Devil's Bride (49 page)

The navvies exchanged glances. Tales of the forays mounted by the less civilized of society's males were commonplace; the poorer classes bore the brunt of such destructive routs. The crowd in the Anchor's Arms were too old to risk getting their skulls cracked unnecessarily.

The man who'd spoken first eyed her challengingly. “And just what might
you
be a-doing 'ere, then? A duchess an'all?”

Honoria looked down her nose at him. “My dear man, surely you've heard that duchesses are required to do charitable deeds? Saving the Anchor's Arms is my deed for today.” She paused. “Provided, of course, that you tell me what I need to know.”

The navvy glanced at his cronies—many nodded. Still suspicious, he turned back to her. “How d'we know if'n we help you, you'll be able to stop this 'ere Devil from laying waste anyway?”

“You don't.” Honoria held his gaze. “You can only hope.”

“What'd you want to know?” came from the back of the room.

Honoria lifted her head. “Three sailors met here recently. I need to talk to them. Carter—describe the two you saw.”

Carter did; more than a few remembered them.

“In here yesterday evenin'—off the
Rising Star
.”

“
Rising Star
upped anchor this mornin' for Rotterdam.”

“You're sure?” Confirmation came from several points in the room.

Then silence fell. Dense, cold, it chilled the air. Even before she turned, Honoria knew Devil had arrived.

She swung to face him—and only just stopped her blink. She swallowed instead. It was him, but not the man she habitually saw. This man filled the space before the door with a menacing presence; barely restrained aggression poured from him in waves. His elegant attire did nothing to conceal his powerful frame, nor the fact that he was fully prepared to annihilate anything or anyone unwise enough to give him the slightest excuse. He fitted the image she'd created to perfection.

His eyes, cold and flat, left her, scanning the room, holding not challenge but a promise, an intent every man could feel. Vane stood at his shoulder; just the two of them made the tavern seem uncomfortably overcrowded.

As Devil's gaze fastened on the wide-eyed barman, Honoria conjured a smile and swept into the breach. “There you are, my lord. I fear the men you seek are not here—they sailed this morning.”

Devil didn't blink. His gaze fastened on her face—flames replaced the chill in his eyes but they remained oddly flat. One brow rose fractionally. “Indeed?”

The single word, uttered in his deep voice, gave no hint of his thoughts. For one definable instant, the entire tavern held its breath. Then he nodded at the barman. “In that case, you must excuse us.”

On the words, Devil turned, catching Honoria's arm, propelling her over the threshold, lifting her through the carriage door Sligo raced to open and into the safety beyond.

Vane swung out of the inn behind them; he loomed at Devil's shoulder as he paused, one boot on the carriage steps. “I'll take the hackney.” Vane nodded to where the small carriage waited.

His expression beyond grim, Devil nodded—he followed Honoria into the carriage. Sligo slammed the door; John Coachman flicked the reins.

It took three tense, silent minutes before the coach maneuvered its way free of the narrow street. And a further, equally silent half-hour before it drew up in Grosvenor Square. Devil alighted. He waited until Sligo let down the steps, then held out his hand. Honoria placed hers in it; he helped her down and led her up the steps.

Webster opened the door, his relief so intense it showed in his face. Then he saw his master's face—immediately his expression leached to impassivity. Gliding into the hall, her fingers on an arm more like rock than human flesh, Honoria held her head high.

Devil halted in the hall. “If you'll excuse me, my dear, I must speak with Sligo.” His tone was glacial, bleak, and not quite steady, the icy surface rippling with barely suppressed rage. “I'll join you shortly. Upstairs.”

For the first time that evening, Honoria saw his face clearly, lit by the chandelier high above. It was paler than usual, each harsh plane starkly edged, the whole no more animated than a death mask in which his eyes burned oddly dark. She met that black gaze directly. “Sligo was acting on my orders.”

Devil raised a brow, his expression cold. “Indeed?”

Honoria studied his eyes, then inclined her head. And turned for the stairs. In the mood he was in, saying anything further might be counterproductive.

