The Devil to Pay (5 page)

The knot jerked fast, drawing his wrist firmly against the wooden bedpost.

“ ’Fraid you’ll have to, gov’nor,” she said, her voice suddenly cool.

He felt her weight shift, and he opened his eyes “Ruby?” he said. “Wha—?”

She had the second stocking stuffed in his mouth so fast, he couldn’t draw breath. For a moment, he was dazed. Confused. Then sudden knowledge slammed into him.

God damn her.

The bitch was on her feet, rummaging through his pockets like a squirrel. Purse. Watch. Keys. Loose coins. Everything he carried she took.

“Ah mm ghmm mmm!”
he said.

“Oh, keep it stuffed, Devellyn,” she said.

An open valise sat on the night table, and she unceremoniously dumped the contents of his pockets into it. Then she jerked out a length of rope, and snapped the valise shut. He twisted his torso and swung one leg off the bed, almost catching her round the waist, but the little jade danced away, the valise in hand.

“Oh, Devellyn, you bloody idiot,” she said, swiftly tying the bag to her body with the rope. “I wish you could see yourself now.”

She took the key from the door lock and pitched it out the window, then snatched a gray cloak from a peg on the wall and threw it over her shoulders. Her every movement was quick and efficient. By God, she’d done this before. For that, he was going to strangle her. Twice. He tried to tell her so.

“Amm ggnn kigg uggh!”
he said, chewing furiously at the stocking.

Ruby just smiled and pushed open the casement window. “Ta, lovey.”

“Gnnn unngh!”

“Lawks, yes, I almost forgot!” She stepped a little nearer the bed. “Promised you a peek at me dumplings, didn’t I?”

The bitch.
Rage ran bloodred through his brain. He shoved at the wad of stocking with his tongue, thrashing so hard the bed moved.

“Now, don’t cut up so, Devellyn,” said Ruby, as she worked down one side of her bodice. “Not unless yer wants an audience up here.” She laughed as the creamy flesh spilled forth, not quite baring her nipple. And then he saw it. In the poor light, it was hard to make out, and she didn’t dare come closer. But he could guess at what it was.

A black angel. She had a little black angel tattooed on the far side of her left breast.

Devellyn got his tongue wedged under the stocking and spat for all he was worth. The stocking burst from his mouth and rolled down his chest, as limp as his now-lifeless cock. “You bitch!” he roared. “You vile, sneaking, cheating little strumpet! You don’t know what you’ve done, do you?”

She lifted one delicate eyebrow. “Coo! Don’t I? P’raps you’d best explain it ter me.”

“You’ve picked the wrong pocket this time, my angel!” he roared. “And this time, you’ll have the devil to pay, do you hear?”

Ruby Black had one foot on the windowsill now, her hands braced wide on the iron frame. “Good night, my lord,” she said sweetly. “Sorry about yer shriveled tipstaff.”

“The devil to pay, bitch!”
he bellowed. “I am coming after
you.”

Then the Black Angel laughed and literally leapt into the gloom.

“Oooh, I don’t like this, girl.” Julia had Sidonie’s head bent back over a chair and was scrubbing hard at the dark tint she’d helped Sidonie rub into her skin hours earlier. “No, not one bit, I don’t. Jumping out windows! Ropes and such! And if something happens to you, it’ll be blood on my hands, sure as I’d done the deed.”

Sidonie tried to sit up straight. “I’m fine, Julia. Ow! Don’t scrub so hard.” She gentled her tone. “I’m home safe, aren’t I? And none of this is your doing.”

Julia dunked her sponge into the basin again. “But the Marquess of Devellyn!” She stared into the steaming water as if unwilling to hold Sidonie’s gaze. “Lord help you, girl, what were you thinking!”

Sidonie laughed. “Julia, I’m hardly a girl. In fact, I’m on the downhill slide to thirty.”

“Aye, and not like to see it, either, running wild about Southwark with a Satan’s spawn like Devellyn.”

“But, Julia,” Sidonie whispered in a teasing voice, “I got to see him naked. Stark staring, as a matter of fact.”

