The Devil to Pay (27 page)

Alasdair was quiet for a moment. “You mean to say Madame Saint-Godard and…and that tart from the Anchor…?”

“Yes.”

“Balderdash, Dev! How can you even think it?”

“I
know
it,” he said hollowly. “You must trust that I have seen proof.”

Alasdair lifted one brow. “Even sotted, Dev, you don’t have much of an imagination,” he agreed. “And at the moment, you do look frightfully sober.”

“Frightfully, yes,” he echoed. “I almost fear dulling my senses, afraid of what next I might learn.”

“I think you’ve been misled, Dev,” said Alasdair. “Madame Saint-Godard is so refined. Are you utterly certain?”

Was he certain? Damn it,
was
he?

Yes. The light had been fleeting, but he had seen it. And because of it, he had left her in a blind rage. Good God, he’d made a fool of himself at Walrafen’s ball last night. Then he had left the ball with every intention of doing something even more foolish. He’d even gone round to the house in Grosvenor Square, desperate to find his mother, who had not, thank God, been at home. And he’d been stone sober through all of it. Including what had happened next.

He let his head fall forward into his hands. “Christ, Alasdair, I don’t know!” he said. “No, that’s not right. I am
certain.
But she neither denies nor admits it. I think she has driven me mad.”

Alasdair was silent for a moment. “Well, if the two women were one and the same,” he said grudgingly, “it would help explain a few things. Like why some swear the Black Angel is French or Italian. And why Sidonie is so often from home.”

“But how can it be?” asked Devellyn, now wishing he could counter his own argument. “Polk watches her door constantly. He’s never seen her go out dressed as a prostitute or chambermaid or any of those guises the Angel has used.”

“Oh, she’s far too clever for that,” said his friend. “She’s likely slipping out through the mews, or a back window. We already know the Black Angel can climb, and Sidonie spent a lot of time at sea, where one learns all manner of useful things. As to the tattoo, well, that’s not something easily had in London. But on some of the tropical islands…” Alasdair lifted his shoulders and let his words fall away, as if to give Devellyn time to absorb them.

“Good God, I should have throttled her when I had the chance!” he gritted, pounding one fist on the arm of his chair. “I might yet do it, too!”

“Crivvens, Dev!” Alasdair’s hand came out to stay the fist. “Why such rage? Even if we are right, what bone have you to pick with the Black Angel?”

Devellyn looked at him in stark amazement. “Good God, man! She robbed and humiliated me!”

Alasdair set his head to one side and studied him. “Yes, and if I remember correctly, she made full restitution,” he said quietly. “As to the humiliation, Dev, you and I did a bloody good job of that. You kicked up that ugly ruckus at the Anchor, then I spread the tale all over town. But so far as you or I know, not one word of it ever passed the Angel’s lips.”

Devellyn had not thought of it in quite that light. The Black Angel had returned all his possessions, it was true. And she’d gone to a vast deal of trouble to do it. But that made him recollect how he’d treated her. Good God! He had
struck
her. He had rutted with her as if she were a common whore. A man had no right to treat anyone like that. He felt a new wave of nausea. How could she even look him in the face now? How could she not hate him?

Well, perhaps she did. Perhaps this was all about vengeance.

No, no, that wasn’t right. He shook his head as if to clear it. That wasn’t how Sidonie had behaved at all. She had behaved as if she desired him beyond reason. She said she had given him her heart. Lord, could this nightmare get any worse?

At that moment, Henry Polk came into the room. “Your pardon, my lord,” he said, hesitating. “I did not realize you were engaged.”

“Never mind,” said Devellyn. “What is it?”

The footman shot an uneasy glance at Alasdair.

“What? What?” said the marquess. “Never mind him.”

Polk came reluctantly into the room, and handed Devellyn a note which had been badly scorched on one corner. “Meg saw
madame
fling this into the fireplace this morning,” he said. “And another odd thing, my lord. She says that
madame
has been crying all day.”

Alasdair shot Devellyn a suspicious glance.

“Meg says Mrs. Crosby is in a terrible state, too,” Polk went on. “Something happened late last night, a commotion of some sort in the front parlor. Meg didn’t know what.”

Devellyn took the note. “How did Meg get the note if Madame Saint-Godard threw it into the fire?”

“Madame
was distraught, and careless,” said Polk. “It didn’t catch, so when Meg went in to clear breakfast, she got it out again. She thought it might have something to do with all the upset.”

