Devil's Bride with Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sligo grew desperate. “The Cap’n wouldn’t approve.”

  Honoria transfixed him with a look as baleful as any of his master’s. “Sligo, your ‘Cap’n’ isn’t here. He’s slipped his leash and taken himself off God knows where. We are presently in receipt of information which, if acted on promptly, might identify his would-be killer. If we wait until your Cap’n deigns to return, our opportunity might have sailed with the evening tide. In His Grace’s absence, we—you and I—will accompany Carter to the Anchor’s Arms. I trust I’ve made myself clear?”

  Sligo opened his mouth—then shut it.

  Honoria nodded. “The carriage. I’m going to change.”

  Ten minutes later, attired in a deep brown carriage dress, she crossed the gallery. Mrs. Hull was standing by the stairs. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I heard as you were planning to visit that inn by the docks. A terrible rough area, it is. You don’t think, perhaps, that it would be better to wait . . . ?”

  “Mrs. Hull, you can’t expect me to allow my husband’s would-be murderer to continue to stalk him for want of a little courage. The Anchor’s Arms may be all you fear, but I’m sure I’ll survive.”

  Mrs. Hull grimaced. “I’d do the same meself, ma’am—but the master’s not going to like it.”

  Honoria started down the stairs. Webster was waiting on the landing; he fell into step beside her. “I would like to suggest, ma’am, that you permit me to go in your stead. If we discover the blackguards who attacked His Grace, Sligo and I will persuade them to return here and speak with His Grace.”

  “There!” Mrs. Hull, following on Honoria’s heels, leaned forward. “That’s another way to scour the pot.”

  Honoria stopped on the last stair. Sligo stood waiting by the newel post. “Webster, neither you nor Sligo can offer sufficient inducement to secure such men’s cooperation. Should we discover them at the Anchor’s Arms, it is my intention to offer them a sizeable reward if they will swear to the name of the man who hired them. They will not fear me because I’m a female—they’ll consider my proposition. When they ask for the reward, it’s my intention to repair to Child’s Bank. Mr. Child will assist me in any negotiations.”

  She paused, her gaze touching each concerned face. “While His Grace is unlikely to approve of my involvement, I do not approve of someone trying to kill him. I would rather face His Grace’s displeasure than risk His Grace’s death.” She stepped down from the stair. “I’m taking you into my confidence because I appreciate your concern. I am, however, determined on my course.”

  After an infinitesimal hesitation, Webster followed her. “Indeed, ma’am. But please—take care.”

  With a haughty nod, Honoria swept out of the door and down the steps. Sligo had to scurry to open the carriage door because, at that moment, there was not a single footman, or groom, left within St. Ives House.

  The hitch in Honoria’s plan became apparent the instant they reached the Anchor’s Arms, in a mean, narrow street close by the docks. Sulfurous fog, dense and thick, wreathed the inn’s low eaves. A rumble of male voices rolled out through the open door, punctuated by occasional female shrieks.

  Sligo and Carter had traveled up top; descending nimbly to the cobbles, Sligo glanced around, then eased open the carriage door.

  Her face lit by one of the carriage lamps, Honoria raised a brow.

  “There’s a problem.”

  “Problem?” Honoria glanced through the door at the inn beyond. The carriage’s leather window flaps were down. “What problem?”

  “This area’s not safe.” Sligo scanned the shadows. ‘We should have brought more men.”

  “Why? I’ll remain here while you and Carter go in. If the men are there, bring them out to me here.”

  “Who’s going to watch over you while we’re in the inn?”

  Honoria blinked. “John Coachman’s up top.” Even as she said it, Sligo’s unease reached her.

  He shook his head. “He’ll have his hands full with his team. If any wanted to grab you, all they need do is spook the horses. And I don’t want to send Carter in alone. If those men are there, he might not come back.”

  Honoria understood, yet she had to find out if the men were there. “I’ll come in with you. It’s not particularly well-lit—if I cling to the shadows, no one will pay any attention to me.” On the words, she left her seat.

  Sligo gaped—Honoria scowled and he let down the steps. Defeated he handed her down, then beckoned Carter closer. “If we walk in front, shoulder to shoulder, you’ll be less noticeable, ma’am.”