Rigid, Devil watched her ascend. When she passed from sight, he switched his gaze to Sligo. “In the library.”

Sligo scurried in; Devil followed more slowly. Crossing the threshold, he paused; a footman closed the door. Sligo stood at attention to one side of the desk. Devil let silence stretch before slowly closing the distance.

Normally, he would have sat at his desk; tonight, the rage consuming him would not let him rest. He halted before the long windows giving onto the dark courtyard.

Words filled his head, jostled for prominence on his tongue, a ranting rave of fury clamoring to spill free. Jaw clenched, he fought to hold it back. Never before could he recall such rage—so fraught he was chilled to the marrow, so powerful he could barely contain it.

He glanced at Sligo. “I was informed by a footman who chanced upon me in St. James that Her Grace was on her way to the Anchor's Arms. Before I could summon a hackney, three others of my household appeared, bearing like tidings. It appears that fully half my staff were scouring the streets for me, instead of
obeying my orders and looking after my wife! How the devil did she even
hear
about the Anchor's Arms?
”

Sligo flinched. “She asked—I told her.”

“What in all the saints' names did you mean by taking
her there?
”

The door opened at the height of that roar. Devil glared balefully at Webster. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Webster stepped around the door, held it open for Mrs. Hull, then closed it. “Mrs. Hull and I wished to make sure you were not laboring under any misapprehension.”

“It is exceedingly difficult to misapprehend discovering my wife in a dockside tavern.”

The words had an edge like cut glass; Webster paled but persevered. “I believe you wish to learn how that came about, my lord. Sligo did not act on his own. We were all, myself, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo, aware of Her Grace's intent. We all attempted to dissuade her, but, having heard her reasons, we couldn't legitimately stand in her way.”

His fists clenched so tight they hurt, his jaw all but locked, Devil spoke through his teeth. “What reasons?”

Webster outlined Honoria's plan; Mrs. Hull elucidated her reasons. “Perfectly understandable, to my mind.” She sniffed defensively. “She was worried—as were we. It seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do.”

Devil swallowed the tirade that leapt to his tongue. His temper seething, roiling behind the flimsy fac¸ade of civilized behavior, he eyed them narrowly. “
Out!
All of you.”

They went, carefully shutting the door. Swinging around, Devil stared into the night. Sligo didn't approve of
ton
nish women, Webster was as starchily devoted as they came, and Mrs. Hull was an arch-conservative—yet all had been suborned by his wife. And her reasons.

Ever since marrying Honoria Prudence
Anstruther
-Wetherby, he'd been knee-deep in reasons—her reasons. He had reasons, too—good, sound, solid reasons. But it wasn't his staff he need to share them with. Having reached that conclusion, Devil swung on his heel and stalked out of the library.

Striding toward the ducal apartments, he reflected that Honoria had succeeded in shielding her three co-conspirators from his anger, without even being present. Of course, if he'd been able to lose some of the red-hot fury swirling inside him by venting it on them, she wouldn't be about to face it all herself. As it was . . .

Reaching the end of the corridor, he threw open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.

Honoria didn't even jump. She stood before the fireplace, head erect, unshakable resolve in every line. The skirts of her brown velvet carriage dress were gilded by the fire behind her; the soft chestnut curls atop her head glowed. Her hands were loosely clasped before her; her face was pale but composed, her eyes wide, the soft blue-grey showing no hint of trepidation. Her neatly rounded, Anstruther-Wetherby chin was set.

Deliberately, Devil stalked toward her, watching her chin rise as she kept her eyes on his. He stopped directly before her. “You gave me your
word
you would not actively pursue Tolly's killer.”

Calmly, Honoria raised a brow. “
Tolly's
killer—I gave no undertaking to sit idly by while someone tried to kill
you
.”

Shadows flitted through Devil's darkened eyes. He inclined his head. “Very well—you may give me such an undertaking now.”

Honoria straightened. Devil still towered over her. “I can't do that.”

His eyes mere slits, more black than green, he shifted closer. “Can't—or won't?”

