The Devil to Pay (30 page)

But Sidonie was having none of it. She went to the girl, who was wiping away a little smear of blood with the back of her hand. “My dear, you do not have to stay here,” she said. “I have money. I can find you a place to sleep tonight.”

The girl looked at her derisively. “Ternight?” she echoed incredulously. “And wot good’ll that do me? I gots to work, don’t I? And I ain’t being clapped up in the bloody workhouse, if that’s wot yer meaning.”

Sidonie put a hand on her arm. “My dear, anything would be better than this.”

The girl lifted one brow and yanked her arm away. “Would it, now?” she said softly. “Well, I’d rather rub me knees raw getting worked over by an old goat than scrubbin’ floors whilst I starve.” And with that, the girl flounced back up the steps and into the house.

“Wait!” cried Sidonie. “I’m not talking about the workhouse. Please! Hear me out.”

But the girl was gone. The bawd gave them a patronizing smile, and slammed the door shut.

Sidonie looked as if she might burst into tears. Devellyn circled an arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. “You tried, love,” he said quietly. “She’s set her course.”

“And there are a thousand more just like her,” she said sorrowfully. “She knows no other way. It’s that or the workhouse! That’s what she thinks. And it isn’t right, Devellyn! It isn’t fair.”

“That girl isn’t like your mother, Sidonie,” he gently reminded her. “In fact, they have almost nothing in common.”

“They both felt trapped, didn’t they?” Sidonie snapped. “That is something they have in common. Lord, I wish I’d never told you about George and his blasted theory!”

Gently, Devellyn urged her down the street. “You cannot save them all, Sidonie,” he answered. “Even the Black Angel doesn’t have enough tricks up her sleeve.”

Sidonie’s shoulders had fallen. “But the Black Angel could do
something,
Devellyn,” she whispered. “And surely even a little something is better than nothing.”

They walked in silence for a time. “That, I believe, is your problem, Sidonie,” he finally said.
“A little something.
That is what you keep trying to do. Work the edges. Play the margins. But perhaps, my dear, you ought think on a grander scale?”

Sidonie sighed wearily. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

Devellyn rubbed his day-old beard pensively. “I am not perfectly sure,” he said. “Let me give it some thought. Perhaps I might just surprise you by having an original thought in my rusty old brain.”

Devellyn awaited his father’s seventieth birthday like a man going to the gallows. He dreaded another foray into society, and half feared that his father might simply give him the cut direct. Following his strange interlude at the Cross Keys, Devellyn had met with his mother and pitched his devil’s bargain: Sidonie and her brother were to be embraced like long-lost kin in exchange for Devellyn’s presence at the ball. His mother had leapt at it almost too quickly, and there had been an odd little gleam in her eye.

There was a strange sense of expectancy in the air, like the feeling a fellow got just before his luck took a turn at the card tables. It was as if he were being dealt a new hand at life. So would it come up kings and knaves? Or just the usual disaster of deuces and treys?

Waiting for Sidonie’s answer was utter torture. When they were together now, it was hard to restrain his urge to press her. Still, all hope was not lost. Her kisses had grown more heated than ever, even as her protests grew noticeably weaker. He laid siege, romantically speaking, to her doorstep, sending flowers every morning, chocolates every evening, and jewelry as often as he dared. The latter she always returned, but at least he was getting her attention.

At last, the appointed evening arrived. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan turned up early, of course, to badger him, and to give all manner of unsolicited, crack-brained advice about life, love, and the dangers of the female mind. Alasdair sipped brandy in a chair by the dressing table as Fenton trussed Devellyn up in his evening dress. It was not long before the conversation turned to the Duchess of Gravenel.

“And you will tell her, then, that I forced you to come?” asked Alasdair, holding his glass to the lamplight and peering at the golden liquid within.

“I shall tell her nothing of the sort,” Devellyn returned. “In fact, I think I’ll tell her I’ve come to announce my engagement.”

“The deuce!” said Alasdair, lowering the glass. “I’ll never get that Vespasian denarius now. Look, Dev, does Sidonie know what you’re up to?”

“Not exactly.” Devellyn lifted his chin so that Fenton might pull his collar snug. “I just might surprise her and announce it anyway. And once it’s done, she’d have to marry me, wouldn’t she?”

Alasdair looked doubtful. “Well, old boy, you know what they say,” he warned. “A cracked bell will never mend. She mightn’t forgive you.”

