“It is yours, my lady.” A quiver began deep within Sophia, for she had no desire to abandon her safe haven, even for Cornwall. She had sought out this employment deliberately and couldn’t conceive of a better place to keep her disguise intact.
But she could not defy her employer and risk losing her place.
She tried not to think about the fact that she had deceived that employer, who had only been good to her thus far.
I will have you and your inheritance, at any price.
She clasped her hands together and tried to appear more calm than she felt. Surely having no inheritance meant that she was safe from his avarice?
But Sophia did not wish to risk discovering otherwise.
Daphne showed no such restraint. She hugged herself with delight at the prospect of both a journey and a London season, then spun in place. Sophia bit back a smile at her charge’s pleasure, for it made her recall her own anticipation of her first arrival in London. Daphne’s was unlikely to end as poorly.
Lady North Barrows sighed with apparent exasperation. Her indulgence was evident in the twinkle in her eyes, though, which even she could not quell. Sophia met her gaze and smiled, for it was true that Daphne’s delight with life and its pleasures had a way of winning favor from even those most reluctant to admire her.
“And so, to details.” Lady North Barrows seated herself upon a settee with a swish of dark taffeta. Her hands remained braced upon the umbrella handle, and Sophia knew she would issue detailed instructions. “I have had a letter this morning, Miss Findlay, from the solicitor Mr. Timothy Hunt to inform me of the passing of my brother, Jonathan Hambly, the Earl of Banfield.”
“My condolences, my lady.” This death must have somehow influenced Lady North Barrows’ decision to see Daphne come out.
“I thank you, Miss Findlay.” Lady North Barrows cleared her throat. “Mr. Hunt also noted that the reading of Jonathan’s last will and testament will occur on November 1. It will be done at Jonathan’s estate, Castle Keyvnor, in Cornwall, where I lived as a girl, and undoubtedly the lion’s share of his wealth will pass to our second cousin, Allan.”
“Cornwall,” Eurydice said again with no less wonder than before. She perched on a stool before her grandmother. “There must be pirates and ghosts.”
“Of course, there are,” her grandmother agreed with a dismissive gesture. “The castle has been haunted for at least two hundred years.” She rapped her umbrella on the floor when Eurydice might have asked for more detail. “The point is that much of the extended family will gather for this ceremony. While it is true that any token Jonathan might have bequeathed to me—and truly, I expect little—can be managed by solicitors.” She paused and raised a hand to her throat. “Although my mother possessed a very fine cameo...” She shook her head and continued in her usual crisp tones. “It has occurred to me that this event offers an opportunity for the practice of decorum, and the cultivation of manners within society.” She nodded once with satisfaction at her own plan. “And that within the confines of family, any serious faux pas might be overlooked.”
Eurydice laughed and Daphne looked daggers at her.
Lady North Barrows nodded. “We shall visit Cornwall first, then perhaps—if a certain miss shows improvement—London next year for the season.”
Surely no one would recognize Sophia in Cornwall. She had never been there. And even the inns between North Barrows and Castle Keyvnor were unlikely to play host to anyone she had met seven years before.
And perhaps by the time Lady North Barrows went to London, Sophia could find another post in an equally remote location. The girls would have less need for her by then.
“Oh, Grandmaman, I shall be a marvel, just for you,” Daphne declared, flinging herself down beside her grandmother and kissing the jet ring on that lady’s hand.
“You need not be a marvel, child, simply more like a lady.”
“I will!”
“Until you forget,” Eurydice noted, with some truth.
Lady North Barrows stood. “We shall depart in the morning. We shall take the large carriage, for there will be ourselves, plus Nelson and Sara, and we shall hope for good roads that we arrive in time.” She inclined her head. “We will have many long days in the carriage. I trust you will be prepared, Miss Findlay.”
“You may be certain of that, my lady.”
