The Devil to Pay
A Devilish Devalles Novella
Catherine Gayle
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The Devil to Pay
Copyright © 2013 by Catherine Gayle
Cover Design by Lily Smith
Photo Credit: inarik / 123RF Stock Photo 123rf.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
About the Author
Other Catherine Gayle Titles
Dedication
To Jenny, Owen, Melanie, Curtis, Sheila, and Patrick…for being the inspiration for this band of devilish siblings.
“I don’t understand,” Miranda Hunt said in a feverish whisper to her elder sister, Samantha. Miranda glanced surreptitiously about the ballroom from behind her fan, making certain no one could overhear them. This was the very sort of conversation for which Papa would berate them hours if he caught them holding it in a public place, but she wouldn’t let that stop her as long as no one was nearby. “If Mr. Devalle killed someone, how on earth could he be here at a ball in Mayfair and not in gaol?”
Samantha shook her head hard enough that her brown ringlets bobbed beside her head. “I didn’t say he’d killed someone. Just that he hadn’t saved them. Do keep up, Miranda.”
Samantha’s fan then whipped into action, creating a breeze around the two of them far stronger than any air coming through the open windows and doorways. It had been an uncharacteristically hot day in London considering it was only May, and the evening was proving to follow the same pattern as the rest of the day had done. Between the crush of bodies crowding Lord Leicester’s ballroom, the hundreds (if not thousands) of candles lighting the area, and the lively country dance being executed by a few more couples than could reasonably fit on the dance floor, the air was stifling.
It was a wonder any of them could breathe at all.
“Is it illegal now to not rescue someone?” Miranda whispered, straining for comprehension. She’d never heard of the like in all her twenty years, and doubted she ever would again.
Samantha chortled in a decidedly unladylike manner. “You were the one who enquired about gaol, not me. To my knowledge, there was nothing remotely illegal about what Mr. Devalle did or didn’t do. I just mentioned that this was why he’s so scandalous. The fact that she was a…well, a harlot...that didn’t help, either. Nor did the fact that the Devalles are known to always be involved in some scandal or another. You know, I’ve overheard some people calling them the Devils, even.”
Heavens! Miranda had had no idea.
If there was one thing Papa would always insist upon with his two youngest daughters, it was that they never consort with anyone scandalous or unsavory. Although, consort was probably not the best choice of words to use. Associate might be a better choice. Still, scandal must never be associated with the Hunt family or the Calstock Vicountcy.
“We must be certain not to ever be seen with Mr. Devalle, then,” Miranda said decisively with a brisk nod of her head.
The seriousness of her tone actually surprised her. Striving to meet Papa’s expectations had always been important to her, of course, but there was something grander behind her reaction. Something more personal to her and not simply related to Papa and his wishes.
She’d heard enough gossip tossed around in enough ballrooms in her two previous Seasons to know she never wanted any of it to be associated with her. Not for any reason. The very thought of it sent goose flesh racing down her spine. Miranda, for one, had no intention of ever meeting this apparently lecherous man, or anyone at all from the Devalle family. The risk to her reputation was not worth any slight thrill she might experience over meeting someone of such infamy.
“Hmph.”
That reaction was the furthest thing Miranda would have expected from her sister, so unexpected that she turned to make certain she hadn’t been mistaken. Sure enough, Samantha’s lips were turned down into a frown as she scanned the ballroom with an intensity Miranda had rarely seen from her sister.
Goodness! Did Samantha want to be embroiled in scandal? But why?
“You don’t agree?” Miranda asked when her tongue would once again cooperate. Oh, how she hated the fact that so often, if she felt flummoxed by something or someone, she lost the ability to speak coherently at least for a time. It was bothersome to the extreme.
Big, brown eyes turned to her, piercing her with the same intensity as she’d studied the ballroom. “I think,” Samantha said emphatically, “that the only way you or I will ever make a match is with the aid of a bit of scandal.”
Miranda gasped. This statement was so shocking that she nearly dropped her fan in surprise. “Surely you exaggerate. I know Papa’s situation isn’t the best—”
“Not the best?” Samantha took a few steps deeper into the alcove they’d been standing in, where it was darker and more private, leaving Miranda no choice but to follow her to where the air was perfectly still and suffocating. “He’s managed to provide all five of our older sisters with dowries, but the funds are running thin. There will be nothing left for him and Mama, let alone for Jason to manage on after Papa dies, if he tries to do the same for the two of us.”
Miranda shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. “Surely he’s already set the funds aside—”
“He had,” Samantha interrupted her again, taking on the air of an impatient governess. “But that was before his solicitor ran off with his investment. Papa had to delve into that money to keep the estate running. He’ll need more of it before the Season’s out if he’s going to keep up appearances.”
“Oh,” was all Miranda could say. She’d known there’d been a spot of trouble with investments and whatnot, but she honestly hadn’t paid any of that much attention. That was between Papa and Jason, and not really anything she’d thought was any true concern. Not for her at least.
