The Devil to Pay (7 page)

Sidonie took back the bundle. “No, I cannot do that.”

Jean-Claude shot her a look of warning. “Eet eez very dangerous,
madame,
to keep such a thing.”

Sidonie tried to smile. “I know,” she said. “Let me think on it. I shall be careful.”

Their business concluded, Sidonie stood. “Go now, before George begins to wonder what’s become of you. I’ll have more trinkets in a fortnight or so.”

Jean-Claude’s eyes widened. “Ah, I almost forget, no?” he said, digging into his pocket. “For last month’s shipment.” He pressed a roll of banknotes into her hand.

“Oh, thank you, Jean-Claude.” Sidonie squeezed the money gratefully.

He watched her in faint amusement. “What good deeds will your friend
l’ange
do weeth that, I wonder?”

Sidonie smiled and tucked the banknotes into her reticule with Lord Devellyn’s baubles. “She will advance a generous sum to Lord Francis’s parlor maid,” she answered. “Whatever is left, the Angel will most likely deliver to Lady Kirton at the Nazareth Society.”

Jean-Claude extended his hand. “Then I wish her well,” he said, pretending he did not know perfectly well who was perpetrating the thefts.

Sidonie took his hand and squeezed it. “She sends you her gratitude.”

Jean-Claude tightened his grip on her fingers and leaned very near.
“Merci, madame,
but also, I pass a leetle word of warning to her?” he whispered, his voice suddenly grave. “Her works are good, but the Marquess of Devellyn, he eez not one to be trifled with. You will tell her this,
oui?
She must choose her victims with more care.”

Sidonie swallowed hard, and looked Jean-Claude straight in the eyes. “She made a mistake, perhaps,” she admitted. “I shall warn her.”

“Oui, madame,
you do that.”

Sidonie smiled wryly. “Trust me, Jean-Claude, she will take care never to see Lord Devellyn again.”

Then, with a wintry smile and an elegant bow, the young man kissed her knuckles and took his leave.

Sidonie watched Jean-Claude go, a faint frisson of anxiety chasing up her spine. She forced herself to wait ten minutes, then gathered her wits and hastened out after him. Thank heaven she lived but a block away, for in ten minutes’ time, Miss Hannaday would arrive in Bedford Place for her lesson.

Today she and Miss Hannaday were to review the order of precedence for nobility, then learn how to prepare a seating plan for a formal dinner. Such lessons were a good arrangement for both of them, since Sidonie needed the money, and poor Miss Hannaday needed to grasp all of society’s nuances if she meant to marry Lord Bodley.

To Sidonie, such social skills had come almost as second nature. Her mother had been that most rare of creatures; a beautiful, well-bred courtesan with an impeccable lineage and a natural grace. Sidonie’s grandparents had been minor nobility cast on hard times after the French Revolution. They had raised their only daughter in genteel poverty, educated her in the convent school, and shipped her across the Channel in the hope that her charm and beauty would catch the eye of some wealthy Englishman.

The plan had worked, so far as it went. Claire Bauchet caught the eye of the paunchy, middle-aged Duke of Gravenel, whose daughter she was tutoring in French. But Gravenel was no Prince Charming, and their relationship was no fairy tale. He impregnated his young French teacher, then stood idly by as his wife tossed her into the street. Then, and only then, did Gravenel make Claire an offer. She could be his mistress. Or she could starve. The choice was entirely hers.

Claire was not the sort of woman who starved.

As mistress to the wealthy Gravenel, Claire Bauchet eventually became famous for her lavish entertainments and elegant dinner parties. She began to enjoy her power and turn the heads of men younger and more powerful than her protector. Many of England’s most influential noblemen dined at Madame Bauchet’s table, including the Prince Regent himself. But England’s noble
women,
that was another thing altogether. Ladies of the
ton
did not “know” women like Claire, despite the fact that she and her two children lived in Mayfair’s exclusive Clarges Street, not a stone’s throw from the Duke of Clarence’s mistress and their vast brood.

Sidonie and George hardly constituted a brood, but they had still garnered plenty of stares and whispers. She had been little more than a toddler when George had finally taken her aside and explained to her how the world worked, and why their father did not live with them. For Sidonie, it had been a true loss of innocence.

