Devil Takes A Bride (2 page)

“Yes,” Quint rasped.

“Go.” As the baron ran out to fulfill his duty, Carstairs strode over to Lady Strathmore and crouched down beside her, gripping her arm. “Try to calm down, my lady. We've already sent for a surgeon,” he lied. “He's on his way. Stanch the wound till he gets here, just like you're doing. That's good. Concentrate.”

This shut her up, gave her something to do and a straw of hope to grasp on to. Too dazed to realize he was lying, the lady nodded, shaking all over, then suddenly seemed to recall her screaming child. “My little girl! Will you—?”

“I'll get her,” Ginny murmured, and ran out to collect the crying tot.

Carstairs eyed the actress with hatred as she rushed past him, then turned to Staines. “If anyone gives you the slightest trouble, finish them.”

Staines gave him a mercenary nod.

Carstairs went to try to handle the rest of the hotel. He schooled his face into a charming, easy smile a moment before he went striding out into the lobby, where several people were looking toward the stairs in alarm, only now just beginning to wonder if something was wrong on the second-floor gallery.

“I apologize, sir, if I disturbed anyone with the report of my pistol,” he said to the landlord, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I was cleaning my gun in my room when it went off. I'm afraid I gave the lady in the neighboring room a bit of a fright, so I wish to pay for her room to make it up for her.”

“Why, that's very kind of you,” the landlord said cheerfully, looking relieved at his explanation.

He spilled a handful of coins on the desk. “Again, sorry for the disturbance. A round for the gents in the taproom, eh, landlord?”

“Why, that's a capital fellow,” several people murmured as he strode outside.

Well aware that he had come through that by the skin of his teeth, Carstairs sucked in a deep breath of cool night air, retching slightly. He knew his explanation had been too flimsy to do more than buy them some time, an hour if they were lucky. He wished to God they could simply flee, but too many people had seen them, and the death of a courtesan-actress was worlds away from the murder of a fellow peer. Strathmore was a quiet man, but universally esteemed.

Dry mouthed, the blood pounding in his veins, Carstairs glanced around for some means to make this whole debacle go away. He knew that if he did not cover up Quint's blunder immediately, Strathmore's death would be investigated; Carstairs, being part of it, would also be placed under the microscope, but God knew he could not afford anyone probing into his personal life. There were still ancient laws on the books that decreed hanging for so-called sodomites, and he was not about to be publicly disgraced and executed on account of his taste for pretty young boys.

He saw Johnny still waiting obediently in his carriage, but as his frantic gaze swept the courtyard, Carstairs spied a delivery wagon parked on the side of the inn, near the entrance to the taproom. It was loaded with barrels, and the painted block letters on the side of the cart read
BRANDY AND FINE SPIRITS
.

An idea stirred in his mind. He looked at the inn's wooden galleries, dry as tinder; the thatched roof; the black shutters, mostly closed for the night. He glanced again rather evilly at the barrels of highly flammable liquor.

And he knew what he had to do.

A few minutes later, he, Quint, and Staines were working in swift, ruthless silence, each hefting a barrel, pouring and splashing brandy, whiskey, and port all over the perimeter of the building, locking the metal teeth of the window shutters as they went. Johnny looked on from his perch on the carriage.

“What about Ginny?” Staines grunted, bringing the torch. “Do you want to get her out of there?”

“That bitch can go to hell,” Quint growled. “This is all her fault.” Then he lit his torch from Staines's and they set the place on fire.

The three racing-drags thundered away from the scene a few minutes later, flames climbing into the black night sky behind them.

 

“Hold on, Stephen. I'll get you out of here. Darling, try.”

The fire raced through the hotel. The two women had barely noticed it at first in their panic over Lord Strathmore, but now smoke was filtering up through each tiny seam of the floorboards. Mary held the screaming four-year-old in her arms and tried to urge the child's mother to come with her, but the viscountess would not leave her husband's side. He was still alive, vaguely conscious now, whispering, “Katie.”

“Come, Stephen. You've got to get up. Lean on me.” The woman struggled to pull the tall, muscular man to his feet. Mary helped, too, but he could barely stand.

