Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) (29 page)

“Chef Henri called you a Satan worshipper,” the girl said as her eyes darted to the burly man. “He said only those who practice the dark arts are capable of communicating with the dead. He thinks you’re a madwoman and belong locked up in a dingy cell.”

Her declaration slashed through Devlin’s gut, and he clenched his jaw, holding back the string of expletives burning on his tongue. This wasn’t the first time a new servant or hired help had besmirched Grace’s good name, but by God, it would be the last. He would not tolerate such disrespect.

His fiery gaze met Chef Henri’s, but before he uttered a word, Grace pulled Maribeth into her embrace and said, “You mustn’t let the words of others get under your skin and fester. It matters not. They are only words and cannot hurt me. I don’t care what others say or think, except for those closest to me. Brother Anselm, you … and Devlin. Those are the opinions that matter most. Do you understand?”

“You’re not m-m-mad,” Maribeth said, her words catching on her choked cry. Tears rolled over her cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around Grace. “I’ll not have it said!”

Devlin couldn’t look at the scene playing out before him without becoming overwhelmed with disgust by his own hypocrisy. Grace didn’t care what others thought of her. She couldn’t be hurt by Chef Henri’s words. But Devlin held the power to destroy her. And he would do exactly that on the night of the ball.

But right now he would be her champion.

“I’ll not tolerate it either,” Devlin said, striding to the red-faced servant. “You’re dismissed. Gather your things within the hour and get out!” He whirled around, pinning every last servant with his glare. “If I hear another word uttered, if I see a sideways glance, if you make the sign of the cross or give a wide berth as you pass, you will be dismissed on the spot. Do you understand? You’re welcome to leave with one week’s pay if you so choose, but the disrespect ends now!”

The room fell dead silent, and he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated beyond measure at the events of the afternoon. Grace walked in his direction with her shoulders straight and her head held high, and his anger melted away. In the face of ridicule, she didn’t crumble but rather ignored the vile accusations. She was beautiful inside and out.

“Grace,” he said, reaching out, “take my hand.”

She took the final few steps, and their hands connected. Her fingers wrapped around to caress the nub of his left pinky. It soothed his ire, and he stared at their joined hands in awe of her ability to alter his perceptions so wholly. He no longer thought of the blindfold or straps holding him down right before the Butcher severed each knuckle. Sweat didn’t gather on his brow in anticipation of the pain to come. Her caress was divine. Grace embodied pure, innocent passion, which obliterated the dirty, lustful actions of the Butcher.

Good God, what had he done? A shudder ran through him, and he closed his eyes. He was going to lose the one woman who accepted him, warts and all, because he’d allowed his raging need for vengeance to overrule the rational part of his brain. Grace didn’t care about his name or his title. She found beauty in his body, running her hands freely over him with pleasure.

He could’ve reclaimed his birthright without Josephine’s assistance. He had the contract, and with it came the power to bend his mother to his will. He understood that now with the utmost clarity, but it was too late. He’d bargained with the gatekeeper to Hell and could not turn back. And if he was honest with himself, part of him didn’t wish to turn back—the part of him consumed by an ardent desire to know with absolute certainty that his mother burned for eternity in Hell.

“Thank you for standing by me,” Grace whispered. She pulled him closer, and he leaned down, sensing her need to speak with him privately.

“Emma has urgent news from the village,” she said. “Perhaps we should retire to your study.”

He glanced up and scanned the kitchen. Emma stood near the entrance, her hair windswept and her hands tangled before her, her thumbs working back and forth. With a flick of his head, he ordered her to follow him. As they passed Maribeth, he winked.

“I’ll have another word with you later, young lady,” he called over his shoulder. “Until then, I expect you to behave. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

The moment they entered the hallway, Devlin shouted, “Hatchet, I need you, Victor, and Brother Anselm in my study, immediately.”

Hatchet appeared around the corner with Brother Anselm. The monk’s heavy breathing and flushed cheeks indicated he’d nearly run from the chapel to the mansion. Word traveled fast, it seemed.

“And Victor?”

“Present,” Victor said, his voice cascading down the stairwell.

