The Devil to Pay (2 page)

“Leaving me?”

Camelia strolled to the mantel. “Yes, as in casting you off,” she went on. “Throwing you over. Tossing you out of my life. Need I go on?”

“But Cammie,
why?”

“Because Sir Edmund Sutters made me a very pretty offer tonight.” Camelia looked down her nose at him, and the girl from Spitalfields vanished. “Whilst we were all drinking champagne backstage after the play.”

“Backstage?”

“Where
you
should have been.”

Camelia was caressing the matching Meissen figurine now, sliding her long, thin fingers over it in a way which he once would have thought erotic, but now looked faintly dangerous. “Of course,” she went on, “had you been there, he would not have dared, would he? But you weren’t. And so he did.” Suddenly, she spun about. “And I accepted, Devellyn. Do you hear me? I
accepted.”

She really meant it this time. What a bloody inconvenience. Oh, there were always other women. He should know. Well, he
did
know. He just didn’t have the ambition to go looking for one. But he knew from past experience that once a woman got fed up with him, there was no stopping her from packing up and leaving.

Devellyn sighed and opened both his hands expressively. “Well, dash it, Cammie, I hate it’s come to this.”

She lifted her chin disdainfully. “I shall be moving out in the morning.”

The marquess shrugged. “Well, there’s no real rush,” he said. “I mean, I’m in no hurry for the house, and I’ll be a fortnight or better settling on someone else, so just take your ti—”

The last Meissen caught him square in the forehead. Shards flew. Devellyn staggered back, but she caught him before he hit the floor.

“Bastard! Pig!” The tiny fists flew again. “Pig! Bastard! I ought’er ring your neck like a scrawny Sunday chicken!”

“Oh, bugger all!” said Devellyn wearily. It was a good thing Camelia didn’t write her own material.

“Bastard! Pig!”

Devellyn just collapsed onto the floor, Camelia still clinging to his neck.

Sidonie Saint-Godard was a woman of independent means, with far too much of the adjective, and just enough of the noun to pay the bills. At first, her independence had fit like a new shoe with a perilously high heel; something one teetered about awkwardly on, in the faint hope one would not trip and fall face-first into the carpet of polite society. Then she’d returned to London, her birthplace, and found that the shoe soon began to pinch. For unlike France, female independence in England came buckled and beribboned with a whole new set of
shoulds
and
oughts.

It had taken her one full year of mourning before Sidonie had realized the solution was to kick off her shoes altogether and run barefoot through life. Now, at the great age of twenty-nine, she was sprinting for all she was worth. And when she died, she told her brother George, she wanted her gravestone inscribed with the epitaph A LIFE FULLY LIVED. It was what she planned to do, for life, she well knew, was uncertain, and despite old saws to the contrary, both the good and the bad often died young. Sidonie wasn’t even sure which category she fell into. Good? Bad? A little of both?

Like many a wellborn French girl, Sidonie had gone from her mother’s sheltering roof to the high, strong walls of the convent school. There, however, she’d suffered one of her more wicked moments. She’d run away with a handsome man who’d possessed neither roof nor walls—not in any conventional sense. Instead, Pierre Saint-Godard had possessed a fine new merchantman, fitted out with a two-room captain’s suite and a bank of tidy windows from which one might view the world as it floated past.

But Sidonie had soon seen enough of the world. She had sold the ship, packed up her clothes and her cat, and moved to London. Now she lived in a tidy town house in Bedford Place, surrounded by the equally tidy homes of merchants, bankers, and almost-but-not-quite gentry. And at present, she was taking in the fine view from her upstairs window. One door down, on the opposite side of Bedford Place, a removal van had drawn up, and two men were loading trunks and crates into it with nervous alacrity.

“How many mistresses does that make now, Julia?” Sidonie asked, leaning over her companion’s head and peering through the draperies.

Julia counted on her fingers. “The pale blonde in December made seven,” she said. “So this would make eight.”

“And this is but March!” Sidonie kept toweling the damp from her long black hair. “I should like to know who he is, to treat these poor women so cavalierly. It’s as if he thinks they’re old coats, to be thrown out when the elbows wear!”

