Devil's Bride (52 page)

He tapped on the hatch and ordered John Coachman to pull over, then leapt down. Honoria heard him stride back along the pavement. She couldn't see anything; the flaps were all down.

Two minutes later, the carriage dipped as Sligo scrambled up behind.

“Around the park until I say otherwise.” Devil yanked open the door, climbed in, closed the door, then resumed his seat beside her.

The carriage lurched into motion; Devil met Honoria's wide, totally open gaze. He drew a careful breath, trying to disguise the tension that still held him. “Perhaps you'd better tell me what's going on.”

He'd obviously made a horrendous mistake—he didn't want her to guess what he'd thought, how he'd felt, when he'd seen Chillingworth, stripped to his shirt, look out of his door, then seen her come waltzing out, turning back for a few last words before strolling away.

From the depths of the area, he hadn't been able to hear her words; his imagination, however, had supplied words enough, with actions to match. Her betrayal had chilled him; the thought that her declaration of love had been worthless—mere words without meaning—had struck him to the heart. Black rage had consumed him, far beyond mere temper; he could barely remember following her. He could remember the instant when he'd held her trapped before him—and thought how easy it would be to put an end to the torment before it began. The recollection left him chilled, even as relief poured through him. Guilt over his lack of trust made him inwardly ache.

Honoria was watching him, a frown forming in her eyes. Devil cleared his throat. “Sligo said you got a note?”

He threw out the question to get her talking—instead, she frowned more definitely. “I told you about the note in my letter.”

Devil slowly blinked. “What letter?”

Rummaging in her reticule, Honoria dragged a sheet from the clutter. “I got this—”

Devil took it and scanned it, then glanced accusingly at her.

She tilted her chin. “It said I had to come immediately, so I wrote you a letter explaining and asked Sligo to deliver it; he knew you were at White's. I didn't know you'd ordered him to stay by me—he sent Daley to deliver my letter so he could obey your orders.”

Devil frowned, then looked down at the note. “I didn't get your letter—I must have left before Daley arrived.” The admission was past his lips before he'd considered.

“But—” Honoria's brow was a mass of furrows. “If you didn't get my letter, why are you here?”

Devil stilled. A minute passed; slowly, he lifted his head and met Honoria's puzzled gaze. She searched his face—abruptly, he looked down. “I came because I got this.” He forced himself to draw the folded note from his pocket. He didn't want to give it to her, but her straightforwardness, her honesty—her love—left him no choice. His heart a leaden weight in his chest, he handed it over.

Honoria unfolded the note, then read it. When she got to the end, she paused and drew an unsteady breath. A vise locked painfully about her chest; her heart beat heavily. Without lifting her head, she read the note again.

As she worked out what must have happened, her hands, holding the note, shook—she fought to steady them. Then, very slowly, she raised her head—and looked straight at Devil, into those eyes that usually saw too much but could also be blinded by fury. Time stretched; she stared into his eyes, her own full of pleading and disbelief. “It's not true—I would
never
do that. You
know
I wouldn't.” In a painfully soft whisper, she added: “I
love
you.”

Devil closed his eyes. “I
know
.” His jaw clenched; savage rage swirled within him, directed at his would-be killer who had struck through the one, truly vulnerable chink in his armor—and hurt her. He dragged in a huge breath; opening his eyes, he locked them on hers. “I didn't think—I reacted. When I got that note, I
couldn't
think. Then I saw you come out of Chillingworth's—” He broke off; his jaw clenched tighter, but he forced himself to hold Honoria's gaze. Very low, he said:
“I care for you
—
too much
.”

His words reached Honoria; what she saw in his eyes wiped away her pain. The vise about her chest eased; she drew a deep breath. “That's only fair.” Shifting along the seat, she slid her arms about him and laid her head against his chest. “I love you so much it hurts, too.”

If he couldn't say the words, she'd say them for him; the truth was there, shining in his eyes. His arms closed about her, then locked painfully tight; after a moment, he rested his cheek on her curls. He was so tense, his muscles flickered. Gradually, as the carriage rolled on, she felt his tension ease, felt the muscles in his arms unlock.

His warmth enveloped her; his heart beat steadily beneath her cheek. He drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled; long fingers found her chin and tipped her face up.

Their eyes met, and held, then he lowered his head. Honoria's lashes fell as Devil touched his lips to hers in a gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.

He drew back, one brow rising. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me just what
did
happen?”

No command or demand, just a mild request; Honoria couldn't help but grin. “Actually, Chillingworth was very insistent that I tell you all, which must be a first.”

“Very likely. Start at the beginning—when you knocked on his door. Was he expecting you?”

“Not exactly.” Honoria wriggled upright. “He'd received a note, too—I saw it. Written in the same hand as ours.” She placed the note she still held next to the one on the seat beside Devil. “See? You can't tell if it's a man or a woman.”

“Hmm—so he knew you were coming to see him?”

“No.” Honoria spoke distinctly, mindful of Chillingworth's instructions—and her husband's propensities. “His note was from a mysterious unnamed lady, making an assignation for this afternoon. It was quite . . .” she gestured airily, “titillating.”

Devil narrowed his eyes. “By which you mean Chillingworth was raring to go—what did he say when you arrived on his front stoop?”

Honoria shot Devil a mischievous look. “Actually, I think he was even more surprised than I was. He was almost disapproving.”

Devil raised his brows skeptically. “And?”

“What followed was actually my fault—he told me I couldn't possibly be in earnest. Naturally, I assured him I was.”

