Lord Winters raised an eyebrow to his wife. She folded her hands primly before her and ushered her husband away with a nod.
“We are not to be disturbed, Hatchet,” Devlin said, grabbing his mother’s elbow and leading her to the east parlor. She eyed Hatchet with almost as much disdain as she did Devlin’s hand on her elbow. The moment he closed the double doors, she stormed into the center of the room and whirled on him.
“Victor and Hatchet,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve lost your mind if you hope to pass off your seedy crew members as respectable servants! Two hundred guests will arrive in less than sixty minutes to greet my son, the 8th Marquess of Covington. You cannot introduce your servants as Hatchet and Victor! For the love of God, use their surnames at the very least. Please tell me they have surnames.”
He chuckled and strode to a side table where a decanter of wine awaited his pleasure. “You haven’t laid eyes on your son in sixteen years, and all you wish to do is scold me regarding the names of my staff? I thought you might at least inquire after the health of our dear old friend, the Butcher.” Pausing, he tipped his head in thought. “But I suppose that isn’t necessary. Because he’s dead. I killed him. Shoved a scalpel into his neck. The one he planned to castrate me with, according to your agreement. Glass of sherry?”
The woman did not flinch under his pointed barb as she strolled toward him. She smiled sweetly and asked, “Is it poisoned?”
Devlin met her halfway and handed her the glass. “Regrettably, no.”
They stared at each other for some time, sipping their wine. The years had been kind to his mother. Her blond curls didn’t show any hints of gray, and the lines around her eyes and mouth were almost imperceptible. An indication she did not smile often. She had even managed to retain an attractive figure. His scrutiny of her person must’ve rankled, because she turned away and strolled to the fireplace.
“Do you have the contract?” she asked, tossing back the last of her drink. “I’d like to put this business behind us as soon as possible.”
“Of course.” Devlin pulled the document from his jacket pocket and held it out to her.
With an impatient huff, she stalked toward him and ripped it out of his hand. She set her glass down and riffled through the pages. Apparently satisfied with its authenticity, she walked to the fireplace and tossed the papers on top. They lit up in flames, and Devlin stared, mesmerized, as the fire destroyed the evidence of her treachery.
He had always imagined he’d feel a blinding rage when this moment came, or at least a pinch of anger, but never once had he imagined he would feel a sense of undeniable relief. The nightmare was finally over. The Butcher was dead. The contract was destroyed. And he never had to lay eyes on his mother again.
He wanted to shout with joy. He was free of his demons, and he didn’t give one lick what happened with his mother. Her presence wasn’t paramount to him keeping his end of the bargain with Josephine. And all of a sudden, his path forward crystalized in his mind.
“You’re welcome to stay for the remainder of the party,” Devlin said, heading for the parlor door. Glancing over his shoulder, he stared at the woman who’d sent him on a journey to Hell and back, and grinned. “Or you can leave before the other guests arrive. You may decide, Mother. But after tonight, I don’t wish to hear from you ever again.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a delicate curl. “Oh, believe me, Dominick, I wouldn’t miss the coming event for a golden goose.”
He paused and leveled her with a heated glare. Her smile grew wider, sending a chill up his spine. The woman was up to something no good, but he couldn’t fathom what game she played. But no matter, he’d set Victor or Hatchet on her tail.
At the moment, he had more pressing matters requiring his attention. He charged up the stairs, two at a time, anxious to end his arrangement with Josephine. He must speak with Grace before the mad rush of well-wishers arrived, but he didn’t have much time.
At the head of the stairs, Maribeth barreled into him. She looked a fright with her hair standing on end and her dress full of wrinkles where she’d wrung her hands in the material.
“Grace needs you,” Maribeth cried, tugging at his hand. Her cheeks were stained with dried tears, and a fierce frown pulled at her lips. “She had an episode in the attic. We were playing hide-and-seek, and then she was screaming. Jumped out from behind a large painting, mumbling and rambling on. I’ve never seen her that way. God’s truth, it was terrifying. Something is terribly wrong. I promised to find Emma, but you must go to her now and calm her. Please, Devlin.”
