Devil's Bride (53 page)

“George?”

“
Father?
”

Devil and Vane stared at her. “Why George?” Devil asked. “He's not my heir.”

“He's
not?
” It was Honoria's turn to stare. “But Horatia told me he's a bare year younger than your father was.”

“He is,” Vane corroborated.

“Great heavens!” Honoria's eyes couldn't get any wider. “How many Cynster skeletons are there? Is George another Cynster like Richard?”

“You've missed a vital point—George and Arthur are twins.” Devil caught Honoria's gaze. “Arthur's the elder twin—and no, it's not him either.”

“
Charles?
” Honoria's expression blanked, then hardened. “How . . .” For a full minute, words failed her, then her eyes flashed. “How
cowardly
.” She met Devil's eyes. “He killed his younger brother.”

“Half brother,” Devil corrected. “As he used to be very quick to point out. He's also now tried to kill me.”

“Several times,” Vane put in.

“He's also tried to kill you.” Devil reached for Honoria's hand.

“And it now looks like he's killed his previous man, Holthorpe.”

Devil and Honoria looked at Vane. “What did you discover?” Devil asked.

“Circumstantial evidence still, but I've had all the shipping lists checked—no Holthorpe embarked for America, or anywhere else. Holthorpe never left England.”

Devil frowned. “Let's start at the beginning. Tolly left Mount Street the evening before he died. As far as we can tell, he headed home on foot. His lodgings were in Wigmore Street, so he'd walk past here. According to Sligo, he called in and learned I'd gone up to the Place. He continued on in good spirits—”

“And stopped in to see Charles,” Vane said. “Around the corner in Duke Street.”

“Given Holthorpe's disappearance, that seems a reasonable assumption.” Devil's frown grew. “Presumably Tolly learned something, possibly overheard something—something that told him Charles was planning to kill me. Let's take that as read—what would Tolly do?”

“Tax Charles with it,” Vane replied. “Tolly wouldn't have paused to think of any danger—he was too open and honest and naive to imagine others might be less so.”

“We'll presume Charles didn't recant, so Tolly left.”

“Probably saying enough on his way out to seal Holthorpe's fate.” Vane looked grim. “The next morning, as soon as he could, Tolly left for the Place.”

“But Charles took the faster route—we know he did. We didn't find anyone who could place Charles near the lane when Tolly was shot, but we did exhaustively prove no one else was in the area. No other gentleman arrived from London that day.” Devil glanced at Vane.

“Right. So Charles shot Tolly—”

“That's what I'd forgotten. The button on Tolly's coat.”

Vane looked puzzled. “What about it?”

Devil sighed. “The shot that killed Tolly was nothing short of perfect—the only reason he didn't die immediately with a hole through his heart was because one of his coat buttons”—Devil glanced down at the buttons on his coat—“like these, only larger, deflected the shot.” He met Vane's eyes, then glanced at Honoria. “Charles's one real talent is that he's an exceptional marksman.”

“Particularly with a long-barreled pistol.” Vane nodded. “All right—so we have Tolly dead. Charles “arrives” at the Place then plays the grieving brother the next day.”

“Very convincingly.” Devil's face hardened.

“He must have got one hell of a shock when he realized Tolly had lived long enough to talk to you.”

Devil nodded. “But he kept mum and saw it through, Tolly's funeral and all.”

“But then came the biggest shock of all.” Vane looked from Devil to Honoria. “Charles learned you were going to marry Honoria.”

Honoria frowned. “Actually, no. Not then. I put him off.” When Devil looked his question, she grimaced. “He came to see me in the summerhouse after the wake. He offered to marry me in your stead, assuming I was concerned over protecting my name.”

“He
what
?” Devil stared at her.

Honoria shrugged. “I told him I'd no intention of marrying you or anyone.”

“He believed you,” Vane said. “He was taken aback later, at Mama's ball, when Gabriel and I suggested you'd changed your mind.”

“Hardly surprising.” Devil glanced at Honoria. “He'd stopped us in the park not long before and you as good as assured him you were off to Africa in a few weeks.”

