The Devil to Pay (13 page)

“A sapphire cravat pin?” asked Kem incredulously.

“A
half-carat
sapphire cravat pin,” Sisk clarified. “Mounted in gold with four prongs.”

“Good Lord, Sisk. I’ve probably got a half dozen lying about this instant.” Kem jerked open one of the desk cubbies, poked about, and extracted something. “Here, have this one.” He dropped a large faceted sapphire into the sergeant’s hand.

Sisk scowled again. “Awright,” he said, stabbing with the beefy finger again. “What about this one, eh? A solid gold pocket case. Handmade in France, glass on one side, and latch that sticks.
With
a miniature in it—which, by the way, was painted by that famous miniature fellow. Not, mind you, that the chap was miniature. He was a reg’lar-sized bloke, but he—”

Kem waved his hand. “I comprehend. You mean Richard Cosway, perhaps?”

Sisk settled back into his chair. “Aye, him,” he agreed. “So? Unusual, ain’t it?”

“A framed Cosway miniature?” Kem’s voice was respectful. “Now, that, old boy, is something worth looking for. To whom did it belong?”

“To that chap what blowed off Lord Scrandle’s left pinkie-finger at Chalk Farm last spring.” Here, Sisk scratched his head. “ ’Twas some dustup over a pack of marked cards. Damn me, what was that name?”

Kemble settled back into his chair. “Devellyn,” he said quietly. “The Marquess of Devellyn. How very odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Never mind,” Kemble murmured. “In any case, I shouldn’t have thought Devellyn the sentimental type. I can’t even think of anyone whose portrait he would care enough to carry.”

Sisk stuck a finger in the air. “Now that I knows,” he said. “ ’Twas his brother, or so they tol’ me.”

Kemble’s brows shot up. “His brother?” he said sharply. “The one he killed?”

“Aye, he did, didn’t he?” Sisk answered. “I’d forgot that old scandal.”

“You may well have forgotten it,” Kemble returned. “But you can rest assured that his family has not. He is now heir to the dukedom.”

Sisk shrugged. “Well, that’d be none o’ my business, would it?” he said. “But what about the miniature? Seen anything like it?”

Kem shook his head and looked up at Jean-Claude.

The clerk lifted his hands in a bored, Gallic gesture.
“Non, pas moi,”
he said, and drifted back toward the baize table.

“Some help he is,” grunted Sisk.

“You don’t understand, dear boy,” said Kem wearily. “Jean-Claude is a specialist in Ming Dynasty fahua—vases and bowls to you. He couldn’t give two shites about this sort of thing. But obviously, you do. And you’ve taken the case on privately, hmm?”

Sisk drew himself up proudly. “A bunch o’ nobs got diddled by some fancy piece,” he said. “She’s been collecting their pretties as she goes along. They wants to keep it quiet.”

“Ah, the Black Angel!” Kemble mused. “Give up, Sisk. You’ll never catch that one. She’s a professional.”

Sisk looked injured. “Aye, and what am I, eel bait?”

Kemble considered it. “Well, honestly, if anyone can bring her to heel, Sisk, you’re just the fellow,” he finally answered. “But I shan’t help you do it. Sorry, old chap. I think your nobs are getting just about what they deserve.” Then Kemble gave a humorless smile, and pulled out the flask again. “What say we drink to Peel’s health before I toss you out in the alley?”

As the glasses clinked again, Jean-Claude slipped down the passageway and dragged on his coat. “I am going out for a walk,” he said to Kemble in rapid French. “I will see you tomorrow.”

But Kemble and Sisk were bent over their drinks and their memories again, and they seemed not to hear him go.

The next evening, Lord Devellyn dressed for dinner in a very foul mood. Nothing, it seemed, suited him. First, Fenton got his bloody cravat too tight. Then too loose. Then he tied it in a knot which the marquess took a sudden disliking to, despite the fact that he’d worn the style at least a thousand times in the last six years. Today it was all wrong. On a curse, he stripped it off, and hurled it violently to the floor.

“Another!” he barked.

But Fenton had already scurried off to fetch it. After another ten minutes had passed, the cravat was tied, and the process begun all over again, this time with waistcoats. “God, not brocade!” he snapped, when Fenton held out the first. “Do you want me to match her damned draperies? No, not gray! It’s gloomy. The yellow one? Absolutely not.”

“My lord, it is new,” Fenton protested. “And very elegant.”

