The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  The ones that mattered.

  Christian’s knuckles ached from the blow he had delivered to the brow of James Brody. The man swiped a palm over his eye, smearing a crimson streak of blood across his forehead.

  “Ready to pay your penance, or do you need more encouragement?” Christian taunted. They had been at this for at least a quarter of an hour, perhaps longer.

  Shirtless and heaving with the same exhaustion weighing on Christian’s shoulders, Brody said, “I owe you nothing, Leigh. Wilkes broke the rules all on his own, because he’s a bloody coward.”

  “Wilkes is your fighter. You are responsible for him. You sent him to the fight with Rothschild. You guaranteed his participation. The spikes he put on the bottom of his shoes could have been deadly. He’s paid for that crime. Now it’s your turn. You need to oversee your fighters better.”

  The match between Wilkes and Rothschild several weeks ago had been the highlight of the year. Wilkes had cheated when it had been obvious he would lose and had almost maimed Rothschild with the steel spikes. The police had come near the end of the fight, sending Wilkes fleeing into the night. While Christian and his brother had eventually found Wilkes and forced a rematch, it had taken them this long to track Brody down.

  Brody’s answer was to let out a growl as he charged Christian. Christian feinted to the right, mindful of his lame ankle, and pushed off on his other foot, swinging a punch that landed in the man’s gut. Brody groaned but was too angry to stop. He swung, landing a blow to the side of Christian’s head, and while he was dizzy, Brody dragged him to the ground.

  Christian nearly laughed at the move. It was widely assumed that because of his ankle, he was not able to hold his own. He had disproven that theory numerous times, but there was always a new man waiting to underestimate him. While it was true that his balance wasn’t the best while upright, Christian was a master when it came to grappling. He had beaten men twice his size, simply because he knew how to manipulate limbs and how far to stretch joints before they popped. It took him less than a minute to gain the upper hand and have Brody on his front, his dominant arm stretched behind him at an awkward angle, ready to crack at Christian’s command.

  “I yield! I yield!” Brody yelled, his voice threaded with panic. “I’ll pay!”

  “You might have saved us the trouble and come to that conclusion earlier.” Christian let him go and rose to his feet, winded from the fight. Brody pounded on the ground with his palm and then followed at a slower pace, wiping the blood that had trickled into his eye.

  “Bloody bastard,” Brody mumbled.

  “No, that’s me.” Christian’s half brother and his father’s notable bastard son, Jacob Thorne, stood next to the fighting ring, arms crossed over his chest and a proud smile on his face. The three of them—Christian, Jacob, and Rothschild—owned shares in the club and organized bare-knuckle boxing matches at venues across London.

  “Fuck the both of you.” Brody spat out a stream of blood that landed on the packed earth floor, before climbing between the ropes to retrieve his shirt from a servant who stood waiting with a towel. Brody’s two companions stood nearby, helpfully held back by the club’s hired men.

  “Let them go,” said Jacob. Brody’s men made a show of straightening their attire as if they had been very put out by their restraints. “If you’d kept your fighters under control, then this wouldn’t have happened,” Jacob taunted Brody.

  The man shrugged into his coat and threw back some choice words as he was escorted up the stairs. Their men would see that he paid what he owed before he left. Brody liked to give them a hard time, but he was generally an honorable man; well, as honorable as criminals ever were.

  The door had barely closed behind them before Webb, Christian’s secretary, hurried down the stone steps. “The Crenshaws’ maid has returned to see you, milord. She claims to have new information.”

  Christian’s heart slammed against his rib cage. Run away or marry someone of your own choosing. Perhaps she had made her decision. He had already been informed that the Crenshaws held a house party yesterday, which Ware had attended briefly, and that her parents had gone to the theater later that night sans Violet. Unfortunately, no one had heard what went on between Violet and Ware, but their betrothal hadn’t been announced yet, which was good.

  “See that she is comfortable and given refreshment.” Christian grabbed a towel and ran it over his face and chest, silently lamenting the fact that he would have to meet with the maid before his bath. But she had likely slipped away while on an errand, so this could not wait.

  “This the maid you hired for the Crenshaws?” asked Jacob, the humor he found in the situation evident in his voice.

  “The Crenshaws hired her. I am merely paying her for information,” said Christian as he put on his shirtsleeves. Although he and his brother had once had a difficult relationship, they had grown close over the years, and Christian had shared his plan with Jacob.

  He snorted. “If I recall correctly, you gave her false references so that they would hire her.”

  Christian grinned, shrugging into his coat. “Never let it be said that I don’t do my part to help the less fortunate souls in our fair city. The girl would have gone to the workhouse had I not given her references and instruction.”

  “One day, dear brother, you will come across a situation you cannot manipulate or control.” His brother’s brown eyes glowed with amusement.

  “Perhaps.” Christian agreed. “But not today.”

  Jacob laughed and clapped him on his back before leading the way up the narrow stairs. “I am glad to see you in better spirits today. You’ve been grim ever since the ball.”

  “You know how dealing with Ware sets me on edge. The man is a snake.”

