The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series)

THE BLUE DEVIL

by

Melynda Beth Andrews

A PEDESTAL LANTERN BOOK

PUBLISHED BY PEDESTAL BOOKS

Copyright 2001, 2011 by Melynda Beth Andrews, All Rights Reserved

Pedestal Books and the author ask that you not participate in or encourage piracy of this copyrighted work. Please don’t scan or distribute it other than for short excerpts for the purpose of critical review. Thank you.

ISBN-10 0-9839891-0-9

ISBN-13 9780983989103

This is a work of fiction. Everything and everyone in it are the product of the author’s imagination or is used fictitiously, and, apart from historical personages, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental

For my darling Boris,

my turgid bumblebee of eternal love,

from his sweet flower of trembling passion

(may he die a thousand painful, screaming

deaths in the molten misery of eternal

bug spray).

And for John.

Dear Reader,

There’s a fair chance you’ll love the book you’re holding.

The Blue Devil
, by Melynda Beth Andrews, was originally published by Kensington Publishing under the author’s former name, Melynda Beth Skinner. A debut novel, it was a finalist for a Golden Heart award from the Romance Writers of America. Romantic Times Book Club awarded
The Blue Devil
four stars and pronounced it “unique and refreshing.” The story often appears on reader lists of favorite comedic Regency-set novels. And Melynda Beth Andrews’s work has been hailed by critics as “delightful,” “a rare treat,” and “wickedly entertaining.”

If you enjoy this story, you’ll be glad to know it’s the first book of a connected series, the Regency Matchmaker Series:

The Blue Devil

Miss Grantham’s One True Sin

Lord Logic

The Blackguard’s Bride

The four stories all feature Ophelia Palin, a flamboyant old London matchmaker, who knows everyone’s business better than they do. And a certain piece of fabric passes from story to story, undergoing a surprising transformation each time.

You can visit with the author on the web at
www.MelyndaAndrews.com
.

Happy reading!

—Pedestal Books

CHAPTER ONE

London, England, 1815

T
HE TIRED OLD
coach pulled into Grosvenor Square seven hours late, just after one-o’-the-clock, its lamps glowing weakly in the foggy darkness. Swearing and mumbling, its driver manoeuvred the vehicle and its single passenger amongst a throng of other equipages, whose brilliantly liveried coachmen tossed catcalls and the odd apple core after the ancient, dilapidated coach as it passed.

Inside, Kathryn St. David groaned. The square was a crush of splendid, black-lacquered coaches and magnificent matched teams. Surely Great-aunt Ophelia wouldn’t have thrown a ball for her on the very night she was to arrive in London!

Kathryn moved the curtain aside to peer at the enormous, marble-fronted mansions which lined the square, then squeezed her eyes shut and sagged back against the threadbare squabs of her parents’ coach. It had been a mistake to come here. Kathryn didn’t belong amongst the elegant
ton
. Why, only yesterday she’d been romping over the hills, where she’d managed to fall into a brook, returning home sodden and laughing.

She supposed the grandeur before her should not have surprised her. Palin House was Great-aunt Ophelia’s chosen home, after all, and wasn’t
everything
about Ophelia grand? Everything large sums of money could have an effect upon, at least?

Unfortunately, no amount of money could turn back the hands of time. Kathryn was nearly three-and-twenty, and nothing could change that, not even the formidable Ophelia.

But Auntie had insisted she could work some sort of miracle upon Kathryn’s looks. It wasn’t appearing long-in-the-tooth that plagued Kathryn, but just the opposite.

To her unending disgust, she didn’t look a day past fifteen. Slender as a wisp and short of stature, she possessed a childishly rounded, heart-shaped face crowned with tight, blond curls. And she didn’t have much in the way of curves to which a daringly dampened petticoat might cling! Yet in spite of Kathryn’s advanced age and diminutive size, Ophelia had promised her a London Season with ballrooms full of handsome young suitors, all eager for Kathryn to toss them a crumb of notice.

According to Auntie, Kathryn would be lucky to escape the avalanche of vellum invitations she would soon have. Ophelia foretold anonymous odes writ to her niece’s eyes, desperate pleas for the grant of a dance, tender love letters from sincere beaux—as well as deliciously improper missives from beaux not-so-sincere, which Kathryn would certainly not acknowledge, though there would be no harm in the reading. Ophelia vowed Kathryn would have a flock of dashing, wealthy gentlemen vying for her hand by summer’s end.

Kathryn did not see how that was possible. Yet neither did she concur with her parents’ projections.

They had abandoned London long ago, rejecting its perfidy and politics for the slow honesty of the country the year Kathryn was born. Stubbornly hoping she would find her heart’s desire there, they had thus far resisted allowing her a Season in London. But even they had to admit that three-and-twenty maidenhood was cause for alarm. Desperate circumstances required desperate measures. And so they’d sent her on her way under a shower of warnings: London was full of handsome young demons eager to steal her innocence. They would swoop down upon Kathryn, and she would be forced to flee for home. She would be lucky to escape London with her life—to say nothing of her virtue—intact.

