Devil's Bride (51 page)

Glancing at the note's thick black script, she grimaced. Devil's words of the night replayed in her mind; if she understood them correctly, then his fear was a mirror image of hers. There was only one emotion which gave rise to such fear. That emotion, if he felt it, demanded her consideration, her care. The same emotion impelled her to go to Green Street. How to do both?

Five minutes later, she stood and crossed to the escritoire. Fifteen minutes later, she shook sand across her letter, folded it, and sealed it with the seal Devil had given her—the Cyns-ter stag rampant imposed on the Anstruther-Wetherby chevrons. Blowing on the wax, she rose, crossed the room, and tugged the bellpull three times.

Sligo answered her summons. “Yes, ma'am?”

Honoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly three o'clock. “Where is His Grace at present?”

“At White's with Master Vane.” Sligo almost smiled. “He didn't try to lose the men I set to follow him today.”

“Good.” Honoria held out her letter. “I want this delivered into His Grace's hands with all possible speed.”

“Right away, ma'am.” Accepting the letter, Sligo turned for the door.

“And have Webster call up a hackney for me.”

“A hackney, ma'am?” Sligo turned back, his expression watchful. “John Coachman can have the carriage around in a trice.”

“No.” Honoria let authority tinge her tone. “A hackney. I'm only going a short distance—there's no need to get the carriage out.” With a regal nod, she dismissed Sligo. “Tell Webster I wish to leave in ten minutes.”

Sligo departed. Honoria picked up the letter from her “well-wisher.” She glanced at it again, then, folding it neatly, headed upstairs.

Ten minutes later, arrayed in her golden pelisse and clutching an ivory-beaded reticule, she settled in one corner of the hackney. The footman bowed and started to close the door. It was wrenched from his grasp—Sligo bundled himself into the carriage, then shrank back in the other corner. Honoria stared at him. “Where's my letter?”

Sligo watched her like a chicken shut in with a vixen. “On its way—I sent Daley with it. He'll see it into His Grace's hands, just like you wanted.”

“Indeed? And what are you doing here?”

“Ah . . .” Sligo blinked. “I thought as how it wasn't right you going about alone—you might get lost, not being used to Lunnon an' all.”

Lips compressed, Honoria straightened her skirts. “I'm only going a few streets away to visit an acquaintance.”

Sligo swallowed. “Be that as it may, ma'am, I'll go with you—if you don't mind.”

Looking up, Honoria was about to inform him that she did mind, when suspicion dawned. “Did His Grace order you to stay with me?”

Glumly, Sligo nodded.

Honoria sighed. “Very well—but you'll have to remain in the carriage.”

The hatch above opened; the jarvey peered down. “We goin' somewhere? Or did you just want to use me carriage for a chat?”

Honoria silenced him with a glare. “Green Street. Drive along it slowly—I'll tell you where to stop.”

“Right you are.” The jarvey dropped the hatch; an instant later, they were off.

Green Street was where her grandfather lived, at Number 13. Number 17 was closer to the park. The jarvey walked his horse along; Honoria studied the facades. Number 17 was an elegant residence, a gentleman's abode. She waited until they'd passed two more houses before saying: “Have the jarvey pull up. Wait for me here.”

Sligo relayed her orders. The hackney drew up; Sligo leapt down and helped her out. Beside the hackney, screened from Number 17 on the other side of the road, Honoria fixed Sligo with a commanding look. “Wait for me here—
inside
the carriage.”

Sligo blinked. “Shouldn't I walk you to the door?”

“Sligo, this is Green Street, not Billingsgate. You will stay in the carriage.”

Mournfully, Sligo nodded; Honoria waited until he resumed his seat, then turned on her heel, walked back a short distance, and swiftly crossed the road. Briskly determined, she climbed the steps of Number 17. Reaching for the knocker, she froze, her hand in midair. The brass knocker was a sylph—a naked sylph. Honoria frowned, then closed her gloved hand about the indiscreet figure and beat an imperious tattoo.

