Devil Takes A Bride

by Gaelen Foley

  She huddled closer to him, slipping her arms around his waist and burying her face against him in embarrassment as the old crone, Mother Iniquity, slipped into the room behind them and certified by the blood on the sheets that the deed had been done.

  Carstairs laughed under his breath and shook his head to himself, relieved that Dev had just played right into his hands.

  If it turned out he was deceiving them, it would be so much easier to keep him under control now that they could hold this misdeed over his head. The club provided the unblemished lamb for the sacrifice, but each aspirant had the privilege of slitting his own throat. It was not a matter of virgin-deflowerment, when it came down to it, but of gaining leverage over every man in their organization, should a test of loyalty or the need for some strong persuasion ever arise.

  Who really needed brawn, anyway? Carstairs mused, gloating a little as the newest member of the Horse and Chariot Club led his traumatized victim out of the room. Brains won nine times out of ten, and blackmail was such an efficient solution.

  “Do you th-think they believed us?” the frightened girl whispered, clinging to Dev as he walked her outside.

  “Oh, yes. I’d say we were fairly convincing.” During the hour they had spent in that bedroom, Dev had taught the girl how to pitch cards until the terror had left her eyes, then had done several dozen push-ups to work up the requisite sweat.

  Little Suzy had begun eyeing him as if she were beginning to think ravishment at his hands might not be a fate worse than death, after all, but she definitely didn’t like Quint and the rest who had been so cruel to her.

  “They’re so horrid.”

  “I know. Don’t think of them anymore,” he murmured. “We’re going to get you out of here, posthaste. Here’s my carriage.” His glossy black racing drag rolled to a halt before the curved double stairs. “My servants will see you back safely to your village. But first—” Reaching the bottom of the steps, he turned her to face him, grasping her firmly by the shoulders. “—I want you to promise me on your most solemn oath that you will never, ever take a ride from strangers again.”

  She gave him a somber nod. “I won’t—I promise. You’re not still bleeding, I hope?” She glanced anxiously at his side, but the wound was concealed by his shirt.

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. Oh, thank you, Lord Strathmore.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  He gave her a stern frown. “This is Ben,” he said gruffly as his servant joined them. “He will be escorting you home.”

  Ben bowed to the girl. “Miss.”

  She cast him an uncertain glance.

  “You can trust him, Susannah,” Dev said softly. “Ben has been all over the world with me and has saved my life on several occasions.”

  “Does he speak English?” she whispered.

  “Of course. He’s from America, not the moon.”

  Ben’s eyebrows lifted, but he was too accustomed to odd reactions from white people to let it ruffle his amiable nature. Dev helped the chit into the carriage; then Ben shut the door.

  “What’s going on?” Ben asked, walking forward to the driver’s box with Dev.

  Dev waited till they were out of Suzy’s earshot. “The third requirement,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the pavilion with rage in his eyes.

  “The little girl?” Ben exclaimed in shock.

  He nodded grimly. “They picked her up outside a village in Hertfordshire. I finally got her calmed down. See that she gets home safely. Then come back and pick me up so they don’t suspect anything. It’s not all that far. You should be back by dawn.”

  “Be careful.”

  Dev smirked. Ben got into the coach with Susannah, Dev directed the coachman to Stevenage, and in another moment, the vehicle rumbled off down the drive.

  Susannah blew him a kiss through the carriage window, and Dev scowled. The last deuced thing he needed was an infatuated infant sighing over him. Hands in pockets, he watched his drag go speeding off down the moonlit road through the marshes, then glanced up reluctantly at the pavilion. Steeling himself, he walked back up the curving stairs.

  Hard to believe, he mused, but now it was official—he was a “blooded” member of the notorious Horse and Chariot Club. Now that he had proved himself and had won more of their trust, passing their cursed tests, it would be much easier to press on in his quest, until he had discovered which of the twisted bastards had set that fateful fire twelve years ago.

  He could hardly wait to pay the man back in full.

