Devil Takes A Bride (22 page)

Perhaps she was overly worried that her old lovers might recognize her, she thought with a trace of bitter humor. After the jungles of Malaysia, she at least hoped that her face, scarred by burns, would not scare Lord Strathmore. The first newspaper article reporting his return to England had led Mary to believe that the present viscount might prove as fine a man as his poor gallant father, but upon arriving in London and glancing over fresher issues of the
Times
, Mary had begun to worry. She was no Society insider and could not be sure if Sorscha's adventurous elder brother was the same “Devil S——” whose rakish misbehavior was gazetted in the gossip columns every other day. She prayed he was not, for he would need to have his wits about him once he knew the sort of creatures he was dealing with.

When her carriage halted in Portman Square, Mary let herself out and sent Doyle a grim nod. From the driver's box, he returned her salute, touching his gloved fingertips to the brim of his hat. He already had his instructions to wait there until she returned.

Her heart pounded and her breath misted around her as Mary slipped away into the darkness and hurried down Portman Street, ducking deeper into the shadows when a carriage went clattering by. The fashionable road was lined with tall, elegant town houses. Some had small, curved, stately white porticoes in front; others had three or four steps leading up to the door. Most had large upper windows, handsome brass lanterns by the door, and black wrought-iron fences in front.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read the brass house numbers in the darkness, when a second carriage, this time a flashy curricle, went tearing past, hell-for-leather. She turned and watched it pull to a halt before one of the largest homes on the street. She could just make out a servant hurrying out to take the horses' heads.

The silhouette of a man jumped out of the curricle and strode into the house, which sat on the other side of the street several doors down. She took a step in that direction, staring.

When the front door opened to admit the curricle's driver, the sounds of a raucous party tumbled out into the street, and were promptly muffled again when the door closed. With a sinking feeling, she recalled the recent accounts in the gossip pages. Could it be? A glance at the house number implied that, indeed, it was.

Drawn toward the house with a foreboding sense of fascination, she kept to the other side of the street, lingering in the shadow of the spindly plane trees planted at intervals. It was a handsome brown-brick town house with white trim and three bays of windows, a slim wrought-iron balcony lining the upper floor. Against the drawn shades of the front windows, the wild crowd's dark silhouettes played.

She could make out the shape of a curly-headed woman throwing her arm around the neck of a man; a squeal of delight followed as the man swept her up off her feet and playfully tossed her into another man's arms.

Mary stared in astonishment, memories of her own such days flooding with bitter nostalgia back into her mind. Inexorably drawn, she waited as another racing drag tore down the otherwise quiet avenue and more guests leaped out—two men and two drunkenly giggling girls who could not be mistaken for ladies.

When the quartet had rushed into the house, Mary left the shadows beneath the plane tree and darted down the street, slipping around the corner. She ducked into the back alleyway of the mews tucked behind the elegant town houses, where the gardens, stables, and carriage houses were situated.

As she crept up to the wooden fence behind Lord Strathmore's house, it did not surprise her that the back windows and doors were open. She had an unobstructed view into the raucous party; the smell of the young lords' expensive cigars and the whores' cheap perfume floated out to her, unleashing a flood of unwelcome memories.

But then her blood ran cold. For as her searching stare scanned the house, she could see into what appeared to be the dining room, and that's when she saw Quint.

She drew in her breath in a sudden shock of recognition. Half a dozen men were sitting around the dining room table playing cards.

Carstairs!

Her heart was slamming in her chest, dread unfurling in the core of her heart.

Good God, they've already gotten to him.
The younger man sitting between the two of them had black hair and a lazy smile. His gesture to one of the liveried footmen marked him as the host of the evening—none other than Devil Strathmore. The footman stepped forward with a bottle of some sort of liquor, pouring libations into all their glasses.

Mary turned away, feeling sick with panicked confusion.
What am I going to do now?
Silently, she left her hiding place and glided back through the chilly darkness to her waiting carriage in Portman Square, wondering in a daze if she had come all this way for nothing.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

On the appointed morning, Lizzie set out for the reading of the will in the two-wheeled governess-cart that Mrs. Hall occasionally made available for the teachers' personal use. Though not an experienced driver, she remembered Devlin's instructions from their one driving lesson; thankfully, the staunch little pony in the traces was so docile as they trotted along the road that one of Wellington's cannons firing overhead would probably not have spooked the creature. For her part, she was not feeling quite so steady.

The prospect of facing him again had her tied up in knots. She was still stung by his curt dismissal of her from his life, but there had been another lurid innuendo about his deviltry in the social column of the
Morning Post
, and she was beginning to think that if
someone
did not reach out to him, the man would kill himself for certain. Lady Strathmore had left no doubt as to whom she thought that someone should be. Lizzie shook her head to herself in dismay. Like it or not, she cared enough for that troubled man to try yet again. Perhaps his lashing out at her had been a mere aberration born of grief. If he was prepared to apologize, she decided, she was prepared to accept.

She drove on through the fresh, brightening morning, the earthy fragrance of fertile fields, new grass, and young plants wafting on the wind and heralding a fine spring day. Here and there a few cows lowed in the pastures that surrounded London's outer borders, but soon, rural simplicity gave way to the hustle and bustle of Town.