  Honoria nodded curtly. She followed close on Sligo’s heels as he and Carter crossed the tavern’s threshold.

  They entered a smoke-filled, low-ceilinged room—a deathly silence fell. Every conversation was suspended, instantly cut off. Sligo and Carter halted; Honoria sensed their defensiveness. Men lounged, slumped over a long counter; others sat on crude benches about rough tables. All heads had snapped their way; eyes used to sifting shadows focused without difficulty on her. The expression on some faces was surprised; most quickly turned calculating. Some turned malevolent. Danger, palpable, cloying, hung on the smoky air. Honoria tasted it, felt it crawl across her skin.

  The barman, a harrassed-looking individual, reacted first. “You’ve come to the wrong place.” He shooed them back. “We don’t have what you want.”

  “Now, now.” A beefy arm stopped him in his tracks. A body to match the arm heaved its way off a bench. “Don’t be so hasty, Willie. Who’s to say wha’ the fancy want?”

  The leer that went with this, directed at Honoria, convinced her the barman was right.

  “Tha’s right. Lady walks in—must know what she’s a-lookin’ for.” Another grinning navvy, wide as a tug, lumbered to his feet. “Any number of us ’ere might have wha’ she’s after.”

  Honoria looked him in the eye. “You’re quite right.” The only way out was through sheer, brazen bluff. Pushing Carter aside, she stepped forward. “You might well be able to assist me. However”—she let her gaze roam the tables—“I must warn you that my husband and his cousins—the Bar Sinister, as they’re called—are presently on their way here. All six of them.” She considered the navvy. “They’re all taller than you.”

  She turned to the barman: “I daresay you can imagine how their group got its name. And now they’ve learned that three of your patrons attacked one of them last night. They’re coming for revenge, but when they get here, they’re not going to waste time on identification.”

  Barman and patrons struggled through her words; Honoria inwardly sighed. “I think they’re going to wreck this tavern—and everyone in it as well.”

  The navvies bristled; rebellious rumblings flew. “If it’s a rough-house they’re after, we’ll give it ’em,” one brawny salt declared.

  “I’ll complain to the magistrate,” the barman bleated.

  Honoria eyed the navvies measuringly. “Six of them—all rather large. And . . .” She looked at the barman. “Did I mention my husband’s a duke?” The man’s face blanked; she smiled. “His nickname’s Devil. Lucifer and Demon will be with him.” She peered out through the open door. “I didn’t see the Watch out there.”

  The navvies exchanged glances. Tales of the forays mounted by the less civilized of society’s males were commonplace; the poorer classes bore the brunt of such destructive routs. The crowd in the Anchor’s Arms were too old to risk getting their skulls cracked unnecessarily.

  The man who’d spoken first eyed her challengingly. “And just what might you be a-doing ’ere, then? A duchess an’all?”

  Honoria looked down her nose at him. “My dear man, surely you’ve heard that duchesses are required to do charitable deeds? Saving the Anchor’s Arms is my deed for today.” She paused. “Provided, of course, that you tell me what I need to know.”

  The navvy glanced at his cronies—many nodded. Still suspicious, he turned back to her. “How d’we know if’n we help you, you’ll be able to stop t
his ’ere Devil from laying waste anyway?”

  “You don’t.” Honoria held his gaze. “You can only hope.”

  “What’d you want to know?” came from the back of the room.

  Honoria lifted her head. “Three sailors met here recently. I need to talk to them. Carter—describe the two you saw.”

  Carter did; more than a few remembered them.

  “In here yesterday evenin’—off the Rising Star.”

  “Rising Star upped anchor this mornin’ for Rotterdam.”

  “You’re sure?” Confirmation came from several points in the room.

  Then silence fell. Dense, cold, it chilled the air. Even before she turned, Honoria knew Devil had arrived.

  She swung to face him—and only just stopped her blink. She swallowed instead. It was him, but not the man she habitually saw. This man filled the space before the door with a menacing presence; barely restrained aggression poured from him in waves. His elegant attire did nothing to conceal his powerful frame, nor the fact that he was fully prepared to annihilate anything or anyone unwise enough to give him the slightest excuse. He fitted the image she’d created to perfection.

