The Devil to Pay (14 page)

And then it went.

For half an hour, Julia paced the floor, pausing only to peek out the window. Eventually, Lord Devellyn’s butler began to peek back. It was a little embarrassing, really. Finally, the two gentlemen appeared, apologizing for their tardiness. Lord Devellyn behaved as if he were paying a neighborly visit and nothing more. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan, however, acted the dashing bon vivant, quickly charming Julia.

Throughout dinner, the two of them carried the conversation, Julia regaling Sir Alasdair with tales of her career treading the boards. When anyone tried to turn the discussion toward Sidonie’s past, Julia turned it away at once. Sidonie was not precisely ashamed of her family or her background. Still, she had no wish to explain either to near strangers. She was a little surprised, however, at Julia’s assiduousness.

Fortunately, Sir Alasdair was quite the theater aficionado. He and Julia were soon in the midst of a lively argument about the greatest actors of the previous decade. “And did you ever meet the wonderful Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Crosby?” he asked as the last course was cleared. “I saw her in Home’s
Douglas,
you know, just before she retired.”

“A triumph, was it not?” Julia said.

“I thought her brilliant,” agreed Sir Alasdair. “Do you, by chance, know Miss Ellen Tree?”

“Know her?” echoed Julia, pressing a hand to her heart. “Why, I played Maria to her Olivia in
Twelfth Night.
It was her London debut.”

“I remember that!” exclaimed Sir Alasdair. “I attended opening night at Covent Garden. You were brilliant, Mrs. Crosby. Do you no longer act?”

Julia smiled tightly. “I am retired,” she murmured. “But I believe, Sir Alasdair, that I still have my marked-up script for
Twelfth Night
and some other mementos of the play. I’m something of a collector, you see.”

“So am I!” said Sir Alasdair. “But I’m a numismatist—a collector of rare coins. An obsession, collecting, is it not?”

“Indeed.” Julia was enjoying herself. “Would you care to see my memorabilia? I have old scripts, playbills, even a few pieces of costuming. The duller bits are packed in the attic, but the interesting parts are in a box which Meg can fetch.”

“What excellent after-dinner entertainment!” said Alasdair, just as the port was brought in.

Julia smiled. “Before or after cards?”

“After, by all means!” said Sir Alasdair. “I’ll need an excuse to beg off if my luck runs ill. Dev, let’s take our port in the drawing room with the ladies.”

Lord Devellyn offered Sidonie his arm as they withdrew. It was a solid, well-muscled arm, and she could feel the taut strength beneath the fabric as they started up the stairs. It felt strange being with him like this, calmly, in her own home, as if they were the closest of acquaintances.

She wondered what he would say if he knew the truth; if he somehow discovered she was the woman who had so boldly undressed and caressed him that night at the Anchor. And he had been every inch a man, too. She had to admit a certain fascination still gripped her. Suddenly, a vision of Devellyn naked—the recollection of his impossibly broad shoulders and hard, insistent erection—flashed through her mind. Sidonie tripped on the last step, almost falling flat on her face. Unthinkingly, she clutched hard at Devellyn’s arm. In an instant, he righted her, the motion so smooth no one would have noticed.

“Sidonie,” he murmured. “You are all right?”

She nodded, flushed with heat, and caught his eyes.
Why, oh why, did he have to be so devilishly handsome?
She shut away that thought and hastened after Julia into the drawing room, dragging Devellyn along with her.

For a few moments, he roamed through the chamber as if taking it all in, Sidonie still on his arm. This room was large, well lit, and stylishly appointed. Despite the fact that most of the furnishings had been Claire’s, Sidonie found that tonight she was proud of the impression of restrained opulence it gave. At the far end, four long windows draped in olive velvet overlooked Bedford Place, while at the other end, a gold brocade settee and two matching chairs bracketed the hearth.

The walls were hung with cream-colored silk thinly striped with gold, and an Oriental carpet in shades of emerald and chartreuse covered the whole of the floor. Little groupings of tables and chairs were tucked here and there throughout, including an inlaid mahogany card table, where Julia and Sir Alasdair were chattering as they set up the game.

“I was right,” murmured Devellyn.

She looked at him curiously. “About what?”

“Your home is far more welcoming than mine,” he said, casting his eye up the creamy marble chimneypiece. “But you haven’t an inch of chintz anywhere, have you?”