  “Now then, girls, the hypotenuse is always the side across from the right angle. It makes no difference what the other two angles are. As long as one of the three is a right angle, then Pythagoras’s theorem will work,” Lizzie explained in a firm tone to the roomful of bright-eyed sixteen-year-olds as she drew a right triangle on the chalkboard. “Here is the equation: A squared plus B squared equals C squared.”

  As she finished writing out the simple formula, she turned around only to find the whole class staring back at her vacantly.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, ladies. Write it down.”

  “Oh!” In the front row, Daisy Manning, a biddable innocent with big blue eyes and yellow sausage curls instantly obeyed. She glanced up anxiously at the board, copying down the formula on her slate with an air of distress.

  Behind her, Annabelle Swanson, the class rebel, made no move to obey. A skeptical and rather cheeky brunette, Annabelle slouched in her chair, furtively reading something that Lizzie feared was another love letter from an unsuitable boy named Tom.

  “Annabelle, please pay attention. This equation has been with us since Ancient Greece. It deserves your best efforts,” Lizzie clipped out in her best Lady Strathmore tone. Indeed, she often thought of how much the dowager would have enjoyed talking with the youngsters, or rather, holding forth on how one ought to conduct one’s life.

  Annabelle huffed and picked up her slate. “Miss Bamworth never made us learn geometry,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She does have a point, Miss Carlisle,” Daisy offered, raising her hand in the first row. “We were told we would only have to learn addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.”

  “Yes, Miss Bamworth never made us do anything this hard,” another student piped up in a plaintive tone.

  “Well, I am your new teacher, and I know you girls are much cleverer than that,” Lizzie assured them and drew on all her famous patience to give them a pleasant smile.

  “Yes, but, um, M-Miss Carlisle?”

  “Yes, Daisy?” she asked in weary amusement.

  “What if studying geometry ruins our temperament, so that when we come out next year, nobody wants to marry us?” She glanced back nervously at some of the other girls, who nodded solemnly. “Papa should be very cross indeed if that were to happen. Papa says gentlemen don’t like bluestockings.”

  Lizzie managed not to flinch. “Your papa is quite right, Daisy, but never fear. If I see any adverse effects on your temperaments, I give you my word of honor that we shall desist at once.”

  “I still don’t see why anybody cares about any silly old triangles,” Annabelle grumbled. “It’s not as if I plan to build a bridge.”

  The others dared to titter.

  Lizzie swept the class with a sharp look; the tittering stopped. “It is not a matter of triangles, Annabelle. It is an exercise we undertake to develop our brains into keenly honed instruments, the better with which to direct our lives. I’m trying to teach you girls how to reason. She who cannot think for herself will never be the mistress of her own destiny.”

  The class stared at her for a moment, absorbing this revolutionary notion, though the strict headmistress probably would have been appalled by it. Lizzie ignored the thought. Why should they be restricted from learning what was standard fare for their brothers?

  “Now, copy the formula please. Then I want you to try applying it t
o the problems on the board.” Clasping her hands behind her back, she strolled up and down the aisles, looking over her students’ work.

  When she reached Annabelle’s desk, she spied the paper tucked under the girl’s slate and took it away with a chiding look. Annabelle sulked, but Lizzie was at least relieved to see it was not another love note. Instead, it was one of the racy scandal sheets that the girls obtained from heaven knew where.

  Lizzie frowned at her and brought it back to her desk at the front of the classroom. She barely glanced at the trashy gossip page, but as she started to cast it aside, the first line leaped out at her. She froze, suddenly paling. Oh, no.

  Not again. Her heart pounding, she sat down slowly at her desk and, with a little piece of her dying inside, furtively skimmed the paragraph while the girls struggled to tackle the first problem. His name had been appearing in such articles more and more frequently in the past few weeks since Lady Strathmore’s funeral.

  Devil St–—m——, the piece began.

  She closed her eyes for a second, her conscience twisting with a spasm of remorse as his aunt’s last wish once again haunted her mind: “Will you look in on him from time to time when I am gone? He has no one else….”

