Devil Takes A Bride (40 page)

They made a great show of their arrival, the flashy horses prancing to a halt before the dark-green painted storefront of the counting house. Johnny jumped down from the driver's box, his tight livery breeches hugging his muscled bottom as he bent down to unfold the metal carriage step.

Carstairs cast him a well-pleasured glance as he alighted, his silver-handled walking cane gleaming in his hand. Quint jumped out behind him; then they ambled across the pavement to the door.

Carstairs allowed one of his footmen to deal with Mr. Manning's sallow-faced secretary, pursing his mouth in faint distaste at the smell of trade and idly adjusting the fingers of his perfectly fitted gloves. Quint shifted from foot to foot like an impatient schoolboy. Then Carstairs raised his eyebrow as a sort of walrus bellow shook the room.

“Next!”

The secretary shot up out of his chair and fled into the adjoining chamber.

“Charming,” Carstairs said, snickering under his breath when Quint's “feeder hog” poked his pugnacious snout out of his office. The rest of the portly fellow appeared, dressed in an appalling brown suit.

“Er, Lord Randall.” Mr. Manning bobbed a sort of Cockney bow to Quint and then to him. “Sir.”

“Carstairs, this is Mr. Joseph Manning. Mr. Manning,” Quint said, summoning his best manners, “allow me to present my great friend, the Earl Carstairs.”

“How do you do, sir,” the upstart coal-factor said.

Carstairs nodded, impressed at how the stalwart fellow resisted the usual urge amongst such folk to grovel. Tough-minded. He liked that.

“Shall we?” Mr. Manning beckoned toward his office.

When Carstairs sauntered after them, Mr. Manning turned and eyed him warily. “I beg your pardon, sir. I should like to speak to Lord Randall alone for a moment.”

Carstairs gave an idle wave of his hand. “He's all yours.”

Manning nodded and went into his office. Carstairs sent Quint a pointed look reminding him not to sign anything until he had had a chance to read it, too.

Carstairs paced at his leisure through the countinghouse, glancing over the scribblings of frantic clerks, studying this buzzing hive, this world of work of which he knew nothing. He decided within ten minutes that he did not care to know more.

He let out a sigh of vague impatience, awaiting his friend, when suddenly, a curious thud came from the fat man's office.

Work paused.

Then Quint's roar shook the walls: “What do you mean,
the wedding's off
?”

“Oh, dear,” Carstairs sighed, pinching the bridge of his perfect nose.

A ripple of nervousness moved through the countinghouse. Buzz, buzz, the little underfed clerks hurried back to work. Carstairs wondered if he should intervene, hold Quint back as only he could do, but something told him Walrus Manning could look after himself.

There was no need to eavesdrop at the door to hear their shouted conversation clearly.

“Who's been talking to you? These are lies!”

“They ain't lies! I got witnesses.”

“Who? Who is my accuser? I have a right to know!”

“Never you mind. I've done some checkin' up on you, and here's what I say to your suit!” Carstairs heard the sound of ripping paper as Mr. Manning tore up the proposed marriage settlement in Quint's face. “You, sir, are a blackguard and a cad, and will not be marrying my daughter!”

The second thud which followed, Carstairs realized with a sigh, was Quint's fist slamming into Mr. Manning's beefy face. The anemic secretary and half a dozen clerks rushed to their employer's aid in vain, for Quint was already turning him into meat pie.

“I will not be slandered!”

Slam.

Quint shook off clerks like a bull tossing away a pack of wiry and not particularly brave dogs.

“Give me the name of my accuser, damn you!” Carstairs, as usual, took the more intelligent solution. Rounding the secretary's desk, he ran his fingertips down the list of names in Mr. Manning's appointment book, scanning several days' back, until a name jumped out at him.

Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.

His eyes narrowed, his mind turned. Quint. Daisy. The school where Quint had first seen Manning's daughter. She was a teacher there….

Miss Carlisle.

Dev's little cream-pot love.

But why should Dev's pretty toy come here telling Manning secrets about Quint?

She should not know such things in the first place to be able to relate them to Mr. Manning, nor to anyone else. What exactly had old Dev told the girl about Quint? About all of them?
Good God.

Could Torquil have been right all along?

Had their great friend Dev been playing them false from the start? For if Strathmore was telling his mistress forbidden secrets of the Horse and Chariot Club, what else might he be doing—planning—behind their backs?

Damn it!

God only knew what Dev's real motives were, but with so much to hide, Carstairs did not intend to wait around to find out. He had been foolishly blinded by lust long enough.

