Devil's Bride (54 page)

Devil opened his eyes only enough to look down at her. “Oh?”

“We'll have to give a formal ball as soon as we return to town. To dispel the mistaken impression we've been at such pains to instill.”

Devil's lips twitched. “You'll have to invite Chillingworth, of course.”

Honoria flicked him a warning glance. “I suppose that's unavoidable.”

“Quite.” Devil studied the weak sunlight playing across her features. “Incidentally, I should warn you that, despite its being midnight, it's possible someone might have seen me at the palace last night.” The unknown Cynster had proved to be Charles; the madam's story had been utterly convincing.

Honoria lifted a haughty shoulder. “If any should think to mention your presence there to me, I can assure you they'll meet with a very cool reception.”

Observing the imperious tilt of her chin, Devil decided it was unlikely even the most thick-skinned gabblemonger would dare—his wife was fast becoming as matriarchally intimidating as his mother.

“Do you think anyone was watching at Paddington Green this morning?” Honoria asked.

“Gabriel spotted a fellow resembling Charles's new man, Smiggs.”

“So we assume Charles knows you and Chillingworth met?”

“It's a reasonable bet.” Devil settled her more comfortably against him. “Try to rest.” When she looked at him blankly, he added: “Tomorrow might be exhausting.”

Honoria frowned vaguely. “I'm not sleepy.” She looked away and so missed Devil's exasperated grimace.

After a moment, he ventured: “I just thought—”

“When do you think Charles'll appear?”

Devil inwardly sighed. “Either tonight, in which case he'll come up to the house and announce his presence, or sometime tomorrow, in which case he might not.”
When
was she going to tell him? “I'll send a couple of grooms to Cambridge, to warn us the instant he arrives there.”

“You think he'll use his usual route?”

“There's no reason for him to do otherwise.” Studying her profile, noting her firm, not to say resolute, chin, Devil stated: “Incidentally, whatever transpires, you'll need to keep one point uppermost in your mind.”

Tilting her head, Honoria blinked up at him. “What?”

“You're to obey my orders without question. And if I'm not about, then I'll have your promise that you'll do what Vane tells you, without giving him a headache in the process.”

Honoria searched his eyes, then looked forward. “Very well. I'll abide by your edicts. And Vane's in your absence.”

Devil drew her back against him and touched his lips to her hair. “Thank you.” Beneath his confident facade, he was deeply uneasy. The need to allow Charles to act and thus incriminate himself, to have to follow his lead and so enter the fray with no plan at all, was risky enough; having Honoria involved made it a hundred times worse. Tightening his hold on her, he settled his cheek on her hair. “We'll need to work together—rely on each other, and Vane—if we're going to spike Charles's guns.”

Clasping her hands over his at her waist, Honoria humphed. “Given guns are Charles's favorite weapon, we may literally have to do so.”

Devil closed his eyes and prayed it wouldn't come to that. To his relief, Honoria nodded off, lulled by the swaying of the carriage and the mild sunshine bathing the countryside. She woke as the carriage halted before the front steps of the Place.

“Ho-
hum
.” Stifling a yawn, Honoria allowed Devil to lift her down.

Webster was there to greet them. “No trouble, Your Grace?”

“None.” Devil glanced around. “Where's Vane?” Vane had left for Cambridgeshire the instant they'd quit Paddington Green; Webster and Mrs. Hull had left Grosvenor Square at first light.

“Trouble with the windmill at Trotter's Field.” Webster directed the footmen to the luggage. “Master Vane was here when Kirby reported it—he went to take a look.”

Devil met Honoria's eye. “I should go and check. It's only a few fields away—I won't be long.”

Honoria waved him away. “Go and shake the fidgets from that black demon of yours. He's probably scented your return—he'll be pawing up the pasture with impatience.”

Devil chuckled. Capturing her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. “I'll be back within the hour.”

Honoria watched him stride away, then, with a contented sigh, trod up the steps to her home. And it was home—she felt it immediately she entered. Throwing off her bonnet, she smiled at Mrs. Hull, passing with a bowl of open bulbs for the drawing room. Drawing a deep breath, she felt calm strength infuse her—the strength of generations of Cynster women.

She took tea in the back parlor, then, restless, wandered the downstairs rooms, reacquainting herself with the views. Returning to the hall, she paused. It was too early to change for dinner.

Two minutes later, she was climbing the summerhouse steps. Settling on the wickerwork settee, she studied the house, the imposing facade that had so impressed her at first sight. Recalling how Devil had hauled her along that day, she grinned. The thought of her husband increased her restlessness; he'd been gone for nearly an hour.

Rising, she left the summerhouse and headed for the stables. There was no one about when she entered the yard, but the stables were never unmanned. The stablelads would be out exercising her husband's prize cattle; the older men were probably assisting with the broken mill. Melton, however, would be hiding somewhere; he would come if she called, but otherwise tended to remain out of sight.

Honoria entered the main stable block—neither Devil nor Sulieman was there. Unperturbed, she spent the next five minutes communing with her mare. Then she heard hoof-beats. Lifting her head, she listened—a horse clattered into the yard. Smiling, she fed the mare one last dried apple, then, dusting her hands on her skirts, walked quickly back down the stable and swung through the archway into the yard.

And ran into a man.

She fell back, eyes widening, a shriek stuck in her throat.

“Your pardon, my dear. I didn't mean to startle you.” With a brief, self-deprecatory smile, Charles stepped back.

“Ah . . .” One hand pressed to her palpitating heart, Honoria couldn't think what to say. Where was Devil? Or Vane? They who were supposed to tell her the plan? “I . . . er . . .”