Fortunately, both of these improbable scenarios—her parents’ and Auntie’s—sounded quite exhilarating to Kathryn. And since good sense told her reality would fall somewhere between the two, she had been eager to see for herself what London had to offer.

Until now.

As her coachman pressed forward and Kathryn peered around the curtain, she identified the dignified lines of Palin House, disconcertingly aglow. Music and laughter wafted from its glittering windows, while bejeweled, bemasqued guests overflowed onto its lawns and even into the Square. In Auntie’s typically daring style, she’d chosen to give a masqued ball, which, Kathryn had heard, was considered rather fast, even here in London. Kathryn looked down at the front of her dusty brown kerseymere traveling costume. Even in the gloom, she could see the dark stains of blackberry jam left there when the coach had done battle with an enormous pothole and lost. The lurch broke a wheel as well as the crock of preserves Kathryn’s mother had packed for her noonday meal. She’d washed as best she could, but even if she’d been able to get all the jam out, the dust and the wrinkles would still be there now.

An idea hit Kathryn. Perhaps she could attend the masque as an urchin!

Looking out at the gaily colored costumes of the ladies who floated across Auntie’s lawns, Kathryn’s customary optimism deserted her. She might be a country mouse, but even she knew making an entrance dressed as she was, much less as an urchin, would be a disaster.

The coach lurched to a halt.

“We’re ’ere, love!” John called, and the carriage swayed precariously as he swung down from his box.

Panic rose within Kathryn, and she would have urged John to turn the coach and head for home, but for one supremely logical thought: even if she never appeared in anything better than what she was dressed in at this moment, her chances of finding a husband here in London were still far better than finding one back home in tiny, distressingly underpopulated Heathford. There, she could dress like a princess at court every day, and it wouldn’t matter. No man could take notice of her where there were no men at all! Besides, if she left London now, Great-aunt Ophelia would be disappointed as well as hurt. But perhaps Kathryn would be doing Ophelia a favor in the long run, for no matter what Auntie said, finding a husband for Kathryn wasn’t going to be easy. And Kathryn’s arrival in
this
sad state was about to make the task much more difficult.

She tugged her gloves on tighter, girding herself for the ordeal to come, but when the driver yanked open the door, which squeaked on its rusty iron hinges, she froze.

“John! Please, close the door. I am not prepared.”

John scowled, his bushy gray brows meeting in the center, but he complied without comment.

“And, pray,” she added, motioning at the outsides of the coach, “put out the lamps.”

This instruction brought a muttered string of unintelligible complaint, but John did as asked while Kathryn wrapped her brown wool cloak about her and raised its hood before tapping on the door.

John opened the door again and peered inside. “You ’iding from someone?” he asked.

“No.”

He ignored her. “Don’t blame ye. I’d ’ide too, if’n I could.” He swabbed ineffectually with his handkerchief at a blob of apple pulp that clung to the side of the coach.

“John . . . perhaps you’ve got something there.”

“Got what? I don’t have nothing ’cept a mess of a ’anky!” He held up the offending square of cotton.

“No, no. What I mean to say is that you’ve a splendid idea.”

“I ’ave?”

“Yes.”

“About what, may I ask?”

“Hiding.”

“’Iding?”

Kathryn smiled and nodded. “Kindly escort me to the backdoor, John.”

“The back door?”

“You do know the way? You were here with Mama and Papa years ago.”

John grumbled. “’Ow
could
I forget that? Wish I could forget. But who could forget ’Er Majesty? The old dragon!” He spat in the direction of the house, forgetting his manners, and Kathryn stifled a grin. John’s ire for her Great-aunt was legendary—and so normal it was comical. He hooked his thumb toward the house. “The ’ag. O’ course I mind the way. Just ain’t fitting, that’s all, you bein’ family. What’s got into you, miss? Walkin’ in the back door like you was a servant!”

Kathryn smiled and looped her arm through his. “Well, John, you must admit that I am not exactly dressed for the occasion.”

“Nothing wrong with ’ow you’re dressed.” What John lacked in polish he made up for in loyalty. “Why, you’d put any o’ them Town pugs in there to shame, you would. Your ’air is like spun gold, and you’ve a wisp of a figure, beggin’ your pardon, and your eyes are like the biggest, shiniest blue shoe buttons a body ever saw, and . . . and ‘your lips are like a red, red rose,’” he misquoted Mr. Robert Burns.

Kathryn smiled fondly and patted his arm. “The back door, if you please, my old friend.”

There were actually several back doors to the enormous house. Kathryn wasn’t quite sure which to choose, but John seemed to know just the one, after Kathryn explained what she had in mind. The narrow entrance he took her to led directly to a set of cramped back stairs. There, John parted company with Kathryn and left to see to the team and coach.