Honoria shrugged again.

“And that,” Vane said, “was when the attacks on you started.”

“Your phaeton accident.” Honoria paled.

Devil squeezed her hand. “An impulsive first attempt. I was very busy after that, then came our wedding.”

Honoria shivered. “I just remembered—Charles warned me on our wedding day that I shouldn't have married you.”

Devil drew her against him. “While we remained at the Place, he didn't attempt anything.”

“Too dangerous,” Vane said. “Too likely he'd be spotted there.”

“But as soon as we returned to town, he started plotting in earnest.” Devil looked at Honoria. “First, he tried to convince me to send you back to the Place.” His lips twisted. “I'm afraid I told him precisely where you stood in my affections. So, from then on, you, too, were in his sights—he wouldn't risk a posthumous heir.”

Turning to Vane, Devil missed Honoria's startled expression. “The episode with the brandy came next, then the three sailors with swords who knew my route home. Both attempts were well within Charles's capabilities.”

Vane held Devil's gaze. “That brandy should have done for you, you know.”

Feeling Honoria shiver, Devil shot him a warning glance. “But it didn't, so he persevered. The sailors, I suspect, was an opportunity he couldn't pass up—he's walked home with me from White's often enough.”

Vane frowned. “What about this business with the palaces? Where does that fit?”

Devil grimaced. “It might not—but I'll wager it'll turn out to be Charles. Whatever, I'll find out tonight.”

“Tonight?” Vane blinked. “What with everything else, I'd forgotten. What's our plan?”

Devil glanced at Honoria; absorbed with her own thoughts, she eventually felt his gaze. Looking up, she blushed. “I was just recalling,” she said, her eyes locking on Devil's, “something Lady Herring mentioned.”

Devil's expression blanked. “Lady Herring?”

Honoria nodded. “She said Charles approached her—something about replacing her last paramour. She refused him—from the sound of it, quite contemptuously.”

“Hmm.” Devil looked thoughtful.

“That wouldn't have helped Charles at all.” Vane shook his head. “He always resented your successes—apparently on that level, too.”

The look Devil shot him was sharply reproving; Vane simply raised his brows. “It might explain why he started frequenting the palaces—the timing's right. A Cynster couldn't patronize such places for long without us hearing of it, and we heard of it soon after Tolly's funeral.”

Devil nodded. “But I still want to know definitely.”

“When's the meeting?”

“Midnight.”

Vane looked at the clock. “I'll drive—Sligo can travel behind. Lucifer'll keep watch from the street—Scandal'll be at the corner.” Devil stared; Vane raised his brows. “You didn't seriously imagine we'd let you waltz in there without pickets?”

Honoria kept her lips firmly shut on the response she knew Devil would not, in this instance, appreciate—“Thank God for the Bar Cynster” was not what he was thinking.

Devil scowled. “What
else
have you organized?”

“Nothing.” Vane's expression was mild. “But there's no earthly use imagining we'll let Charles take another easy crack at you. If you die, he'll be the head of the family—there's not one of us can stomach the thought.”

Devil glanced at Honoria; when she said nothing, he looked back at Vane. “All right. But I don't want the cavalry charging in before the bugle sounds—we need to let Charles run with his master plan and let him take enough rope to hang himself.”

“His master plan.” Vane glanced at the note in his lap. “Is that what this is?”

Devil nodded. “It fits. I'd worried that all the other attempts were too simple, too spontaneous—simply not like Charles. You know how he thinks. Any plan of his is convoluted and complicated. He's also very conservative, socially rigid. This latest effort has his character stamped all over it. Involved, heavy with intrigue, and solidly based in society's view of me, Honoria, and Chillingworth.”

“Chillingworth?” Vane frowned. “Why him?”

“Because he
appears
to be the perfect goad.”

“For what?”

Devil smiled—chillingly. “My temper.”

Vane blinked, remembering the note Devil had received, the note he hadn't been allowed to see. His expression leached. “Oh.”

“Indeed. This time, Charles has outdone himself—it's really a very good plan. It might have worked.” Devil glanced at Honoria. “If things had been otherwise.”