“Quentin, enough!” he clipped out, glancing over as a prickle of fear-tinged excitement shot down his spine.

His terse order stopped Quint's rampage. The baron left Manning in a fleshy heap and came stalking out of the office.

“Let's go,” Carstairs said coldly. “Are you trying to get arrested, you idiot?” he snarled as they walked back out to the coach.

“What the hell am I going to do for money now? He's rejected my suit for Daisy!”

“We've got bigger problems than that,” he said, eyeing Quint in contempt as the baron took a deep swig from his flask. The coach rolled into motion.

“What kind of problems?” Quint grumbled.

“Dev knows.”

 

Lizzie managed to while away the entire afternoon playing with the babies at Knight House, but when the army of nurses came and took her little playmates off to naptime, thoughts of Dev were swift to return. Every day, every hour, she missed him more. She was sure that she would hear from him at any moment. Jacinda was at a meeting for one of her charities, and when Bel decided to lie down, needing plenty of rest in her delicate condition, Lizzie found herself alone.

The day was fine, so she went out. The street was moderately busy, carriages whirring by as she took a stroll down to the bookshop on the corner. Even if she didn't buy anything, the simple fact of being in a bookstore made her feel better.

I wonder if Devlin misses me, too.
She could only hope that he was all right.

She stopped before the milliner's shop window and stood admiring the frilly summer hats and bonnets, paying little mind when she heard a carriage halt behind her. There were many shops on this street, after all, with customers coming and going all day.

But then in the window's reflection, she saw two men get out of the coach.

Men did not go to ladies' hat shops.

Her heart skipped a beat and she narrowed her eyes, then horrified recognition made her gasp. She did not waste a second turning around to confirm that they were the two men from the carriage at the school that day—members of the Horse and Chariot Club. She just ran.

“They'll come after you….”

“You're being paranoid, Devlin.”

Lizzie fled, but they split up to herd her wherever they wished her to go. When she dodged left, the big brown-haired man blocked her way; when she turned right, the cruelly elegant blond waited to catch her.

“Help!” she shrieked, but the few people nearby merely looked on in startled curiosity.

She whirled around and dashed down her only escape route, the dark, narrow passage between the barbershop and the vintner's, but it quickly dead-ended in a closed courtyard. Lizzie fought and kicked, shouting bloody murder until the brown-haired bruiser clapped his huge paw across her mouth and hauled her against him, half dragging her into their coach.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Dev had spent the afternoon giving his deposition to the officers at Bow Street on the events connected to the abduction of young Suzy. They had many questions about numerous members of the Horse and Chariot Club, all of which Dev had answered as fully as he could. When the grueling interview was finally over, Dev was impatient to go and see Lizzie at last.

Now that he had fulfilled her wishes, he could not wait to tell her what he had done, but first he made the officers swear to warn him before they moved against his enemies so that he could take Lizzie away from Town. That way he could be sure of her safety even if one or more of the villains temporarily eluded arrest.

As his coach rolled through the streets of London toward Lady Jacinda's villa on Regent's Park, Dev mulled over his mixed feelings about having relinquished his obsession with revenge in favor of lawful justice. A small part of him still wanted blood, but the greater portion of his being and chiefly his heart would have paid any price to be with the woman he loved.

When he called at Lady Jacinda's, the butler told him Lizzie had gone to Knight House to play with the children. Undaunted, he got back in the coach and ordered his driver to take him there. It took them half an hour.

At Knight House, the gray-haired butler informed him Miss Carlisle had left two hours ago. To the best of his knowledge, Mr. Walsh said, she had gone down to the bookshop on the corner. Dev thought it a fair chance she might still be there. Two hours in a bookshop was nothing for his fair bluestocking, he thought in affection.

With his hands in his pockets and a musing smile of anticipation playing at his lips, he gestured to his coachman to wait there, then retraced her steps. Upon searching the aisles of the bookshop, however, there was no sign of her.

Blast.
Coming back out to stand briefly atop the store's front steps, Dev glanced up and down the street, frowning under the brim of his black top hat. Perhaps she had wandered on to browse in one of the other shops. Or had she hailed a hackney coach back to Jacinda's villa? He heaved a disgruntled sigh at the thought of continually missing her and decided he did not intend to spend the remainder of the day crisscrossing the sprawling metropolis in search of the woman.

Being a man of sense, he walked back up Saint James's Street to wait at White's with a good glass of port. One of them must stay put, after all. He would try again in an hour. His heart was light as he imagined her reaction when he told her that he had found a way to comply with her wishes while still seeing justice served. In truth, he was rather proud of himself.