She waited, clutching her reticule, trying not to think of the expletives her husband would utter when he read her letter—she hoped the committee of White's would understand. Then footsteps approached on the other side of the door. Not the measured tread of a well-trained butler but a slow, familiar, prowling gait. Even before the door opened, Honoria knew she would not be facing a butler.

When she saw who held the door wide, her jaw dropped.

The earl of Chillingworth's jaw dropped, too.

For one instant, they stood stock-still, staring at each other. Honoria mentally reeled, possibilities and conjectures whirling wildly.

Then Chillingworth scowled. “For God's sake, don't just stand there! Someone might see you.”

Honoria blinked dazedly and remained rooted to his front step. Smothering a growl, Chillingworth grabbed her arm and hauled her inside. He shut the door, then faced her.

Although he was not as tall as Devil, Chillingworth was not a small man. In the narrow hall, Honoria was acutely conscious of that fact. Straightening, without a clue as to what was going on, she fixed him with an imperious look. “Where's your butler?”

Chillingworth returned her look with one she found unreadable. “My butler is out. As are the rest of my staff.” Honoria's eyes widened; grimly, Chillingworth shook his head. “I can't believe you're serious.” He searched her face, her eyes.

Honoria tilted her chin defiantly. “Of
course
I'm serious.”

Chillingworth's expression showed a medley of disbelief and disillusionment, then hardened into a mask very like his greatest rival's. Fluidly, he shrugged. “If you insist.”

Without further ado, he bent his head to Honoria's.

Uttering a strangled shriek, she jerked back and hit him.

Just before two o'clock, Devil had absentmindedly climbed the steps of White's. On the threshold, he'd literally run into Vane.

“
There
you are!” Vane had dropped back. “Where in all hell have you been? I've been looking all over.”

Devil had grinned. “Surprising you didn't find me then, for that's where I've been. All over.”

Frowning, Vane opened his lips—Devil waved the question aside. “Have you eaten?”

Still frowning, Vane nodded. Devil handed his cane to the doorkeeper; Vane did the same. “I'll talk while you eat.”

The dining room was companionably crowded with gentlemen lingering over their brandies. Served with remarkable promptness, Devil started on the sole—and lifted an inquiring brow.

Vane grimaced at the bodies about them. “I'll tell you later.”

Devil nodded and applied himself to his meal, pleased to have an excuse not to talk. Explaining why he'd spent the whole morning roaming the town, exercising the two grooms Sligo had set to tail him, was beyond him. He suspected it would always be beyond him—his affliction wasn't improving with time. And he could hardly tell Vane he was avoiding his wife because she'd said she loved him.

Said it, declared it, in unequivocal terms, with absolute conviction. Pausing, Devil quaffed half his glass of wine.

It was heady stuff, to know your wife felt that way. About you. That she would face danger without a blink, and refuse to back down, even when faced with sufficient intimidation to break a troop sergeant—all because she loved you.

There was only one snag, one fly in the ointment.

Taking another sip of wine, he returned to his sole. And the dilemma with which he'd spent all morning wrestling. If he told Honoria how he felt about her loving him, if he even acknowledged her declaration, he would simultaneously acknowledge the validity of her “justification” for going into danger. Which was something he could never do.

In times of trouble, as far as he and, he was quite sure, all his ancestors were concerned, Cynster wives were supposed to retreat to the donjon, there to remain in safety while their husbands manned the walls. Honoria's vision was apparently different—she wanted to be on the walls with him.

He understood her point—he simply couldn't accept it.

Explaining that was not going to be easy, not even after he'd made the confession he'd convinced himself he was honor-bound to make.

Feeling vulnerable was bad enough—admitting to vulnerability, out loud, in words, was infinitely worse. And, once said, the words couldn't be taken back. He would, in essence, be handing her a
carte blanche
of a kind he'd never used before. Given how she reacted to his being in danger, he wasn't at all sure that was wise.

Whether she suspected his state he did not know—he did know he couldn't count on her remaining in blissful ignorance for long. Not his Honoria Prudence. Which meant that the only way he could keep her out of danger was to remove the danger—by laying Tolly's killer by the heels.

Pushing aside his plate, he looked at Vane. “What have you learned?”

Vane grimaced. “Let's go into the smoking room.”

