Devil Takes A Bride (39 page)

“Lizzie!”

He followed, reaching for her arm, but she shook him off.

“Lizzie, come back here! You can't leave!
Lizzie!
”

It took all her strength, but she just kept walking, and kept her burning stare fixed straight ahead.

 

She was gone.

Without rhyme or reason, Dev ran through the thick, shadowed woods as he had as a boy, tearing through the brambles, his heart hammering, his blood seething in his veins. He leaped mossy logs, jumped gullies, and swung a large branch in his path against a tree trunk, shattering it in two with an unreasoned howl.

The satisfying crack of wood barely drained two drops of the near-mindless fury that had come over him with her desertion. But at least he had not let her see him like this, panting and rabid and half-insane with the torment. As a lad, he had turned drunkard to relieve the pain, then traveled far, far around the world. He had seen many things, had distracted himself with adventures, danger, exotic cultures, women—but he had never been happy. Not until Lizzie, and now she was gone.

Truth be told, half of him was glad. If she turned her back on him, there was nothing to live for. Nothing to keep him here. Nothing left to stand between him and an orgy of blood.

He came to the edge of the rise where the woods gave way to meadows, and there he stopped short, his chest heaving, an unhealthy sweat pouring down his face. For there, across the green meadow, overlooking the ornamental lake, was their grave.

He stared at it, his breath sounding jaggedly through his flared nostrils.

It looked so peaceful.

The family mausoleum was built to resemble a small white temple with a triangular pediment and four stout pillars. The torch was burning there, just as he ordered with bitter irony that it must always burn, day and night, in their honor.

Burn.

It should be me in there. Not them.

He had not come to visit them in ten long years, but the pain couldn't get any worse now, so he went forward, walking numbly like a man in a dream. When he reached the crypt, he walked up the three shallows steps and stretched out his hand to touch the sun-warmed marble.

The grief rose from the depths of his being like a whale coming up for air from the bottom of the sea. Dev crumpled against the marble as a low sob tore from him. Wrapping his arms vaguely around himself, he slid slowly down the smooth white wall till he was curled up like a child on the dusty colonnade, racked with the tears he had suppressed for twelve long, lonely years, begging their beloved spirits to forgive him.

 

Ben had driven her to the nearest coaching inn, where she had bought a ticket for the London stagecoach. Arriving at Jacinda's villa, Lizzie was plagued with a massive headache from the sheer tension of waiting to see Devlin's next move. Growing increasingly desperate to hear from him, she clung to her faith that she had done the right thing, though she could scarcely wrap her mind around all that she had walked away from.

She'd had no choice.

She was lying on a divan in the sitting room, reading—or rather rereading—the same page of a novel five times over, since she seemed to have no concentration these days, when Jacinda's butler appeared in the doorway and announced she had a visitor.

Never had she moved so fast in her life. In the blink of an eye, she was on her feet, running out to the entrance hall, but instead of Devlin, she skidded to a halt in her satin slippers.

“Daisy?”

Her mild-tempered student with the golden sausage curls was standing there, clutching her reticule, no chaperon in sight. The moment she saw Lizzie, Daisy's big blue eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Miss Carlisle! It's ever so awful! I didn't know where else to turn!” Daisy began crying. “My life is a shambles! Sorscha wrote me a letter. She told me where to find you. Her mama's taking her back to Ireland in a few days, but she said you would know what to do.”

“There, there, my dear, what on earth is the matter?” Lizzie hurried over and collected her, glad for the chance to turn her thoughts to someone else's problems instead of her own. Soon she had herded the girl into the sitting room and handed her a cup of tea.

“It's all right now, darling. What's happened?”

“Papa has betrothed me to the most horrid old man!”

“He has?”

“Yes! My life is ruined! I shan't get even a single Season! But Papa says it's just as well, for the ton won't accept me anyway. He says they think we're just a lot of encroaching t-toadstools!”

“My darling dear, you're nothing of the kind.”

“Papa only cares that I should be a b-baroness.”

“Oh, sweeting.” Lizzie hugged her and let Daisy cry on her shoulder a bit, but privately, she scowled with disapproval.