He sat down by himself at a small round table in a far corner of the club, asked for a newspaper, and prayed he did not see Alec Knight. He was in no mood to face his defeated rival. When the port was brought to him, he toasted Lizzie silently in his thoughts, then let out a satisfied sigh and leaned back in the maroon leather club chair with the
London Times
. Perusing the advertisements, he wondered belatedly if he ought to stop on his way back to Jacinda's to buy a gift. It always helped not to arrive empty-handed when a man had to grovel.

“Ah, Strathmore. I figured you would show up here eventually.”

He looked over the newspaper as Carstairs sat down across the table from him.

“How are you today, Dev?”

“Quite well. Yourself?”

“Splendid.” Carstairs chewed the ivory mouthpiece of his small, stylish pipe, but did not light it. “I hate to interrupt, but you and I need to have a little talk.”

“What's afoot?” Dev set the paper down, some indefinable note in the earl's cultured voice arresting him.

Carstairs stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I hope you've enjoyed your stay in London, my lord. But it's time for you to leave.”

“Leave? What are you talking about?”

“You know damned well,” Carstairs whispered slowly.

Dev tensed, careful to keep his face expressionless, but he could not have been more shocked if a cannonball had just ripped through his middle. Good God, had they realized he and Suzy had spoken with Bow Street? He had taken care to ensure no one saw him.

“I don't understand,” he said in a measured tone of caution.

“Don't you? Let me see if I can't help.” Carstairs rested his elbow on the chair arm, leaning nearer. “Do you find yourself missing something valuable of late—or should I say someone?”

Dev felt the earth fall away from its orbit.
Lizzie.
His face turned ashen, and he couldn't seem to breathe. “What have you done with her?”

Carstairs snickered idly and leaned back in his chair, chewing on his pipe. “Such a pretty thing. Not to my taste, mind you, but she does have such pretty gray eyes. It would be a shame to put them out.”

Dev launched at him with a garbled cry, going for his throat across the small table.

“Not advisable, Dev!” Carstairs shouted, ducking. “With a word from me, she dies.”

Dev gripped the man's lapels in fury. “What have you done with her?”

“Ah, so she does mean something to you. You know, I suspected that,” Carstairs choked out.

“Where is she?”

“Easy.” Carstairs sent a meaningful glance toward some chess-playing clubmen on the other side of the room who had stopped their game to frown in the direction of the commotion. “I am sure you and I both prefer to conduct ourselves like gentlemen.”

“You don't know the meaning of the word,” Dev snarled, but released him and sat back down, realizing he could do little else, since it seemed his enemy was holding all the cards at the moment.

Carstairs tugged his waistcoat back into order. “Your little ladybird is safe for the moment. Just a trifle peeved.”

“So help me, Carstairs, if you harm one hair on her
head
—”

“I shouldn't be making threats just now if I were you, old boy. If I were you, I should shut up and listen very carefully to the following instructions.”

His blood boiled. But Dev held his temper in check and waited for the instructions.

Carstairs did not divulge them at once, staring at him for a long moment. He shook his blond head. “God, I should have let Torquil put a bullet in you weeks ago.”

“Why didn't you?” Dev challenged him.

“I trusted you. It's true,” he said when Dev scoffed in utter contempt. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. You know that I was drawn in by your beauty, and,” he admitted, cruelly, deliberately taunting him with only a hint, “I felt sorry for you after what happened.”

“What did happen, Carstairs?”

“No, Dev. You betrayed me. I'm the only one who can give you the answers you seek, but you stabbed me in the back, so you can go to hell. The only reason I spare you now is because murdering you would call too much attention to the rest of us. Now, here is the plan, and you listen well. You leave London at dawn. You will go to the docks, get on board your little ship and sail away, Strathmore—I scarcely care where, as long as it's far. Do it,” he said slowly, “or we use your little governess for the village whore before we send her lovely body to the bottom of the Thames.”

“I'll do it. I'll go,” he whispered at once. He felt like he might throw up.

“And never come back.”

“You'll never see me again. It's as good as done. Let her go. I'll take her with me. Neither of us will ever trouble you—”

“Dev, my lad, do you take me for a fool? It's plain to see she's all you care about. If I hand her over, you could write a letter to Bow Street and start all manner of unpleasantness for me.”

So, they didn't know he'd gone to Bow Street. Thank God. But if they somehow found out, he realized with sickening certainty, Lizzie's life was forfeit.