The older woman surveyed the girls with a slight smile. “I expect there will be little German mastered in what remains of this afternoon. I have sent Sara to pack for the girls. Perhaps they might assist her with their choices.” Lady North Barrows strode to the door. “They will join the party for one dinner, two if their manners are sufficiently improved.” Daphne squealed at this. “They will take lunch with the ladies, undoubtedly will walk into the village of Bocka Morrow at least once, and may be invited to ride. Please remind Sara that they will need sturdy cloaks and boots. The weather can be most foul in that corner of the world.”
“And what shall we pack to fend against the ghosts?” Eurydice demanded.
Her grandmother paused on the threshold and turned back. “Your wits, of course. You have need of nothing more when it comes to ghosts.” With a final rap of her umbrella upon the floor, Lady North Barrows departed.
Leaving Sophia with much to plan and more than a little trepidation.
It was almost midnight when Philip removed Lucien’s tailcoat and Lucien checked the fabric over his heart. There was no sign of the hole that had briefly graced the tailcoat, and none of the one that must have been in the tailcoat’s back. His shirt was perfect, unmarred by blood or gunshot, if a little wrinkled from the day. Even after all this time, he still had to check. The bullet should have pierced his heart and killed him.
But it hadn’t, because of the baron.
“So, he did shoot you,” Philip said, his manner grim. “And you let him. You rely too much on that demon.”
“The baron will be gone soon enough,” Lucien said and his friend shuddered that he named the demon aloud. “Seven years is almost over, Philip.”
The other man gave him a look that spoke volumes. “You’re a fool to trust him. He’s a trickster and a cheat. He won’t go easily.”
“He’ll take what he was promised.”
“He’ll take more. It’s his way.”
“We have an agreement.”
“He’s never satisfied with the terms, not at the end.”
“He will be this time.” Philip’s eyes narrowed but Lucien didn’t elaborate. He’d dragged his old friend through enough trouble these past seven years. It was time for all of it to end—but he knew that if he confided in Philip, Philip would try to save him. It couldn’t be done. The baron’s tithe had to be paid.
In a strange way, Lucien was ready to pay it.
“And then what?” Philip demanded.
“And then you will take the money I give you and go home, find a beautiful woman to marry and live out your life in prosperity and joy.”
Philip sniffed. “I won’t leave you,” he insisted and hung up Lucien’s clothes. “I suppose you will spend the night in the drawing room.”
“I’ve never shirked from paying the baron’s due, and I won’t start now.” Lucien smiled. “That’s why we get along so well.”
“I would never have imagined he could corrupt you so completely.” Philip eyed Lucien. “What did you promise him? It must have been a lot for a seven year run of luck.”
Lucien only smiled. He changed to his dressing robe, retrieved the token from the pocket of his tailcoat—to Philip’s visible disgust—and left the bed chamber. He carried a candle in one hand as he descended to the drawing room, the charm in the other.
He could feel his companion waiting for him.
Expectant.
Hungry. The baron was becoming stronger as they neared the end of their seven-year agreement. More watchful, as if he suspected a trick.
But Lucien wouldn’t flinch from what had to be done.
He had
nothing to live for once Sophia’s inheritance was regained, after all.
The room was chilly, colder than it should have been, and the candle flame danced wildly in a wind Lucien couldn’t detect.
To think Lucien hadn’t truly believed that a wager with this demon would make him invincible. Yet he had tested the baron repeatedly, and the baron had saved him every time. Lucien had ridden into seven battles, he had set foot on no less than five ships said to be doomed, he had bedded the wives of nineteen peers of the realm rumored to be jealous beyond all expectation, and then the mistresses of seven of them just for good measure, and he had fought—and won—thirty-two duels. Thirty-three. He had been shot through the heart repeatedly and stood up to duel again moments later, not suffering so much as a scratch.
Every time.
His run of luck was unquestionable.
It was unholy, and it was unshakable. The baron couldn’t be beaten, and Lucien couldn’t die because he was in the baron’s care. He couldn’t lose at cards or any other game of chance. He couldn’t stop gambling, and he couldn’t keep from winning.