Honoria held her ground. “Can't.” Her eyes on his, her jaw slowly firmed. “
And
won't. You can't seriously expect it of me.”

For three heartbeats, Devil held her gaze. “I'm deathly serious.” He braced one hand on the mantelpiece, his body settling closer, his face nearer hers. “Women—wives—are supposed to sit quietly at home and embroider,
not
actively hunt villains. They're
supposed
to be at home when their husbands get in,
not out courting danger on the docks!
” Briefly closing his eyes, he fought down the impulse to roar. Then he trapped Honoria's gaze and continued: “I want your promise that you will not again indulge in any escapade such as today's, that you will remain safely at home and that you will not further concern yourself with tracking
anyone's
killer.” His eyes locked on hers, he raised one black brow.

“Well?”

Honoria held his gaze steadily. “Well what?”

Devil only just managed to hold back a roar. “
Well give me your promise!
”

“When hell freezes!” Honoria's eyes flashed. “I will
not
sit tamely by while someone tries to take you from me. I'm your
duchess
—not some disinterested spectator. I will
not
sit quietly embroidering, waiting for news when that news could tell of your death. As your wife, I have a duty to help you—if in this case that means walking a dangerous path, so be it.” Her chin, defiantly high, rose another notch. “I'm an Anstruther-Wetherby—I'm every bit as capable of facing danger and death as you are. If you wanted a tame, complaisant wife, you shouldn't have married
me
.”

Momentarily stunned, more by her vehemence than her words, Devil stared at her. Then, his frown deepening, he shook his head. “No.”

Honoria frowned back. “No what?”

“No to all the above, but most especially no, you do not have a duty to assist me in hunting a murderer. As my wife, you have no duties other than those I deem proper. In my eyes, there's nothing—no duty, no reason whatever—that could justify you placing yourself in danger.”

Their faces were six inches apart; if Honoria had not sensed the throttled fury investing his large frame, radiating from it, she could not have missed the jagged edge to his words. Her eyes narrowed. “That I do not accept.” She was not about to bow before his rage.

Devil's lips curved slightly; his voice, when he spoke, was mesmerically low. “
That
you
will
accept.”

It was an effort not to shiver, to submissively shift her gaze from his, so penetrating, so compelling, it resembled a physical force. By sheer will, sheer stubbornness, Honoria met that intimidating gaze levelly. “You're wrong on all counts. I've lost others before, to forces I could not influence—I couldn't help them, couldn't save them.” Her jaw set; momentarily, her teeth clenched. “I
will not
sit by and let you be taken from me.”

Her voice quavered; flashes of silver lit Devil's eyes. “Damn it!—do you think I'm going to
let
myself be taken?”

“Not intentionally, but it was
me
who detected the poison.”

Devil waved that aside. “That was here.” He studied her face, her eyes. “Within this house, you may watch over me to your heart's content, but you will
stay away from all danger
. You spoke of duty—it's
my
duty to protect you,
not
yours to protect me.”

Honoria went to shake her head; Devil caught her chin on the edge of his hand and trapped her gaze with his. “Promise me you'll do as I ask.”

Honoria drew as deep a breath as her tight chest would allow, then shook her head. “No—leave duty aside—we spoke also of reasons, a reason to justify my doing all and anything to safeguard your life.” She spoke quickly, breathlessly; she
had
to make him understand. “My reason is one that will stand against any objection.”

Devil's face hardened. His hand fell; he drew back. Her eyes locked on his, Honoria clung to the contact, refusing to let him withdraw totally behind his mask. She drew a swift breath, and let it out on the words: “I love you—more than I've ever loved anyone. I love you so profoundly it goes beyond all reason. And I could
never
let you go—let you be taken from me—that would be the same as letting life itself go, because you are life to me.”

Devil stilled. For one, heart-stopping moment, he looked into Honoria's eyes; what he saw there locked his chest. He wrenched his gaze free and swung away. He paced toward the door, then stopped. Hands in fists by his sides, chest swelling, he dropped his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Then exhaling, he looked down. He spoke without turning.