Devil's Bride Page 8

Honoria watched them go, Devil so large and powerful, so arrogantly commanding, making not the smallest fuss over the creases Clara’s sparrowlike claws were leaving in his sleeve. A good boy? She inwardly humphed.

  “Thank goodness you came.” Amanda swallowed. “She wanted to talk about Tolly. And I—we—didn’t know how to . . .”

  “Stop her?” Honoria smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry—it’s only the very old who’ll ask such questions. Now—” She glanced around—“tell me who the younger ones are—Devil told me their names, but I’ve forgotten.”

  That was untrue, but the exercise served to distract the twins. Aside from themselves, Simon, and their two younger sisters, Henrietta and Mary, ten and three, they had three younger cousins.

  “Heather’s fourteen. Elizabeth—we call her Eliza—is thirteen, and Angelica’s ten, the same as Henrietta.”

  “They’re Uncle Martin’s and Aunt Celia’s daughters. Gabriel and Lucifer are their older brothers.”

  Gabriel and Lucifer? Honoria opened her mouth to request clarification—simultaneously, the Dowager caught her eye.

  The Dowager’s expression was an outright appeal for help. Her sister-in-law’s hands still gripped hers tightly. With her eyes, the Dowager signaled to Webster, standing unobtrusively before the door. The tension in his stately figure conveyed very clearly that something was amiss.

  Honoria looked back at the Dowager—she understood what was being asked of her, and that a positive response would be interpreted as confirmation of another understanding—a matrimonial understanding between Devil and herself. But the appeal in the Dowager’s eyes was very real, and of all the ladies present, she was unquestionably in the best state to deal with whatever disaster had befallen.

  Torn, Honoria hesitated, then inwardly grimaced and nodded. She stepped toward the door, then remembered the twins. She glanced over her shoulder. “Come with me.”

  She swept regally across the room. Webster opened the door and stood back; Honoria sailed through. After waiting for her two escorts to pass, Webster followed, closing the door behind him.

  In the hall, Honoria found Mrs. Hull waiting. “What’s happened?”

  Mrs. Hull’s gaze flicked to Webster’s face, then returned to Honoria’s. The significance of that glance was not lost on Honoria; Webster had confirmed that she’d been deputed by the Dowager.

  “It’s the cakes, miss. What with all we’ve had to do, we sent out for them to the village. Mrs. Hobbs is excellent with cakes. We’ve often used her in such circumstances.”

  “But this time she hasn’t lived up to expectations?”

  Mrs. Hull’s face tightened. “It’s not that, miss. I sent two grooms with the gig, like I always do. Hobbs had the cakes ready—the boys loaded them in their trays. They were most of the way back”—Mrs. Hull paused to draw in a portentous breath—“when that demon horse of the master’s came racing up, rearing and screaming, and spooked the old mare in the gig. The cakes went flying”—Mrs. Hull’s eyes narrowed to flinty shards—“and that devil horse ate most of them!”

  Pressing her fingers to her lips, Honoria looked down. Then she glanced at Webster. His face was expressionless.

  “His Grace did not have time to ride the horse today, miss, so the head stableman turned him out for a run. The track from the village runs through the stable paddock.”

  “I see.” Honoria’s jaw ached. Despite all—the solemnity of the occasion and the impending crisis—the vision of Su-lieman chomping on delicate petit fours was simply too much.

  “So, you see, miss, I don’t know what we’re to do, with all these visitors and not even enough biscuits to go around.” Mrs. Hull’s expression remained severe.

  “Indeed.” Honoria straightened, considering possibilities. “Scones,” she decided.

  “Scones, miss?” Mrs. Hull looked surprised, then her expression turned calculating.

  Honoria glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s just four—they won’t be expecting tea for at least half an hour. If we arrange some distraction . . .” She looked at Webster. “What time were you intending to serve dinner?”

  “Seven, miss.”

  Honoria nodded. “Put dinner back to eight—notify the valets and ladies’ maids. Mrs. Hull, you’ve an hour to produce scones in quantity. Take whatever helpers you need. We’ll have plain scones with jam—do you have any blackberry jam? That would be a nice touch.”

  “Indeed, miss.” Mrs. Hull was transformed. “We have our own blackberry jam—there’s no other like it.”

  “Very good—we’ll have cream for those that wish it, and we’ll have cheese scones and spiced scones as well.”

  “I’ll get onto it immediately, miss.” With a quick bob, Mrs. Hull sped back to her kitchen.

  “You spoke of a distraction, miss—to gain half an hour for Mrs. Hull?”

  Honoria met Webster’s eye. “Not an easy task, given the cause of this gathering.”

  “Indeed not, miss.”

  “Can we help?”

  Both Honoria and Webster turned to view the twins.

  Amanda colored. “With the distraction, I mean.”

  Slowly, Honoria’s brows rose. “I wonder . . . ?” She looked along the hall. “Come with me.”