“I'm sorry, Katie. Go,” he pleaded. “Take Sarah—”

“I'll not leave you!” His wife spun to Ginny. “Get my child out if you can.”

“But, ma'am, you must—”

“Save my daughter!” she cried.

Mary nodded, abashed, for it was her fault the Good Samaritan had been struck down in the first place. Throwing her cape over the little girl to shield her from the smoke and fire, Mary left the woman to her continued efforts to save her husband and carried the bawling child down the stairwell. As she approached the ground floor, the fire roared, the screams growing louder as thick, black smoke choked the air.

The lobby and taproom were ablaze, the guests stampeding, trying to find a way out; a burning beam had crashed down in front of the only door, and every window seemed to be blocked from the outside. Someone broke a window with a chair to get out, but the inrush of air only made the flames explode with renewed fury.

It was like being in Hell.

Mary looked around in sweeping horror, no doubt in her mind that Quint and his evil friends had brought this about. Her heart was pounding, the heat becoming too intense to bear. The ash in the air stung her eyes so she could hardly see where she was going; coughing and choking, she could barely breathe. She knew if she didn't get out quickly, she would lose consciousness, and that would be the end of both her and the little girl.

Driven by her need to save her gallant rescuer's child, she ran from room to room, searching the ground floor for an exit. In the back parlor, everything was on fire, but as she glanced in, one of the burning shutters fell away, leaving a hole that led out into the night. A chance!

The heavy brocade curtains framing the window were on fire, however. Somehow she'd have to get past them. Hurrying to the window, she used part of her cloak to protect her hands while she fought to pry the window open. In terrified fury, she succeeded at last, wasting no time in lowering the little girl out.

“Run, Sarah!”

As Mary struggled to follow her out the window, she was almost in the clear, when the twisting flames that were devouring the curtains brushed her face. She screamed, falling out the window as her whole body jerked away from the pain. Her hair caught; she could not writhe away from the horror; it followed her as she ran. She fell to the ground in agony, and did not know where the water came from as it suddenly drenched her, several buckets full.

When she opened her eyes a moment later, she made out the shapes of several men mulling around, trying to help whomever they could.

“The little girl!” she wrenched out.

“She's right here, ma'am. Don't try to move. The doctor's coming.”

She didn't listen, struggling to stand. One side of her face felt flayed.

At that moment, the burning roof caved in. The Golden Bull collapsed in on itself like a failed soufflé. The screams were lost in the roar of the victorious fire. There could be no survivors now. Unsteady on her feet, Mary gathered the thrashing child in her arms. She knew she was hurt badly, but somehow she was alive—and so was little Sarah. They would not be that way for long, however, if her evil lover and his friends came back.

Blocking out the pain, Mary slipped away in the confusion, taking the child with her. She knew she must hide, must get help for her wounds; as soon as possible, she and the little orphan would flee to Ireland.

 

The raven-haired lad with sea-colored eyes and a sulky mouth drowsed on the hard bench in the anteroom to the dean's office, where he had wearily been awaiting his punishment for what seemed like ages.

At first, Devlin James Kimball, the seventeen-year-old heir to the Strathmore viscountcy, had been too hungover from his spree to think at all about “the consequences of his actions,” as several school officials had instructed him to do.

Recovering somewhat later, he had spent a good twelve hours rehearsing pretty speeches with which to meet his mother's certain wrath over his row with the proctor's bulldog, but hang it all, the blackguard shouldn't have made that remark about Admiral Lord Nelson's glorious death and final victory at Trafalgar of a few weeks ago. Dev had considered it a matter of honor to defend his fallen idol's name.

Despite his excuse, though, he knew his tempestuous dam would call him to the carpet. Thankfully, Father was sure to come to his defense. God knew one disappointed glance from his sire weighed more on Dev than all his mother's stormy shouting. He heaved a sigh and thunked his head back against the cool plaster wall, his stomach rumbling with hunger. A chap could starve around here. Where were they, anyway? Why had no one come for him yet?