The pony remained unflappable, barely breaking stride from his cheerful seesaw trot as Lizzie negotiated the little wood-and-wicker cart down the busy thoroughfare. She passed street vendors belting out their singsong chants, dray carts making their morning deliveries, mail coaches pulling out from the station to fan out to every corner of the realm. There was a hair-raising moment when three rambunctious children darted under the passing horses' hooves, chasing a ball across the street, but at last, her adventure ended when she reached Fleet Street and saw the hanging sign for the law offices of Charles Beecham, Esquire.

The solicitor's name was painted in large gilt letters on a dark green ground. She guided the pony over to the side of the hectic street, looking around in growing distress as she considered the problem of where to put her vehicle. Like an answer to a prayer, Bennett Freeman came out of Mr. Beecham's office, greeting her with an affable grin.

“I see you made it, Miss Lizzie!”

“Yes, in one piece—miraculously. Do you happen to know where I might find the mews, Mr. Freeman?”

“Just around the corner. Would you like me to take your cart there for you? It might be best if you went in straightaway. They're nearly ready to start.”

“Oh, you are an angel! Would you?”

“Glad to.” He laughed at her profuse thanks as she set the brake and climbed down to the pavement, hooking her reticule over her arm. Her knees were a bit wobbly after her ordeal, but she could have hugged the gray pony for being such a stouthearted little soldier. Ben climbed up into the cart and pushed the brake forward. Clapping the reins lightly over the pony's rump, he drove off toward the mews.

Lizzie turned and fixed her gaze on the door to the lawyer's office. Her heart hammered as she gathered her nerve to face Devlin again. Squaring her shoulders, she marched in, pink cheeked and slightly windblown.

Quickly unbuttoning her pelisse, she was greeted by the solicitor's bespectacled clerk, who took her coat and hung it on a peg. She smoothed the skirts of her lavender promenade gown; only her black gloves and black silk fichu tucked into the neckline of her gown signified her mourning. To wear all black when one was not a member of the family would have been, in her view, outrageously presumptuous.

The young clerk showed her into a sober, oak-paneled meeting room. “This way, miss.”

She followed him, catching a hint of Devlin's familiar clove-and-rosemary cologne on the air. She was unprepared for the pulse of longing his scent instantly aroused in her. Then she saw him. He was standing by the corner bookshelf, conservatively dressed, engaged in a low-toned conversation with the tidy Charles Beecham.

Devlin paused midsentence and stared for a second when she walked in. She gave him a reserved nod of the utmost dignity and sat down as the clerk offered her one of the heavy, carved-wood chairs surrounding the glossy mahogany table. “Thank you.”

Venturing a discreet glance around, she saw they were not the only two beneficiaries who had been summoned. Mrs. Rowland and Cook nodded to her, both looking nervous and out of place in the stately office. They had chosen chairs against the wall, away from the table. Margaret sat next to them with a pretty ruffled bonnet on her head. Dressed in her Sunday best, the chambermaid sent Lizzie a cheery smile.

Three respectable-looking strangers were also present, two men and a woman. Lizzie guessed these were the distant cousins Lady Strathmore had sometimes mentioned, but they must have been on the middle-class side of the dowager's kin, for they lacked the cool superiority of the only aristocrat in the room.

Presently, he sauntered around the table and took his seat beside Mr. Beecham's chair at the head of the table. He acknowledged her with a guarded nod as he sat down.

Mr. Beecham gestured to his clerk to shut the doors. When this was done, the pudgy little lawyer took his place at the head of the table and spent a few moments busily shuffling some papers and getting his presentation into order. He glanced at his watch at the exact moment that the clock struck nine, and after waiting for the noisy chimes to end, he politely cleared his throat, signaling that the meeting was about to begin.

Lizzie sat up straighter and fixed her gaze on the solicitor, but inwardly, all her awareness was focused on Devlin. He was remote, withdrawn. She could feel the stony wall of his defenses barring out the rest of the world. His arms were folded across his chest, his eyes hooded, careworn lines showing around them. Was he not eating properly? she wondered, noticing that the fine, sharp angles of his high cheekbones seemed more pronounced, as though he had lost a few pounds. With his much-vaunted appetite, this was indeed a bad sign. Lost in his brooding thoughts, his face wore a dark and saturnine look. He did not seem at all like a man moments away from inheriting half a million pounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Mr. Beecham began. “Today we remember a grand lady who will live long in our memories, Augusta Kimball, the eighth Lady Strathmore. If no one has questions, we shall proceed with the reading of the will.” Mr. Beecham sent an inquiring glance around the table, but no one spoke up, so he continued with a nod. “We'll begin with Her Ladyship's charitable endowments, then her retainers, and finally, relatives.”

The solicitor picked up his folio. As he began reading off the very generous donations Lady Strathmore had left to her parish church, the almshouse her father had founded for ironworkers, and an art gallery in Bath, Lizzie glanced at Devlin and found him staring coolly at her.