Charles frowned. “I've truly overset you. I apologize. But I fear I bring grave news.”

The blood drained from Honoria's face. “What news?”

“I'm afraid . . .” Lips pinched, Charles's gaze swept her face. “There's been an accident,” he finally said. “Sylves-ter's hurt—he's asking for you.”

Eyes wide, Honoria searched his face. Was it true—or was this the first step in his final scene? If Devil was hurt, she didn't care—she would go to him regardless. But was Charles lying? She steadied her breathing, and tried to rein in her racing heart. “Where? Where is he?”

“At the cottage in the wood.”

She blinked. “The one where Tolly died?”

“Alas, yes.” Charles looked grave. “An unhappy place.”

Indeed—but the broken windmill was in the opposite direction. “Oh dear.” Striving for blankness, Honoria wrung her hands, something she'd never done in her life. In Devil's and Vane's absence, she'd have to script the scene herself. Delaying tactics came first. “I feel quite faint.”

Charles frowned. “There's no time for that.” When she tottered sideways and slumped against the stable wall, his frown deepened. “I wouldn't have thought you the sort to have the vapors.”

Unfortunately, Honoria had no idea what succumbing to the vapors entailed. “What—what happened? To Devil?”

“He's been shot.” Charles scowled with what was obviously supposed to be cousinly feeling. “Clearly some blackguard with a grudge against the family is using the wood as his cover.”

The blackguard was facing her; Honoria struggled to hide her reaction. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Severely.” Charles reached for her. “You must come quickly—God knows how long he'll last.”

He grasped her elbow; Honoria fought the impulse to twist free. Then she felt the strength in his grip and was not sure she could. Half-lifting her, Charles propelled her into the stables. “We have to hurry. Which horse is yours?”

Honoria shook her head. “I can't ride.”

Charles glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Pregnant women did not ride. Honoria blinked blankly.

“I'm nervous of horses.” As far as she could recall, Charles had never seen her ride. “And Devil's horses are impossible.” She managed to wriggle her elbow free. “We'll have to take the gig.”

“Gig!” Charles's scowl was quite real. “There's no time for that!”

“But—but—then I won't be able to go!” Honoria stood in middle of the stable and stared at him helplessly. Pathetically. Charles glared at her; she wrung her hands.

He ground his teeth. “Oh—
very well!
” He flung out of the stable and headed for the barn.

Honoria stopped in the yard. As soon as Charles disappeared into the barn, she searched, scanning the connecting yards, peering into the dimness of the opposite stable block. Where
was
Melton? Then she heard the rumble of wheels. “Damn!”

She scurried back across the yard. Her role was clear—she should go along with Charles's plan and let him incriminate himself. Panic feathered her nerves and tickled her spine; mentally, she stiffened it. They had to catch Charles—he was like a sword hanging over their heads, Devil's, hers, and the child she carried. But how would Devil rescue her if he didn't know where she was? Weakly, she slumped against the stable wall.

And saw Melton in the shadows of the stable directly opposite.

Honoria swallowed a whoop of joy; she hurriedly blanked her features as Charles maneuvered a light gig from the barn.

He threw her a black scowl. “Come hold the shafts while I fetch a horse.”

Softening her chin, hiding any hint of resolution, Honoria limply complied. Charles entered the stable; Honoria glanced at the one opposite. Melton's cap was just visible through the open stable door; he was hugging the shadows to one side of the entrance.

Then Charles was back, leading a strong grey. “Hold the shafts steady.”

Honoria dropped them once, then surreptitiously jostled the horse so he shouldered them loose again. Face set grimly, Charles worked frantically, buckling the harness, clearly conscious of time passing. Honoria fervently hoped she'd judged that commodity correctly, and that Devil would not decide to go for a longer ride.

Charles tugged on the final buckle, then stood back, scanning the rig. For one instant, his expression was unguarded—the smile that twisted his lips, oozing anticipation, Honoria could have done without. In that instant, she saw the killer behind the mask.

Melton might be old but his hearing was acute, which was how he so successfully avoided Devil. Honoria fixed Charles with her most helpless look. “Is Keenan with Devil?” She kept her expression vague, distracted. “You did say he's at Keenan's cottage, didn't you?”

“Yes, but Keenan's not there.” Charles sorted the reins.

“You mean he's alone?” Honoria let her eyes grow round. “Dying in Keenan's cottage all alone?”

“
Yes!
” Charles grabbed her arm and all but forced her into the gig. “He's dying there while you're having hysterics here.” He shoved the reins into her hands. “We have to hurry.”

Honoria waited until he was mounted on his chestnut, turning toward the stable entrance before asking: “Are you going to ride back direct?”

Charles frowned back at her. “Direct?”

“Well . . .” She gestured weakly at the gig. “This can't go through the arch in the wall—I'll have to leave by the main gate and then find the bridle path back to the cottage.” Charles audibly ground his teeth. “I had better,” he said, enunciating slowly, “stay with you. Or else you might get lost.”

Dumbly, Honoria nodded. Meekly, she clicked the reins and set the gig rolling. She'd done all she could—delayed by all means she dared. The rest was up to Devil.

D
evil knew something was desperately wrong the instant he spied Melton, standing beneath the stable yard arch, wildly waving his cap. Cursing, he set his heels to Sulieman's sides; Vane's exclamation died behind him, then hooves thundered as Vane followed in his wake.

“What?” he asked, hauling Sulieman to a sliding halt. “Master Charles.” Melton clutched his cap to his chest.

“Your lady went with him—he told her you were shot and a-dying in Keenan's cottage.”

Devil swore. “How long since they left?”

“Five minutes, no more. But your lady's a bright one—she insisted on taking the gig.”