Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  For Honoria, their discussion held little interest. As they cantered back to the Place, she took the devil by the horns. “Have you any idea who the ‘highwayman’ might be?” It seemed a clear enough question.

  His response was a dissertation on the mechanics of fen drainage. By the time they reached the stable yard, Honoria had heard enough to verify the adage about Cynsters being as passionate about their land as they were in their other pursuits. She’d also gained a very firm idea of what her host thought of her interest in his cousin’s murder.

  The next morning, she watched from her window until she saw her nemesis ride out. Then she headed for the stables. The grooms saw nothing odd in her request that the mare be saddled again. When she passed under the arch leading out of the park, Honoria whooped with delight. Smiling inanely, she headed for the wood.

  She ended going the long way around via the village. It was an hour and more before she finally reached the straight where Tolly had been shot. The mare seemed to sense the fatal spot; Honoria drew rein and slid from the saddle, tethering the horse some yards down the lane.

  Brisk and full of purpose, she crossed the lane—the rumble of hoofbeats reached her. Halting, she listened; the unknown horseman was heading her way. “Damn!” She whisked about and hurried back to the mare.

  She couldn’t remount. In disbelief, Honoria looked right and left. The hoofbeats drew steadily nearer. In that moment, she would have traded her entire wardrobe for a suitable log; none was to be found.

  The unknown presence was likely some local no more threatening than Mr. Postlethwaite. Honoria stepped to the mare’s head and assumed a haughty, nonchalant expression. If she wished to stand beside her horse in the lane, who had the right to gainsay her?

  The oncoming horse rounded the curve and burst into view. The rider wasn’t Mr. Postlethwaite.

  The black demon halted beside her; Devil looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”

  Honoria opened her eyes wide—even wider than they already were. “I stopped to stretch my legs.”

  He didn’t blink. “And admire the view?”

  They were hemmed in on all sides by the wood. Honoria narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you doing here?”

  Devil met her look, his expression implacable, then swung down from the saddle. Jaw set, he knotted the reins about a tree; without a word, he turned and strode to the spot where Tolly had fallen.

  Honoria marched determinedly in his wake. “You don’t believe it was a highwayman any more than I do—and it certainly wasn’t a poacher.”

  Devil snorted. “I’m not daft.” He shot her a piercing glance, then looked away, flexing his shoulders as if throwing off some restraint.

  Honoria watched him study the ground. “Well? Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”

  “We’ll?” Honoria was perfectly certain he didn’t mean her and him. “You’re all searching, aren’t you—you and your cousins?”

  The look he cast her brimmed with masculine long suffering; his short sigh underscored it. “As you’ve so accurately deduced, it wasn’t a highwayman; nor was it a poacher—Tolly was murdered. Behind such a murder there must be a reason—we’re looking for the reason. The reason will lead us to the man.”

  “From what I heard, you haven’t any clue as to what the reason might be.” His glance, razor-sharp, touched her face; Honoria tried not to look conscious.

  “Tolly lived a full life. While I’m going over the ground here, the others are quartering London—the balls, the hells—anywhere a Cynster might have been.”

  Recalling the assignments he’d delegated to his cousins, Honoria frowned. “Was Tolly particularly partial to cats?”

  Devil stared at her, his expression utterly blank.

  “The catteries?”

  He blinked, slowly, then his gaze, devoid of expression, met hers. “The salons. Of the demimonde.”

  Honoria managed to keep the shock from her eyes. “He was only twenty.”

  “So?” The word dripped arrogance. “Cynsters start young.”

  He was the archetype—presumably he knew. Honoria decided to leave that subject—Devil had stepped into the undergrowth. “What are you looking for? A gun?”

  “Tolly didn’t carry a gun.”

  “So?” Her version dripped impatience.

  His lips thinned. “I’m looking for anything that shouldn’t be here.” He stopped and looked around. “The wind could have blown things either side of the lane.”