She surely did not wish a loss of innocence on Miss Hannaday, but with a fiend like Bodley, that was just what the poor child was apt to get. Perhaps something ought to be done? Something more drastic than simply finding Miss Hannaday’s beloved clerk a job? Lost in such musings, Sidonie hastened round the corner into Bedford Place, barely watching where she was going. As usual, two or three carriages were parked along the street. Foolishly, she did not pay attention to them, not even the nearest one, which sat almost opposite her house. Indeed, she was almost at a run when she passed by it.

Suddenly, something dark and hard slammed into her forehead. Sidonie hit the pavement like a sack of mortar, literally seeing stars. Next she knew, someone was kneeling beside her and trying to help her to her feet. “Good God, I did not see you!” the man exclaimed, sliding a hand beneath her shoulders. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

The stars finally winked themselves away, and gingerly, Sidonie sat up, touched her forehead, and groaned. She was slowly becoming aware of the pavement, cool and faintly damp beneath her hips, and the warm smell of cologne from above. “Wha—What happened?” she managed as the man lifted her to her feet almost effortlessly.

“I am so sorry,” said the man. “I believe I hit you in the head with my carriage door.”

Sidonie tried to focus on his face. “You
hit
me?”

“Miss, I did not see you,” he protested. “You darted out of nowhere. Did you not see my carriage was pulling to the curb?”

“No, I—I didn’t realize…”

Behind her, Sidonie heard his coachman leap down. “Is the lady all right, my lord?”

“Just a nasty bump, Wittle,” the man reassured him. “Go tell Fenton to wrap up some ice. I shall carry the lady inside.”

Still dazed, Sidonie let the man get his arm almost beneath her knees before pushing him away. “I am fine, sir,” she said, one hand still pressed to her throbbing lump. “Really, I am.”

“Really, you are?” he echoed skeptically. “Then tell me, miss, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Out of sheer stubbornness, Sidonie forced her eyes to focus, and she had to look up—far, far up—to do so. And then it was certainly not his fingers which caught her eye. Instead, it felt as if something slammed unexpectedly into the backs of her knees, and she’d sagged halfway to the pavement again when Lord Devellyn caught her.

This time, he scooped her up effortlessly and headed for his front door. “I thought as much,” he murmured, swishing her skirts gracefully through the entryway. “Honeywell, shut the door and draw the drapes. I believe she’s got a mild concussion.”

Sidonie was settled onto a velvet divan in a dark, richly colored drawing room and tried at once to sit up. She really did not want Lord Devellyn touching her. But the man set a strong, warm hand on her shoulder. “Really, miss, I must insist,” he said, kneeling as if to better examine her. “Fenton!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Fenton! Is there a physician in this part of town?”

She realized vaguely that the house was in some sort of uproar, with servants hastening to and fro carrying all manner of crates and boxes. Each of them paused to stare at her. Sidonie pushed his warm, heavy hand from her shoulder. “Thank you,” she said. “I must go. Across the…the street.”

“Across the street?”

“My house. I have an appointment.”

Sidonie was growing desperate. In her weakened, woozy state, she was about to drown in the warm, all-too-familiar scent of the marquess’s cologne. She had already spent far too much time in Devellyn’s company. Worse, she was now laid across his divan, her reticule stuffed nigh to bursting with his personal effects. Thank God she’d not been knocked cold, else he’d likely be searching through it for some sort of identification.

Devellyn was still casting his eyes over her face, as if searching for something. A moment of panic struck. Good God, surely he couldn’t recognize her? “Is there someone we should send for, miss?” he finally asked. “Your…husband? Your father?”

Her father? The notion almost made Sidonie laugh. “I am widowed,” she said as tartly as she could. “And now, if you will permit me, I wish to get up.”

Suddenly, a dark-sleeved arm thrust over her. “Ice, my lord,” said a servant. “Is some hartshorn in order? Or perhaps the lady has a vinaigrette in her reticule?”

“No!” Sidonie clutched her bag to her chest, pushed Devellyn away, and jerked to her feet. “I mean, I really am quite well. Thank you. I wish to go now.”

The marquess had indeed stepped back this time. “Very well,” he said calmly. “I will see you safely across the street.”

“I can cross the street by myself, thank you.”

His voice took on an ominous chill. “By all means, then,” he said. “But allow me to introduce myself before you go. I am—”

“I know who you are,” snapped Sidonie. “Thank you. I must go.”