Julia smacked her hand. “Stop it, Sidonie.”

Sidonie laughed. “But you’ve heard the rumors, Julia!” she went on. “Don’t you want to know what the Devil of Duke Street looks like out of his trousers?”

Julia wrestled with her conscience but an instant. “Yes,” she hissed. “What?”

Sidonie closed her eyes. “Beautiful, damn him,” she said. “Big and beautiful like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life—and not apt to see again. A body like Carrera marble, all smooth, firm planes. And hard, Julia. Hard all over.”

“Got a good look, hmm?” A little too enthusiastically, Julia peeled off the strip of the gummed rubber which drew Sidonie’s skin taut across her cheekbones.

“Ouch!” Sidonie yelped.

“Don’t
ouch
at me,” said Julia, flicking the gooey stuff into the dustbin. “Now good looks aside, Sidonie, I want you to stay away from Devellyn. He’s dangerous, that one. And there’s all manner of trouble he could start.”

The thrill of the chase was still coursing through Sidonie’s blood, and she was reluctant to have her spirits dampened. Devellyn had proven a most worthy adversary. “What sort of trouble could he cause?”

Julia cut a strange, sidelong glance at her. “Plenty of trouble,” she said cryptically. “Serious trouble. And if your brother George catches wind of this, he’s apt to take his hand to the back of your arse.”

“George doesn’t know.”

“Yes, and you’d best quit before he finds out.” The last strip of rubber came off a little more gently. Just then, Thomas leapt onto Sidonie’s bed and pounced upon the red wig, which lay like a dead fox in the middle of her counterpane.

“Is that it? Am I done?” Sidonie rubbed beneath her ear, trying to ease the sting as she watched Thomas tussle and growl on the bed.

“Yes, you’re done.” Julia dropped the sponge into the water with a
plop!
and dried her hands off on her apron, then shooed the cat away from the wig.

Sidonie pulled the towel from around her neck and went to the demilune table by her bedroom window. The house across the street, she noticed, was steeped in darkness tonight. Now that she knew who owned it, and had exacted her insignificant pound of flesh, she was not at all sure she’d sleep any better. As it so often did, the rush of excitement would keep her awake for a while yet, leaving her to feel restless. Trapped. Indeed, she yearned to lose herself again in the dark danger of streets. But it would be a long time, she knew, before she met another adversary as worthy as Devellyn.

She poured two glasses of sherry and returned to press one into Julia’s hand. “Here,” she said softly. “We both need a drink.”

“Do we now?” Julia glanced at her curiously.

Sidonie pressed her lips together. “All right, Julia,” she finally answered. “I took a risk tonight. Devellyn’s not the fool the others were.”

Julia looked somewhat mollified, and by unspoken agreement, they settled into chairs by the hearth. Sidonie pulled up her knees and tucked her toes underneath her wrapper. It was an expensive, opulent garment in emerald green velvet, with collar and cuffs edged in a delicate gold braid. She wondered if her mother had bought it, or received it as a gift from one of her admirers.

She wondered, too, why she’d returned to London after her mother’s death. Sidonie had told herself it was because George was here, and she had no one else. But after almost a year here, she was beginning to wonder. She felt as if she were seeking something; something frustratingly elusive. Closure, perhaps?

“You look like her in that robe,” said Julia in a musing tone.

Just then, Thomas leapt into Sidonie’s lap to purr. “Like Claire?” Sidonie dropped her gaze to the cat. “There, Julia, you are wrong. I am nothing like her.”

Julia sipped at her wine. “No?” she asked softly. “She had a kind heart and a generous spirit. As do you, hmm?”

Sidonie was silent for a moment. “Some might say her spirit was rather too generous,” she finally answered.

Julia looked suddenly angry. “She was no whore, Sidonie,” she retorted. “Is that what you’re thinking? Is it? Then don’t say it in front of me, girl. Perhaps she wasn’t perfect, but she was never a bad person.”