Had the chit's father no compassion? Daisy was a young sixteen. Some girls were quite mature at that age, but she had a trusting, childlike temperament and would not be ready to handle the responsibilities of marriage for several years.

“Papa is such a tyrant! I hate him!”

“Don't say that, Daisy,” she chided gently. “Perhaps it's not so bad. Do you know the name of the man you are to marry?”

Then Lizzie's blood ran cold at Daisy's answer.

The girl's yellow curls swung sadly as she nodded. “It's Quentin, Baron Randall. And he's
forty
!” she added in horror.

 

For two days, Dev had not left the place of their tomb. He took no food, barely a swallow of water. The sun beat down on him by day; by night, the wind sprayed the sudden cloudburst of needling rain against his face, but he did not leave them. He sat unmoving with his back to the hard marble wall, wrestling his demons without a movement or a sound—waiting for something to break. He pondered the stars, recalled the mysteries of sky and sea, and all the beauties of Nature, which had been mother and father to him since their death, and he tended the torch that still burned in their honor.

Through the darkest hours of the night, he stared into the flame, going deeper and deeper into himself, until the fire had somehow purified him.

Only then sleep claimed him.

When he awoke on the third day, the first thing he saw when his eyes fluttered open was the blue heavens through the white columns of the mausoleum.

Nothing had changed; he heard naught but twittering birdsong. And yet somehow on this new day, he awoke…and knew he was forgiven.

After all, if it had been Lizzie who had made a mistake, as he had once done, or a child of his own playing boyish pranks, he would have held no grudge, even if it had resulted in unforeseen tragedy. He could almost feel his parents kiss him in the gentle caress of the breeze and say,
It wasn't your fault.

He sat up slowly and looked around, realizing that he alone, of the four of them, was still free to leave.

Life was still a promise before him.

He took a deep breath that burned a little, like the first gasp of a newborn babe. But the sun glittered on the ornamental pond before him and a battle-weary smile crept over his lips as he envisioned the memory of his father there, teaching him to fish. A gentle man. A noble man. The man who had taught him that it did not matter what the world might do to you; it mattered only how you then reacted. And suddenly Dev had the answer.

His eyes flared, reflecting the blue-green color of the pond with sudden light.

Immediately, he was on his feet, striding toward Ben, who had been keeping a worried vigil nearby. He shook his trusty valet fondly by the shoulder.

“Wake up, Ben. We've got to go to Hertfordshire.”

Ben came to his senses with a start. “What, what? Huh?”

“Do you remember that night at the pavilion when I asked you to take that little peasant girl home? Suzy, she was called. Do you remember how to get to her village? Stevenage.”

“Of course. Why?”

“I've had blinders on, Ben,” he murmured. “I may never be able to prove to the world what they did to my family, but the girl—God, it's been right in front of me all along! We have to find that girl.”

“Sir?”

“Kidnapping, Ben.” Dev sent him a wily smile. “That's a hanging crime. She's our star witness.”

 

As Dev set out for Hertfordshire, meanwhile in London, Lizzie lifted her chin and marched into the hectic city business offices of Daisy Manning's father.

In the anteroom, harried clerks rushed to and fro at the sound of bellowed orders emanated from the coal-mining magnate's adjoining study.

“I have an appointment,” she said to the anemic-looking secretary at the counter.

“Name?”

When she told him her name, he bade her wait in one of the nearby chairs. She took a seat, looking on curiously while the great wheels of commerce whirred before her eyes.

“You tell 'im I want that shipment on time, or else!” A fat man with mutton-chop side-whiskers and ruddy jowls shoved upward by a too-tight cravat poked his blustery head out the door of the office and bellowed:
“Next!”

Lizzie blanched as the secretary gestured to her.

“Dear me,” she said under her breath, but rose and walked into the boss's private office.

“Who are you? Let me check me book,” Mr. Manning grumbled, the stump of a reeking cigar between his chubby fingers. “Yes, yes, Carlisle. I see that now. Well, what do ye want, then? You are from the ladies' charity, I take it? Shut that door!” he shouted at a passing clerk. “I already gave to the Foundling Hospital—”

“No, no, sir, I am here about your daughter.”