The note had been secured with black wax bearing the seal of a griffin couchant, now slightly melted. But there was no address, not even so much as a name. Devellyn flicked it open and skimmed the masculine script, which would have been elegant, had the writer not been in a rush.

Tonight at the Cross Keys.
Taproom. Urgent. Nine o’clock.
Bonne chance, J-C

“Who delivered this?” barked Devellyn.

Polk shook his head. “Meg says she’s no notion how
madame
got hold of it, nor who it’s from. Worded a bit queer, though.”

“And damned sparsely,” muttered Devellyn.
“Bonne chance.
French, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it means ‘good luck,’ ” said Alasdair.

Polk shifted his weight uneasily. “I daresay they’ll sack Meg now, sir, won’t they, sir? If they find out she gave it to me?”

“Quite likely,” the marquess murmured, flipping the note over again.

Alasdair held out his hand. “Let me have a look, Dev.”

But Polk was still hovering. “My lord?” said the footman. “If they dismiss her without a character, why, I’ll have to do the honorable thing, won’t I? I shall have to marry her.”

“My felicitations,” grunted Devellyn, passing the note to Alasdair.

Alasdair skimmed the note. “Christ, Dev, what are you going to do?”

Devellyn shook his head. “Why would she do such dangerous things, Alasdair? Why? Damn it, I need to know.”

“Sir?” said Polk, looking pointedly at his master. “What do you think?”

“What?” Devellyn finally looked up at him. “What is it, Polk?”

The footman exhaled wearily. “If Meg gets sacked by
madame,”
he said, “and I have to marry her, I’ll be needing larger quarters, won’t I, sir? And a little privacy?”

Devellyn crooked one brow. “What, no extra salary?”

Polk seemed to consider it. “That’s generous of you, sir,” he said. “But I’m not one to take advantage. Perhaps you could just give Meg a place until the children come?”

Devellyn sighed, and tucked the note into his coat pocket. “Why is it, Polk, that I’ve a feeling I’ll be caring for you, Meg, and your imaginary offspring until
Kingdom
Come?” he asked. “Go on, then. Marry the chit. Someone around here might as well be happy.”

Just then, someone dropped the knocker on the front door, the sound echoing through the house.

“I’ll have to get that, sir,” said Polk, dashing from the room.

Alasdair looked at him uneasily. “Expecting anyone, Dev?”

Devellyn consulted his watch. “Oh, I fear so, Alasdair,” he muttered grimly. “That will almost certainly be my mother.”

Alasdair was out of his chair in a flash. “I’d best be off out the back, old boy,” he said. “And I think you ought to go down to the Cross Keys tonight, and settle this business with Sidonie once and for all.”

“Why the hell should I?”

From the door, Alasdair looked at him a little sorrowfully. “Anyone can see, Dev, that you are in love with the woman,” he said. “You’ve quit whoring, gambling, and drinking. It would be a shame if Sidonie managed to get herself killed after such an extraordinary show of contrition.”

Get herself killed?
A chill settled over him as he withdrew the note again. Alasdair had a point. He had assumed Sidonie would put an end to her tricks now that he’d learned who she was. But this note suggested she meant to play the Black Angel again. Its words smacked of cloak-and-dagger ambiguity. And it had been delivered by some anonymous street urchin, or slipped under a doormat, on that Devellyn would have bet his last shilling. It was her signal to do something. But what?

Then it struck him. The note did not say “meet
me
at the Cross Keys.” It was entirely possible the Angel was to meet
someone else.
Someone, perhaps, that the writer had chosen? Or targeted? Indeed, the more he thought on it, the more Devellyn believed the author was some sort of coconspirator. Many prostitutes had bawds and fancy-men. The comparison left a bad taste in Devellyn’s mouth, but it was quite likely the Black Angel, too, had someone’s help.

Devellyn had no time to consider it further. Suddenly, his mother was sweeping into the room, looking utterly regal in a dress of ice-blue silk, and a feathery confection of a hat which perfectly matched her eyes. She looked radiant, too. And a little…
triumphant.
Oh, that was not good.

“Aleric, dear boy!” she said, taking both his hands into hers when he approached. “How pale you look today.”

“I’m well enough, Mamma,” he answered, turning his cheeks for her kisses. “You look to be in a fine fettle.”