Everyone bustled into the study and gathered around the furniture, too restless to sit. Victor shut the door behind him and nodded at Devlin.

He turned to Emma. “What news have you to share from the village?”

“I went to visit my father again.” She glanced at Grace and licked her lips. “He’s recovering from his illness quite well, but he said Willie is stirring up trouble again. Flapping his jaw about the coming ball … reminding folk about the massacre and suggesting Beatrice Mitchell was at the helm of the disaster. He’s trying to rally the village folk to storm the mansion and cart Grace to the asylum lest history repeat itself. People are nervous.” Her gaze flitted toward Grace again before returning to Devlin. “Especially because Charles Mitchell is leaking stories from the past.”

He noted a slight stiffening of Grace’s shoulders, but otherwise, she didn’t react outwardly. Not so of Victor, who growled under his breath. Heat flared in his first mate’s eyes as they met Devlin’s. They should’ve killed the fucking whelp when they had the chance.

“Servants talk, sir,” Emma said. “They’re scared of what will happen if the villagers storm the mansion. You know we’ll support Grace in any way we can. What would you have us do?”

Devlin folded his arms and surveyed the room. They only needed to withstand the pressure for three more days, and he was confident they could rally support from the majority of the servants.

“Victor and Hatchet, please round up the rest of our crew and bring them here to stand guard in the shadows. I want the staff to know I take their safety seriously but without alarming everyone. Then I want you two to enjoy yourselves at The Black Serpent tonight. Bring the stable lad and buy a few rounds. Tell some funny stories of Maribeth’s antics with the ghosts and how she follows Grace around like a puppy. No man worth his salt fears something a child can laugh over.”

The two men nodded and slipped out the door, but not before Hatchet tossed Emma a wink. The action was uncharacteristic for his second mate. Devlin narrowed his gaze on Grace’s best friend and inspected her closely for the first time. She was comely, with dirty-blond hair and eyes the color of aged whiskey. Had his friend finally lost his heart to another woman while Devlin had been engrossed in his preparations for the ball? He made a mental note to speak about it later with Grace.

“Emma,” Devlin said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I want you and Abigail to head into the market today with Brother Anselm in tow. Cook should relay the story of Crispin, focusing on the butterfly and the connection she felt to her brother, the joy of knowing he found his place with his Maker.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think you can flip the focus to all of the good work Brother Anselm and Grace are doing together in the manor?”

“Yes, of course.” Emma smiled and raced to Grace’s side, taking her hands. “Just a few more days and this will be behind you.”

Emma walked to the study door and motioned for Brother Anselm to join her. He ignored her and, instead, strode to Grace’s side, clasping her by the shoulders.

“You already know this, my dear,” he said, tears glistening in his eyes, “but I believe one cannot hear it often enough, so I would remind you that I love you. Just as you are. You’re a beautiful and healthy young woman. Devoted to your faith. Dedicated to those you love. And you share your exceptional talent at great cost to your personal safety. I’m proud to know you. Don’t ever let anyone else tell you otherwise.”

Grace fell into Brother Anselm’s embrace, and he crushed her to him, kissing the top of her head. Devlin turned away, shielding his face lest the others see the tears glistening in his own eyes. Brother Anselm had the right of it. Grace wasn’t insane. No, far from it. A queasy ache filled his gut.

He had three more days.

“I love you, too, Brother.” She pulled back and dabbed the sleeve of her gown over her wet cheeks. “Take care at the market.”

Devlin coughed, attempting to clear the tickle in his throat. “And report back upon your return, if you please.”

Brother Anselm nodded and retreated quietly with Emma. The moment the door clicked behind them, Devlin drew Grace into his embrace, cradling her face. She looked tired, and he couldn’t be sure if it was due to the events of the morning or the fact that he’d kept her awake late into the night as he worshipped her body.

He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “I’m afraid I lost my temper in the kitchen again.”

“I’ve experienced worse.” She bit down on his thumb and grinned. “You’re getting better.”

She never failed to focus on the good side of every encounter. How did she maintain her composure in the face of surmounting pressure? If he could only tap into an ounce of her goodness …

“I’ll never be good enough for you.”