Devellyn snorted. “It’s the color of horse piss!”

“It is called champagne gold,” sniffed his valet. “I chose the fabric myself.”

But on and on it went. Too bright. Too dull. Too tight. Too…
gauche. Stupid. Uncouth. Insensitive.
Yes, that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? Stupid he might be, but he was not a fool. Fools were ignorant of their failings. Fools strolled through life blithely happy. He wished to hell he was one.

“My lord,” Fenton finally said, his tone one of exasperation. “You are out of waistcoats. You must take one of these, or go without.”

“Horse piss, then,” he growled, snapping his fingers at it.

With a deep sigh, Fenton shook it out and slid it over his shoulders.

The problem, Devellyn finally admitted, was not with Fenton. Nor did it have anything to do with his wardrobe. The problem was with him.
With what he had done.
Why in God’s name had he pressed that poor woman into this dinner invitation? What did he hope to gain? Oh, he had enjoyed teasing her. Flirting with her. And she had, to some extent, let him get away with it. But Devellyn did not need another romantic liaison. He would only bugger it up.

Besides, Sidonie Saint-Godard wouldn’t have him, no matter his wealth and title. She had too much taste. Too much class. She wasn’t even his usual sort of woman—in other words, she didn’t have a price tag hanging off her arse. She was the very thing he was not—
respectable.
If he pursued the woman—and to what end, anyway?—she would only be tainted by their association.

Devellyn lifted his gaze to his gilt-framed cheval glass. A man he barely knew stared back. He realized with a start that he had long ago ceased to look—
truly
look—at himself. The changes were stark. Lean, lithe grace had been replaced by brawn and obstinacy. The boyish lines of his face were a decade gone. An elegant, aristocratic nose had gone askew with his principles, and a jaw which would once have been called well-turned had been chiseled into severity.

Oh, he remembered too well the promise of youth—the invincibility he’d felt in those early years. They had been society’s golden boys, he and Greg. Even then, the
ton
had assumed the dukedom would wind its way down the branches of the family tree and settle its mantle over their father’s shoulders. Greg, handsome and charming, had been groomed to be next. Aleric had been less malleable. At the time, it had not mattered.

So who was he now, that man in his mirror with the cold, flat eyes and hard mouth? What did he want of life? Anything?
Nothing?
Devellyn shook his head. Who would know if he did not?

“I got me some aspirations,”
Ruby Black had said so proudly. But Devellyn had none. He had lived his life without purpose. Without ambition. And now, what little enthusiasm he’d had—his taste for revenge—was somehow lessening.

Yesterday he had jotted down the names of the Black Angel’s victims—he thought he had remembered them all—and taken as a whole, the list did not particularly trouble him. For the most part, they were gentlemen like Lord Francis Tenby, men he did not particularly like. No doubt more than a few deserved what they had suffered at her hands. Perhaps he had deserved it, too? Many people surely thought so. He could not say they were wrong.

Oh, to hell with the embarrassment and the money, he decided, as Fenton helped him into his coat. Let the greedy witch keep it. But Greg’s miniature—that he must reclaim, even if it meant capturing the Angel and turning her over to the likes of Tenby and his angry mob.

Fenton had stepped around and was looking at him warily now.

“Sorry, old chap,” said the marquess, forcing his usual grin. “I think I’ve got it out of my system now.”

“Got what out?” said a voice from the door. “Feel free to tell him to sod off, Fenton, if he’s behaving badly again. I need a good valet.”

Devellyn turned to see Alasdair standing on his threshold. “You’re late,” he said.

Alasdair opened his hands expansively. “And you are not ready. Besides, I’ve been serving a noble cause.”

The marquess looked at him suspiciously. “What sort of noble cause?”

Alasdair gave a faint smile. “I spent the afternoon with Tenby and his cohorts,” he answered. “You are in my debt—again—old friend.”

Impatiently, Devellyn waved him down the stairs. Alasdair followed him into the study, where the marquess picked up a decanter of brandy. “Frog water?”

Alasdair grinned. “Nervous?”

Devellyn sloshed out two glasses. “Let be, Alasdair,” he warned. “What of this business with Tenby?”

Alasdair went to the hearth, and propped one elbow on the mantel. His grin was gone. “I can’t say as I much care for his new friends,” he finally answered. “But they are a determined lot.”

Devellyn paused with the glass halfway to his lips. “How so?”