“
And?
”

Honoria held Devil's gaze. “He tried to kiss me—and I hit him.”

Devil blinked—then blinked again. “You
hit
him?”

Honoria nodded. “Michael taught me how before he allowed me to go governessing.” She frowned. “I suppose I should have used my knee, but I didn't think of it at the time.”

Devil only just managed not to choke. “I think,” he said, his voice not entirely steady, “that Chillingworth is probably quite grateful you hit him.” Honoria was uncommonly tall, and Chillingworth was shorter than he was. Devil's lips twitched. “I must remember to inform him of his close escape.”

Honoria frowned. “Yes, well—unfortunately that's not all. When I hit him, his nose started to bleed.”

It was too much; Devil succumbed to gales of laughter. “Oh, God,” he said, when he could speak again. “
Poor
Chillingworth.”

“He seemed to think so, too. His waistcoat was ruined.”

One hand pressed to his aching ribs, Devil fisted Honoria's left hand. “You must have used your left.”

Honoria nodded. “How did you know?”

Devil's grin was pure devilish delight. “I caught him with a left at Eton—the same thing happened. He bled like a stuck pig.”

“Precisely.” Honoria sighed. “I'm afraid he's feeling rather put-upon.”

“I can imagine.”

Devil's tone had hardened; Honoria looked up inquiringly.

He met her eyes. “He and I will have to sort this out.”

Honoria straightened. “What do you mean?”

Devil's lips softened as he drew her back into his arms. “Just that we'll need to make sure we've got our stories straight in case someone noticed or starts a rumor.” He hugged Honoria close. “Don't worry—I'm hardly likely to call a man out because my wife bloodied his nose.”

Honoria frowned. “Yes—but is
he
likely to call
you
out because I bloodied his nose?”

Devil's chest quaked. “I really don't think that's likely.” Grinning, he tilted Honoria's face up. “You're a remarkably resourceful woman, you know.”

She blinked her eyes wide. “Naturally—I was raised an Anstruther-Wetherby.”

Smiling, Devil lowered his head. “You were raised to be a Cynster.”

He kissed her—and kept kissing her. The carriage rolled slowly through the gathering gloom, through the quiet shadows beneath the trees.

Breathless moments later, Honoria discovered that he could be remarkably resourceful, too. “
Great heavens!
” She had barely enough breath to whisper the words. “We
can't
—” Her hands closed tightly about Devil's wrists; her head fell back as she struggled for breath. “Where are we?”

“In the park.” Intent on what he was doing, Devil didn't raise his head. “If you look outside, you'll see a number of carriages slowly rolling around the circuit.”

“I can't
believe
—” A burst of pleasure stripped the thought from Honoria's mind; she struggled to hold back a moan. The thought that replaced the first had her blinking her eyes wide. “What about John and Sligo?” On a gasp, she met Devil's eyes. “Won't they realize?”

The grin on her husband's lips could only be described as devilish. “The trick's in the timing—trust me, they won't feel a thing.”

They didn't—but she, and he, certainly did.

It seemed like hours—an infinite number of panting, gasping,
desperately
silent minutes later—when, slumped against Devil's chest, Honoria wriggled, then wriggled again. Frowning, she sat up and examined the buttons on his coat.

“Horrible things—they're sticking into me.” She turned the mother-of-pearl buttons about. “They're not as big as the ones Tolly had, but they're quite bad enough.”

Devil's eyes, closed in blissful peace, snapped open.

“What?”

“These buttons—they're too large.”

“No—what else did you say?”

Honoria frowned even more. “That they're like the ones on Tolly's coat?”

Devil stared into the distance, then he closed his eyes—and closed his arms about Honoria, drawing her close. “That's it.” He spoke the words into her hair.

“That's what I've been trying to remember about Tolly's death.”

Honoria held him. “The button deflecting the ball? Does it help?”

His chin resting in her hair, Devil nodded. “It helps. It's the final nail in our would-be-murderer's coffin.”

Honoria tried to look at Devil's face, but he held her too tightly. “You're sure who it is?”

Devil sighed. “Beyond doubt.”

Three minutes later, their clothes precisely correct once more, the duke and duchess of St. Ives headed back to Grosvenor Square.

V
ane was waiting in the library when Honoria and Devil entered. He searched their faces, then relaxed.

“The end is nigh.” Devil handed Honoria to the
chaise
, then sat beside her.

Vane sat in an armchair. “What happened?”

Devil gave him a severely edited account, proffering only the note Honoria had received. “The one I got was in the same hand.” Vane studied the note, then frowned. Devil suggested: “Look at the writing itself, not the style.”

Vane's face cleared. “The nib! He always uses those wide nibs so his writing looks heavier.

We've got him!”

“Yes, and no. Everything we've discovered is circumstantial. Given what I've remembered today—”

“
And
my news, which I've yet to tell you,” Vane cut in.

“Put it together,” Devil continued, “and the murderer's identity's obvious. Obvious, however, isn't proof.”

Vane grimaced; Devil's expression was bleak. Honoria glanced from one to the other. “But
who is it?
” When they looked at her blankly, she nearly ground her teeth. “You haven't told me yet.”

Devil blinked. “But it was you who told me. You were the first to put it into words.”

“I thought it was Richard, remember? You
both
told me I was wrong.”

“Well, you were,” Vane said. “It isn't Richard.”

“You suggested the murderer was my heir.” Devil waited until Honoria looked his way. “Effectively, he is.”

Honoria's eyes flew wide. She glanced at Vane, then looked back at Devil. “But . . . You mean
George
. . . ?”