  Well, no wonder he had no one else! she thought, shoving off guilt with a vengeance. The deuced man pushed away anybody who tried to get close to him!

  He had ordered her to go away; she didn’t need to be told twice. Perhaps, admittedly, in her heart, she felt somewhat honor-bound to reach out to him—for his aunt’s sake, merely—but with scandalous stories like these, she could not fathom how it could even be accomplished. An unmarried young lady—especially a girls’-school governess employed by a high stickler like Mrs. Hall—could hardly take a hackney to the West End and go knocking on the front door of a gazetted rake like Devil Strathmore. Not, anyway, without severe damage to her reputation. Why risk it?

  Things were going well for her. The dowager’s death had left her saddened, of course, but her new job was a success; she had handed in her German translations on time, and with the publisher’s payment, her savings were growing nicely. She enjoyed the proximity to London again, with all its museums and bookshops and learned lectures. She had many friends in Town from all walks of life and was within an hour’s ride to Jacinda’s villa on Regent’s Park. She even received an occasional friendly letter from Dr. Bell, though she could no longer contemplate anything but a platonic relationship with him since that night with Devlin.

  Indeed, as she sat at her desk, half listening to the tapping and squeaking of the girls chalking away on their slates, she realized that the only unresolved matter left in her life was Devil Strathmore himself—the thought of whom made her heart ache, her conscience wince, and her body burn.

  When the mathematics lesson was over, the girls had only a few minutes to shuffle into the large room down the hallway for their dancing lesson with Miss Agnew, but Lizzie was done for another couple of hours until French class. She was organizing her desk when one of the hall monitors brought her a note from the headmistress, summoning her to the office.

  Mrs. Hall was not a woman to be kept waiting. She hurried downstairs with the first bars from Miss Agnew’s pianoforte echoing down the corridor after her.

  The founder’s office was situated off the school’s foyer. Arriving there, Lizzie gave a light knock on the door and was promptly called in.

  “Do come in, Miss Carlisle,” the headmistress ordered. Mrs. Hall was a large, imposing woman with twin gray side-curls peeking out from under her white muslin house cap, and a prim white betsy laced up to her chin. “Miss Carlisle used to be a leading student here at the academy, Mrs. Harris. She grew up as lady’s companion to the Marchioness of Truro and Saint Austell, who, I might add, also attended our humble establishment. She is also a particular favorite with the Duchess of Hawkscliffe and Lady Winterley, as well, who, I’m sure you know, is wed to our national hero, Colonel Lord Winterley.” Lizzie cringed slightly as Mrs. Hall preened over her exalted connections, determined to impress the two visitors who sat across from her large mahogany desk. “She is very good with the gels. Miss Carlisle, this is Mrs. Harris of Dublin and her daughter, Sorscha.”

  “How do you do?” she murmured, curtsying.

  The pair regarded her without expression.

  The mother was dressed in a widow’s deep mourning. Her elegant silk gown and gloves were jet-black, her face veiled behind a swathe of black lace that draped over her ebony hat. Indeed, the only bit of color to be seen on her person were the ends of her long, coppery-red tresses peeking out from under the edge of her black veil.

  “Mrs. Harris has just enrolled the young lady in our fine institution,” Mrs. Hall explained. “Would you be so kind, Miss Carlisle, as to show our lovely new student to her quarters and familiarize her with the schedule?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Welcome, Miss Harris,” Lizzie said to the girl. “If you’ll follow me?”

  Sorscha Harris stood. She was a beautiful girl of about sixteen with the wide-eyed look of a china doll—a pale, round face, a riot of bouncy sable curls pushed back behind a pink ribbon, and big blue eyes filled with youthful uncertainty.

  Looking extremely nervous, Sorscha gave her mother’s hand a brave squeeze; many of the new students had never been separated from their mothers before, and considering Mrs. Harris’s mourning costume, Lizzie realized the poor child must have recently lost her father.

  “Are you sure you will be all right without me, Mama?”