Julia straightened up from the window. “No time for that now, dearie,” she warned, pushing Sidonie toward the fire. “You’ll be late as it is. Sit, and let me comb that mess of hair dry, else you’ll catch your death going down to the Strand.”

Dutifully, Sidonie pulled up a stool. Thomas, her cat, jumped at once into her lap. “But it really is vile behavior, Julia,” she said, slicking one hand down the sleek black tabby. “You know it is. Perhaps the crossing sweep can tell us his name? I shall ask.”

“Aye, perhaps,” said Julia absently as she drew the brush down. “Do you know, my dear, you’ve hair just like your mother’s?”

“Do you think so?” asked Sidonie a little hopefully. “Claire had such lovely hair.”

“Left me green with envy,” Julia confessed. “And to think, me on the stage with this mouse brown straw! If we were seen together—which we often were—she cast me in the shade.”

“But you had a wonderful career, Julia! You were famous. The toast of Drury Lane, were you not?”

“Oh, for a time,” she answered. “But that’s long past.”

Sidonie fell silent. She knew it had been years since Julia had played a significant role in the West End theaters. And far longer than that since the rich men who had once vied for her favors had moved on to younger women. Despite being several years younger, Julia had been a close friend of Sidonie’s mother, for they had run with the same fast crowd; the demimonde, and all their hangers-on. And those hangers-on had always included a vast number of wealthy, upper-class rakes with a taste for women of less-than-blue blood.

But Claire Bauchet’s blood had been blue. She had also been heartbreakingly beautiful. The first advantage had been cruelly and rapaciously stripped from her. The second she had cultivated like a hothouse orchid, for like Julia, Claire had made her living with her beauty. But while Julia had been a talented actress who had sometimes had the good fortune to be kept by a wealthy admirer, Claire had been, simply put, a courtesan. Her talent had been her grace and her charm, and very little else. Well, perhaps that was not quite fair. For much of her life, Claire had been kept by one man only.

When Sidonie had returned to London, her mother’s old friend had been the first to ring her bell and welcome her home. And it had been painfully obvious to Sidonie that Julia was lonely. As it happened, Sidonie had been in dire need of a lady’s maid. Not to mention a companion, a cook, and a confidante. Unfortunately, she had been unable to afford
all
of those things. The cook she had promptly hired. Julia, the consummate actress, had proven the perfect solution to all else. And although Sidonie had not asked, she suspected Julia had been living a little too close to the bone, as women who lived by their wits and their looks so often did.

“Missing her, are you?” Julia asked out of the blue.

Sidonie looked over her shoulder and considered it. Did she miss Claire? “Yes, a bit. She was always so full of life.”

Just then, a horrible crash sounded. Thomas shot off her lap and under the bed. Julia and Sidonie rushed back to the window, boldly drawing wide the draperies. The remover’s van was gone, and over the door of the opposite house, someone had thrown up a sash. A petite redhead was leaning halfway out the window, holding a chamber pot.

“Pig!” she cried, hurling it to the ground. “Bastard!”

“Lord God!” said Julia.

The next sash flew up. The redhead appeared again. Another pot. “Bastard! Pig!” Down it went, shards of white porcelain bouncing off the pavement.

Sidonie burst into peals of laughter.

Julia shrugged. “Well, whoever your mystery gent is,” she murmured, “he won’t have a pot to piss in when she’s done with him.”

“My lord?”

The voice was distant. Disembodied. And annoying as hell.

“Muuf!”
said the Marquess of Devellyn, intent on sending it away again.
“Gumm smuzum!”

“But really, my lord! I do think you must open your eyes!”

“Mmft umt,”
he countered.

“Yes, quite right, I’m sure, sir.” The voice was growing distraught. “But I’m afraid you must get up now.”

“I couldn’t even get him out of his coat last night,” came a second fretful voice from the fog. “Do you think it’s ruined? I fear he’s bled on it. I believe he’s been boxing again. Does that not look like blood, Honeywell—just there, on the lapel?”

“Fenton, I am sure I neither know nor care.” The first voice sounded peeved now. “My lord? Really, you must get up now. Brampton and his carpenters have gone, sir. I’m afraid we’ve bad news.”