They found a deserted nook and settled in; Vane began without preamble. “Basically, I was right. My source has checked every—”

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

They both looked up; one of the club's footmen stood at Devil's elbow, proffering a salver bearing a folded note. “This arrived a moment ago, Your Grace. The man was most insistent it be delivered to you immediately.”

“Thank you.” Taking the letter, Devil broke the seal, ab-sentmindedly nodding a dismissal. Unfolding the letter, he scanned it—Vane saw his face harden. Devil's eyes flicked back up to the start of the letter; his face unreadable, he read it through again.

“Well?” Vane asked, when Devil looked up.

Devil's brows rose. “Something's come up.” He didn't meet Vane's eyes. “An unexpected development.” Refold-ing the letter, he rose. “You'll have to excuse me—I'll send for you as soon as I'm free.”

With that, he turned and, putting the letter in one pocket, walked out.

Stunned, Vane stared after him. Then his face hardened. “Honoria Prudence—what the devil have you got up to now?”

“No! Wait! You can't just walk out the door.”

“Why not?” Honoria swung around.

Holding a cold compress to the bridge of his nose, Chil-lingworth followed her up the hall. “Because there's no sense in taking unnecessary chances. Your husband's not going to appreciate this as it is—there's no sense in making things worse.” Setting the compress down on the hall table, he looked her over. “Your bonnet's not straight.”

Lips compressed, Honoria swung to face the mirror. Adjusting her bonnet, she studied Chillingworth's reflection. He was still very pale; she wasn't sure it was wise to leave him—his servants had not yet returned. On the other hand, she could understand his insistence that she leave without delay. “There!” She turned. “Does that meet with your approval?”

Chillingworth narrowed his eyes. “You'll pass.” He met her gaze. “And don't forget—show that note to Devil as soon as you see him.
Don't
wait for him to ask.”

Honoria lifted her chin.

Chillingworth eyed it with open disapproval. “Thank the heavens you're his and not mine. Wait here while I check if anyone's about. Like your grandfather or his butler.”

Honoria watched as he opened the door; standing on the front step, he looked up and down the street.

“All clear.” Chillingworth held the door open. “Other than your hackney, there's no one in sight.”

Head high, Honoria swept out, then stopped and looked back. She frowned. “Don't forget to lie down with your feet higher than your head. And for goodness sake put that compress back, or your eye will be worse than it need be.”

For the second time that day, Chillingworth's jaw dropped. Momentarily. Then he glowered. “Good God, woman—get
going!
”

Honoria blinked. “Yes, well—take care of yourself.” With that, she turned and briskly descended the steps. Gaining the pavement, she saw her hackney waiting. She glanced the other way—a black carriage rolled slowly around the corner into Green Street. Behind her, Chillingworth's latch clicked. It was after four; dusk was drawing in. As Chillingworth had said, there was no one about. With an inward sigh, Honoria started along the pavement.

She didn't see the dark figure, cloaked in black, who emerged from the area stairs beside Chillingworth's steps. She had no inkling, felt no presentiment of danger, when the figure drew close, looming behind her. Harness jingled, hooves clacked as the black carriage drew abreast of her, blocking out the hackney. Honoria glanced at the carriage—a black pall dropped over her, cutting off the light, wrapping her in impenetrable folds. She gasped, and grasped the material, only to feel it wind tighter. She opened her mouth to scream; a hard hand clapped over her lips.

Honoria froze. An arm like steel wound about her waist and lifted her.

She didn't struggle but patiently waited for Devil to set her down. He eventually did—on the carriage seat. The carriage jerked and picked up speed. “Wait!” Still enveloped in what she assumed was Devil's cloak, Honoria struggled to break free. “What about Sligo?”

Silence.

Then, “Sligo?” Devil sounded as if he couldn't believe his ears.

“You ordered him to watch over me, remember?” Honoria wrestled with the cloak. The next instant, it was lifted from her—she let out an explosive breath, and discovered her husband watching her with an expression she couldn't read at all. “He's in the hackney, waiting for me.”

Devil stared at her, then, frowning dazedly, shook his head. “Wait here.”