  His eyes, cold and flat, left her, scanning the room, holding not challenge but a promise, an intent every man could feel. Vane stood at his shoulder; just the two of them made the tavern seem uncomfortably overcrowded.

  As Devil’s gaze fastened on the wide-eyed barman, Honoria conjured a smile and swept into the breach. “There you are, my lord. I fear the men you seek are not here—they sailed this morning.”

  Devil didn’t blink. His gaze fastened on her face—flames replaced the chill in his eyes but they remained oddly flat. One brow rose fractionally. “Indeed?”

  The single word, uttered in his deep voice, gave no hint of his thoughts. For one definable instant, the entire tavern held its breath. Then he nodded at the barman. “In that case, you must excuse us.”

  On the words, Devil turned, catching Honoria’s arm, propelling her over the threshold, lifting her through the carriage door Sligo raced to open and into the safety beyond.

  Vane swung out of the inn behind them; he loomed at Devil’s shoulder as he paused, one boot on the carriage steps. “I’ll take the hackney.” Vane nodded to where the small carriage waited.

  His expression beyond grim, Devil nodded—he followed Honoria into the carriage. Sligo slammed the door; John Coachman flicked the reins.

  It took three tense, silent minutes before the coach maneuvered its way free of the narrow street. And a further, equally silent half-hour before it drew up in Grosvenor Square. Devil alighted. He waited until Sligo let down the steps, then held out his hand. Honoria placed hers in it; he helped her down and led her up the steps.

  Webster opened the door, his relief so intense it showed in his face. Then he saw his master’s face—immediately his expression leached to impassivity. Gliding into the hall, her fingers on an arm more like rock than human flesh, Honoria held her head high.

  Devil halted in the hall. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I must speak with Sligo.” His tone was glacial, bleak, and not quite steady, the icy surface rippling with barely suppressed rage. “I’ll join you shortly. Upstairs.”

  For the first time that evening, Honoria saw his face clearly, lit by the chandelier high above. It was paler than usual, each harsh plane starkly edged, the whole no more animated than a death mask in which his eyes burned oddly dark. She met that black gaze directly. “Sligo was acting on my orders.”

  Devil raised a brow, his expression cold. “Indeed?”

  Honoria studied his eyes, then inclined her head. And turned for the stairs. In the mood he was in, saying anything further might be counterproductive.

  Rigid, Devil watched her ascend. When she passed from sight, he switched his gaze to Sligo. “In the library.”

  Sligo scurried in; Devil followed more slowly. Crossing the threshold, he paused; a footman closed the door. Sligo stood at attention to one side of the desk. Devil let silence stretch before slowly closing the distance.

  Normally, he would have sat at his desk; tonight, the rage consuming him would not let him rest. He halted before the long windows giving onto the dark courtyard.

  Words filled his head, jostled for prominence on his tongue, a ranting rave of fury clamoring to spill free. Jaw clenched, he fought to hold it back. Never before could he recall such rage—so fraught he was chilled to the marrow, so powerful he could barely contain it.

  He glanced at Sligo. “I was informed by a footman who chanced upon me in St. James that Her Grace was on her way to the Anchor’s Arms. Before I could summon a hackney, three others of my household appeared, bearing like tidings. It appears that fully half my staff were scouring the streets for me, instead of obeying my orders and looking after my wife! How the devil did she even hear about the Anchor’s Arms?”

  Sligo flinched. “She asked—I told her.”

  “What in all the saints’ names did you mean by taking her there?”

  The door opened at the height of that roar. Devil glared balefully at Webster. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Webster stepped around the door, held it open for Mrs. Hull, then closed it. “Mrs. Hull and I wished to make sure you were not laboring under any misapprehension.”

  “It is exceedingly difficult to misapprehend discovering my wife in a dockside tavern.”

  The words had an edge like cut glass; Webster paled but persevered. “I believe you wish to learn how that came about, my lord. Sligo did not act on his own. We were all, myself, Mrs. Hull, and Sligo, aware of Her Grace’s intent. We all attempted to dissuade her, but, having heard her reasons, we couldn’t legitimately stand in her way.”