Bad news.

That cut through the haze and into his consciousness. Devellyn had more than a passing familiarity with the phrase.
“Buffum?”
he said, cracking one eye.

Four of the same stared down at him. Or was it six?

“He’s coming round, Fenton.” The voice sounded relieved. “Let’s see if he can sit.”

The marquess found himself unceremoniously hefted up. A pillow was stuffed hastily behind his back, and his booted feet flopped to either side, striking the floor. Well. He was up and awake despite his best efforts.

Fenton, his valet, frowned. “Really, sir, I do wish you’d rung for me when you came in,” he said, wringing his hands. “You cannot have been comfortable sleeping on the divan. And now we have this terrible business about the floor.”

“Wha—?” muttered Devellyn, blinking.

Honeywell, his butler, was dragging a small table across the room. Disembodied hands set a coffee tray atop it. “There!” said Honeywell. “Now, my lord, as I was saying, the carpenters have gone. I’m afraid the floor in the blue withdrawing room cannot be repaired after all.”

Floor? What floor?

Fenton stirred something into his coffee, then passed him the cup with an unctuous smile.

“I fear, my lord, you’re to be vastly inconvenienced,” continued Honeywell in his voice of doom, a tone ordinarily reserved for thieving footmen and tarnished silver.

“Oh, I doubt that,” said Devellyn, eyeing the coffee suspiciously. “Don’t much fancy inconvenience. I always find it so dashed…inconvenient.”

Honeywell folded his hands together like a pious country parson. “But my lord, I fear we have—” Here he paused for dramatic effect, “—the death-watch beetle!”

Devellyn swallowed too much coffee, and had to hack a little of it back up again. “The death-watch
who
—?”

“The death-watch beetle, my lord,” he said. “That strange little
skritch-skritch-skritching
sound in the blue withdrawing room? I’m afraid they’ve eaten away half the flooring. And now they’re in the staircases.
Both
of them, sir, spindles, newels, banisters, and all. Brampton says it is very dangerous, sir, and that we should account ourselves lucky we’ve not been killed.”

“Killed by murderous beetles?” asked Devellyn.

“Lucky, sir, that the stairs haven’t collapsed beneath us and sent us to an early death in the cellars.”

They had cellars? Devellyn shook his head and drank more coffee. There was a fuzzy, dark brown taste in his mouth and a fierce pounding in his temples. “Well, what’s to be done?” he finally said. “About these beetles, I mean?”

“The floors and stairs must come out, my lord.”

Devellyn frowned. “Yes, and then there will be hammering, eh? Workmen thumping about in their boots? Dust! Racket! Dashed hard on a chap with my sort of social life, Honeywell.”

“I fear it’s rather more inconvenient even than that, sir.” Honeywell clutched his hands a little tighter. “I’m afraid, my lord, that you must remove.”

“Remove?”
snapped Devellyn, shoving away the coffee. “Remove from Duke Street? And go where, old boy?”

Honeywell and Fenton exchanged glances. “Well, there is always Bedford Place,” said the butler. “If Miss Lederly could…or would…”

“Oh, she
couldn’t,
and she
wouldn’t,”
countered Devellyn. “But it little matters. She moved out yesterday.”

The servants gave a collective sigh of relief. “Fenton can move your personal effects whilst I pack up the plate and such,” said Honeywell.

The marquess looked back and forth between them, appalled. “And I’m to have no say in this, am I?” he asked. “The Devil of Duke Street is to become…what? The Hobgoblin of Bedford Place? Doesn’t have much of a ring, now, does it?”

Sidonie was not late for her dinner engagement. Instead, she arrived early, which gave her time to stroll leisurely past the shops which lined the thoroughfare. The Strand possessed nothing like the quiet restraint of Oxford Street or Savile Row, places filled with elegant shops selling, as much as anything, rarefied ambiance and the smell of money. Instead, the Strand was a broad, busy place where buyers and sellers of every social stratum eventually crossed paths—if not in life, then in death, for the Strand boasted two undertakers and a coffin maker.

