll remain here while you and Carter go in. If the men are there, bring them out to me here.”

“Who's going to watch over you while we're in the inn?”

Honoria blinked. “John Coachman's up top.” Even as she said it, Sligo's unease reached her.

He shook his head. “He'll have his hands full with his team. If any wanted to grab you, all they need do is spook the horses. And I don't want to send Carter in alone. If those men are there, he might not come back.”

Honoria understood, yet she had to find out if the men were there. “I'll come in with you. It's not particularly well-lit—if I cling to the shadows, no one will pay any attention to me.” On the words, she left her seat.

Sligo gaped—Honoria scowled and he let down the steps. Defeated he handed her down, then beckoned Carter closer. “If we walk in front, shoulder to shoulder, you'll be less noticeable, ma'am.”

Honoria nodded curtly. She followed close on Sligo's heels as he and Carter crossed the tavern's threshold.

They entered a smoke-filled, low-ceilinged room—a deathly silence fell. Every conversation was suspended, instantly cut off. Sligo and Carter halted; Honoria sensed their defensiveness. Men lounged, slumped over a long counter; others sat on crude benches about rough tables. All heads had snapped their way; eyes used to sifting shadows focused without difficulty on her. The expression on some faces was surprised; most quickly turned calculating. Some turned malevolent. Danger, palpable, cloying, hung on the smoky air. Honoria tasted it, felt it crawl across her skin.

The barman, a harrassed-looking individual, reacted first. “You've come to the wrong place.” He shooed them back. “We don't have what you want.”

“Now, now.” A beefy arm stopped him in his tracks. A body to match the arm heaved its way off a bench. “Don't be so hasty, Willie. Who's to say wha' the fancy want?”

The leer that went with this, directed at Honoria, convinced her the barman was right.

“Tha's right. Lady walks in—must know what she's a-lookin' for.” Another grinning navvy, wide as a tug, lumbered to his feet. “Any number of us 'ere might have wha' she's after.”

Honoria looked him in the eye. “You're quite right.” The only way out was through sheer, brazen bluff. Pushing Carter aside, she stepped forward. “You might well be able to assist me. However”—she let her gaze roam the tables—“I must warn you that my husband and his cousins—the Bar
Sinister
, as they're called—are presently on their way here. All six of them.” She considered the navvy. “They're all taller than you.”

She turned to the barman: “I daresay you can imagine how their group got its name. And now they've learned that three of your patrons attacked one of them last night. They're coming for revenge, but when they get here, they're not going to waste time on identification.”

Barman and patrons struggled through her words; Honoria inwardly sighed. “I think they're going to wreck this tavern—and everyone in it as well.”

The navvies bristled; rebellious rumblings flew. “If it's a rough-house they're after, we'll give it 'em,” one brawny salt declared.

“I'll complain to the magistrate,” the barman bleated.

Honoria eyed the navvies measuringly. “Six of them—all rather large. And . . .” She looked at the barman. “Did I mention my husband's a duke?” The man's face blanked; she smiled. “His nickname's Devil. Lucifer and Demon will be with him.” She peered out through the open door. “I didn't see the Watch out there.”