There had been a time when he would have called such a situation paradise.
Now Lucien knew better. He had lived enough in seven years to exhaust him.
But he was almost done. There was just St. Maurice, the gem in the crown, the last property to fulfill the oath he’d sworn. By November 1, it would be done.
On November 1, the baron would demand payment.
And Lucien would be at peace.
In the drawing room, he strode to the mirror over the hearth to examine his own reflection. He put the candle down on the mantel, where the flame continued to flicker. He heard a chuckle and wasn’t surprised to see the familiar specter take the place of his reflection. The baron was an old black man, with white at his temples and merriment in his bloodshot eyes. He was both ancient and ageless, a familiar and not always welcome companion. He was impeccably dressed, as always, his cravat perfectly tied and a blood red rose in his buttonhole. He posed as if he were Lucien’s reflection, straightened his cravat and bowed a little.
He winked and Lucien looked away.
“Seven years,” the baron said, speaking as always in the French patois of Saint Domingue. “The debt comes due soon, mon petit.”
“I know. I will pay it.”
“I know, mon petit.”
Lucien lit the larger candle on the mantelpiece and placed the shade around it so the flame couldn’t blow out. He filled a glass almost to the rim with dark rum and placed it beside the candle. The small vivid painting of Saint Martin de Porres kept on the mantelpiece was moved closer to the candle. Lucien added the strange little tied bundle that he’d carried for almost seven years between picture and candle.
He bowed and retreated, feeling the baron’s satisfaction with the offering.
By the morning, the candle would have burned itself out. The rum would be gone. The picture would be face down, and the cloth bundle would be warm, as if it had been held tightly all the night long.
Lucien locked the door to the drawing room, so none of the servants would discover the makeshift altar, and stretched out on the settee to sleep. Music emitted from his grandmother’s pianoforte as soon as his eyes closed, and he knew the servants would assume—as always—that he was the restless musician. Philip could have told them otherwise, but he never would.
Not even when it was over.
Philip would have preferred that the baron didn’t exist, or at least that he hadn’t been invoked—much less welcomed. On November 1, Philip would get his wish.
The music rapidly grew in volume. It was feverish, wild, chaotic, both thrilling and disturbing. If Lucien squinted, he could almost make out the silhouette of the baron, his fingers dancing over the keys. The candle flame flickered, as if it would dance to the music. Some of the rum was already gone.
Lucien closed his eyes, knowing the baron would be amused all the night long, and that he would not sleep until dawn. He was enough of his father’s son to recognize that when you make a deal with a devil, it’s clever to keep the demon close at hand.
Chapter 1
London—September 1804
After weeks at sea, Sophia Brisbane was more than ready to have her feet on dry ground again. She had become progressively more chilled the farther they sailed from St. Maurice, home and haven, and she began to fear she would never be truly warm again. The ship had to be towed into the port, given the density of the fog. She stood at the rail in her thick cloak and shivered within it, watching. The prison hulks loomed out of the mist on one side, the raucous sounds of the prisoners secured there reminding her of crows.
“Will Mr. Brisbane greet us?” Miss Findlay asked, her manner a little less resolute than usual. Sophia’s governess and companion had felt the cold particularly.
“I would expect as much.”
“Or perhaps that Mr. Lucien he always writes about. He does seem to be entrusting that young friend of Master Charles with a good deal of responsibility.”
Sophia nodded. “I think Father likes him, but I wouldn’t know him to see. I hope Charles comes.”
Miss Findlay nodded but didn’t respond.
It took an eternity to be hauled into port, but the fog was thinner there. Sophia was relieved to see her father, hands braced on his hips as he surveyed the mooring of his ship with satisfaction. Charles was behind their father, more richly dressed than she could have expected. He had become quite dashing since she had last seen him. As she watched, her older brother fastidiously took a pinch of snuff.
Sophia laughed that he should pretend to be a dandy for her entertainment. Perhaps Charles did not notice her reaction, for he didn’t smile.