  “I’ll be fine, darlin’,” Mrs. Harris murmured softly, her voice tinged with a mild Irish brogue, but behind the lace veil it was impossible to guess her expression. “Go and enjoy your new school. I’ll be back Sunday to take ye to Mass. You will behave yourself.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Harris. I will see that your daughter is well cared for,” Lizzie reassured the woman, then gave Sorscha a warm smile. “I’m rather new here myself, Miss Harris, so you and I will have to look out for each other.”

  A shy smile spread over Sorscha’s pretty face.

  “Let me help you with that,” she added as the girl attempted to pick up her traveling trunk by herself.

  “Thank you, Miss Carlisle.” Sorscha blushed and smiled gratefully as Lizzie took the other handle.

  Together, they carried it out of the office, laughing a bit with their exertions as they struggled to heft it up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Mrs. Hall called up to her, “Oh, Miss Carlisle! This came for you in the post yesterday.” She held up a letter. “I do apologize—I forgot to put it in your box.”

  They set down the trunk. Dusting off her hands, Lizzie hurried down to get her mail. “Thank you, ma’am,” she murmured, taking it from her. Lizzie rejoined Sorscha, glancing thoughtfully at the official-looking missive on fine gray stationery. From the Offices of Charles Beecham, Esquire, Fleet Street, the envelope read. URGENT. Why, that name looked familiar, she thought. Since her new pupil was waiting for her, Lizzie slipped the letter in the pocket of her neat white apron and dutifully took up her half of the traveling trunk.

  After helping Sorscha lug it up the stairs into the girls’ sunny dormitory on the top floor of the venerable old building, Lizzie assigned the newcomer a bed and dresser, then began helping her unpack her things.

  “Aren’t you going to open your letter?” Sorscha ventured, glancing at the folded paper peeping out of Lizzie’s pocket.

  She grinned. “I was trying not to be rude.”

  “I don’t mind,” the girl said brightly.

  “In that case—” Filled with curiosity, she pulled out her letter and slid her finger underneath the wax seal, breaking it. Eagerly, she unfolded it and scanned the neat lines of script.

  Sorscha watched her. “Good news, I hope?”

  “Gracious,” Lizzie said with a small, pained smile. “It seems Lady Strathmore has left me something in her will.”

  “Who’s that?”

&nb
sp; “A dear old dragon lady I was taking care of before I came here. Her health was poor, and, to my regret, she passed away several weeks ago. I can’t believe she troubled herself to remember me in her will.”

  “An inheritance! How exciting,” Sorscha exclaimed. “What did she leave you, do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been summoned by her lawyer’s office to attend the reading of the will.” Which meant she would see Devlin again. Her gaze turned faraway. “I suppose I’ll find out then…. I’ll bet I know what it is!” she said on a sudden inspiration. “Some of her books!”

  “Books?” Sorscha echoed.

  Lizzie sent her a wistful glance. “She knew I positively envied her excellent library. I often told her I’d like to have my own bookshop someday. She used to say the notion was absurd, but deep down, I think she liked it.” She smiled sadly. “How kind of her to think of me.” With a pang in her heart, she sighed, refolded the letter, and put it away. “Now all I have to do is convince Mrs. Hall to give me the morning off,” she told Sorscha in a conspiratorial tone.

  “Oh, dear. She does seems a bit—formidable.”

  “She’s nothing after Lady Strathmore,” Lizzie whispered back, then took the girl’s hand and tucked it into the crook of her arm with a bright smile. “Now, come along, my dear. Let me introduce you to the other girls.”

  “I hope they like me,” she said shyly.

  “Never fear, Miss Harris.” She patted her hand. “I suspect you’ll all be fast friends by suppertime.”

  Gliding like a phantom cloaked in her long black veil of lace, the Widow Harris left Mrs. Hall’s office, striding out to her carriage and climbing into it lightly as her large, loyal manservant, Patrick Doyle, held the door for her. His worried glance sought to search Mary’s hidden face.

  “It’s all right, old friend,” she murmured. “Sorscha will be safe here.”

  They no longer called the girl Sarah. Mary had changed the child’s name shortly after their escape, for her own protection.