“Spare me your Scottish platitudes, Alasdair,” muttered Devellyn. “Someone has to keep that woman safe, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

“So this romance is a purely humanitarian gesture, eh?”

“Chin up, my lord,” grumbled Fenton, wrestling with his cravat now.

Devellyn fell silent as his valet finished dressing him. “Thank you, Fenton,” he murmured when the job was done. “You’ve wrought another miracle.”

“Indeed,” said Alasdair coolly. “He looks almost civilized.”

“What a flatterer you are, Alasdair,” said Devellyn, setting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, then. I’ve business in the Strand, and I fear it won’t be pleasant.”

As it happened, George Kemble was not the only resident of London destined to receive an unexpected caller that evening. Shortly before dusk, the bell rang at Number Fourteen. With Julia making a last-minute tuck in Sidonie’s ball gown, and Meg off on another lark, Sidonie rushed to answer it herself. Her breath left her lungs sharply when she opened the door to see the Countess of Kirton standing on her doorstep, and her ladyship’s crested carriage pulled to the curb.

Her ladyship smiled warmly. “Good evening, Madame Saint-Godard,” she said. “I thought you might wish to accompany me to Gravenel’s ball.”

“Accompany you?” Sidonie looked at her stupidly.

A pair of purple feathers bounced cheerfully on her hat as her ladyship nodded. “Elizabeth and I decided it was not quite the thing, your arriving alone,” she murmured. “And I understand your brother has declined the invitation. May I come in?”

Sidonie regained her manners. “Yes, please do,” she managed. “Who is Elizabeth?”

“Why, the Duchess of Gravenel,” said Lady Kirton, as if it were obvious. “We are girlhood chums, you know. Did Aleric not mention it?”

Sidonie motioned her ladyship into the parlor. “No, not in those words,” she answered. “And you wish me to go with you? To the ball?”

Lady Kirton opened her hands. “Unless you’ve other plans?”

Suddenly, Sidonie understood. “She has told you, then?” she managed. “The duchess, I mean. She has told you that I was once—or that I am—distantly related?”

Lady Kirton stepped forward, and patted Sidonie rather firmly on the cheek. “A dear cousin recently home from abroad,” she corrected. “Not long out of mourning. That, you see, is why you’ve been so little in society. Now, buck up, dear child. And for pity’s sake, get the story straight!”

It was almost dusk by the time Devellyn’s carriage drew up at Kemble’s shop in the Strand. All along the street, the storefronts were falling dark, while the coffeehouses were rapidly filling. Devellyn threw open the door and leapt down, dreading the task before him.

“Coming in?” he asked Alasdair from the pavement.

Alasdair waved his hand lazily. “Three is such a crowd, old boy,” he said. “And the sight of blood makes me woozy.”

Devellyn turned and went into the shop, pausing to read the brass plaque on the door. His entrance set off a little bell overhead. At first glance, he was amazed. Fine folderol indeed! Cachepots and clocks, vases and vinaigrettes, tea services, chandeliers, shields and swords—all of it jostled for space. And all of it looked frightfully old and expensive. Then there was the half mile swath of antique jewelry, which shimmered like liquid fire in the showcases.

But Devellyn did not have time to study it. A young man—a very familiar-looking young man—emerged from behind a set of green velvet draperies. Fleetingly, alarm lit his face, but he masked it and stared at Devellyn disdainfully. “We are closing,
monsieur,”
he announced. “You must come another day.”

“By God, I know you!” said Devellyn, striding up to the counter. “And I’ll deal with you later. Right now, I wish to see Kemble.”

The young Frenchman’s brows went up. “But I cannot recommend eet, sir. He eez consulting weeth the chef about dinner.”

Devellyn planted his big hands on the glass counter and leaned across. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn if he’s trimming his toenails stark naked in his bathwater!” Then he relaxed again. “Oh, bother! There must be a door here someplace!” he muttered, then strode behind the counter and through the draperies.

“Non, non!”
shouted the Frenchman plunging through the velvet after him. “Stop!”

But Devellyn had already found the back stairs and started up. “Thanks,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll just surprise him.”

He reached the door at the top, and gave a perfunctory knock. But George Kemble, it seemed, had finished with his chef. Devellyn found him in a small but luxurious drawing room, pouring what looked like sherry for a second chap, who seemed vaguely familiar. They turned their gazes to him at once, the second laying aside a newspaper and rising from his chair.