“No, Julia.” Sidonie shook her head. She wasn’t saying that. But what was she saying? What had her mother been? Good Lord,
who
had her mother been? She did not know. Even after all these years, she did not know. And now Claire had taken her secrets to the grave.

“Perhaps she was just a foolish girl who let herself be taken advantage of,” Sidonie finally whispered.

“Oh, to be sure.” Julia leaned intently forward in her chair and shook her finger at Sidonie. “But only once, Sidonie. Only once. After that, she did what she had to do. She got sharp. After all, she had your brother to think about, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know.” Sidonie’s voice was hollow. “Sometimes I think I never really knew her.”

“Well, I did,” Julia answered sharply. “And there she was, a babe in her belly, and no way to feed it. Who’ll hire a French governess who’s been diddled by her last employer? No one, that’s who. And if you think for one minute her fine, fancy family would have taken her back in, you can think again. A daughter six months gone with child and no husband to show for it? Ha!”

Sidonie shrugged. “True enough,” she agreed. “They didn’t even want me, their own grandchild. They took me straight from the ferry to the convent door. I suppose I was…evidence. The proof incarnate of my mother’s immoral life.”

Julia sipped slowly at her glass. “Ah, Sidonie, life can be a bad business,” she finally said. “Claire wasn’t like me, you know. I was born sharp. But she was…victimized, I suppose. By Gravenel. He saw her, he wanted her, and he decided she was his for the taking.”

Sidonie sipped pensively at her wine for many minutes. She had heard this story long ago—from George, as it happened. “Julia,” she finally said. “What happened to him? Do you know?”

“What, to your father?” Julia looked surprised. “Gravenel died not long after your mother sent you away to France.”

“I know that,” said Sidonie. “But what
happened?
I was never told.”

Julia just shrugged. “Well, they did say it was apoplexy,” she answered. “But I think the bitterness choked him. He died all alone in that great, empty country house of his. Stoneleigh, it was called. More like a stone tomb if you ask me.”

“He…he had no one?”

Again, Julia lifted one shoulder. “Well, your mother had grown tired of him by then,” she said. “Or tired of his excuses and lies. His new bride had run away with her Italian banker. Your mother had sent you off to France. And George—why, no one even knew what had become of George. He had just melted into the streets.”

“And his…other daughter?” His legitimate daughter, she meant. But Sidonie could not bring herself to say it.

Julia looked deep into her wineglass. “Married and went off to India,” she answered. “Then died there. But I don’t think that troubled Gravenel. ’Twas a son he wanted.”

“He had a son,” Sidonie whispered. “He had George.”

Julia lifted her gaze, her face softening. “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “I meant he wanted…well, someone who could inherit the dukedom.”

“Someone legitimate, you mean.”

“Yes, someone legitimate,” she agreed. “That, I daresay, is why he took the second wife.”

Sidonie shook her head. “Mother said he’d promised to marry
her,”
she answered, ashamed of how soft and girlish her voice suddenly sounded. “I must have heard them quarrel about it a dozen times. Mother would cry and scream and throw things at Father. She kept saying he’d sworn that when his wife died, they would wed.”

“And I believe her,” agreed Julia. “But the duchess clung to life. That one wasn’t about to make things easy on Claire.”

“But Father promised her,” said Sidonie. “And he promised to make things right for George. Instead, he ruined his life.”

Julia set her glass down and made a sound of sympathy in her throat. “There’s no making things right here, Sidonie,” she answered. “I don’t care what manner of lies Gravenel told Claire. Illegitimate sons don’t inherit dukedoms in England. It can’t be done. And your mother knew why he wouldn’t marry her.”

“Because she was his mistress,” Sidonie whispered. “He was ashamed of her. He was ashamed of
us.”

Julia leaned across the distance and took Sidonie’s hand in hers. “In part, perhaps.” she said softly. “English noblemen rarely marry their mistresses.”

Sidonie looked at her. “Was there some other reason?”

Julia gave a wintry smile. “My dear, by the time the duchess finally died of her consumption, your mother was past thirty,” she said. “She had given Gravenel her best years—a decade, give or take—yet at the time, she’d borne him but the one child.”