  They made their way through the rooms of the club, nodding at groups of men who greeted them as they passed. Christian and his half brother were nearly identical in every physical way except their coloring. Jacob took after his mother with his golden brown skin and dark eyes. Christian was paler and had his mother’s gray eyes. However, they both had their father’s solid build, coming in at a couple inches over six feet with wide shoulders, along with his blade-straight nose and high cheekbones. They attracted attention when out in public, even more so in their own club, so the trek upstairs was tedious.

  Finally, when they had broken away from the crowd, Jacob asked, “You’re confident that you can take the heiress away from him?”

  Christian smiled again. “From Ware? It will be no contest. The bigger issue is that our heiress seems to have lofty ambitions.”

  “Such as?”

  “She doesn’t want to marry yet. She wants to pursue a writing career.” Or that is what the maid believed.

  Jacob gave a low whistle as he shook his head. “That family doesn’t produce biddable females, do they? What will you do?”

  “Show her that I can give her what she wants.”

  “That easy, huh?” Jacob raised a skeptical dark brow.

  “Women are simple, brother. There’s no secret to controlling them. Keep them well-bed and well-fed, and they tend to do as you ask.”

  His brother threw back his head and laughed. “God, I hope she marries you.”

  “You say that as if it will be a bad thing.” Christian frowned.

  “On the contrary. It will prove to be highly entertaining.”

  “She will.” Christian was a bit foggy on the details, but he knew that marriage to her would be amusing.

  Not only would marrying the Crenshaw heiress allow him to restore his beloved Blythkirk, but the money from the marriage would be the final nail that shut his father’s coffin for good. The earl had willfully left Christian penniless, leaving all his liquid assets, along with the Bloomsbury house, to his mistress and his children by her, which included Jacob and his two younger sisters. This marriage would bring more money to t
he earldom than it had seen in centuries.

  As if his brother could read his thoughts, he asked, “What happens if you go through all this trouble, marry her, and Crenshaw refuses to give her a settlement?”

  “I doubt that will happen. He’ll want his daughter to live in luxury.”

  “But if he does? You’ll be saddled with a wife and very little else.”

  Christian shook his head, having already considered this. Speaking with her that night at the ball had cinched his plans. “She has funds in her own right. Stocks that her brother manages, and a house in Manhattan, inherited from an aunt. The proceeds from the sale alone will be enough for Blythkirk.” Admittedly, less than he wanted, but he would be satisfied. Violet herself would be a prize.

  Jacob was still laughing as he pushed the door open to Christian’s study. Ellen Stapleton stood wide-eyed near the window, looking like she had half considered jumping out of it. She had been anxious and nervous from the start, making Christian wonder if he had chosen correctly at least half a dozen times. But she had been the only one he had found who spoke with a soft accent, possessed the manners necessary to pass as a fledgling lady’s maid, and was willing to spy for him. A rare pang of conscience made itself known, but he pushed it down again. Wasn’t it Lyly who wrote, “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war”?

  “Do you have information for me, Stapleton?” he asked, when her eyes became even wider as she looked over his appearance.

  “Y-Yes, milord.” She swallowed. “Miss Crenshaw pretended to be ill last night to avoid the theater outing with her parents.”

  “Pretended? Are you certain?” If she were to fall ill . . .

  “Yes, milord. I do not know what happened, but she doesn’t seem very pleased with her parents. She pleaded a headache but has spent her time pacing around her room.”

  “No one knows what happened?” he asked, finding it difficult to believe that there wasn’t some gossip belowstairs about the cause of her distress.

  The girl shrugged. “Not really, no. There is some talk that a marriage has been decided for her.”

  He let out a breath. Everything seemed to be going forward as he had assumed it would. Her parents must have approached her with Ware as a potential bridegroom, and she had balked. Good. Perhaps she was plotting now and ready to make a decision. Run away or marry someone else. Either way she decided, he would be ready. “And did something else happen?”

  Stapleton nodded, her cap sliding to an awkward angle on her head. “Yes, milord. This afternoon she went out to visit Lady Helena March after her parents had left for an engagement. She had pleaded another headache, but she left soon after they did. Her visit was short, and she was back home within the hour, but I thought it interesting that she took with her a Gladstone bag. Said she was taking a few things to donate to Lady Helena’s charity. While she was gone, I checked her room, and a few items of clothing were missing, namely a traveling dress.”

  “What else was missing?”

  “Some personal effects from her dressing table, milord.” She blushed and added in a very soft voice, “Undergarments.”

  Miss Crenshaw planned to run away. He tried not to smile openly, but it was difficult. To be certain, he asked, “Did she return home with the empty case?”

  “No, milord, she did not have it when she returned.”

  Perhaps she had left the bag with Helena, or perhaps she had left it somewhere else entirely. He had to figure out when she was leaving. Turning to his brother, he said, “Have Dunn and Sanford watch the Crenshaw residence. I need to know the moment she leaves.” The men had been driving by to keep an eye on the place, but he needed to know the very moment Violet left again, or he would risk missing her.

  Jacob nodded and left to see to the task. To the girl, Christian said, “You have done well, Stapleton. When she leaves again, come here immediately and bring any of your personal possessions. You likely won’t be going back.”