His impatient blustering paused. “Wot?”

“I'm here about Daisy. Your daughter?”

“Oh, yes, Daisy, of course. What about the chit?”

“I am—well, was—Daisy's teacher at Mrs. Hall's Academy until recently and I must say, Mr. Manning, your daughter is distraught over her betrothal.”

His bushy eyebrows drew into a line and he leaned to flick the ashes off the end of his cigar. “Don't see 'ow that's any of your business.”

“Right.” She dropped her gaze and realized politeness was going to get her nowhere. A blunter approach was in order. “Mr. Manning, the man to whom you are considered allying your child is a lecherous brute with a horrendous reputation.”

“He's a lord,” he grunted. “Everyone knows the nobs ain't got morals. Besides, Randall's suit has saved me havin' to pay a plum to put the chit through a Season. You know what they say, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” He took a puff on his cigar.

Lizzie stared at him in bewilderment. “Sir, with all due respect, this is your daughter we are discussing.”

“Aye, she's mine to dispense where I please. Look 'ere, I didn't get to where I am in life bein' a fool, Miss Carlisle. Beggars can't be choosers. Encroaching toadstools—that's what the nobs call the likes o' me. But now I got deep pockets and a pretty daughter—just a foothold's all I need. Do you know how I got started in life?” he asked, cocking his meaty hand on his round waist, in a pose reminiscent of Henry VIII.

“No, sir.”

“Chimney sweep. Ha!” With a look of extreme self-satisfaction, he plunked down into his chair. It groaned. “Daisy'll wed as her father tells 'er, like a proper lady. No use coddlin' the chit. Life ain't kind to them wot's coddled. Good day.
Next!
”

“Mr. Manning—”

“Miss Carlisle, I'm a busy man.”

“But you are selling yourself short,” she advised in a conspiratorial tone, leaning closer before he took it into his head to throw her out. “I am well connected in the ton, and I assure you, a lack of cash is positively epidemic amongst the titled. With such a beautiful, charming daughter and an empire such as you have built, why should you settle for a mere baron when you could just as easily snare an earl, a marquess, a duke?”

His eyes narrowed with a speculative gleam. “Duke?”

“Perhaps.”

He shook his beefy head decidedly after a moment. “Lord Randall showed me a map of his holdings. His lands straddle one of the richest coalfields in the North Country and the fool doesn't even know it. I could make a fortune there.”

She looked straight into his beady eyes. “Sir, he will hurt your daughter.”

She dared not reveal any shadow of Devlin's suspicions that Quint Randall might be guilty of murder. It was too dangerous. But she then gave Mr. Manning an earful he would not soon forget about the wicked ways of the Horse and Chariot Club.

When she was through, he sat studying his cigar in thought. He was not thoroughly convinced, but announced that he would hire a private investigator to check into Lord Randall's background and daily life, and once he had the facts, he promised to give the matter more thought.

Lizzie curtsied to him and withdrew.

 

A couple days later, Dev and Ben rolled into Town with a wide-eyed Suzy peering out the carriage window, bravely willing to lay an information against Quint and Carstairs at Bow Street, as long as Dev backed up her story. She might have been as naive as the day was long, but even Suzy knew that a peasant girl's word was meaningless against peers of the realm.

Fortunately, she had a peer of the realm on her side.

She turned her great cow eyes to Dev, seeking reassurance. “I hope they believe me, gov.”

He gave her a steadying nod. “They will.”

 

Because he was bored and because it amused him, Carstairs accompanied Quint to the business offices of his encroaching toadstool of a father-in-law-to-be.

“I'm glad you agreed to look over the settlement papers for me, Car,” Quint said. “I got no head for numbers, and that feeder hog is sure to try to cheat me if we're not sharp.”

“Indubitably,” Carstairs murmured as his coach traveled into the mercantile quarter of the city. Normally he would not sully his hands with such grubby dealings, but he was rather curious to see how the other half lived and, more to the point, it would be a blessing to have Quint off his back asking for “loans” all the time. The great lummox could not even afford a proper solicitor, and it amused Carstairs to assure Quint he didn't need one.