His heart rate skyrocketed at the urgency in her steps. Maribeth wasn’t prone to hysterics. He recalled quite well what happened the last time he and Grace visited the attic and she touched a painting. Brother Anselm had assured him the space was clear of all spirits. What on earth had happened?
“Calm yourself, Poppet.” He strode with her toward Grace’s room and squeezed her hand. “We must call her Eveline from now on, leastwise in public. She’s the daughter of a respectable baron and should be acknowledged as such at the ball. We want her to feel comfortable, don’t we? I’m heading to her bedchamber now. Everything will be fine. Off with you, I say. The ball is set to begin soon, and you’ll scare away all the guests in your current state. Or have you decided not to participate in the first dance?”
“You’ll take care of her?” Maribeth asked, biting her lip.
“Of course.” He rubbed her cheek. “You can trust me. Go now, or you’ll miss our dance.”
“Thank you,” she said, hugging him hard before racing away in the direction of her bedroom.
Seconds later Devlin barreled into Grace’s chamber, prepared to find her in a state of hysterics as well, but instead found her embracing Emma and laughing.
Upon his entering, Emma squealed like a pig roasting over a fire pit and glared at him. “Bugger me, but you gave me a scare! What’re you about, Lord Sommerset, barging in here? It’s a good thing I’ve finished Eveline’s hair, or I might’ve run a hairpin right through her head.”
“My apologies,” he said, his breath coming out in little pants. “I was told—”
The words died on his lips as Grace turned to face him. Her attire shouldn’t have taken him so wholly by surprise, considering he had commissioned the gown himself, but he had underestimated the magnificence of the emerald-green silk against her pale skin.
He’d taken care in ordering the evening dress, ensuring the cut was modest but still appealing to the male eye. If Grace could see the white satin underskirt, kilted in front and trimmed with Mechlin lace, he was sure she would find it beautiful. She swept her hands over the emerald silk overdress, made like a polonaise, and a pretty pink blush rose above her low neckline and short cap sleeves. Emma had swept up the front of her hair and woven miniature white roses through the chatelaine braids draped over her shoulder.
Striding to Grace’s side, he pulled her into his arms, not giving a damn what her lady’s maid thought. “You’re absolutely stunning, and I love you. Say you’ll marry me.”
Her jaw dropped, and he tightened his hold when her knees buckled.
“I beg your pardon,” Grace whispered. “Could you repeat that? I’m quite certain my hearing is failing me.”
He chuckled and kissed her. “Your hearing is perfect, though I didn’t go about this properly.” Bending on one knee, he placed a ring on the tip of her ring finger. “Grace, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Grace burst into tears and threw her arms around Devlin’s neck, holding on for dear life. She buried her nose in his chest, loathe for him to detect any signs of uncertainty written on her face.
“Leave us, Emma,” Devlin said gently. As soon as the door clicked shut, he unraveled her arms and cradled her face. “Is that a yes or a no, my love?”
His heart pounded harder than a thunderous rain against her chest, and all her fears bubbled to the surf
ace. Was this part and parcel of his contract with Josephine, declaring his love before he destroyed her with his words? Shame filled her breast for questioning his intentions, but Josephine had planted nasty seeds of doubt in her mind and toyed with her emotions … That foul, malicious creature. This could’ve been the happiest moment in Grace’s life, if she knew the truth.
She hadn’t detected an ounce of insincerity in his declaration, only adoration and hope. What was she to believe? He must betray a loved one in exchange for Josephine’s assistance, or the black magic would fade. She wished to confide in him about Rosalie, but to what end? If he truly loved her, then sharing her secret now would be nothing shy of cruel, because he could not save her soul. Only she held that power, if she dared to believe in herself.