“I am not a great admirer of it,” she admitted. “Do you like it so very much?”

“Not really, it just sounded…well, homey. Whatever that is.” The marquess covered her hand with his where it lay upon his arm. “By the way, my dear,” he went on. “Are you a devotee of the theater? Shall we participate in Alasdair’s little stroll down memory lane?”

“I know almost nothing of it,” Sidonie answered honestly. “One sees little theater on board a ship.”

The marquess’s dark brows went up. “Did you spend much time at sea?”

“Most of my marriage.”

“How remarkable,” he murmured. “Of course, deeply devoted wives do sometimes accompany their husbands to sea.” He turned to look at her from beneath a sweep of dark, almost feminine lashes. “Tell me, Sidonie,” he said, his voice husky. “Were you a deeply devoted wife?”

She cut her gaze away. “I daresay,” she finally answered. “My husband had no love of
terra firma.
And if I wished to see him with any frequency…well, what choice did I have?”

“To stay at home alone?” he suggested, resuming their stroll. “It does not sound ideal, does it?”

She still could not look at him. “Pierre was not the sort of man one left alone for long.”

“Ah!” he said. “And what sort was that?”

“The charming sort,” she said dryly. “I told you I had vast experience in the subject.”

He jerked to a halt again. “My apologies,” he interjected. “I have brought up a painful topic.”

“Not at all.” Swiftly, she turned the subject. “Tell me, my lord, why have you never married?”

He laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his broad chest. “Do I look like the marrying kind to you?”

“I hardly know,” she admitted. “Pierre was not the marrying kind—and yet he married me. Why, I still do not know.”

His answer was swift. “Because he yearned to possess you,” he answered. “Is that not obvious?”

She looked up at him with astonishment, and he shocked her by sliding a finger beneath her chin. “A devoted wife,” he whispered. “Tell me, my dear, were you a forgiving one as well?”

Somehow, she kept her words cool, and her lashes half-lowered. “I was, at the very least, a practical one.”

His face seemed to hover over hers, his hard, disdainful mouth now somehow warm and inviting. For an instant, the room spun away, and they were alone. Would his mouth feel hard and crushing, as it had that night at the Anchor? Or would it soften and mold delicately over her own? She had only to rise onto her toes and bring her lips to his to find out.

In the distance, Julia laughed at something Alasdair had said. The sound jerked Sidonie back into the present. Her face flooded with heat.

Devellyn was still staring down at her through his heavy, hooded eyes. “Forgiving and practical,” he echoed, his voice thicker than usual. “A woman like you should be neither, Sidonie. A woman like you should never compromise. Don’t waste yourself again on a man like that.”

For an instant, she found herself drowning in a pair of dark, silvery eyes filled with more questions than answers. Fortunately, Meg chose that moment to carry in a decanter of sherry for the ladies. Devellyn stepped away. Meg set the sherry down with the port by the bank of windows, then trotted off to fetch the box of theater souvenirs.

The marquess took the glass of wine Sidonie offered calmly, as if nothing had happened between them.
Had
anything happened? Sidonie was not perfectly sure. Lord Devellyn kept her constantly off-balance. Where was the irreverent, lighthearted rogue tonight? Did he even exist?

As she poured wine for Sir Alasdair and Julia, she observed Devellyn withdrawing to a distant corner. His keen, dark gaze began to drift languidly over the room again, as if he were not a participant, but an outsider, merely observing of what went on around him. Sidonie was left with the strangest impression he lived much of life in just that way. She took the opportunity to study his face. It was a strong face, with lean, hard bones, and what some might call the signs of dissipation etched about his eyes. She did not think it was that, but rather, a sort of world-weariness.

His gaze was hooded, but perceptive; as though he knew or saw some truth which others did not. And there was an almost disdainful curl to his lips, as if he found life perpetually disappointing. On the whole, he possessed a face of great character, though he implied he had none. He had the habit of rolling his huge shoulders beneath his jacket. The gesture should have made him look ill at ease, but instead, he looked like a caged beast.

Mechanically, she carried wine to the others. Devellyn strolled back toward the fireplace. Why, she wondered, had he wished to come here tonight? Surely there were a hundred other women he might more easily, and more rewardingly, tempt? And she
was
tempted. The realization shocked her.