  His fists clenched so tight they hurt, his jaw all but locked, Devil spoke through his teeth. “What reasons?”

  Webster outlined Honoria’s plan; Mrs. Hull elucidated her reasons. “Perfectly understandable, to my mind.” She sniffed defensively. “She was worried—as were we. It seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do.”

  Devil swallowed the tirade that leapt to his tongue. His temper seething, roiling behind the flimsy fac¸ade of civilized behavior, he eyed them narrowly. “Out! All of you.”

  They went, carefully shutting the door. Swinging around, Devil stared into the night. Sligo didn’t approve of tonnish women, Webster was as starchily devoted as they came, and Mrs. Hull was an arch-conservative—yet all had been suborned by his wife. And her reasons.

  Ever since marrying Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby, he’d been knee-deep in reasons—her reasons. He had reasons, too—good, sound, solid reasons. But it wasn’t his staff he need to share them with. Having reached that conclusion, Devil swung on his heel and stalked out of the library.

  Striding toward the ducal apartments, he reflected that Honoria had succeeded in shielding her three co-conspirators from his anger, without even being present. Of course, if he’d been able to lose some of the red-hot fury swirling inside him by venting it on them, she wouldn’t be about to face it all herself. As it was . . .

  Reaching the end of the corridor, he threw open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.

  Honoria didn’t even jump. She stood before the fireplace, head erect, unshakable resolve in every line. The skirts of her brown velvet carriage dress were gilded by the fire behind her; the soft chestnut curls atop her head glowed. Her hands were loosely clasped before her; her face was pale but composed, her eyes wide, the soft blue-grey showing no hint of trepidation. Her neatly rounded, Anstruther-Wetherby chin was set.

  Deliberately, Devil stalked toward her, watching her chin rise as she kept her eyes on his. He stopped directly before her. “You gave me your word you would not actively pursue Tolly’s killer.”

  Calmly, Honoria raised a brow. “Tolly’s killer—I gave no undertaking to sit idly by while someone tried to kill you.”

  Shadows flitted through Devil’s darkened eyes. He inclined his head. “Very
well—you may give me such an undertaking now.”

  Honoria straightened. Devil still towered over her. “I can’t do that.”

  His eyes mere slits, more black than green, he shifted closer. “Can’t—or won’t?”

  Honoria held her ground. “Can’t.” Her eyes on his, her jaw slowly firmed. “And won’t. You can’t seriously expect it of me.”

  For three heartbeats, Devil held her gaze. “I’m deathly serious.” He braced one hand on the mantelpiece, his body settling closer, his face nearer hers. “Women—wives—are supposed to sit quietly at home and embroider, not actively hunt villains. They’re supposed to be at home when their husbands get in, not out courting danger on the docks!” Briefly closing his eyes, he fought down the impulse to roar. Then he trapped Honoria’s gaze and continued: “I want your promise that you will not again indulge in any escapade such as today’s, that you will remain safely at home and that you will not further concern yourself with tracking anyone’s killer.” His eyes locked on hers, he raised one black brow.

  “Well?”

  Honoria held his gaze steadily. “Well what?”

  Devil only just managed to hold back a roar. “Well give me your promise!”

  “When hell freezes!” Honoria’s eyes flashed. “I will not sit tamely by while someone tries to take you from me. I’m your duchess—not some disinterested spectator. I will not sit quietly embroidering, waiting for news when that news could tell of your death. As your wife, I have a duty to help you—if in this case that means walking a dangerous path, so be it.” Her chin, defiantly high, rose another notch. “I’m an Anstruther-Wetherby—I’m every bit as capable of facing danger and death as you are. If you wanted a tame, complaisant wife, you shouldn’t have married me.”

  Momentarily stunned, more by her vehemence than her words, Devil stared at her. Then, his frown deepening, he shook his head. “No.”

  Honoria frowned back. “No what?”

  “No to all the above, but most especially no, you do not have a duty to assist me in hunting a murderer. As my wife, you have no duties other than those I deem proper. In my eyes, there’s nothing—no duty, no reason whatever—that could justify you placing yourself in danger.”