Besides, Josephine would never relent, and if Devlin failed to deliver on his promise, there would be hell to pay. A massacre beyond any the world had ever seen. Lord Marcus Deveraux had been a viscount, and though his ballroom reveal had garnered an impressive guest list, it did not compare with the RSVPs of those intent on witnessing the resurrection of the 8th Marquess of Covington.
No, she couldn’t share her secret … but she could share in his joy.
Devlin rubbed her cheek and whispered, “Please say you love me, too, and wish to be my wife.”
More than anything. “Yes, I … ”
He slammed his mouth on hers and lifted her in his arms, twirling her around and around until she screamed for mercy.
“Careful with my gown!” she cried.
“I’ll buy you another,” he said, his voice rich with laughter. “No, I’ll buy you hundreds. One for each day of the year. You’ve made me the happiest of men. Tell me you love me, Grace. I want to hear it from your lips.”
She shared in his laughter, content to enjoy their happiness while it lasted. “I love you, Devlin. More than my own life.”
He kissed her again, his mouth devouring hers in a passionate embrace. She threaded her hands beneath his jacket and pulled him close, wanting to feel every inch of his body against hers … needing his touch one last time before the guests arrived … yet knowing there was little time. Devlin seemed of the same mind.
“We must be quick,” he rasped, reaching for the top button of her dress. “And careful not to ruin your hair.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You’ll have to ride me like a stallion.”
She giggled and nodded, urging him on with desperate pecks of her lips on his neck. He’d almost managed a quarter of the buttons when a knock at the door startled her.
“Enter!” Devlin barked, his breathing harsh.
“Beg your pardon,” Victor announced, his voice solemn, “but Lady Beaufort has arrived and requests a private audience with you. The guests will arrive any moment. What would you like me to do? Your mother and stepfather are currently enjoying refreshment in the parlor with her.”
“Please request that my mother start the receiving line,” Devlin said with a sigh. “We’ll be down in a minute, and after I speak with Lady Beaufort, I’ll need a word with you in private.”
“Very good,” Victor said before seeing himself out.
The moment the lock clicked behind him, Grace asked, “Why would Lady Beaufort wish a private audience with you tonight? She already bore you bad tidings once. Wasn’t that enough?”
“Because she’s Josephine, in human form.”
Grace felt her mouth fall open, like a big, gaping fish. She recalled meeting Josephine in her human form in the forest, directly after Lady Beaufort’s visit. It couldn’t be.
“That’s impossible. I would’ve recognized her voice immediately.”
“I’m afraid not, my love.” Devlin rubbed her arms, warding off the sudden chill accosting her. “She disguised her voice to shield you from the truth. Will you be all right if I leave you to speak with her, presumably to finalize our plans?”
She nodded, woodenly, struck by the sheer force of Josephine’s manipulation. Had she somehow put Devlin’s mother up to retiring his title in order to press her advantage? It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
Nor should it surprise her that Josephine attended the ball in human form. How else could she kill Devlin’s mother? Guests would flee, screaming in terror the moment she arrived in her half-serpent, half-woman form. It seemed Grace was not so crazy, after all, for feeling uncomfortable in Lady Beaufort’s presence.
“Do not fret,” he said, kissing her cheek. He turned her around and went to work refastening her gown. “This will all be behind us soon, I promise. Take a moment to refresh yourself, and then I’ll meet you in the receiving line.”
He strode to the door, then paused and returned to her side. “One more thing … I almost forgot about your engagement ring. Allow me to hold on to it during the ball.” He slipped it off her finger then kissed her hand. “Tonight is an evening for special announcements all around. I wish to surprise our guests.”
Her heart rate accelerated as she struggled to decipher his meaning. Something wasn’t altogether right. If he wished to make a surprise announcement, then why had he not waited to propose in front of all his guests? Did he plan to declare her insane on the heels of announcing their engagement? She had lost the plot entirely, but she no longer cared to try and understand. The hour was at hand, and she would know the truth of the matter soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Devlin exited Grace’s bedroom and approached the staircase with confident strides. Everything was on track and in accordance with his plan. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he nodded curtly to his mother, who stood regally at the entrance, greeting guests with genuine warmth. She was in her element, basking in the attention and good wishes of the peerage.