Ironmongers, booksellers, silk mercers, furriers, phrenologists, and fortune-tellers—all hung shingles in the Strand. Then there were the piemen, the orange girls, the news hawkers, the cutpurses, the pickpockets, and lastly, the prostitutes. Sidonie was not much bothered by rubbing elbows with what some would have called the dregs of society. She’d seen almost half the world’s seaports, and the dregs didn’t drop much deeper than that.

In that spirit, Sidonie bought six oranges she didn’t want from a girl who quite obviously needed to sell them, and told her to keep the change. Her tour of the Strand complete, she paused to peer through the bow window of a very posh shop near the foot of the street. There was no shingle, no sign, nothing at all save a small brass plaque on the door, which was inscribed:

MR. GEORGE JACOB KEMBLE
PURVEYOR OF ELEGANT ODDITIES AND FINE FOLDEROL

Finding nothing of interest in the window display, Sidonie pushed through the door, and a little bell jingled merrily. A handsome young Frenchman came at once from behind the counter.
“Bonjour,
Madame Saint-Godard,” he said, taking her hand and passionately kissing it. “I trust you are een good health?”

Sidonie smiled. “Quite well, Jean-Claude, thank you,” she said, bending over a glass-encased collection of delicate dishes. “Oh, my! This faience
bonbonnière,
is it new?”

“We got et just thees week,
madame,”
he said, with a smile that showed all his teeth. “Your taste eez exquisite, as always. May I send eet to Bedford Place tomorrow? A gift, shall we say, from your devoted brother?”

Sidonie shook her head. She could not afford it. Certainly, she would not take it. “Here, Jean-Claude, have some oranges,” she said, putting them down on the glass counter. “They keep away the scurvy.”

Her brother’s assistant smiled.
“Merci, madame,”
he said. “You have found Marianne with the beeg eyes,
oui?”

“Very beeg,” Sidonie agreed. “And a very empty belly, I fear.”

“Que faire!”
he agreed. “They are starving, these poor urchins.”

“Yes, what to do, indeed?” Sidonie muttered. Then abruptly, she changed the subject. “Jean-Claude, where is my brother? What is his mood today?”

The young man rolled his eyes heavenward. “Upstairs flaying the cook, may God help heem,” he answered. “Heez mood eez very ill, like a vicious dog. A soufflé fell.” Then he dropped both his voice and his eyes.
“Madame,”
he whispered, “have you sometheeng for me?”

Sidonie shook her head. “Not today, Jean-Claude,” she answered. “I’ve just come down to dine with my brother and Monsieur Giroux.”

“Ah, I delay you!” Jean-Claude stepped aside and waved her toward the green velvet curtains which led to the back of the shop.
“Bon appétit, madame!”

Two hours later, Sidonie was finishing off a bottle of very excellent pinot noir in her brother’s dining room above the shop. The food had been flawless, despite whatever crisis had occurred in the kitchen, and if George had killed off his cook, he’d wiped up all the blood. With great care, Sidonie slipped off her shoes, propped her feet in the seat opposite, and reclined against the back of her chair in contentment. Maurice Giroux, George’s particular friend, was standing at the sideboard cutting thin slices of sponge cake while the maid carried in a carafe of port and two glasses.

“Eat this, Sid, whilst we drink our port,” Maurice suggested, putting down a slice before her. “It is orange sponge, and particularly good since the oranges were fresh.”

Sidonie looked across the table at her brother. “Let me guess,” she said. “Marianne with the
beeg eyes?”

George gave a Gallic shrug. “One must eat,” he said. “So one might as well eat Marianne’s oranges.”

Maurice laughed, and poured two glasses of port. “George, she knows you too well.”

“For God’s sake, let us speak of something else besides my Christian charity.” George took one of the glasses. “I have a reputation to keep up.”

Maurice turned to Sidonie. “Tell us, my dear, have you many pupils this spring? And what, pray, are you teaching?”

Sidonie poked absently at the orange sponge, wishing she had instead a glass of port. “Well, I still have Miss Leslie and Miss Arbuckle for piano,” she began. “And I have Miss Debnam and Miss Brewster for deportment. Then there is Miss Hannaday, who can neither dance, nor sing, nor play, and scarcely knows her fish fork from a canapé knife—and yet her father has arranged a match with the Marquess of Bodley.”