  It was a daunting task. While Devil tramped back the undergrowth close by where Tolly had fallen, Honoria peered and poked at the verges farther along the lane. A strong stick in one hand, she followed in his wake, prodded likely-looking clumps of grass and lifted leaf mold. Devil glanced around and grunted, then continued more swiftly, scanning the area as he went, leaving the finer details to her.

  When they’d covered an area going back a yard from the lane, Honoria straightened and pushed back the feather trying to poke her in the eye. “Why do you think Tolly was in the lane?”

  Devil answered without looking up. “I assume he was coming to the Place.”

  “Your aunt thought it likely he was coming to seek your advice.”

  He looked up at that. “You asked Aunt Louise?”

  His tone had Honoria straightening to attention. “We were just chatting—she doesn’t suspect anything.” His censorious expression didn’t alter; gesturing airily, she shrugged. “You said it was a highwayman, so it was a highwayman. Everyone believes it—even your mother.”

  “Thank God for that.” With a last, saber-edged glance, Devil returned to his search. “The last thing I need is females interfering.”

  “Indeed?” Wielding her stick, she scattered a pile of leaves. “I suppose it never occurred to you that we females might contribute something?”

  “If you saw the contribution my mother thought of making you wouldn’t ask. She penned a note to the magistrate that would have made his hair stand on end—if he could have deciphered it.”

  Honoria flicked over a clod. “If we weren’t left feeling so frustratingly helpless—set to one side and told to knit mittens—perhaps we wouldn’t react quite so wildly.” Swinging about, she waved her stick at him. “Just think how frustrated you would feel if you knew you, personally, could never achieve anything.”

  He looked at her—steadily—for what seemed a long time. Then his features hardened; he gestured at the ground. “Just keep searching.” Though they searched both sides of the lane, they found precisely nothing. Remounting, they cantered through the fields, then through the gate into the park, both absorbed with thoughts of Tolly’s death.

  As they rode between the ranks of golden poplars, Honoria glanced at Devil. “Your aunt intends to give you the silver hip flask you gave Tolly for his birthday as a keepsake—he had it on him when he was shot.” When he merely nodded, his gaze fixed ahead, she added somewhat tartly: “It seems the ‘highwayman’ forgot it.”

  That got her a glance—a warning one.

  “Your aunt also mentioned,” she plowed on, “that if he was in trouble, Tolly would turn to you first, as head of the family, rather than to his father or Charles. Do you think that the reason he was killed could be the same as his reason for seeking you?”

  Devil’s gaze sharpened; in that instant, Honoria knew triumph. She’d beaten him to that conclusion, and he thought she was right. He said nothing, however, until they reached the stable yard. Lifting her down, he held her before him. “Don’t say anything to Maman or Aunt Louise—there’s no need to start hares.”

  Honoria met his gaze with one of bland hauteur.

  “And if you should hear or discover anything, tell me.”

  She opened her eyes innocently wide. “And you’ll tell me whatever you discover?”

  His expression turned grim. “Don’t press your luck, Honoria Prudence.”

  Chapter 8

  Two mornings late
r, Devil descended the main stairs, tugging on his driving gloves. As he started down the last flight, Webster appeared, heading for the front door.

  “Your curricle should be waiting, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.” Reaching the front door, Devil looked back.

  Hand on the latch, Webster paused. “Is anything amiss, Your Grace?”

  Devil turned as Webster opened the door—revealing his curricle drawn up before the steps, along with a figure in pale lilac. Devil smiled. “No, Webster—everything’s as I expected.”

  Strolling out, Devil paused in the shadows of the porch to relish the picture Honoria presented. His bride-to-be had a certain style, an innate elegance. Her hair was piled high in a fashionable knot, fine errant curls wreathing her face. A frilled parasol protected her complexion; her hands and feet were encased in tan leather. Her lilac carriage dress had been cut with skill, neatly fitting her slender waist, emphasizing the ripe swell of her hips and the generous curves of her breasts. It took conscious effort to wipe the wolfish smile from his face.

