Devil Takes A Bride (4 page)

“Well done, Charles.” He snapped his fingers. “Cheque.”

Immediately, the other footman stepped forth bearing a portable desktop, which he held for him. Dev opened the hinged top and pulled out his draftbook. Dipping his quillpen into the tiny inkbottle, he scratched out the promissory note, chuckling darkly to himself.
Cursed. Haunted. How very apropos.
“See that the place is properly insured before work begins on it, Charles.” He handed Dalloway the cheque. “We'll need a reliable contractor to coordinate the repairs. Carpenters, roofers, painters, plasterers.”

“You need the rat-catcher first,” Ben muttered, walking in with a disgusted glance at the ballroom while Charles blanched at the expenditures.

“Right. Summon the exterminator to rid the place of pests. As always, thank you for your time, Charles. Mr. Dalloway, you've been most helpful. Darling.” He beckoned impatiently to the woman and then stalked out, his entourage falling into ranks.

Behind them, Dalloway silently danced a jig over the rotting floorboards.

Upon walking back out into the cold, Dev heard the cadence of galloping hoofbeats and looked over to find someone riding hard up the drive.

“What an ugly horse,” Ben remarked, also watching the rider.

“Fast, though. Good, long stride,” Dev murmured. “Are we expecting someone?”

“No, my lord,” Charles offered, “I believe it is an herald.”

And indeed, as the rider came closer, they could see the cockade in his hat and the uniform that marked him as an express messenger. Dev helped the blonde into the coach, and a moment later, the rider reined in nearby, his horse's hooves kicking up a clattery spray of gravel.

“Lord Strathmore?” he called out.

“Yes?”

“Express for you, sir!” The messenger held out the letter.

“Thank you.” He quickly took the letter before the ink ran and nodded to Ben to pay the messenger for the delivery.
bath
, read the outer fold of the envelope.

Aunt Augusta?

A twinge of guilt stabbed him. He knew he owed the old girl a visit. More than that, he wanted to see her. The dragon had been like a mother to him. She had even saved his life back when he was twenty-one, half-mad with grief, and destroying himself with the bottle. She had bought him a ship, put him on it, and sent him off to see the world in the care of their gruff Scots gamekeeper, Duncan MacTavish. Hang it, he missed the old girl, he thought as he broke the wax seal, but each time he thought of going to see her, everything in him shied away again like a spooked horse refusing a jump.

He couldn't help it. The love in him was so tied up with loss and pain that he could scarce separate one from the other, and so tended to avoid the whole situation.
Like a coward,
his conscience readily supplied. He ignored it, his lips twisting in broody self-annoyance while Ben counted out the messenger's charge.

Dev opened the neatly folded letter and read. As his gaze skimmed the page, the blood promptly drained from his face:

Express
9 February 1817
Bath

Dear Lord Strathmore,

Though we have never met, I trust you will forgive my presumption in writing to you on a matter of greatest urgency. Necessity compels me to set propriety aside to convey to you a most alarming intelligence.

My name is Miss Elizabeth Carlisle, and since August, I have been serving in the capacity of lady's companion to your esteemed Aunt. It is my sorrowful duty to advise you of a change in the excellent health Her Ladyship has always heretofore enjoyed, and to implore you, if you love her, to come with all due haste…before it is too late.

Godspeed,
E. Carlisle

For a moment, Dev could only stand there, his face draining of color.

No.
Not yet.
She's all I have left.

“My lord?” Charles ventured in a worried tone. “Is aught amiss?”

Without a word, Dev strode over, reached up, pulled the messenger down bodily from his horse, and swung up into the still-warm saddle.

“What the devil—!”

“Pay him, Charles. I'll leave this brute in the stable at home. I must to Bath.” His voice sounded odd and tight in his ears. “I'll take the curricle—it's fastest.” He gathered the reins and wheeled the roan around, glancing over his shoulder. “Ben, follow with my things.”

“But, Devlin!” the blonde protested, poking her head out the carriage window in that ridiculous feathered hat.

He rolled his eyes, losing patience. “Would someone
please
take that woman home or wherever it is that she goes?”