Samantha closed her fan and leveled Miranda with a stare. “We can’t count on the aid of a dowry for securing a match, you and I. And we can’t continue to be burdens upon Papa.” The steely glint in her eyes was a sight to behold, despite the rather plain features they both possessed. “I mean to secure a match through whatever means I can, and if you have even the tiniest bit of sense you’d realize you should do the same. We can’t let one more Season pass us by, Miranda. We have to do something.”
It was all just too much to take in at once. She shook her head. “You’re just overreacting because you’ve spent more Seasons on the marriage mart than you would have liked.” Samantha was three-and-twenty, after all. They’d all hoped she would have made a match well before now.
“I’m not overreacting. And this has nothing to do with how close I’ve come to being placed on the shelf.” Turning her gaze back to the ballroom, Samantha’s jaw set into a determined jut and she pressed her lips into a thin, white line. “If you’ve got any sense of familial loyalty, you’ll do the same thing I am.”
Samantha knew very well just how much loyalty Miranda had, so that
comment stung. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for one of her siblings, for her parents. She might be the youngest of the family, but not once had she ever failed to come to the aid of her family when needed.
She was on the verge of pouting because of Samantha’s jab when her sister took a few steps out of their alcove toward the main ballroom. Good heavens! Had she been serious about seeking out a scandal? To think she’d had the audacity to accuse Miranda of familial disloyalty. Miranda reached out a hand, placed it on her elbow, and stopped her.
“What do you intend to do?” She hated that her voice was quivering.
Samantha rolled her eyes heavenward, as though Miranda was the simplest of simpletons to ever walk the earth. “Mr. Devalle is already well-acquainted with scandal, as is the whole of his family. I am going to cause another one so that he has to offer for me.”
To cause one? Oh, goodness.
Samantha started walking again, forcing Miranda to tighten her grip.
“But what if he doesn’t have any valor? What if he doesn’t do the honorable thing and offer for you?”
“He’s an earl’s brother.” Samantha shrugged her shoulders, releasing her arm from Miranda’s grip. “If he doesn’t do the right thing of his own volition, I’m sure Lord Blackmore will force his hand.”
She really meant to do it. Although, what it was, Miranda still hadn’t the tiniest inkling.
“But what if he doesn’t?”
Samantha took a few more steps. When she was on the edge of the dance floor, she turned and smiled at Miranda, an expression filled with more than just a hint of mischief and a great deal of intent. “I’m going to trust that it will all work out, because I can’t wait any longer worrying about what if.”
Then with a twirl that sent the peach muslin of her gown swirling about her legs, she disappeared into the throng.
Miranda muttered an oath beneath her breath before delving into the crowd behind her sister. She was the youngest of the Hunt siblings, for heaven’s sake. She wasn’t supposed to be the one rescuing her elder siblings from their folly.
Yet she supposed she must.
“Don’t let me hear your name on the tongue of any gossips tonight, Gabriel. I won’t have you enticing them anew.”
Gabe scowled up at his elder brother Luke, the Earl of Blackmore, and crossed his arms over his chest with resolve. “Do the gossips need any enticement at all?” he drawled. In his estimation, one need only bear a certain surname or sneeze in the wrong drawing room in order to gain their notice of late. And since in all his twenty-seven years he had yet to discover a means of obtaining a different surname…
“Whether they require enticement or not is hardly the point.”
Christ. Was Luke truly humorless?
“Very well. On my best behavior all night,” Gabe said with an impatient wave of his hand, despite the fact that he had no intention of changing anything about his behavior on this or any night. The very thought of it caused him to break out in a cold sweat from the lack of diversion life would suddenly contain. If there was one thing Gabe wished never to live without, it was diversion. “I swear it on Mother’s frayed nerves,” he added as an afterthought when his brother failed to acknowledge his vow.
The latest scandal wasn’t really his fault. He couldn’t help it that the light skirt had fallen at his feet out on the street when he was leaving Madame de Grey’s fine establishment, and had then proceeded to die. It wasn’t as though he’d done anything to her, whether to cause her death or otherwise. The two doxies whose services he’d secured had performed admirably, so there’d been no cause for him to seek another to meet his needs. Hell’s teeth, he’d never even seen her until she collapsed before him.
Both the Bow Street Runner who’d been the first to arrive and the magistrate who came soon after had been in agreement that Gabe could scarcely be to blame for the dead woman’s condition. Additionally, Madame de Grey and some of her other patrons had been able to confirm his presence inside for a good deal of time prior to the falling-at-his-feet incident. The magistrate had accordingly sent him on his way home to his bachelor lodgings.