  Adopting a bland, impassive expression, he strolled down the steps.

  Twirling her parasol, Honoria watched him approach. “I gather you intend driving to St. Ives, Your Grace. I wonder if I might accompany you? I have a keen interest in old chapels—I believe the bridge-chapel at St. Ives is a particularly fine example of its kind.”

  “Good morning, Honoria Prudence.” Halting before her, Devil claimed her right hand; smoothly raising it, he pressed his lips to her inner wrist, left bare by her glove.

  Honoria nearly dropped her parasol. She shot him a glare and tried to calm her racing heart. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  Without another word—without the argument she had primed herself to win—he led her to the curricle’s side and lifted her to the seat. Effortlessly. She had to calm her wayward heart all over again. Shifting along, she clung to the rail as the seat tipped as he climbed up. Once it resettled, she rearranged her skirts, then fussed with her parasol.

  Devil took the reins, dismissed his groom, then they were bowling down the drive. Honoria drew a deep breath; the cool air beneath the oaks revived her wits—and brought the last minutes into sharper focus. Abruptly narrowing her eyes, she turned them on Devil. “You knew!”

  He glanced her way, his expression mildly indulgent. “I’m generally considered a fast learner.”

  An unnerving suspicion leapt to mind. “Where are you taking me?”

  This time his expression was innocence incarnate. “To St. Ives—to see the bridge-chapel.”

  Honoria looked into his eyes—they were crystal-clear. Twisting about, she looked behind—and saw a horse on a leading rein following the curricle. She turned back. “You’re going to St. Ives to return the horse Tolly was riding the afternoon he was shot.”

  Devil’s gaze turned sharp, his expression irritated. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to leave the matter in my hands?”

  Honoria frowned. “Is it Tolly’s horse—or could it be the murderer’s?”

  Devil’s jaw firmed. “It must be the horse Tolly was riding—it was found fully saddled in a field near the wood the day after the storm. It’s from the stables Tolly usually used. And the murderer presumably left the scene on horseback.” A straight stretch lay before them; he slowed his matched bays and looked at Honoria. “Honoria Prudence, you might have come upon Tolly a few minutes before I did, but there’s no reason you should take an active role in tracking down his killer.”

  Honoria put her nose in the air. “I take leave to disagree, Your Grace.”

  Devil scowled. “For God’s sake, stop ‘Your Gracing’ me—call me Devil. We are, after all, going to be man and wife.”

  “That,” Honoria declared, her chin rising another notch, “is unlikely.”

  Devil eyed the tip of her chin, and debated the wisdom of arguing. Instead, he said, his tone edged but even: “Honoria, I’m the head of this family—my shoulders are broader than yours and my back is a good deal stronger. Finding Tolly’s murderer is my responsibility—rest assured I’ll fulfill it.”

  She looked at him. “You do realize you’ve just contradicted yourself? One minute, you declare I’m to be your bride—the next you forbid me to act as either your wife or your bride should.”

  “As far as I’m concerned my wife, prospective or actual, which is to say you, should refrain from all dangerous activities.” Forced to look to his horses, Devil heard his own growl; his frown deepened. “Murder is violent; tracking a murderer is dangerous. You should not be involved.”

  “Entrenched opinion states that a wife should give her husband aid and succor in all his enterprises.”

  “Forget the aid—I’ll settle for the succor.”

  “I’m afraid you cannot separate the two—they come as a package. Besides,” Honoria added, her eyes widening, “if I’m to stay away from all danger, however could we wed?”

  He glanced at her, his expression arrested; he searched her face, then narrowed his eyes. “You know you stand in no danger from me. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

  That, Honoria inwardly admitted, was true; he was far too potent a force to challenge without cast-iron assurances. But her position was unassailable—given he viewed her as his bride, he would uphold her honor, even against himself. She could have no more formidable protector. Secure in that knowledge, she smiled serenely. “Have your cousins learned anything yet?”

