Devil's Bride (21 page)

“Speaking of which, have you managed to convince your bride-to-be that investigating murder is not a suitable hobby for a gentlewoman?”

Devil smiled. “
Maman
can always be counted on to visit the modistes within forty-eight hours of arriving in town.”

Vane raised his brows. “So you
haven't
succeeded in striking murder from Miss Anstruther-Wetherby's agenda?”

Devil's smile turned feral. “I'm directing my fire at a different target. Once that falls, her agenda will no longer apply.”

Vane grinned. “Poor Honoria Prudence—does she know what she's up against?”

“She'll learn.”

“Too late?”

“That's the general idea.”

A brief rap on the door heralded the appearance of Richard “Scandal” Cynster; he was followed by Gabriel and Demon Harry, Vane's brother. The comfortably spacious room was suddenly very full of very large men.

“Why the delay?” Harry asked, lowering his long frame to the
chaise
. “I expected to be summoned yesterday.”

“Devil had to make sure the coast was clear,” Vane replied—and earned a hard look from Devil.

“Lucifer sends his regrets,” Gabriel informed the room at large. “He's exhausted from his efforts to discover any news of Tolly's peccadilloes—which efforts have thus far been completely unrewarding.”

“That,” Harry returned, “I find exceedingly hard to believe.”

“Unrewarding in terms of our investigation,” Gabriel amended.

“As to that,” Harry continued, “I know exactly how he feels.”

Despite considerable effort in their delegated spheres, none had uncovered any evidence that Tolly had been in trouble. Devil put forward the idea that Tolly might not personally have been in trouble at all. “He may have unwittingly stumbled on something he wasn't supposed to know—he might unsuspectingly have become a threat to someone.”

Gabriel was nodding. “
That
scenario sounds a lot more like Tolly.”

Harry snorted. “Silly beggar would have got all fired up with innocent zeal and hared off to lay the evidence at your feet.”

“Before demanding that you fix it.” Richard's smile went slightly awry. “That plot rings truer than any other.”

His eyes on Richard's, Devil said, “The very fact that he was coming to see me may have been what led to his death.”

Vane nodded. “
That
would explain why he was killed at Somersham.”

“We'll have to recanvass all Tolly's friends.” Under Devil's direction, Gabriel, Harry, and Richard agreed to take on the task.

“And me?” Vane raised his brows. “What fascinating piece of detecting am I to undertake?”

“You get to wring out Old Mick.”

“
Old Mick?!
” Vane groaned. “The man drinks like a fish.”

“You've the hardest head of the lot of us, and someone's got to speak to him. As Tolly's man, he's our most likely lead.”

Vane grumbled, but no one paid him any heed.

“We'll meet here again in two days.” Devil stood; the others followed suit. Gabriel, Harry, and Richard headed for the door.

“It's occurred to me,” Vane said, as he strolled after the others, “that the latest addition to the family might not be so amenable to bowing to your authority.”

Devil arched a brow. “She'll learn.”

“So you keep saying.” At the door, Vane glanced back. “But you know what they say—beware of loose cannon.”

The look Devil sent him embodied arrogance supreme; Vane chuckled and left, closing the door behind him.

Wringing information from a devil was not an easy task, especially when he evinced no interest in her company. Poised at the top of the stairs, Honoria debated her next move.

She'd taken Devil's advice and visited Celestine's salon. Her suspicious nature had reared its head when a note, directed in bold black script and carrying a red seal, had arrived for Celestine hard on their heels. While Honoria tried on subtly understated morning gowns, fashionable carriage dresses, and delectably exquisite evening gowns, the modiste, in constant attendance from the instant she'd read the note, had made comments enough on
monsieur le duc's
partialities to confirm her suspicions. But by then she'd seen too many of Celestine's creations to contemplate cutting off her nose to spite her face.

Instead, she'd bought an entire wardrobe, all for the express purpose of setting
monsieur le duc
back on his heels. Celestine's evening gowns, while unquestionably acceptable, were subtly scandalous—her height and age allowed her to wear them to advantage. Nightgowns, peignoirs, and chemises, all in silks and satins, were similarly stunning. Everything, naturally, was shockingly expensive—luckily, her pocket was more than deep enough to stand the nonsense.