“Julia, what are you saying?”

Julia hesitated, her expression pained. “Claire couldn’t carry children well,” she answered. “There were three between you and your brother, but they came to naught early. Some women are just cursed that way. It was a miracle George was born, let alone you.”

Sidonie felt her face fall. “And by the time I came along, she and Father were falling apart.”

Slowly, Julia lifted her shoulders. “Claire never got over his taking a young debutante to wife,” she admitted. “She had other wealthy admirers vying for her favors, and he dallied with other women frequently. But you knew that.”

“I heard the quarrels, yes,” said Sidonie.

“And eventually, it all fell apart, didn’t it?” mused Julia. “Claire began to take younger lovers. It cheered her up, I think. Soon, Gravenel’s new bride was in Italy, and the duke was left with nothing. No wife. No heir. No mistress. George had run away. You were little more than a babe. But I never felt sorry for him. He reaped what he sowed.”

Sidonie stroked her hand down Thomas’s length and exhaled deeply. The exhilaration she’d felt while fleecing Lord Devellyn was fast fading. Real life—her old life—was intruding again. She longed to return to the streets to lose herself in another quixotic quest for vengeance. But vengeance for whom? For what?

“Oh, Julia, it’s all so sad,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder why I came back. Perhaps I should have stayed in France.”

“Eventually, Sidonie, we all yearn for home.” Julia smiled, then slowly, she rose from her chair. Her eyes, Sidonie noticed, were beginning to tell her age. It was best, she supposed, that Claire had died young. She had been too vain to endure the indignities of old age with any measure of grace.

Julia rested a hand on Sidonie’s shoulder. “You look lovely in that robe, my dear,” she said again. “Claire had slippers to match, I recall. When we clean out the attic Wednesday, we’ll poke about in her old trunks, eh? We will remember the good times.”

“All right, Julia.” Sidonie tried to feign enthusiasm. “That sounds pleasant.”

But it didn’t, really. Sidonie had no wish to think about her mother, her father, or even herself. Instead she found herself thinking about the Marquess of Devellyn. About the cold, flat look in his eyes, and the hard turn of his jaw. About the breadth of his shoulders and the size of his…of his ego. Then there was that smile; that half-crooked, totally self-effacing smile he flashed rarely, but which made him seem boyish and uncertain. Sidonie had only glimpsed it, but it had struck her as both incongruous and genuine. She didn’t know what to make of it.

“Oh, before I go,” murmured Julia absently. “Miss Leslie sent a note canceling piano tomorrow. She’s taken that sore throat which is going round.”

“How dreadful,” she said. “Was there anything else?”

“Actually, there was.” Julia fumbled in her pocket, and handed Sidonie a note. “The crossing sweep brought it.”

Sidonie knew at once what it was. As usual, the envelope bore no name or direction, merely a seal. A griffin couchant, pressed into black wax. “Jean-Claude,” she said quietly.

“I daresay,” said Julia softly. “Good night, my dear.” The door clicked softly shut.

As if it were a signal, Thomas bounded to the floor. Thus completely abandoned, Sidonie read her note and hurled it into the fire, destroying the evidence. Then she put out her candles and pulled a chair to the window. And there she remained, until dawn began to light the sky, simply staring through the gaslit gloom at the house across the street and, strangely, thinking about her mother.

The Marquess of Devellyn had been pelted with a great many slurs in his long and dissolute thirty-six years, and at least half of them were deserved. Inebriate, idiot, cad, coxcomb, rakehell, rounder, and rotter were amongst the ten most popular—the other three had momentarily escaped him thanks to a near-mortal morning-after headache—but no matter how drunk or dissipated he became, there were two invectives he always took pains to avoid:
cheat
and
coward.

Today it was the latter which most concerned him. And so Devellyn put on his tall beaver hat, picked up his gold-knobbed stick, and forced himself to step out his front door and set off down Duke Street in the direction of Piccadilly just as a distant clock struck noon. There was no evading what he had to face now, so he might as well have done with it at the earliest possible opportunity.