  With Webster following, they entered the music room, next to the drawing room. Honoria waved at the instruments ranged along one wall. “What do you play?”

  Amelia blinked. “I play the pianoforte.”

  “And I play the harp,” Amanda supplied.

  Excellent examples of both instruments stood before them; Webster hurried to maneuver the required pieces into place. Honoria turned to the girls. “You play together?” They nodded. “Good. What pieces can you play? Think of slow, mournful pieces—requiems or sections thereof.”

  To her relief, the twins were true to their class, well taught and with decent repertoires. Five minutes later, she’d also discovered they possessed considerable skill.

  “Excellent.” Honoria exchanged a relieved glance with Webster. “Don’t let anyone distract you—we need you to play for at least forty minutes. Start at the beginning of your list and start repeating once you’ve finished. You can stop when the tea trolley arrives.”

  The girls nodded, and commenced a liturgical excerpt.

  “Shall I open the doors, miss?” Webster whispered.

  “Yes—the ones to the terrace as well.” Both the music room and the drawing room gave onto the long terrace. Webster set the two doors flanking the fireplace wide, joining the two rooms. Heads turned as the haunting chords flowed over the conversations.

  Gradually, tempted by the music, both ladies and gentlemen strolled in. The twins, used to performing before their elders, did not falter. There were chairs aplenty; gentlemen obligingly set them out, the ladies subsiding in groups, the gentlemen standing beside them.

  From her position by the open terrace door, Honoria watched her distraction take hold. Suddenly, she felt a familiar presence behind her.

  “This was inspired.”

  Glancing back, she met Devil’s green eyes; they scanned her face.

  “What was wrong?”

  Honoria wondered if there was anyone in the entire assembly who had missed her assumption of the Dowager’s authority. She’d been prepared to swear Devil had been deep in conversation at the far side of the room at the time. “Your devil-horse ate the tea cakes. Mrs. Hull is not impressed. I believe she has visions of turning your steed into cat’s meat.”

  He was close, his shoulder propped against the doorframe behind her; she felt his chest quake with suppressed laughter. “Hully wouldn’t do that.”

  “Just mention your horse and watch her reach for her cleaver.”

  He was silent, looking out over the room. “Don’t tell me you don’t play?”

  Honoria caught herself just in time—and reframed her answer. “I play the harpsichord, but I’m not Tolly’s sister. Incidentally,” she continued, in the same mild tone, “I give you fair
warning that regardless of whatever imbroglio you and your mother concoct, I will not be marrying you.”

  She felt his gaze on her face; when he spoke, the words feathered her spine. “Would you care to wager on that?”

  Honoria lifted her chin. “With a reprobate like you?” She waved dismissively. “You’re a gamester.”

  “One who rarely loses.”

  The deep words reverberated through her; Honoria abandoned speech and opted for a haughty shrug.

  Devil didn’t move. His gaze swept her face, but he said nothing more.

  To Honoria’s relief, her strategem worked. The tea, when it arrived, was perfect, the scones fresh from the oven, the jam sweet. The twins retired to subdued but sincere applause; one glance at their faces showed just how much their contribution had meant to them.

  “We’ll get them to play again tomorrow,” Devil murmured in her ear.

  “Tomorrow?” Honoria fought to quell an unhelpful shiver.

  “At the wake.” Devil met her eyes. “They’ll feel better to be doing something useful again.”

  He left her musing—and returned with a cup of tea for her. She took it, only then realizing how much in need of refreshment she was. Other than understanding her too well, Devil behaved himself, smoothly introducing her to family friends. Honoria didn’t need to exercise her imagination over how the company viewed her—their deference was marked.

  The events of the afternoon, orchestrated by Devil and the Dowager, aided and abetted by Devil’s demon horse, had conveyed a clear message—that she was to be Devil’s bride.

  The evening passed swiftly; dinner, attended by everyone, was a somber meal. No one was inclined to entertainment; most retired early. A brooding, melancholy silence descended over the house, as if it mourned, too.

  In her chamber, cocooned in down, Honoria thumped her pillow and ordered herself to fall asleep. Five minutes of restless rustling later, she turned onto her back, and glared at the canopy.

  It was all Devil’s fault, his and his mother’s. She’d tried to avoid acting as his duchess-to-be, unfortunately unsuccessfully. Worse, as Devil had stated, on a superficial level, she was perfect for the position, a fact apparently obvious to any who considered the matter. She was starting to feel like she was fighting fate.

  Honoria shuffled onto her side. She, Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, was not going to be pressured into anything. It was patently obvious both Devil and the Dowager would do everything possible to tempt her, to convince her to accept his proposal—the proposal he hadn’t made. That last was not a fact she was likely to forget—he’d simply taken it for granted that she would marry him.