“Stop it,” she said, grabbing his wrists. “I don’t want to hear another word of negativity. You’ve given instructions to everyone else. Now tell me what I can do to help.”

There was only one avenue he hadn’t explored. He would kneel down before Grace’s God and repent. Perhaps then she might forgive him for his despicable actions. His request might send her into a dead faint, but he needed all the help he could get.

“Teach me to pray.”

She swallowed. “What did you say?”

He blew out an uneven breath. “You heard me, Grace.”

“Oh, Devlin,” she said, threading her fingers through his.

“Devlin,” he whispered. “For sixteen years I despised that name and allowed it to fuel my anger, but coming from your sweet lips it warms my heart. Dominick has been long dead, and I was a bloody fool for wanting to resurrect him. Will you come with me to the chapel?”

She nodded and pressed her lips to their entwined hands.

• • •

Nothing could be heard over the sound of blood pounding in Devlin’s ears as he knelt before the altar of God three days later. He wouldn’t pray for himself, a lost cause, anymore, but he wouldn’t give up on Grace. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. He’d prayed for guidance as he practiced his public denouncement of her, but it was futile. No matter how he formulated the words, he would crush her soul.

And Josephine would slaughter them all if Devlin reneged on their agreement.

No one would die, save his mother, if he carried through with his promise. He should’ve distanced himself from Grace after his negotiations with Josephine, and then perhaps his betrayal wouldn’t break her so thoroughly. But he’d promised to seduce her, and he was a selfish man, savoring every moment he had with her before she banished him from her life.

Dear Lord, please give me a sign. Tell me what to do. Stand by Grace and shield her with your love. Give her the strength to prevail in spite of my betrayal, and comfort her through the maelstrom that will surely follow.

Devlin rose to his feet and ended his prayer with the sign of the cross. He had half a mind to cancel the evening’s festivities and face the consequences alone. Josephine could not be trusted, yet another fact he’d been blind to in his need for revenge. But instinct warned him that either way, the end result would be disastrous. Better to play his hand to the end and hope Josephine upheld her end of their bargain.

He pulled out his pocket watch. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Two hundred guests of the ton, politicians, and prominent businessmen would begin arriving at seven o’clock. Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the chapel doors. It was time for one final round to ensure everything was in order.

As the final notes from the piano faded, Grace grasped desperately for the sense of peace she’d always felt when playing with her mother. Nothing could stop the sands of time from slipping through her fingers. Her attempts to connect with Rosalie’s spirit had failed: prayer, reflection, meditation—nothing worked without a personal item of Josephine’s soul mate.

Grace had promised herself she wouldn’t fall victim to tears, but she’d failed in that regard, too, after Devlin had slipped out of her bedroom that morning. Perhaps for the last time. She didn’t harbor any misconceptions of the evening to come. Once the price had been paid, Rosalie’s soul would possess her fully, and life as she knew it would cease to exist. May God forgive her for selfishly seeking comfort in Devlin’s embrace for their last month together, but she wouldn’t repent. The way he worshipped her body with exquisite tenderness every night told her how he felt, even if he refused to speak the words.

With the passage of time came clarity. She should’ve confessed everything to Devlin before his meeting with Josephine and given him the opportunity to decide their fate. But had he cared enough a month ago to abandon his anger? Conjecture was futile and would only drive her insane. The die had been cast, and he must carry through with his promise or invite Josephine’s wrath.

The first tentative notes of “Those Magic Eyes” sounded, and Grace whispered, “Mother, shall it be a duet then?”

Tears burned in her eyes as she joined in playing. Devlin’s mother would arrive within a few hours. It wouldn’t be a joyous reunion. Quite the opposite, in fact. Would Lady Catherine Winters die with regret in her heart? The woman was bound for Hell of her own doing, but still, Grace mourned for the son who hadn’t known the love of his mother.

The parlor door opened, and the fresh scent of lemons filled her nostrils as a warm body sidled up beside her on the bench.

“You’re playing a duet with the friendly ghost,” Maribeth said. “How wonderful.”