Honeywell, who had spent twenty years in the duchess’s service, dutifully followed her with a fresh tea tray. He swept away the old coffee, leaving Her Grace to strip off her gloves and pour. “Well!” she began, passing Devellyn a cup. “I’m told you called in Grosvenor Square last night.”

Devellyn wished very sincerely he had not. Too late. “Yes, ma’am. But it was rather a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“And I’m told, too, that you were seen last night at Walrafen’s little charity gala,” she gently prodded. “Quite a stir that has raised, my dear. However did you get invited?”

Devellyn shrugged. “Alasdair arranged it,” he muttered. “Apparently, Walrafen will invite anyone who might possibly vote Tory anytime this century or the next.”

The duchess blinked. “Goodness! I did not know you had political leanings.”

“Neither did I,” he said dryly. “But you know Alasdair.”

“I certainly do.” His mother smiled tightly, as if that circumstance pained her. “In any case, I was at Great-aunt Admeta’s playing piquet with Horatio last night when Cousin George burst in and said—”

“Wait!” Devellyn threw up a staying hand. “You were playing
piquet?
With a
terrier?”

His mother colored. “Oh, it’s hard to explain,” she said, waving dismissively. “Anyway, as I was saying, Cousin George swore he’d seen you at Walrafen’s, which was shocking enough. Then, when our footman said you’d called in Grosvenor Square, I was quite beyond words.”

“Yes, well, you’ve got over that, haven’t you?” said Devellyn.

His mother refused to be baited. “Indeed, my love, had I known I might expect you, I’d not have waited so many years to open the house back up.”

Absently, Devellyn began to stir sugar into his tea. “As I said, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

He looked up to see his mother watching his hand in horror. “My God, Aleric! You do not take sugar. Certainly not three heaping spoons of it.”

“Ma’am?” He looked down, not having realized until that moment what he’d done. “Oh, I must have picked up the habit somewhere.”

“Well, shed it at once!” she advised. “It is not at all the thing for one’s waistline.”

Devellyn sipped at the tea. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mamma.”

His mother looked at him oddly. “Goodness, you are docile today! Are you ill? Have you a fever?”

He put the cup down and sat silently for a moment. He had gone to his mother last night because he’d been worried about Sidonie’s reputation and did not know where else to turn for help. Now he was tempted to just let Sidonie hang, socially speaking. But in her case, that was just one step from being truly hanged.

The truth was, Sidonie was only safe from harm whilst her reputation was above reproach. He would not have her caught on his account, no matter what she’d done to him.

“No, I haven’t a fever,” he said, venturing onto thin ice. “Actually, Mamma, I have a problem. Or rather, I may have created a problem for someone else.”

His mother’s pale brows flew aloft at that. “Dear me,” she murmured. “What has happened?”

Devellyn did not mince words. “Oh, the usual thing,” he said. “I lured an innocent young woman into a dark room and attempted to compromise her virtue. At least, that is how it appeared to the people who walked in on us in Lord Walrafen’s parlor.”

His mother paled. “Oh, God,” she said. “How bad?”

The marquess shrugged. “I had been kissing her pretty thoroughly, and she looked it,” he admitted. “Worse, I had one of her sleeves down, almost to the elbow.”

His mother closed her eyes. “Oh, Aleric!”

Her soft words piqued his temper. “Oh, for God’s sake, I was examining a cut on the lady’s arm!” he said defensively. “She had been recently set upon by cutpurses.”

The eyes flew open. “How horrid!”

“Well, she was wayward enough and foolish enough to go out after dark alone,” he said snappishly. “And I’m not at all sure she means to stop.”

“Heavens!” said his mother dryly. “Wayward
and
foolish? She’ll be rather a handful.”

“Spare me the sarcasm, Mamma,” he grumbled. “I’m trying to explain how I came to be wrestling with the lady’s clothing.”

Her grace suppressed a smile. “By all means, do continue.”

Devellyn scowled. “I wished to see the wound,” he reiterated. “I needed to see how bad it was. She did not wish me to. We were struggling with the sleeve when we were discovered. And it looked, I am sure, like an entirely different sort of struggle.”

“And now you are asking my advice?”

“Yes, because I know how scandal can taint an innocent woman,” he said, quite forgetting that Sidonie might be far from innocent. “I’ll not have another female suffer for my crude behavior.”