There was no clock in the detention room, but it felt like he had been in here for days.

Again that cold, creeping feeling inched down his spine—the inexplicable premonition that something was wrong. Hearing footsteps coming down the corridor, he sat up and scowled at the locked door.
Finally.
He quickly ran his fingers through his tousled black hair and did his best to adjust his cravat, bracing himself to face his parents' displeasure.

When the door opened, however, Dev furrowed his brow, for it wasn't Lord and Lady Strathmore, but the dean and the school chaplain, both old buzzards looking grim as death.

“Have a seat, son,” the dean murmured with unprecedented kindness.

Dev obeyed, but glanced through the open door into the hallway and furrowed his brow. “Have they come?”

The chaplain winced and sat down slowly with him. “My dear boy, we've sent for your aunt Augusta to come and collect you. I'm afraid there has been some terrible news….”

C
HAPTER
O
NE

The fanciful cupola-topped pavilion languished in desolation on the frozen marshes south of the Thames, a gaudy ruin, with a gray February sleet blowing against its rusty, fake turrets and boarded-up windows. Some said the place was haunted. Others claimed it was cursed. All that His Lordship's unassuming little man-of-business knew, however, was that if his glamorous patron did not soon arrive, he was sure to catch his death in this weather.

Clutching his umbrella over his head, Charles Beecham, Esquire, stood wrapped in his brown wool greatcoat, his beaver hat pulled low over his receding hairline, and a look of abject misery on his face. He sneezed abruptly into his handkerchief.

“God bless ye.” Mr. Dalloway, standing nearby, slid him a greasy grin.

“Thank you,” Charles clipped out before turning away from the unkempt property agent with a respectable
humph
.

Dalloway was the opposition in this matter, determined to bilk His Lordship out of three thousand pounds for the dubious privilege of owning the godforsaken place. Charles meant to advise his patron against the purchase in the strongest possible terms, not the least because it would fall to
him
to explain the mad expenditure to old Lady Ironsides. Stealing another discreet glance at his fob watch, he pursed his lips.
Late.

Alas, his staid life as the Strathmore family's solicitor had become alarmingly interesting since His Lordship's return from his high adventures on the seven seas and elsewhere.

Though barely thirty, the viscount had done the sorts of things Charles preferred to read about from the safety of his favorite armchair. Her Ladyship had oft regaled Charles with tales of her dashing nephew's exploits: battling pirates, chasing down slave ships, living with savages, fending off mountain lions, surveying temples in the wilds of Malaysia, crossing deserts with the nomad caravans of Kandahar. Charles had thought them a lot of cock-and-bull tales until he'd met the man. What on earth could he want with this place? he wondered, then rehearsed a diplomatic warning in his head:
This, my lord, is precisely the sort of rash adventure that drove your uncle into dun territory….

Ah, but thinking a thing and saying it to Devil Strathmore were two different matters entirely.

Just then, a drumming sound approached from behind the wintry shroud of pewter fog and needling rain, like thunder rumbling in the distance. Barely discernible at first, it swiftly formed into the deep, recognizable rhythm of pounding hoofbeats.

At last.
Charles stared in the direction of the pleasure grounds' great iron gates. The ominous cadence grew louder—driving, relentless—reverberating across the marshes, until it shook the earth. Suddenly, a large black coach hurtled out of the indistinguishable gray, barreling up the graveled drive that offered the only safe course through the boggy waste.

The quartet of fine, jet-black horses moved like liquid night, their hooves striking sure over the mud and ice, steam puffing from their nostrils. Stationed fore and aft on the shiny body of the coach, His Lordship's driver, groom, and two footmen stared straight ahead, impervious to the weather. They were clad in traditional Strathmore livery, a sedate dun color with smart black piping, stiff felt tricornes on their heads, and frothy, white lace jabots at their throats.

Charles looked askance at his opponent as Mr. Dalloway ambled down from his shelter atop the flamboyant curved steps of the pavilion. His wily stare was fixed on the approaching vehicle. Noting the gleam of greed in Dalloway's eyes, Charles fretted with the unhappy premonition that his rival would win the day, and then what on earth would he tell Her Ladyship? He could only cork his terror at the thought of the formidable dowager's displeasure by reminding himself of her stern orders seven months ago, upon her nephew's return to London.