  She nodded and fidgeted with the hem of her apron. “And the reward we spoke of?”

  “Of course, and you and your young brother have a place in my household for life.” Walking to the safe behind his desk, he unlocked it and withdrew two coins, pressing them into her hand. “For your troubles today. Remember, come here directly when she leaves again. You must be gone if she is ever reported missing. No one can question you.”

  She nodded again. “Yes, I remember, milord.” Pausing as if uncertain, she added, “You will not see her come to any harm? Like you said?”

  He smiled. “My plan relies on her being safe and blissfully happy.” It was the only way to ensure that she would choose him over running away.

  Chapter 7

  Rose believed herself capable of all manner of resourcefulness, but sometimes to struggle meant to draw the bindings tighter.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  From her seat beside Violet in the carriage, the Honorable Mrs. Harold Barnes glanced dubiously at her from beneath the brim of her hat. The look clearly asked, Are you quite well, child?

  Violet was not well. She was a mess of doubt and confusion held together by the power of her corset and sheer resolve. Today was the day she was running away, and she was not at all confident in her plan. Suppressing yet another nervous giggle, Violet gave her chaperone what she hoped was a bland smile.

  The woman’s brow drew together in puzzlement. “Are you certain that you are feeling up to attending this lecture?”

  “Oh yes, I’m quite well, thank you. I believe that whatever ailed me the past couple of days has gone.” She had at least recovered enough to stop wallowing in self-pity and plan her escape.

  Lord Ware thought he could force her hand, and her parents seemed very happy to allow him to do it. Well, she would not go willingly to that fate. She would follow August’s example and chart her own course. Perhaps that was the problem all along. Violet had gone along with things to keep the peace and make her mother happy until she had stopped asking for the things she wanted. She had been too willing to compromise. Not anymore. From this day forward, she would take control of her life.

  The rejection letter had solidified one thing for her. She would not be an ornament who wrote books that told women how they should behave like ornaments. Beyond that, she didn’t know what the future held.

  Mrs. Barnes gave a brisk nod, the ungainly ostrich plume on her hat threatening to topple the whole thing from her head, but she continued to regard Violet with the occasional arch glance as the family carriage took them to the British Museum.

  Violet could not blame the woman for being doubtful. Before they had left, Violet had rushed to her mother to give her yet another hug. Before that, Violet had stolen into Papa’s study to tell him goodbye. He, too, had given her much the same look that Mrs. Barnes was giving her now. Despite the fact that they were trying to marry her off, Violet did not hate her parents. She loved them very much, even if they were misguided. She genuinely wished they would understand, but they wouldn’t, which is why she had decided to take this drastic step. Perhaps a bit of time apart would help them understand her stance.

  Yesterday she had written two letters. One had been privately dispatched to the mistress of the boardinghouse in Windermere notifying her of her planned arrival. The second had been left hidden in her armoire to be found after she had time to get away. She didn’t want her family to worry overly much. It explained that she had taken her savings and would be safe. In fact, she had enough savings from her allowance to live very comfortably for a year or two, three or four if she economized and had her brother, Max, sell the stock shares he held in her name. Last night, she had sewn half of her savings into the lining of her coat, while the other half was wrapped in linen and stuffed in her boot. A tiny portion had been put into her handbag for traveling expenses. She would be fine.

  Lonely but fine. Dear God, what was she doing?
August and Max were probably in New York by now. She would not see them for months at the earliest. Her parents would be so angry with her that they probably wouldn’t speak to her for a long time. Possibly a year or more.

  What if Rothschild refused to allow August to associate with her now? What if by leaving she was consigning herself to a fate of eternal spinsterhood and social exile?

  “Miss Crenshaw? Are you quite all right?”

  Violet opened her eyes to the ostrich plume dangling in her face as Mrs. Barned leaned over her. “I’m fine.” Her voice was hoarse and weak.

  “You are as pale as parchment,” the woman proclaimed. “We should get you home at once. You’re still poorly.”

  “No!” Her voice was a bit too loud, causing Mrs. Barnes’s thin eyebrows to nearly disappear into her hairline. “No, that won’t be necessary,” she said in a calmer tone. “I’ve been home for days already, and I felt fine after visiting Lady Helena’s yesterday.”

  “All right,” said Mrs. Barnes. “But we are going to get you home directly after.”

  Violet nodded. The lump in her throat was not allowing her to say anything. The poor woman didn’t know that Violet would be gone before the lecture ended. She planned to slip out during it with the excuse that she felt unwell, while convincing the woman to stay in her seat. That would give her approximately an hour at most before the woman began to look for her. Then she would leave and hire a carriage, which she would direct to take her to Lady Helena’s where she had hidden her portmanteau the day before. Lady Helena wasn’t home, so Violet would simply pick it up from a servant and then head toward King’s Cross. She would have to hurry to make the twelve thirty train to Manchester, but it was possible. If she missed it, there would be another at two forty-five.

  And if Violet believed deeply enough that all of that would work out flawlessly, then it would. She nearly groaned at the tenuous nature of her plan but managed to hold the sound back to spare poor Mrs. Barnes. Dread settled like a lead weight in her stomach.