Kathryn stood listening on the first landing. The house hummed with activity, but the servants were busy either in the kitchen or ballroom, and the back stairs were empty. She ascended to the third floor and walked briskly down the main hall, looking for her bedchamber. It was easy to spot. The door was ajar, and as soon as she entered, she saw that the coals on the hearth were banked and glowing, providing some heat, but very little light. She made for the bedside table, where a candle would be, but in the darkness she kicked a heavy oak washstand, doing an injury to one of her littlest toes. She stifled a howl. Curse these flimsy slippers! They were not good for traveling. Kathryn would have much preferred her own thick leather walking boots, but her mother would not hear of her taking the ugly things to London.

She plunked down on the bed and reached for her foot. She didn’t think she had broken it, but it was throbbing, and it was obvious it would be sore for quite some time.

She looked about her. The room was appointed in a lavish style, with touches of gilt and silver here and there and rich scarlet hangings and a scarlet brocade counterpane on the bed. An ornately carved clothespress stood empty in the corner, awaiting the contents of her trunk.

Limping a little, she placed the candle on the sill to signal John as to her location, wishing he would appear instantly, though she knew it would be a good hour before he had the coach and horses settled to his satisfaction.

The hall echoed with muted revelry from below. She knew nothing she could pull from her baggage was fancy enough to wear to the ball. Auntie would be perturbed when Kathryn came down dressed in her Sunday sarcenet, but the old lady would just have to smile and endure. It was Ophelia’s own fault, after all. Giving a ball tonight, of all nights—what had she been thinking? Kathryn slumped down onto a royal blue velvet-covered settee and massaged her neck. All she wanted was a hot bath and eight hours of stillness. The bone-jarring journey had felt much longer than it was—even before the back wheel had fallen off the poor old coach.

As Kathryn sat, gingerly rubbing her heels over the thick, red, blue, and cream Aubusson carpet, the voices carrying faintly up from the ballroom seemed to grow louder. Her eyes narrowed, and her gaze darted to the door just as a lady’s laughter trilled in echoes down the hallway.

Someone was coming.

A thought suddenly occurred to her. What if Auntie had overnight guests? What if this were not Kathryn’s chamber at all? What if it belonged to the approaching lady instead?

She doused the candle, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t close the outer door now without taking a chance on being seen. Her pulse pounded in her ears. What if she were found lurking about someone else’s bedchamber?

At home in Heathford, it would be shrugged off . . . but not in London. Auntie had warned that in Town Kathryn could well find herself ostracized for the smallest of infractions.

She must not appear, even for the briefest instant, outside without an escort.

She must not take her shoes off in the park to wiggle her toes in the grass.

She must not use her fan for cooling herself lest she send some unintended signal to a gentleman.

She must always accept and taste the dainties offered her at tea, but she must never finish them.

She must never agree to dance more than twice in one evening with any gentleman.

She must never ride astride no matter what she was wearing . . . and for heaven’s sake, she must never wear anything which would render her capable of riding astride!

The list of rules was endless.

Kathryn wanted very much to please Great-aunt Ophelia, and so she would do her best to remember all she’d been told. Poor Ophelia had hopes of convincing the
ton
Kathryn was a catch. A desirable and demure debutante. A Diamond of the First Water.

Kathryn knew the scheme was doomed from the start. She was a hoyden, a diamond of the last water. No tonnish man would take one such as herself to wife. Not even Ophelia could accomplish that sort of social
coup
, but it would be a shame to dash the lady’s hopes so soon—especially by disgracing herself by being caught in someone else’s bedchamber, and now there was only one way to be certain she would not be seen.

Kathryn hastily ducked into the clothespress as the lady’s unintelligible chatter progressed down the hallway. She was being a pea-goose, Kathryn told herself, for the lady would no doubt pass by unawares. Kathryn’s diminutive stature allowed her to stand erect in the clothespress, and she felt a little silly standing there—until the lady stopped—right in front of Kathryn’s chamber door.

“It seems we have arrived, darling,” the woman’s cooed.

Darling
? There were two of them!

“What game are you playing, Lydia?” a masculine voice queried.

“Oh, look . . . someone has left this door ajar. Do you think a servant is in there?” The lady gasped—rather dramatically, Kathryn thought. “Or perhaps a thief? Perhaps you should go in there and see, before we proceed.”

“
Lydia
. . .” the man’s voice warned.

“I assure you I am playing no game!”

The gentleman sighed and pushed open Kathryn’s door, just missing the soft click the door of the clothespress made as it closed behind Kathryn. “See? No one here,” he said.

Kathryn pressed her face as close as she dared to the front interior of the clothespress and peered through the high keyhole. She saw a tall figure pass in front of her, and then the room went black as the outer door was shut behind the two. She could see nothing, but she knew the couple stood scant inches in front of her.

“Yes, darling,” the woman said. “It seems you are correct. No one here but us. Alone.”

“Lydia!” He sighed.

With a start, Kathryn realized she was about to witness a . . . a liaison! Oh, heavens, if she thought it a wrinkle to be discovered lurking in someone’s room, how much worse would it be to be found lurking in someone’s clothespress as they . . . they . . .
liaisoned
?