  He muttered something and looked ahead—she didn’t try too hard to catch his words. His jaw was set—granite would have been softer. He took the next turn at speed, then whipped up his horses. Unperturbed, she sat back, idly scanning the flat fields past which they flew.

  Devil barely checked his team for Somersham,

  Honoria glimpsed Mr. Postlethwaite by the vicarage. She waved; he blinked, then smiled and waved back. Had it really been only a week since she’d taken the lane through the wood?

  Tolly’s family had left the previous day, having spent the days since the funeral coming to terms with their grief. She had taken the twins in hand, encouraging them to turn their thoughts to the futures that lay before them. She had also broken one of her golden rules and taken the younger girls, Henrietta and little Mary, under her wing; there’d been no one else suited to the task. Supporting Tolly’s sisters had only strengthened her resolution to ensure that his killer was brought to justice.

  The roofs of St. Ives lay ahead before Devil finally spoke. “Vane sent a messenger yesterday—no one has unearthed the smallest clue or heard the slightest whisper. Nothing to suggest what sent Tolly this way or why he might have been killed.”

  Honoria studied his profile. “You were expecting more, weren’t you?”

  “I put off returning the horse, hoping to have a description of the man we’re seeking. He must have got to the wood somehow. If he followed Tolly or came earlier from London, he may have hired a horse in St. Ives.”

  “Perhaps he drove?”

  Devil shook his head. “If he had, he would have had to drive out of the wood away from Somersham. Otherwise, he would have encountered you. There was a group of my laborers in the fields below the wood—any carriage going that way would have passed them. None did.”

  “What about a horseman?”

  “No, but the wood’s riddled with bridle paths. There are any number a horseman could have taken.”

  “Is it possible to ride up from London?”

  “Possible but not likely.” Devil checked his pair; the first houses of St. Ives were before them. “A horse ridden that far at any reasonable speed could not have participated in any subsequent flight.”

  They’d reached the main street; Devil slowed the bays to a walk.

  “So,” Honoria concluded, “we’re looking for a man, identity and description unknown, who hired a horse on the day of the shooting.”

  She felt Devil’s gaze on her face—and heard the short, irritated, aggravated sigh he gave before saying: “We’re lookin
g for precisely that.”

  Five minutes later, sitting in the curricle, listening as he questioned the stablemaster, Honoria was still struggling with her triumph. She knew better than to let it show—the last thing she wanted was to bruise his masculine sensibilities and have him rescind his decision. Yet victory was so sweet it was hard to keep the smile from her lips—every time she was sure he couldn’t see it, she gave in to the urge and smiled.

  The curricle rocked as Devil climbed up. “You heard?”

  “No horseman except Tolly. Are there other stables in town?”

  There were two, but the answers there were the same as at the first. No man had hired a horse on that day—no one had noticed any horseman riding through. “What now?” Honoria asked as Devil headed his team back up the main street.

  “I’ll send men to check at Huntingdon, Godmanchester, and Ely. Chatteris as well, though that’s even less likely.”

  “What about Cambridge?’

  “That,” Devil stated, “is the main chance. It’s closer to town, and the coaches are more frequent on that route.”

  Honoria nodded. “So when are we going there?”

  Devil flicked her a glance. “We aren’t—any more than we’re going to the other towns.”

  Honoria narrowed her eyes at him—only to see his lips twitch.

  “I’m too well known to ask questions without inviting comment. St. Ives is different—it’s the family town and has few other major families living close. And you can’t ask either. But my grooms can chat up the ostlers over a pint or two and learn all we need without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Hmm.” Honoria eyed him suspiciously.

  “I’ll send Melton to Cambridge.”

  “Your head stableman?”

  “So to speak.”

  Honoria had yet to sight the man. “He doesn’t seem to be much about.”

  “Melton is never around when I need him. It’s a point of honor with him.”

  Honoria stared. “Why do you put up with him?”