“Send all of Devlin's bills to me,”
the old dragon had instructed in no uncertain terms. When Charles had tactfully questioned the command, seeking only to protect the elderly woman, Her Ladyship had pooh-poohed his hesitancy.
“It is enough that he has come home at last, Charles. My handsome nephew must cut a dash in Town! You will send his bills to
me
.”

And so, obediently, Charles had.

His Lordship's bills, like a flock of ink-smudged doves, had winged their way to the dowager's elegant villa in the Bath countryside: the handsome house on Portman Street and all its elegant furnishings, Aubusson carpets, French damask drapes, Classical paintings and nude marble statues; the wine cellar; the staff's wages; the coach, the drag, the curricle; the horses; the clothes; the boots; the club dues for White's and Brooke's; the opera box, the parties, the jewels for himself and a number of unnamed women; even the IOU's from a few unlucky hands at the gaming tables. Dear old Aunt Augusta had paid them all without a peep. But three thousand quid for an old, abandoned pleasure-ground? It seemed excessive even for
him
.

As his coachman pulled the team to a halt in front of the pavilion, Charles swallowed hard, his heart beating faster. The footmen jumped down from their post in back of the coach and marched forward like soulless clockwork automata, one opening the carriage door, the other producing an umbrella, which he held at the ready.

Dalloway cast Charles a nervous glance, no longer looking quite so cocky.

“You haven't met His Lordship yet, have you?” Charles murmured under his breath, feeling a trifle smug.

Dalloway did not answer. He looked again at the coach, where the footman knocked down the folding metal steps and then held the door, staring forward in stone-faced efficiency.

The first person to climb out of the coach was the amiable Bennett Freeman, a neatly dressed, young black man from America who served as His Lordship's gentleman's gentleman, had followed him on his journeys around the globe, and attended the viscount in much of his day-to-day business. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Mr. Freeman's intelligent brown eyes scanned the bizarre location with a perplexed glance, but when he saw Charles, he waved affably and dashed toward the pavilion to escape the weather.

Next, a dainty, gloved hand emerged from the carriage, accepting the footman's assistance. Charles sneezed again as His Lordship's latest elegant ladybird stepped down from the coach and minced toward the stairs, teetering over the mud on her high metal pattens. It was not her clothes but her mercenary eyes and wiggly walk that gave away her profession—these days the top courtesans dressed as fine as the ton's best hostesses. She wore a tight spencer of maroon velvet and held up her skirts with one gloved hand, while with the other, she tried to shield her magnificent hat with its clutch of ostrich plumes from the steady drizzle.

Gentleman enough to show chivalry even to her sort, Charles hurried over and gave the high-priced harlot his umbrella.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she responded in a breathy purr.

Dalloway eagerly assisted the hussy in going up the wet stairs.

Last of all came Devil Strathmore.

The footman with the umbrella had to hold his arm higher in order to shelter his towering master from the weather. His Lordship slid out of the coach with a sinuous motion, then paused to adjust the fur-trimmed greatcoat of luxurious black wool that hung carelessly from his massive shoulders and draped his powerful frame. Small, tinted spectacles shaded his eyes from the flat, gray glare of afternoon; he wore his long, raven hair tied back in a silky queue. A small gold hoop adorned his left earlobe. Eccentricity, after all, ran in his family, as did his Irish good looks. His skin was still coppered from that desert he had crossed months ago, but his lazy grin when he caught sight of his loyal family retainer flashed like the white cliffs of Dover.

There was no helping it. Even to a middle-aged fuddy-duddy like Charles, that smile, when Devil Strathmore doled it out, could make a person stand up taller. He looked every inch the hardened, worldly roué—and he was no man to cross, to be sure—but if he liked you, there was a warmth in him that no one could resist.

“Charles, good to see you.” Lord Strathmore strutted toward him with long-legged, confident strides, the umbrella-holding footman hurrying to keep up.