Devellyn shifted his weight, very subtly blocking her path. Good Lord, he was big. Bigger, even, than she remembered, and, damn it all, devilishly—no,
rakishly—
handsome. His jaw might have been chiseled from stone, his mouth was sinfully lush, and his slightly crooked nose merely served to make him look dashingly dangerous. Good God, life was not fair!

The sinfully lush lips had drawn taut now. “And am I to have your name, ma’am?” Lord Devellyn asked, his voice excruciatingly polite. “I should like the pleasure of knowing to whom I should address my letter of apology.”

“You have already apologized, my lord,” said Sidonie. “I am Madame Saint-Godard. Number Fourteen. No letter is necessary.”

“You are French.” It was not a question. “But you’ve little accent.”

“Yes,” she said tightly. “Now I bid you good day.”

Somehow, Sidonie managed to stiffen her spine and escape. Outside, the light was indeed too bright. She squinted her eyes against the sun and immediately felt someone catch her elbow. She spun about, intent on slapping Lord Devellyn through the face for his persistence, but her hand stilled at once.

“Madame Saint-Godard?” Miss Hannaday’s gaze searched her face. “Are you perfectly all right? This is not, you know, your side of the street.”

Sidonie felt a strange sense of disappointment. “Indeed, it is not,” she answered, taking the girl’s arm to steady herself. “Will you help me across, Miss Hannaday? I fear I’ve had a slight accident.”

Miss Hannaday’s maid followed. Julia met them at the door, her face going pale at once. “Oh, Lord, what’s happened now?” she squawked. “The two of you look like you’ve been in a street brawl.”

It was only then that Sidonie truly looked at Miss Hannaday. In profile, it had not been noticeable, but now she saw that the girl’s face was faintly bruised below her left temple. Unbidden, she reached up to touch it, and the girl shrank back. “A door,” she said. “I—I walked into a door.”

Sidonie knew it at once for a lie. “What a strange coincidence,” she murmured. “So did I.”

Devellyn watched through the drawing room window as his lovely new neighbor gingerly crossed the street. She now seemed perfectly willing—no, eager—to lean upon her young friend’s arm. Almost as eager as she had been in rejecting Devellyn’s.

She knew who he was.

But her every gesture had made it plain she’d no wish to know
him.
Devellyn watched her now, swishing the skirts of her dark amethyst gown over her front doorstep. He was not at all sure what to make of her. Certainly she was lovely, with her warm olive skin and remarkable eyes; warm, wide eyes the color of expensive cognac. Her hair looked long and heavy, and, like his soul, just a shade away from pitch-black.

Madame Saint-Godard exuded Continental sophistication and, despite her injury, moved with regal grace. She was also one of those rare women who gave the appearance of being tall, when she was really nothing of the sort. Her average stature became apparent in relation to her own front door—and to her companion, a short, pleasantly plump lady who had flung open the door to greet
madame
and her friend. But suddenly, the front door shut, and the women disappeared from his view.

Well, that was that, wasn’t it? In all probability, they would never see one another again. His temporary residence aside, he and his new neighbors moved in vastly different social circles. Moreover, his wicked reputation had almost certainly preceded him. He’d kept better than a dozen mistresses in this house since buying it, most of them leaving in tears, a hail of china, or a drunken brawl. Camelia had more or less managed all three. No, it was not likely the good citizens of Bedford Place, with their bourgeois sensibilities, would be leaving a great many cards for the notorious Devil of Duke Street. And thank God for it.

Regrettably, however, that did make it almost certain Madame Saint-Godard would not be warming his sheets anywhere this side of hell—not that he’d suffered much doubt on that score. Still, he would have liked very much to bed her, he realized. Something in her flashing eyes stirred his blood. But bedding a woman like that would have required an awful lot of effort. It would have required him to make himself pleasant and presentable. Perhaps, even, to
court
her. Devellyn did not court women. He paid them.

“My lord?” Honeywell’s voice cut into his consciousness, and Devellyn realized he was still staring at Madame Saint-Godard’s door. “My lord, will you be going out for the evening? Wittle wishes to know what to do with the carriage.”

Devellyn felt oddly embarrassed, like a schoolboy caught groping one of the chambermaids. “Just tell him to take it round to the mews,” he said gruffly. “If I go out, I shall walk.”