She let out an angry gasp, but he was already gone, galloping off, hell-for-leather, down the drive, his stomach knotted with panicked dread and guilt for neglecting his only living kin. The despairing knowledge spiraled through his mind that when Aunt Augusta finally left him—never mind his vast inheritance—he would be left completely and unutterably alone.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Translucent in the light, the delicate porcelain shard was as thin and fragile as a bit of some exotic eggshell as she held it up between her fingers, studying its shape. She tested it here and there on the half-mended vase until she found the spot where the little piece fit; dabbing the jagged edges with a few droplets from her tiny glue brush, she gently pressed the broken fragment back into place. Lizzie Carlisle sat very still, careful not to let her hand waver lest the piece set crookedly.

White winter sunshine streamed through the lace curtains, but the parlor smelled of springtime, of beeswax and lemons, with a graceful hint of lavender from the dried bouquet on the round worktable where she sat. The restful silence of her employer's elegant country villa was broken only by the muffled voices from the next room, where Dr. Bell was quizzing the dowager on her latest symptoms.

Cautiously releasing her hold on the shattered vase, Lizzie glued another piece back into place and cast a skeptical glance upward at the culprit. Pasha, Lady Strathmore's haughty Persian cat, lay luxuriously sprawled atop the Chippendale highboy, his fluffy tail swinging idly over the edge, his gold eyes gleaming with a distinct look of feline amusement at the hapless human whose job it was to smooth out all of life's little disasters. If one of the maids had broken the small, elegant Wedgwood vase—a gift from Her Ladyship's rakehell nephew—the servant would have been summarily sacked, but the dowager's spoiled darling appeared not a whit repentant.

“You, sir, are a menace to society,” she told the cat with a pointed glance.

Pasha's sable-tipped ears merely twitched with a knowing air.

Just then, the parlor doors swung open and Lizzie glanced over, flashing a quick, warm smile as the dowager and her doctor came in from the drawing room. Hastily setting her project aside, she rose to greet them.

Frail but regal, Augusta, the Dowager Viscountess Strathmore, sat her wheeled Bath chair like a throne as her handsome young doctor gallantly rolled her in. Her Ladyship still commanded a stately beauty, her wrinkled skin taut across her high cheekbones. Her blue eyes were rheumy, but as bright and shrewd as ever.

“Here we are, then.” Dr. Andrew Bell had a cherubic face, a tousle of blond hair, and big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. In the environs of Bath, he was considered a fine catch, quite making his fortune. He ran a thriving practice and had recently enhanced his medical reputation by inventing the wildly popular Dr. Bell's New Pills for Bilious Complaints. Even the local vicar swore by them.

“So, Dr. Bell, how do you find your patient today?” Lizzie asked with cordial cheer. As an afterthought, she turned and put the lid back on the glue, with a suspicious glance at Pasha.

“Right as rain, I am happy to say,” he declared with an amiable smile.

“Told you so,” Lady Strathmore clipped out, brushing a few long cat hairs off her black bombazine skirts with an air of brisk nonchalance. “There's nothing wrong with me.”

“And we are glad to know it,” he agreed, meeting Lizzie's gaze with a twinkle in his eyes at old Ironsides's curmudgeonly manner. “I vow it must be the excellent care that Miss Carlisle is taking of you that is to account for it, my lady.”

“Bosh,” Lizzie muttered, blushing slightly as she bustled over to poke the hearth fire back to life lest Lady Strathmore catch a chill.

Dr. Bell watched Lizzie with attentive interest; the dowager observed him with a narrow smile. “Won't you stay for tea, dear boy?” she purred, then gestured to Lizzie to ring the bellpull.

She obeyed, even as Dr. Bell touched his hand to his heart with a fond wince. “I wish I could, ma'am. Alas, I must look in on the Harris children. The whole brood has come down with the measles.”

“Oh, dear. We shall add them to our prayers.” Lizzie turned to him, fretting at the news. When the weather was fine, their neighbor's rambunctious children sometimes visited, bringing cheer and laughter into the house. “Do tell Mrs. Harris that if there is anything I can do to help, she need only ask.”