She'd spent the ride back to Grosvenor Square imagining the look on Devil's face when he saw her in a particularly
provoking
nightgown—only as the carriage reached St. Ives House did the anomaly in her thinking strike her. When would Devil see her in her nightgown?

Never if she was wise. She'd bundled the thought from her mind.

For the past two mornings, she'd entered the breakfast-parlor wearing an encouraging smile and one of Celestine's more fetching creations; while the devil had noticed her, other than a certain glint in his green eyes, he'd shown no inclination to commit himself beyond an absentminded nod. On both mornings, in an unflatteringly short space of time, he'd excused himself and taken refuge in his study.

She could imagine that he might be busy; she was not prepared to accept that as an excuse to ignore her, particularly as he must by now have learned
something
about his cousin's death.

Drawing a determined breath, she started down the stairs. Direct action was called for—she would beard the lion in his den. Or was that the devil in his lair? Luckily, his lair was also the library. Hand on the doorknob, she paused; no sound came from within. Mentally girding her loins, she plastered a breezily unconscious smile on her face, opened the door, and walked briskly in.

Without looking up, she closed the door and turned, taking two steps before letting her gaze reach the desk. “Oh!” Lips parting, eyes widening, she halted. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize . . .” She let her words trail away.

Her devilish host sat behind the large desk, his correspondence spread before him. By the windows, Sligo was sorting ledgers. Both men had looked up; while Sligo's expression was arrested, Devil's was unreadable.

With a longing glance at the bookshelves, Honoria conjured an apologetic smile. “I didn't mean to intrude. Pray excuse me.”

Gathering her skirts, she half turned—a languid gesture halted her. “If it's distraction you seek, then by all means, seek it here.”

Devil's eyes met hers; while his accompanying wave indicated the volumes and tomes, Honoria was not at all certain they were the distraction to which he referred. Lifting her chin, she inclined her head graciously. “I won't disturb you.”

She already had. Devil shifted in his chair, then rearranged his letters. From the corner of his eye, he watched Honoria scan the shelves, pausing artistically here and there to raise a hand to this book or that. He wondered who she thought she was fooling.

The past two days had been difficult. Resisting the invitation in her eyes had required considerable resolution, but he'd won too many campaigns not to know the value of having her approach him. At last she'd weakened—impatience mounting, he waited for her to get to the point.

Picking up his pen, he signed a letter, blotted it, and laid it aside. Glancing up, he surprised her watching him—she quickly looked away. A sunbeam lancing through the windows burnished the gleaming chestnut knot atop her head; wispy tendrils wreathed her nape and forehead. In her cream-colored morning gown, she looked good enough to eat; for a ravenous wolf, the temptation was great. Devil watched as she put a hand to a heavy tome, one on agricultural practices; she hesitated, then pulled it out and opened it. She was vacillating.

Realizing what she was reading, she abruptly shut the book and replaced it, then drifted back to the shelves nearer the door, selecting another book at random. With an inward sigh, Devil put down his pen and stood. He didn't have all day—his cousins were due later that afternoon. Rounding the desk, he crossed the carpet; sensing his approach, Honoria looked up.

Devil lifted the book from her hands, shut it, and returned it to the shelf—then met her startled gaze. “What's it to be—a drive in the park or a stroll in the square?”

Honoria blinked. She searched his eyes, then stiffened and raised her chin. “A drive.” The park might be crowded but on the box seat of his curricle she could interrogate him without restriction.

Devil's eyes didn't leave hers. “Sligo—get the bays put to.”

“Aye, Capt'n Y'r Grace.” Sligo darted for the door.

Intending to follow, Honoria found herself trapped, held, by Devil's green gaze. Forsaking her eyes, it slid down, lingering briefly but with a weight that sent heat rising to her cheeks.

He looked up. “Perhaps, my dear, you had better change—we wouldn't want you to catch cold.”

Like she'd caught cold trying to fool him? Haughtily, Honoria raised her chin another inch. “Indeed, Your Grace. I shouldn't keep you above half an hour.”