Kemble’s gaze swept down him. “Well, if it isn’t dear Cousin Aleric!” he said contemptuously. “What a surprise.”

“Sorry to barge in,” said Devellyn, propping one shoulder against the doorway as if he meant to stay awhile. “But I knew you’d refuse to see me.”

“You have an amazing grasp of the obvious, Devellyn.”

Devellyn lifted his chin. “Look here, Kemble,” he said. “You and I must set aside our differences. I need you to come with me tonight.”

“Come with
you?”
Kemble sat down his wine decanter.

Devellyn felt suddenly awkward. He needed this man’s help, much as it galled him to admit it. “To my father’s ball,” he pressed. “I know you received an invitation.”

“And mightily amused I was, too,” said Kemble, with an acid smile.

The second man had approached. “George, pray introduce us.”

“Forgive me, Maurice,” he said, then obliged him.

Devellyn offered his hand. “You look dashed familiar,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Wait!
Giroux.
You’re my new tailor, aren’t you?”

“One of my assistants made you a pair of waistcoats,” said Giroux with a sniff. “But I did not care for the colors your man chose.”

Devellyn narrowed one eye. “Horse piss yellow? And a sort of moldy shade of gray?”

“I fear so.” Giroux’s gaze slid critically down Devellyn’s evening attire.

Devellyn shrugged. “Well, let’s go, then,” he said. “The both of you.”

Giroux drew back a pace, horrified. “To Gravenel’s ball?”

Devellyn looked back and forth between them. “You two ought to think of Sidonie,” he said. “Tonight is important. She needs her family with her.”

“Sidonie means to go through with this?” asked Kemble.

“She promised me again, just last night,” said Devellyn confidently. “She will go, and I think you owe it to her to go as well.”

Giroux had returned to his chair. “You must be mad,” he answered, giving his newspaper an energetic snap. “I’ve probably fitted half the gentlemen there.”

“Good,” said Devellyn. “Then you won’t need to be introduced.”

“Let me explain it more thoroughly, my lord,” said Giroux waspishly. “Men do not wish to
know
men who have enjoyed such intimacies as measuring their waist-lines and rearranging their testicles in order to achieve a flawless drape. And I, frankly, do not wish to
know
them. It would be very bad for business. I am in trade, and should like to remain so, if you please. And I’ve no wish, believe it or not, to see your family made to look like fools for inviting me.”

He was right, of course.

“I’ve no more business going than he does,” interjected Kemble. “And even less interest.”

Devellyn snapped under the strain. “But you are my long-lost, much-loved cousin, damn it! Mother wishes to publicly embrace you and return you to the bosom of the family.”

“Oh, come!” said Kemble. “You cannot imagine I’d swallow that?”

“The
ton
will swallow it,” growled Devellyn. “Think of your sister’s future. I hate to break it so bluntly, Kem, but Sidonie and I are marrying by special license next week.”

Kemble looked horrified. “You must be joking.”

Devellyn smiled tightly. “I am afraid I have compromised her virtue just a tad.”

Kemble’s visage tightened. “You scoundrel!” he snapped. “I ought to take a horsewhip to your hide.”

“I thought you were going to shoot me in a dark alley,” Devellyn reminded him.

Kemble was pacing the floor now. “My God! Surely she did not agree to this! No, she did, didn’t she? Blister it! I
knew
that girl would land in trouble! But
marriage?
To
you?”

Devellyn forced himself to be calm. “I realize, of course, that I don’t deserve her,” he said. “Indeed, I would not even consider saddling her with me, but there is another, even more dire reason Sidonie needs a husband. My wealth and title will shield her from any sort of vile rumor which might spring up and cause questions. Consider, old chap, and I think you’ll grasp my meaning.”

Kemble eyed him nastily. “You manipulative black-guard.”

Devellyn stared down his broken nose at the smaller man. “Nonetheless, we are already betrothed,” he boldly lied. “The announcement is tonight. My mother means to ensure that Sidonie is embraced by all of society. You may call me out later if you wish. But for now, you owe your sister a duty.”

Maurice rattled his newspaper. “Afraid he’s got you there, George,” he said almost cheerfully. “Wear the cream silk waistcoat. It makes your eyes look a little more honest.”