“How thoughtful you are, Miss Carlisle. I am sure she will appreciate your kind offer.” His gently admiring gaze was a little too intent for Lizzie's comfort, but thankfully, Margaret, the maid, appeared just then in answer to the bell.

The skinny, sallow girl dropped a curtsy. “ 'Ow might I be of assignation, milady?” she asked proudly.

All three of them looked at the girl in bafflement for a second; then Lizzie winced with private chagrin at her pupil's blunder.

“What a bizarre question.” The dowager turned to Lizzie, nonplussed. “Whatever does the silly creature mean? Assignation?”

“Ah,
assistance,
ma'am,” Lizzie soothed, coloring a bit. “She meant assistance.”

“Pardon my corrigendum, ma'am,” Margaret piped up, undaunted. “I seem to have misunderspoken myself.”

“Daft gel, have you been in the liquor?” Lady Strathmore demanded.

Margaret gasped. “No, ma'am! Never!”

“Then cease this gibberish at once and fetch our tea.”

Lizzie sent Margaret a bolstering look, but the crestfallen maid fled. “Really, my lady, one oughtn't mock her. She is doing her best to learn.”

“I am well aware of your bluestocking proclivities, Miss Carlisle, but I will not have you ruining the lower servants with this nonsense of teaching them to read. You must desist. It can only come to no good.”

“But, ma'am—”

“Servants reading! Unnatural, I say. Really, child, you have the most extraordinary notions.”

“Margaret is surprisingly clever—”

“I prefer her ignorant, the way God intended her to be.”

Stifling a cough of laughter, Dr. Bell sent Lizzie a look of discreet congratulation for her efforts. “Pardon me, ladies, but I really should be going.”

“Of course, dear boy. We mustn't keep you from your very important work of ministering to the sick of the parish. Would you be so kind, Miss Carlisle, as to show Dr. Bell out, hmm?”

Mischief glinted in Lady Strathmore's sharp blue eyes as she turned to her companion.

“Of course,” Lizzie answered faintly after the barest pause.

Curse the old girl's deuced matchmaking.

Dr. Bell bowed to the dowager and wished her well, then gestured to Lizzie to lead the way.

“I say, the weather has cleared up nicely,” he attempted as they walked out to the spacious entrance hall with its light blue walls, white columns, and Italian marble floor. “Quite a bluster through the night.”

“Indeed.” The frigid gales and snow of the night before had cleared by afternoon.

“Perhaps we shall see an early spring,” he suggested.

“One can hope.” She forced a smile and looked around at nothing in particular, nervously rearranging the umbrellas in their stand beside the door. Dr. Bell buttoned up his neat blue coat. When Lizzie handed him his top hat, he held her in an earnest gaze for a moment.

“I should very much like to see you ladies at the next Assembly Ball, Miss Carlisle. It would lift Her Ladyship's spirits—and mine.”

“Oh—!” Startled, Lizzie swiftly opted to ignore his cautious overture. “If she is well enough to venture out, I'm sure we shall try.”

“I will content myself with that hope, then.” He put on his hat. “If you need me,” he added softly, “send for me anytime.”

“I thank you, sir,” she said, stiffening slightly.

He tipped his hat, looking mystified but undiscouraged by her stubborn reticence. “Good day, Miss Carlisle.”

She bowed her head in answer; then he strode out to his waiting carriage, a handsome barouche drawn by a team of fine liver bays. Enjoying the bracing rush of chilly fresh air, Lizzie raised her hand in a courteous salute as he drove away.

As she lingered in the open doorway, her gaze swept the frozen hills. The landscape was dusted in a thin but crisp coat of snow, the broad curve of the road beyond like a dark ribbon on a field of white. There was no sign of Devil Strathmore yet, but with the roads coated with snow and ice from the fierce blow last night, she did not expect him until tomorrow at the earliest.

She closed the front door and went back to the parlor, where Margaret had just brought in the tea tray.