“Good Lord!” said George. “That old roué? I’d heard he was nearly insolvent.”

Sidonie nodded. “The poor child is terrified, and I have only until August, when the wedding has been scheduled, to get her over it.”

“Ah,” said Maurice. “You speak of the Hannaday who is in tea, do you not?”

Sidonie nodded. “The very same,” she agreed. “He has a monstrous house just below me in Southampton Street.”

“Yes, and Bodley has a monstrous mortgage to go with it,” George interjected. “In the last five years, his fortunes have been dropping faster than ladies’ waist-lines. His entire estate in Essex isn’t worth what he owes his creditors.”

Maurice nodded sagely. “And then, Sid, there is the matter of that ten thousand pounds he lost to Mr. Chartres in White’s last week,” he added. “The man is so deep in debt it will take two or three tea merchants’ daughters to dig him out again.”

“Yes, well, Miss Hannaday has a very sharp shovel,” said Sidonie. “Three hundred thousand pounds.”

“And Bodley has a very dull wit,” snapped George, before sipping delicately from his port.

“What do you mean?” Sidonie asked.

“The man is a pompous blowhard and an inveterate pervert,” said her brother, putting the glass back down again. “And let us hope Hannaday does not catch wind of Lord Bodley’s latest penchant for enticing young naval officers into his bed. Some of them come very dear indeed. Particularly when one must buy their silence
après
the moment of passion.”

“Oh, dear!” Sidonie pressed her fingertips to her chest. “That would explain his need for money. How ever does he find…find…”

“Find his partners?” Maurice supplied.

“Well, yes.”

Maurice shrugged. “If they are willing—or in dire need of money—he finds them in St. James’s Park, most probably.”

“St. James’s?” she echoed.

Maurice and George exchanged telling glances. “Sidonie, gentlemen who are interested in certain types of—well,
activities,
meet in a place which is generally known to them,” said her brother. “Lately, St. James’s Park has again been popular. So, one goes there for a stroll, and signals one’s—er, interests—by tucking a handkerchief into the left pocket, or by hanging one’s thumb in one’s waistcoat.”

“Just so,” said Maurice. “But some of Bodley’s victims haven’t been so willing. For that, he retains a whoremaster. Their victims are young men who have played too deep or allowed themselves to be caught in compromising positions of some sort.”

“And sometimes, their only sin is poverty,” said George softly.

Maurice nodded. “Bodley occasionally prefers young girls, too,” he supplied. “The bastard knows every bawd east of Regent Street.”

Sidonie shivered. “Dear God, I begin to comprehend,” she managed, pressing one hand to her chest. “Maurice, I believe I shall be unladylike and prevail upon you for a glass of that port. My poor Miss Hannaday! Now I almost wish she
would
elope with her shipping clerk.”

“Her shipping clerk?” Maurice turned from the sideboard, holding a clean glass.

“She
has
a shipping clerk?” asked George.

Sidonie nodded, and looked back and forth between them. “Charles Greer,” she said. “He works for her father, and they love one another madly. But it is thought a dreadful
mésalliance,
and Mr. Hannaday will not permit it.”

George cupped a hand to his ear. “Oh, I hear Gretna Green calling!” he chortled. “And tell Mr. Greer to make haste, my dear, lest they move the date up.”

“Elope?” said Sidonie. “George, you cannot be serious!”

Maurice handed her a glass of port. “I fear he might be, Sid,” he said. “Some things are worse than a life of poverty.”

“And Lord Bodley is amongst them,” said George. “Besides, he must be at least twice her age.”

Sidonie shifted her gaze from George to Maurice and back again. “But her father will cut her off if she elopes,” she said. “And he’ll discharge her clerk without a character.”

George shrugged. “He’ll likely come round when the first grandchild arrives.”

“That’s all very well, George, but what if he doesn’t?” asked Maurice abruptly. “Is the clerk a decent sort?”

“Well…yes.”

“You are sure?”

“I met him but once,” Sidonie answered. “He’s earnest and rather awkward, but there is no artifice in him, of that I am confident.”