Alasdair shrugged. “Their bulldog policeman has put together quite a lot of information on the Black Angel,” he finally said. “Dates. Locations. Exact times. And a list of her aliases—which are inventive, to say the least.”

Devellyn grunted and tossed back his drink. “I suspect no one else got stripped bare-arsed naked by one Ruby Black.”

Alasdair’s grin deepened. “No, I think Ruby was saving all her love for you, Dev. But Tenby got himself bloody near poisoned by a French high-flyer calling herself Madame Noire.”

“Noire?
That means…why, that means
black,
doesn’t it?”

Alasdair nodded. “And get this: her Christian name, she claimed, was
Cerise.”

“Cerise Noire!” Devellyn laughed so suddenly, he almost blew brandy out his nose. “Damned if the woman doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Oh, it gets better,” said Alasdair. “Last month Lord Scrandle picked up a pretty Sicilian soprano backstage at the Haymarket. One Signorina Rosetta Nero, by name. Care to take a stab at the translation?”

Devellyn grinned and picked up the decanter again. “Rose Black?”

“Close enough,” said Alasdair. “And then there was poor Will Arnsted, who fancied the chambermaid who came in to build up his fire one evening over at Mivart’s Hotel. She managed to lock him in his private parlor, then leapt out the window with everything but his shirt and drawers.”

“Let me guess,” said Devellyn. “Crimson? Pinkie? Poppy? Or—ha, here you go, Alasdair!—
Scarlet Raven!
After all, she flies out windows!”

Alasdair laughed. “Not bad, old chap!” he said. “But no. It was
Cherry.
With a surname which Armsted took to be C-o-l-e.”

“Well, I’m damned!” said Devellyn. “I’ve a hunch sweet Cherry would have spelt it differently.”

“C-o-a-l,” said Alasdair. “Depend upon it.”

“Good Lord!” said the marquess. “Are we all that stupid? She’s been laughing at us all the way to the bank, or wherever it is common pickpockets and sneak thieves keep their loot.”

Alasdair shook his head. “Oh, this woman is no common thief,” he said. “You may depend upon
that,
too.”

“And what of this policeman?” said Devellyn. “What manner of man is he?”

Alasdair leaned over and slapped him on the shoulder. “You may see for yourself, my friend,” he said cheerfully. “We’re to meet him tonight after eleven at the Oak Tree Inn.”

The marquess grunted. “The Oak Tree? Good God, Alasdair! That’s on the other side of Stepney!”

Alasdair lifted his shoulders lazily. “Well, that’s where he lives,” he said. “And if you mean to bribe him behind Tenby’s back, it must be discreetly done.”

Just then, Fenton darted into the room. “My lord,” he said a little frantically. “Honeywell says Mrs. Crosby keeps peeking out her parlor curtains and peering across the street! She’s done it above three times now! Really, sir, I think you’re going to have to get on with it.”

Despite her years spent in retirement, Julia Crosby was still the consummate actress. That evening, Sidonie found herself greatly looking forward to watching Julia play the grand, gracious lady with people she’d not wanted to entertain.

Initially, Julia had laughed at Sidonie’s assertion that the Marquess of Devellyn had invited himself to dinner and that Sidonie had been able to think of no polite way around it. “What rubbish!” she’d snapped. “And you’ve no business at all associating with the Marquess of Devellyn. You must think of George and all that he is burdened with.”

“What has George to do with any of this?” Sidonie had asked, suspicious.

But Julia had grown reticent. “It is just that you put me in a difficult position, Sidonie,” she had said. “First you think Devellyn despicable, and wish to go after him on principle, which is dangerous enough. And now you apparently want to befriend the man, which is more dangerous still. George will blame me if anything goes awry.”

“What do you wish me to do, Julia?”

“I wish you would stay away from him altogether.”

Julia’s brow had been furrowed with uncharacteristic worry. And there really was no reason, Sidonie considered, not to do just as Julia asked. She understood that she could not very well maintain a friendship with Devellyn, even if she wished to. Society did not work that way, and Devellyn was not that sort of man. In fact, she still did not know
what
sort of man he was.

And so Sidonie told herself that she would spend just this one evening in his company in order to judge his character fairly. After that, well, she might have a couple of wrongs to make right. But that, she swore to Julia, would be the end of her association with Lord Devellyn. Julia seemed much relieved. And at last, the appointed hour arrived.