Taking her seat across from her employer, Lizzie smoothed her beige muslin skirts and avoided the dowager's expectant stare.

“Well?” Lady Strathmore toyed with the long strand of jet beads that hung around her neck and eyed Lizzie in knowing amusement. “What say you, gel? He is very gallant.”

Lizzie shrugged, said nothing, and nodded Margaret's dismissal. The chambermaid scurried out.

“Oh, come, Lizzie, he is a poppet,” the dowager scolded with barely suppressed mirth. “You do not like him?”

“To be sure, he is an excellent doctor, amiable, competent, and kind.” She focused her attention on the task of pouring out. “Beyond that, I have no thoughts of him whatever.”

“La, the poor boy will be crushed! I daresay he comes here to see
you
more than me, for I have very little use for his services.”

“Ma'am, really. Dr. Bell's sole interest lies in your good health, as you well know.”

“Oh?” The viscountess shot her an arch look from across her teacup. “He asked me in confidence if I thought you might be amenable to a drive in his new barouche.”

“He
what
? Good Lord!” Lizzie set the teapot down in astonished indignation. “Can't the man see that I am on the shelf?”

“Stuff and nonsense, Miss Carlisle. You're barely twenty.”

“I'll be twenty-two this autumn,” she said hotly.

“Tut, tut, the only person who decides when a woman is on the shelf is the woman
elle-même
.”

“Well, if I choose to put myself on the shelf, that is my own affair, surely,” she huffed, much to the dowager's amusement.

“But why, in heaven's name, when there are respectable young gentlemen of pleasing countenance and promising expectations eager to pay suit, despite your efforts to put them off? Ungrateful gel, I daresay you want for a proper feminine vanity.”

“What I lack in vanity, ma'am, I hope to make up for in sense. My passion is for books, not a pair of handsome eyes or a well-turned calf.”

“Extraordinary. Do you claim to be immune to the attentions of a charming young man? Even I am not. Never was.”

“A man is a creature who will say anything to get what he wants,” she replied in a blithely philosophic tone, mollified by her own certainty on this point. She shook out her napkin and laid it on her lap.

“Even the saintly young Bell, trotting from house to house, mending his neighbor's ills of body and mind?”

“New carriage, did he say? Impressive how profitable such altruism can be.”

“Touché, my dear, touché.” Lady Strathmore chuckled, sipping her tea. “Still, you might at least try getting to know him better.”

“I might also try whale hunting, bullfighting, or getting lost in the Sahara atop a camel. Oh, yes, that would be a grand adventure….”

Her employer was laughing. “Then you'd be like Dev.”

“Mmm.” Lizzie hid her thorough skepticism about Lord Strathmore's supposed exploits, which she considered highly exaggerated at best.

Any man who had seen and done so many incredible things would surely not be wasting his time living like a dissipated rake in London, as Lord Strathmore had been doing since his return to England some months ago. She knew his type—hedonistic, immature. But she supposed a man like that had to seek his thrills somehow.

“Well?” Lady Strathmore prodded.

Lizzie gave her a wry smile. “If I were to let the oh-so-wonderful Dr. Bell court me, sooner or later, I would notice something base and inevitably
low
in his male nature, and then I would kick myself for wasting my time with him when I could have been here with you, keeping you out of mischief—or trying to.”

“But you must be practical, my dear. The abundant faults of the male species aside, you must have a husband, children to look after you in your old age. You don't want to end up like me.”

“For shame, ma'am, I should be very happy to be like you in any respect, and rest assured, I am not at all concerned for my old age. As it happens, I have already made provisions to support myself when I am a spinster lady of advanced years.”

“How shockingly independent.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a firm nod, though she gathered it wasn't a compliment. “I shall open a bookshop in Russell Square—I'm sure I've told you all this before.”

“Bookshop!” the dowager snorted. “A young woman of your caliber has a duty to concern herself with the multiplication of the species, Miss Carlisle. Really,” she continued as Lizzie blinked at the rare compliment from the old dragon, “I have never in all my days heard a woman speak so cheerfully about spinsterhood. It's altogether morbid.”