Studying his eyes, she raised a brow. “I'm not well acquainted with Charles's mental processes—could you explain his master plan to me?”

Devil's lips twisted; raising her hand, he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Charles needs to kill me—and now you as well—to take the title. He's tried to avoid direct action; the phaeton, the brandy, the sailors—there's no way of connecting them with him. But such chancy methods haven't succeeded. So, consider—he needs both me and you dead
with a reason
. After Tolly's death, accidental shooting of even one of us would cause a furore.”

“No one would swallow that twice,” Vane put in. “And he knows the rest of us wouldn't let your death under suspicious circumstances rest.”

“Which is why he's focused on the one type of death for both of us that society will swallow without a qualm, and, even more importantly, the family will not only accept, but work with him to hide.”

Vane's jaw firmed. “I don't like what I'm thinking, but if that's how he's set it up, he's read us very well.”

Devil nodded. “He's clever. Not wise, but clever.”

“I still don't understand,” Honoria said. “What exactly is this death Charles has planned for us?”

Devil looked at her, his expression bleak. “Charles has known me all my life. He knows of my temper, of the scope of my rage; he has a reasonable idea of what might touch it off. With his three carefully structured notes, he arranged for me to find you coming out of Chillingworth's house.”

“I'd worked that much out.”

“From there on, he's relying on me—and my rage—to set the scene. He's counting on me to enact the role of jealously furious husband to the hilt, so he can kill us both and blame it on my sufficiently well-known temper.”

Honoria held his gaze. “He's going to make it appear that you killed me in a jealous rage, and then killed yourself?”

Devil nodded.

Honoria's eyes narrowed, then flashed. Her chin firmed. “Charles,” she declared, “is clearly not a Cynster.” She looked at Devil. “How do we plan to catch him?”

“The only way we can—by letting him show his hand.”

“So what's our next move?” Vane handed the note back to Devil.

“Our next move is to make our own plans, which must include all the right actions to make Charles believe
his
plan is succeeding. In any good play, the villain only reveals himself in the last scene; Charles won't appear unless we, the intended victims, play out the earlier scenes correctly.” Devil glanced at Vane, leaning forward, intent, then looked at Honoria, calmly expectant by his side. He smiled, coldly. “We've already completed the opening scene in our melodrama. For the next . . .”

At six o'clock the next morning, wreathed in mist, two tall figures, pistol in hand, faced each other on Paddington Green. Their seconds stood aside; a scrap of white drifted down. Two shots rang out. One of the principals crumpled to the ground; the other, clothed in black, waited while the doctor swooped down on his patient, then handed his pistol to his second and stiffly turned away.

He and his second climbed into a black, unmarked carriage and departed the scene.

The third scene in the tragedy was played out later that morning.

Gentlefolk taking their morning stroll in Grosvenor Square—nurses and their charges, governesses and young misses, old and young alike—all witnessed the unexpected sight of the St. Ives traveling carriage rolling into the square. It drew up before St. Ives House; an army of footmen descended to strap on a mountain of luggage.

Diverted, many watched, wondering, then the door opened; His Grace of St. Ives, his face like stone, appeared, leading a heavily veiled woman. Given her height, there were few who did not recognize his duchess; her stiff manner and the way she held her head led most to speculate that there'd been some falling-out, some possibly scandalous rift in what had, until then, appeared a remarkably felicitous relationship.

Before a host of round eyes, the duke handed the duchess into the carriage and followed her in. A footman shut the door; the coachman whipped up his horses.

The word was winging, on whispers uttered with wide eyes, on hushed confidences traded behind elegantly gloved hands, long before the carriage had quit the fashionable precincts. The St. Iveses had left London unexpectedly, just before the beginning of the Season. What was the
ton
to think?

Predictably, the
ton
thought—and said—precisely what had been intended.

Four powerful blacks drew the St. Ives carriage rapidly into Cambridgeshire. Leaning against Devil's shoulder, Honoria watched the countryside flash by. “I've been thinking.”