With a swish of her skirts, she escaped. Even forcibly dragging her heels, she was back in the hall in under ten minutes; to her relief, the devil forebore to comment, merely meeting her eye with a glance too arrogantly assured for her liking. His gaze swept her, neat and trim in green jaconet, then he gave her his arm; nose still high, she consented to be led down the steps.

Devil lifted her to the seat. They were bowling through the park gates, the carriages of the
ton
lining the curved avenue ahead, before she registered that a groom had swung up behind. Glancing back, she beheld Sligo.

Devil saw her surprise. “You'll no doubt be relieved that I've decided to observe the strictures wherever possible.”

Honoria gestured behind. “Isn't
that
rather excessive?”

“I wouldn't let it dampen your enthusiasms, Honoria Prudence.” He slanted her a glance. “Sligo's half-deaf.”

A quick glance confirmed it; despite the fact Devil had not lowered his voice, Sligo's expression remained blank. Satisfied, Honoria drew a deep breath. “In that case—”

“That's the countess of Tonbridge to your right. She's a bosom-bow of
Maman's
.”

Honoria smiled at the
grande dame
lounging in a brougham drawn up by the verge; a quizzing glass magnifying one protuberant eye, the countess inclined her head graciously. Honoria nodded back. “What—”

“Lady Havelock ahead. Is that a turban she's wearing?”

“A toque,” Honoria replied through her smile. “But—”

“Mrs. Bingham and Lady Carstairs in the landau.”

It was difficult, Honoria discovered, to smile with clenched teeth. Her breeding, however, dictated her behavior, even in such trying circumstances; calmly serene, she smiled and nodded with gracious impartiality—the truth was, she barely focused on those claiming her attention. Not even the sight of Skiffy Skeffington in his customary bilious green had the power to divert her—her attention was firmly fixed on the reprobate beside her.

She should have chosen the square. After the first three encounters, the interest directed their way registered; the glances of the ladies whose nods she returned were not idle. They were sharp, speculative—keenly acute. Her position beside Devil was clearly making some statement; Honoria had a strong suspicion it was not a statement she'd intended to make. Nodding to a beaming Lady Sefton, she asked: “How long is it since you last drove a lady in the park?”

“I don't.”

“Don't?” Honoria turned and stared. “Why not? You can hardly claim you're misogynous.”

Devil's lips twitched; briefly he met her eye. “If you think about it, Honoria Prudence, you'll see that appearing beside me in the park is tantamount to a declaration—a declaration no unmarried lady has previously been invited to make and one which no married lady would care to flaunt.”

Lady Chetwynd was waiting to be noticed; by the time she was free again, Honoria was simmering. “And what about me?”

Devil glanced her way; this time, his expression was harder. “
You
are different. You're going to marry me.”

An altercation in the park was unthinkable; Honoria seethed, but couldn't let it show, other than in her eyes. Those, only he could see, much good did her fury do her; with an infuriatingly arrogant lift to his brows, he turned back to his horses.

Denied the interrogation she'd planned
and
the tirade he deserved, Honoria struggled, not simply to contain her wrath but to redirect it. Losing her temper was unlikely to advance her cause.

She slanted a glance at Devil; his attention was on his horses, his profile clear-cut, hard-edged. Eyes narrowing, she looked ahead, to where a line of carriages had formed, waiting to turn. Devil drew in at the end; Honoria saw her chance and took it. “Have you and your cousins learned anything of the reason behind Tolly's murder?”

One black brow quirked upward. “I had heard . . .” Breath bated, Honoria waited.

“That Aunt Horatia intends giving a ball in a week or so.” Blank green eyes turned her way. “To declare the family once more on the town, so to speak. Until then, I suspect we should curb our excursions—the park and such mild entertainments are, I believe, permissible. Later . . .”

In utter disbelief, Honoria listened to a catalogue of projected diversions—the usual
divertissements
favored by the
ton
. She didn't bother trying to interrupt. He'd accepted her help in the lane; he'd told her that his people had turned up no clues in the towns about Somersham. She'd thought he'd capitulated—understood and accepted her right to involve herself in the solving of the crime, or, at the very least, accepted her right to know what had been discovered. As the litany of pleasures in store for her continued, Honoria readjusted her thinking.