Several hours after her strange visit to Devellyn’s study yesterday, the crossing sweep had delivered a terse, urgent note from Jean-Claude summoning her to a corner near Bloomsbury Square. Dusk had been long gone, and the gaslights were flickering eerily when Jean-Claude seized her arm and pulled her into a nearby alley.

He had been shaken.
“Mon Dieu,
it is
la police, madame,”
he had whispered. “They come in the Strand tonight with
la
—
la
—what you say?
La
leest?”

“The list?” she had replied. “The list of what?”

“Of the missing theengs
l’ange noire
stole,” he whispered. “All of them. And he wishes especially the leetle gold case of the Marquess
de
Devellyn. In it is heez dead brother whom he killed and which he wishes back very much.”

Sidonie had laid a hand on his shoulder. “This is no time to practice your English, Jean-Claude,” she said. “Now, who has come? And who is dead?”

But even in his native tongue, Jean-Claude still babbled. “His name is Sisk,
madame,”
he answered. “I know him well. A cunning man. No one is dead. Not today, yes? But this brother of Lord Devellyn, he was killed. Long ago, I believe. Lord Devellyn, he killed him. I think,
madame,
he, too, is very dangerous.”

But even then Sidonie had known Devellyn was incapable of such a thing. Why she should believe this of someone she barely knew, and believe it so unreservedly, quite escaped her.

Lost in such thoughts, she was pouring herself a glass of sherry when she felt a warmth at her elbow. “My dear?” Devellyn’s low, rumbling voice jerked Sidonie back to the present. “Am I boring you?”

“Oh!” Sidonie looked about, embarrassed. “I did not see you there.”

“I am crushed,” he said. “I have been here some time.”

Sidonie realized she was being a poor hostess. “Shall we play at cards now, my lord?”

He shrugged. “Yes, why not?”

Sidonie lightly touched his hand. He seemed to start at the mere brush of her fingers. “You must find this evening very dull,” she said. “I fear you are accustomed to a grander sort of society than Julia and I can provide.”

He looked at her oddly. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Because I am titled? Because I’ll likely be a duke someday? I’ve done nothing to earn either, I assure you.”

She looked at him in some surprise.
“Are
you to be a duke? I was not aware.”

Devellyn lifted one brow. “If someone doesn’t blow my brains to Kingdom Come in a dawn appointment, or knife me in the heart over a bad hand of cards, yes, it does seem inevitable.”

“I did not realize,” she murmured.

“Did you not?” he said. “Then there is a vast deal, my dear, you do not know about me. I am not much seen in polite society. Indeed, it is you who have no business entertaining me.”

“I cannot think why.”

The cynical smile curled his mouth again. “Can you not, Sidonie?” he answered. “How charitable of you. But have a care, my dear, for your reputation.”

She laughed richly. “I prefer to live life to the fullest, my lord,” she answered. “I am not worried for my reputation.”

“You should be,” he answered. “Associating with me shan’t enhance it, I assure you.” Then he lifted his chin and looked toward the card table. “Alasdair!” he called. “Alasdair, old boy, are you ready to take a proper thrashing?”

Alasdair’s head jerked up from the large box Meg had just set on the table. “By all means, Dev, if you’re man enough.”

Julia laughed and rapped Alasdair on the arm with her fan. “But we have not drawn for partners, sir,” she said. “You and Lord Devellyn might play together.”

The gentlemen exchanged glances as Sir Alasdair moved the box. Clearly, they had not considered this a serious game. Devellyn shrugged. “Very well,” he said, drawing up a chair. He fanned the fresh pack of cards across the table with a sweep of his hand. “Highest plays lowest. Ladies?”

Julia leaned over the card table. She drew first, turning the ten of clubs.

“Excellent.” Lord Devellyn gave a half bow in Sidonie’s direction. “Madame Saint-Godard?”

Sidonie ran her fingertip back and forth along the fan, her eyes closed.

“Oh ho!” said Alasdair. “We’ve a serious gamester here, Dev.”

“Anything worth doing, Sir Alasdair, is worth doing seriously,” Sidonie answered. With a sudden flick of her fingertip, she turned the queen of spades.

“Well, I’m damned,” said Devellyn.

“So they say,” answered Alasdair. He turned over the three of diamonds, and sighed deeply. “Get on with it, Dev.”