  She’d known from the first he was impossible, even when she’d thought him a mere country squire; as a duke, he was doubly—triply—so. Aside from anything else—his chest, for example—he was a first-class tyrant. Sane women did not marry tyrants.

  She clung to that eminently sound declaration, drawing strength from its unarguable logic. Keeping Devil’s image in mind helped enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to reinforce her conclusion.

  Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his apparent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara’s belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn’t interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.

  She didn’t want to believe it, but she’d heard him herself. He’d stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included. He was the head of the family, one step removed from a despot; to them and the ton, what Devil Cynster, duke of St. Ives, stated, was.

  The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn’t been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.

  Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man? Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver; Tolly had carried a heavy purse—she’d felt it in his pocket. Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She’d seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.

  As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.

  Tolly had been murdered.

  She wasn’t sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.

  Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her soul—to see justice done.

  But that wasn’t the cause of her sleeplessness.

  She’d heard Tolly’s voice in the cottage, heard the relief he’d felt when he’d realized he’d reached Devil. He’d thought he’d reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have sworn Devil cared—cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of Tolly’s murder said otherwise.

  If he truly cared, wouldn’t he be searching for the murderer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his “caring” merely an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak and shallow?

  She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.

  Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.

  Chapter 6

  It was an illusion—all an illusion—a typically arrogant sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria’s eyes late the next morning, right in the middle of Tolly’s funeral.

  The crowd attending was considerable. A short service had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.

  Then the pallbearers—Devil and his cousins—had carried the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family procession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil’s orders. A funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated, accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.

  It was then the truth struck her.

  The males of the family lined the other side of the grave. Directly opposite stood Tolly’s brothers, Charles, with Simon beside him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder. The boy looked up; Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent communication at which Devil excelled.

  Vane stood next to Devil; behind and around them stood a solid phalanx of male Cynsters. There was no doubt of their connection—their faces, seen all together, held the same unyielding planes, their features the same autocratic cast. They numbered six, not counting Simon and Charles, both set apart, one by age, the other by character. Between the six, hair color varied, from Devil’s black to light chestnut; eye color, too, differed. Nothing else did.

  There was enormous strength in the group facing her—powerful, masculine, it emanated from them. Devil was their leader yet they were a group of individuals, each contributing to the whole. Elsewhere about the grave, grief was amorphous. The grief of Tolly’s male cousins held purpose, melding into a cohesive force, directed, focused.

  Focused on Tolly’s grave.

  Honoria narrowed her eyes. People were still shifting, finding places in the crowd; both Amelia and Amanda were tense. Honoria leaned forward and whispered: “Tell me the names of your older male cousins.” The twins glanced at her, then across the grave. Amelia spoke first. “Vane’s next to Devil, but you know him.”

  “That can’t be his real name.”

  �
��His real name’s Spencer,” Amanda whispered. “But don’t ever call him that.”

  “The one behind Devil is Richard—he’s called Scandal. He’s Devil’s brother.”

  “And the one behind Vane is his younger brother, Harry. They call him Demon.”

  “Demon Harry?”

  “That’s right.” Amanda nodded. “The one next to Vane is Gabriel.”

  “His real name’s Rupert—he’s Uncle Martin’s eldest son.”

  “And I suppose the one behind Gabriel is Lucifer?” Honoria asked. “His brother?”

  “That’s right—he’s really Alasdair.” Straightening, Honoria spent one minute wondering how they’d come by their pseudonyms—one question she was not about to ask the twins. She looked across the grave at those six male faces, and saw them clearly. No force on earth would stop them bringing Tolly’s murderer to justice.

  Being Cynsters, they could be counted on to avenge Tolly’s death. Also being Cynsters, they would ensure their womenfolk, their elders and juniors—all those they considered in their care—were not disturbed or touched by such violence. Death and vengeance was their province, the home fires for the rest.

  Which was all very well, but . . .

  The last prayer was said; earth struck the coffin. Tolly’s mother sagged in her sisters-in-law’s arms; her husband hurried to her side. Amelia and Amanda tugged at Honoria’s hands. Reluctantly, she turned from the grave—from the tableau on its opposite side.

  Charles and the older Cynsters had left, but Simon, Devil, and the five others remained, their gazes still locked on the coffin. Just before she turned, Honoria saw Simon look up, into Devil’s face, a question in his wide eyes. She saw Devil’s response, the tightening of his hand on Simon’s shoulder, the quiet promise he bent his head to give.

  She had no doubt of the substance of that promise. In company with the twins, Honoria crossed the lawns, musing on her situation. She would send for her brother Michael tomorrow, but he would take some days to reach her. Those days could be useful.

  She needed to see justice done; she had a duty to avenge innocence—that was doubtless why Tolly’s face haunted her. Impossible to send adult Cynster males to avenge innocence; their vengeance would be fueled by their warriors’ reasons—the defending of their family, their clan. She would be the defender of innocence—she had a role to play, too.