There was another young man with her father, one with ebony hair and an intent gaze. He was tall and broad, of an age with Charles but not as stocky. He was dressed more simply, in black and white, his garb so plain as to be austere. He scanned the ship, then her father pointed to her, and his gaze locked upon her. Even at a distance, Sophia felt a strange heat at his steady perusal. She dropped her gaze and felt herself flush.
He had to be Lucien de Roye, and Sophia felt new interest in her brother’s friend.
The gangplank was lowered and the captain escorted Sophia to her father himself. Many compliments were exchanged, then her trunks were retrieved as her father made introductions. “You’ve read about Lucien in my letters, of course,” he said, gesturing to the younger man.
“At your service, Miss Brisbane,” Lucien said and bowed for Sophia. He was more handsome than she had realized, and his attention flustered her. Sophia was accustomed to the company of women and older male servants, her father’s bluster, but not the charm of a handsome man almost of an age with herself. She felt very much out of her element when she offered her gloved hand.
“I thank you,” she said and he smiled, the gleam in his eyes making her heart leap.
“You’ll not make a conquest here,” Charles complained, catching Sophia in a tight hug and giving her a buss on each cheek. “Sophia is doomed to make a brilliant marriage.”
Sophia saw a shadow appear in Lucien’s eyes before he turned away.
“I say, Father, must we linger about this hideous place?”
“Hideous? This is where money is made, Charles.” Their father’s voice boomed in his enthusiasm. “As I’ve told you a hundred times, a man must greet his shipment at the docks, even when it arrives on his own ships, tally it and count it and ensure he isn’t cheated.”
“But I want to show Sophia my new gelding. And she needs to be driven around the park, so everyone can see her.” Charles granted her an engaging smile.
“Can I not possibly go to the house first?”
“Pshaw!” Charles dismissed the notion. “She can’t possibly want to remain here.”
“I’ll help with the tallying, Mr. Brisbane,” Lucien offered.
“Of course, you will, boy. I can always rely upon you.” Sophia’s father slant
ed a glance at Charles. “You will have to learn one day, Charles, particularly if you continue to show such a taste for spending.”
“But it will not be today, Father!” Charles offered Sophia his elbow. “Come along, Sophia, and Miss Findlay, as well. I will take you to the new house.”
“A new house?”
Her father’s chest puffed with pride. “I am to be knighted, Sophia. We could scarce remain in Kensington.”
“Dear God, how much has he spent?” Sophia asked Charles in an undertone.
“Not nearly enough,” her brother replied tartly. “There was a fine townhouse to be had in Mayfair, but he would not dispense the coin.” Charles grimaced. “Instead, we are to make due with Chelsea.” He shook his head. “Chelsea! Even Lucien has a house in Belgrave Square.”
“He does?” Sophia found herself glancing back at her brother’s friend from Eton and Oxford, only to find Lucien still watching her. “I thought he had no fortune.”
“Well, he hasn’t a fortune and he hasn’t a title, not anymore, but he has his grandmother’s house. I thought he should sell it to Father but he wouldn’t. I don’t know why he keeps it, for it is in need of much repair.”
“Does he have other family?”
Charles shook his head, and Sophia found herself liking that Lucien kept his grandmother’s house, though he didn’t need it. “Perhaps it has fine memories for him,” she said warmly.
“Memories, Sophia, are worthless. What you want are connections with the right people.”
“I thought you were learning Father’s trade.”
Charles scoffed. “Father has social ambitions. I am pursuing them. Let Lucien inventory the stock. I have better things to do.”
And so it proved he did, for no sooner had Charles deposited Sophia and Miss Findlay at the new house—which proved to be sumptuously furnished—than he abandoned them.
Presumably for better social connections.
It was Lucien who called later to ensure that they were settled, Lucien who instructed the housekeeper to build up the fires as the new arrivals would feel the dampness particularly, and Lucien who offered to show the two women the charms of London.
Something Wicked This Way Comes Page 2