“My lord.” Charles winced at his hearty handshake and nearly tripped forward when the big man clapped him on the back.

He swept an elegant gesture toward the building. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course, my lord. B-but, first I really must say—”

“Problem, Charles?” He took off his tinted spectacles and stared down at him for a moment with pale, wolflike eyes.

Charles looked into that fathomless gaze and saw traces of the wilderness still lingering there: leafy shadows; blue vistas; deep, dark canyons. He gulped. “N-no, of course, my lord, no problem. It's just, well, it's a terrible expense, don't you see.” He faltered, seeing he was having no effect. “That is to say, I am not entirely sure Her Ladyship would approve.”

Dev paused, studying him.

As an ardent student of human nature, he appreciated the courage, indeed, the loyalty it took his little solicitor to stand up to him. He truly did. All the same, in this matter, he would brook no denial. Explaining his true motives was out of the question, of course. It seemed he was just going to have to brazen it out and insist on having his way because—well, because he was Devil Strathmore and had always done exactly what he liked.

He slipped Charles one of his most charming smiles and tucked his spectacles inside his breast pocket. “Don't be daft, Charles. Aunt Augusta thinks I hung the moon.” He turned and jogged up the stairs.

“Well, that is true—” Charles hastened to follow. “But perhaps I could explain it better to her if it would please Your Lordship to inform me wh-why you wish to buy this place?”

Dev laughed. “Why, for the same reason I do everything: because it amuses me. Come, come, Charles, don't be a killjoy. Let's have a look.”

“But, sir—she'll have my head for this!”

“Charles.” He stopped, turned, and sighed, then affectionately fixed the little man's lapels. “Dear, dear, Charles. Neat, tidy Charles. Very well, I shall tell you what's afoot, but I am taking you into strictest confidence. Understood?”

“Sir!” His eyes widened at this spectacular show of favor. “Of course, my lord. You have my word a-as a gentleman.”

“Capital.” Dev grasped his shoulder and pulled him nearer, staring firmly at him. “Now, then.” He bent his head toward the shorter man and lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard, Charles, of the Horse and Chariot Driving Club?”

Charles's eyes widened in scandalized innocence. “Sir!” he breathed.

“Quite,” Dev replied. “You know how I enjoy the sport of driving.”

“Y-yes, sir. The curricle, the racing drag, your silver stallion—”

“Precisely. Well, there are a few…shall we say, requirements for entrée into the club, you see.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, a prospective member must be of good birth, have no morals and a great deal of money.”

“But—you don't, sir.”

Dev laughed without humor. “Not yet, of course, but it's the same as if I did.”

Indeed, he was counting on his aunt's fortune as critical to his success. Gambling, for example, was how he had gotten close to his targets in the first place, for such sharpers as the boys of the Horse and Chariot Club could always use another deep player to round out the whist table. Curious—the more he lost without complaint, the more the blackguards seemed to enjoy his company. But let them win for now, he thought. Soon, they would lose everything.

Including their lives.

“The second requirement an aspiring member must fulfill is to show his respect by presenting the brotherhood with a suitable gift. This—” Dev glanced around at the building, then gave Charles a conspiratorial wink. “—will knock 'em off their bloody feet.”

At least it would when he had packed the floor with explosives.

“I've heard there's a third requirement,” he added breezily, “but so far, I've been unable to find out what it is.”

“Yes, but sir—the Horse and Chariot!” Charles whispered in dread. “Everyone knows—well, you have been away from Town all these years—perhaps you have not heard—?”

To Dev's amusement, his little lawyer glanced from side to side, as though Damage Randall, Blood Staines, or that elegant pervert, Carstairs, might be lurking nearby.

“They are a very bad sort, sir. Very bad. Duels—unspeakable things! I am quite sure your aunt would not at all approve. Not at all!”

“Well, Charles, you may be right, but as I said, I do love the sport. A true aficionado of the four-in-hand is prepared to overlook such things. Don't you agree? I'm so glad you gave me your word not to mention this to old Lady Ironsides. Shall we?” Dev cast him a silky smile.