How on earth had they learned of his deception? He had been so careful.

It did not matter now.

He did not even care about the facts Carstairs might have shared regarding the fire. All that mattered was procuring Lizzie's safety. He tried to think clearly above the volcanic pounding of his heart. His mouth was dry with fear, his stomach turning with the half-glass of port he'd drunk.

“The plan is, you leave,” Carstairs reiterated. “Miss Carlisle stays in England, where we can keep an eye on her. That way, you won't attempt anything rash.”

The full force of his instructions suddenly struck Dev.
I leave. She stays.
Good God, they were to be separated for the rest of their lives! He could barely absorb the shock of it. Live without her?

His mind reeled. He swallowed hard. “I need to see her again. I need to know she's all right or there's no deal.”

“Do not attempt any pointless heroics, Strathmore. I really do not wish to hurt the girl. It's not in my nature—unless, of course, I am forced.”

“I won't do anything, I swear. Just let me see her. Let me see she is unharmed.”

“I will bring her to the docks, and you can say good-bye,” he drawled in disgust. “Mind you, come alone. Don't try anything, Dev, or Torquil puts a bullet in that clever head of hers.”

“I will comply fully. Is she all right? For the love of God, man—”

“She is fine. Calm yourself. Now, you tell no one about this, and I'll see you at the docks at five
A.M
. You see? That wasn't so hard.”

Dev flinched but somehow held himself back from killing the man as Carstairs rose.

“Behave yourself, Dev. We'll be watching you. Oh—and, yes—I almost forgot.” He paused before walking away. “Quint wants fifty thousand quid. Write him out a draft note before you go. Bon voyage.”

 

“But, Mama, I don't
want
to go back to Ireland.”

“Sorscha, I've already told you, our packet leaves tomorrow morning from Bristol. We have our tickets. We are going home.” Standing before the dressing table, searching for something in her leather satchel by the light of a single candle, Mary glanced over her shoulder at where her pouting daughter sat atop her packed and locked traveling trunk near the open door of the hotel room, which they were about to vacate.

Her burly manservant, Patrick Doyle, came into the doorway just then, rubbing his hands together. “May I take that for ye, miss?”

Sorscha gave a sulky nod and sighed as she slid off her traveling trunk so Doyle could carry it down to the coach.

“Hold the candle for Doyle on the stairs, Sorscha,” Mary ordered her daughter. “It's quite dark in the stairwell.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The moment the child had gone, Mary pulled her gun out of the satchel and loaded it with cool expertise, dropping a handful of extra bullets into the voluminous pocket of her cape.

Their trip to England need not have been an utter waste.

She blew out the candle and left the hotel room, pulling the door shut behind her. She joined them at the coach a moment later.

“All set, then. In you go. I just need to make one quick stop before we leave the city.” The hard glance she sent Doyle belied her cheerful tone.

He gave her a subtle nod.

Mary climbed into the coach with her daughter. Doyle knew the way to Quint's seedy bachelor house, but when they drove past it, all was dark. They went down to the corner past it, where Mary pulled the check-string to halt her driver.

“What are we doing, Mama?”

“Just a moment, darlin'.” She opened the carriage door and stood to murmur new instructions to her servant. “We'll try Carstairs.”

The carriage rolled on.

Reaching a much finer quarter of the West End, Mary bade Doyle stop a short distance down the quiet street from Lord Carstairs's large, elegant house.

“Mama, where are you going now?”

“To see an old friend.”

“Why can't I see
my
friend before we go away?”

“This is a special friend, Sorscha. Someone I need to repay.”

The girl huffed. “No fair.”

“Oh, quit your sulkin', lass.” Mary lifted her veil because it was dark and gave her daughter's rose-petal cheek a teasing kiss. “I'll be right back, and then we're off to have jolly times in Ireland, like always.”

Sorscha tried to scowl at her, but smiled in spite of herself.

A moment later, Mary was slipping through the darkness, nigh invisible in her all-black clothing, her face concealed by her lace veil. She stole down the mews alley, her feet not making a sound over the uneven cobbles. Carstairs's elegant town house of creamy stuccoed brick was built on the same pattern as the majority of those in London. Mary remembered the layout quite well from the many times she had come to the earl's debauched routs with Quint in her youth. She intended to get in through the walled garden.

Skimming her fingertips along the mews side of the garden wall, Mary waited until she could see the familiar outline of the grape trellis poking above the wall. She had let Quint make love to her once under that trellis.