It was only after he’d arrived at Blackmore House the next afternoon that he learned someone had seen the whole ordeal. That someone had then made certain every drawing room in Town was talking about how he’d supposedly murdered the girl. Even those who didn’t believe he’d played any part in her death believed for some reason he ought to have done something—what, no one seemed to know—in order to rescue her. But what could he have done? By the time she collapsed, it was too late. Besides, he’d been so deep in his cups all night that it was a wonder he could get himself home.
Nevertheless, the constant discussion circling Gabriel’s name had quickly become the reason for Luke’s nettlesome nature.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Luke had always been rather irritable. The degree of his cantankerousness had intensified by a good margin since yesterday afternoon, however, and that was due solely to the latest gossip about those devilish Devalles, as they were so often called (and Gabe was not the only Devalle responsible for this appellation, mind you—far from it), filling drawing rooms and ballrooms from Marylebone to Piccadilly.
Luke turned an irked scowl upon Gabe. “See to it.” Less than half a moment later, he’d spun on his heel and left Gabe alone at the edge of the dance floor.
He’d probably gone off to find a card game somewhere dark and less populated than the ballroom, where he could squander a few hours and probably a healthy bit of coin. At least he had no intention of playing the part of the watchful elder brother all night.
Making his way more fully into the ballroom, Gabe scanned the crowd. He needed to know who was present, and, perhaps more importantly, who was not. There was no call for him to be trapped into dancing with certain young misses he’d already determined he was better off avoiding. He caught a glimpse of Mother hovering close behind his sister Amelia. Lord Goderich was deep in conversation with Amelia, probably groveling for her hand for the next set.
Gabe shuddered at the thought of Goderich somehow convincing Amelia to have him. But really, he needn’t worry about such a thing. Amelia had always been as wicked as both Gabe and Luke combined, even if she often bore a meek and mild façade for the world to see. Goderich would bore her to tears in a day so she’d never accept him, regardless of how eagerly the viscount attempted to woo her.
Satisfied that both she and Mother were otherwise occupied and would not be overly concerned with his activities at least for the time being, Gabe turned his attention to Lord Leicester’s other guests.
His eye passed over Miss Newberry and her grasping mother standing at the edge of the dance floor and looking eagerly about for an eligible gentleman to snare. Just as quickly as his eyes fell upon her, they kept moving. For nearly a fortnight after the last time he’d been trapped into dancing a set with the chit, he’d had sore toes from how frequently she’d trampled upon them, and his ears practically bled from the whining sound of her voice.
He’d sooner eat an entire bar of lye soap before dancing with her again.
Near the line of windows looking out over Leicester’s gardens, Gabe caught sight of Lady Susanna Radley standing alongside her chaperone. If memory served, she’d proved to be both an accomplished dancer and an unapologetic flirt. It didn’t hurt Lady Susanna’s cause any that she was decidedly easy to look upon.
Now that was a far more promising prospect for a dance partner, at least to begin his evening. At some point, he had every intention of seeking out Lady Weymouth and inquiring if he might help warm her bed tonight. She’d been a frequent bed partner since the passing of her husband. But that interlude was for later.
Without wasting another moment during which another gentleman might swoop in and steal his quarry, Gabe started threading his way through the crowd in Lady Susanna’s direction.
No sooner had he taken five or six steps, however, than some mousy-haired and unremarkable young lad
y stepped directly in his path and stopped, forcing him to stop as well lest he barrel her over.
Gabe stared at her, dumbfounded when she didn’t immediately apologize for blocking his path and then scurry away. He grew more astounded by the moment as he realized she was staring up at him with a look of fierce resolve instead of the expected mortification.
What the devil was she doing? How uncanny.
“I beg your pardon,” he finally said when she remained before him, unblinking.
“That’s unnecessary of course, Mr. Devalle.”
She knew his name. That shouldn’t have been overly surprising, given his current status as the latest source of on dit amongst the fashionable set, and yet her directness took him aback. He hadn’t even the slightest inkling as to who she might be, which left him at a decided disadvantage in their new acquaintance.
He stifled the urge to scowl. If there was one thing Gabe hated more than any other in life, it was to be at the disadvantage in any situation.
“I apologize, Miss…?”
“Hunt,” she replied. “I had hoped you might—”
But whatever she’d hoped he might do, he was not to discover at the present moment in time. Just then, another mousy-haired chit came up alongside the first with brown eyes as wide as saucers. She appeared to be a younger, and somewhat prettier although still rather forgettable, version of Miss Hunt—surely a sister, given the same long nose and sharp chin and unobjectionable hair.
The new arrival feigned a stumble and caught herself on Miss Hunt’s gown, causing a tear to one of the lace flounces adorning the muslin, and at the same moment ensuring he would never forget her. What an uncanny thing to do in a crowded ballroom! Her appearance might not have taken hold of his attention, but her behavior certainly had.
Miss Hunt sucked in a loud breath, her cheeks turning a furious shade of red.
The Devil to Pay (The Devilish Devalles, Novella #1) Page 1