He gestured for Victor to follow him to the parlor. “Don’t let anyone in.”
Victor nodded and then closed the doors firmly behind him. A broad smile erupted on Devlin’s face. Tonight marked the end of his long journey.
“Welcome back, Lady Beaufort,” he said, bowing before her hand and bestowing a kiss. He stared into her eyes and did a double take, unprepared for the rich chocolate-brown color gazing back at him. Her magic knew no bounds. She appeared human beneath her ensemble, but was she really? Shaking away the unnerving thought, he concentrated on the pressing business before him. “I assume all is well and you’re prepared to follow through on our arrangement? My guests are arriving as we speak. I haven’t much time. What can I do for you?”
“When will you make your announcement?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “That’s all I need to know so I can place myself close to your mother.”
He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, relaxing his stance. “After she raises a toast to welcome me home. Imagine her outrage when I invite a medium to stand with us during her speech. You know my mother, she’ll practically do all the work for me.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Devlin stepped closer and sneered. “Do you imagine I need her help? Make no mistake, I want my mother dead! I’ve played my first card tonight and declared my love for Eveline. Are you worried I stacked the deck?” He bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Or did you bet more than you can afford to lose?”
The corner of her eye ticked, and she whirled away from him with clenched fists. He chuckled and strode to the exit. But before he could open the door, Josephine’s hand shot out and held it closed. Goddamn, but the woman was fast and strong. Most definitely not human in that regard.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Josephine said, pressing her body to his back.
“Don’t flatter yourself, madam.” He turned to glare down his nose. “As if I’d fuck vermin.”
Her anger was palpable, forcing blood through her body so hard he could feel her heartbeat through the material of his jacket. At least that part of her appeared to be human.
“I see a triumphant glint in your eyes,” she hissed, “and I hope, for your sake, that it shines for all the right reasons."
“If yo
u see triumph glowing in my eyes, it’s because I never gamble unless I’m certain I can win. We have a bargain, and I expect you to uphold your end of it. Don’t fuck with me, Josephine. I’m your worst nightmare.” He shoved her away, and she stumbled onto her arse, shock widening her eyes as the sole of his shoe pressed into her throat. “They call me the Devil for a reason. You’re the gatekeeper to Hell, so that makes you my bitch.”
He yanked open the door, glad to find Victor still standing guard. It wouldn’t be quite the thing if his guests got an eyeful of Lady Beaufort scrambling to her feet. But bloody fucking hell, it felt good to be a son of a bitch sometimes. Smoothing his hands over his jacket, he cleared his throat and spoke discreetly.
“Give Lady Beaufort a moment to collect herself, Victor, and then you may escort her to the ballroom.”
Victor glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the spectacle inside, and snorted. “My pleasure.”
• • •
Josephine seethed as she crawled toward the nearest settee, using it to assist in her ascent. She shook out her voluminous red skirt and smoothed the bodice of her gown before checking her coiffure with her hands. Captain Limmerick would rue the day he had disrespected Satan’s beloved daughter.
Are you worried I stacked the deck? Or did you bet more than you can afford to lose?
Silly, silly man. That was a moot point … because she never played by the rules … hence she never lost.
With a flourish, she opened the double doors to the parlor and swept into the hallway with her head held high. She scanned the receiving line. Her eyes locked on Lady Winters, and she nodded in greeting as Devlin joined his mother’s side. A Cheshire smile curved up Josephine’s lips. Devlin was the canary, and she the cat.
Meow.
• • •
Devlin greeted his guests and was pleased to discover his memory didn’t fail him. Even after sixteen years at sea, he was able to place names and faces together, along with certain boyhood memories. It was while he was reminiscing about one of those memories that a hush descended on the room. He glanced up and smiled.
Devil’s Cove (Tortured Souls) Page 25