The wary hunger in his gaze stole her breath. For a moment, they were both oblivious of the proceedings under way. She felt his desire for her running like a lightning bolt down her spine, though he was obviously fighting it. He did not even smile at her. It was as if he was purposely hardening his heart against her, willfully denying the bond between them.

She searched his crystalline, blue-green eyes, trying to understand. If he was grieving, why didn't he seek her help? Why must he push her away?

He lowered his lashes and turned away, forcing his attention back to Mr. Beecham's monotonous reading.

She looked away, shaken and confused by his renewed coldness. If only she knew what she had done to deserve this treatment.

“Her Ladyship designates one hundred pounds to her estimable physician, Andrew Bell, as a token of her thanks for his kindness. Likewise, one hundred pounds to Charles Beecham—myself,” Mr. Beecham added, his pasty face coloring slightly, “in thanks for many years of skilled, loyal service. Very thoughtful,” he murmured. “For Mrs. Rowland's twelve grandchildren, one hundred fifty pounds each.”

Dev and Lizzie glanced warily at each other again.

Mr. Beecham moved on to reading the dowager's bequests to her cousins, then laid the document on the table and surveyed all their faces with a brief, businesslike glance. “We will now move on to Lady Strathmore's instructions for the bulk of her fortune.”

“Charles, you must have missed something.” Devlin's deep voice rumbled through her senses. “There had to have been some sort of provision for Miss Carlisle in the last section.”

“Er, we are coming to that, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow, then sat back to wait.

Lizzie noticed the cousins staring arrogantly at her, but she paid little mind, still surprised at Devlin's concern that she should receive her share of the inheritance, however slight.

“Ahem,” Mr. Beecham resumed, giving a little cough into his hand. He opened another flap of his leather folio and pulled out a second piece of paper. “In February, mere weeks before her death, Lady Strathmore made a change to her will. I have verified the viscountess's signature, along with the testimony of the witnesses.” He nodded toward the old, loyal servants seated by the wall, then swallowed hard. “I shall now read the final instructions, as amended by Lady Strathmore on the night of February the twelfth.”

Across the table, Devlin shifted uneasily in his seat, but his stare was now pinned on his solicitor. For her part, Lizzie resisted the urge to fidget. She had the feeling something strange was going on.

“‘Dear Mr. Beecham,' ” the lawyer read out, “ ‘I hereby send you my revised will and testament, effective immediately. In August of 1816, I hired a new lady's companion to help me while away the hours. This young woman, Elizabeth Carlisle, has proved herself to me for her kind heart, a responsible nature, and a character of pure sterling. Though I have often teased Miss Carlisle for her eccentric notions, I find myself at this late hour with a few notions of my own, chiefly, a new design for the manner in which I have decided to disburse my fortune.' ”

Lizzie furrowed her brow, befuddled.
What about the books?

“‘All bequests to my various charitable endowments, my servants, and kin remain unchanged. As to the bulk of my fortune, which was entrusted to me by my most revered Papa—' ” Mr. Beecham mopped his brow with his handkerchief, edged away from Devlin, and read on.

“‘—I do hereby decree that the entire balance of five hundred thousand pounds be split between my beloved nephew, Devlin, and Elizabeth Carlisle.' ”

Devlin's jaw dropped.

“‘The allocation of these funds, however, is contingent upon and only to be granted after the two parties—vis-à-vis, my nephew and Miss Carlisle—have freely and willingly joined together in holy matrimony—' ”

Lizzie's mouth fell open.
“What?”

Chaos erupted, routing the momentary stunned silence.

The cousins were cursing, the servants were arguing, and Devlin leaped to his feet, sending his chair clattering back.

“This is preposterous!” Devlin roared, slamming his mighty fist on the table. “Damn your eyes, sir! Is this your idea of a prank?”

Everyone was shouting, except for Lizzie, who just sat there in a daze, realizing that, no, it was Lady Strathmore's idea of a prank.
Curse the old girl's matchmaking!

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, there is more.”

“More?” Devlin bellowed.

“‘Failing the union of these two young people within three months of these proceedings,' ” Mr. Beecham read on in a shaky voice, “ ‘I do hereby bequeath my entire fortune to the Good Hope Society for the Benefit of Ironworkers in Gravel Lane in the parish of Christchurch. This is my last will and testament as witnessed by my faithful retainers of many years, Mildred Rowland and Jane Willis.' ”

Everyone gasped, turning to stare accusingly at the housekeeper and cook.

Mrs. Willis cowered a bit, but Mrs. Rowland rose to her feet, clutching her chip reticule in both hands. She glanced around at them with a pugnacious look, but directed her remarks to Devlin. “ 'Tis true, milord, every word. Her Ladyship called me up to her chamber to witness and sign it the night before you left for London. Then she sent me off to bring it 'ere, posthaste. ‘Hand it personally to Mr. Beecham,' she says, and that's what I done. On my life, 'tis true—and if you ask me, it's for the best!”

Lizzie's eyebrows shot upward at this declaration, but Devlin looked as though he wanted to strangle someone.

“Leave us,” he fairly snarled at the others.

Lizzie assumed he meant that he wished to speak privately to the lawyer and started to rise to leave with the others, but his predator's stare homed in on her, freezing her midmotion.