The Devil Takes a Bride

by Julia London

  Merryton’s town house was among those in a row on Brook Street, not far from Beckington House, and only a short walk across Grovesnor Square to Audley Street, where Grace now resided. The Merryton house was redbrick with two columns marking the entrance. Cox was on hand to greet them, drawing them into the foyer with a black-and-white-tiled floor and a ceiling soaring overhead that made the space seem much larger than it was.

  Grace looked around as she removed her gloves and bonnet and noticed the rooms on either side of the foyer were sparsely furnished. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was that here, there were paintings on the walls. Not many, but enough that the walls were not entirely bare. She guessed that the absence of paintings in London drew too much attention and invited speculation. Unlike Blackwood Hall, whom few ever saw.

  Hattie and Julia, the woman who cleaned Jeffrey’s office and personal rooms, stood beside Grace in the foyer as Cox took their cloaks. Hattie’s head tilted back as she looked at the domed ceiling overhead. “My mother’s youngest brother came to London when he was sixteen years and was never heard from again,” she said in a near-whisper.

  Grace put her arm around Hattie’s small shoulders. “You have my word that you will return to Blackwood Hall in one piece, Hattie.”

  “I always thought I’d come to London,” Julia said, and rubbed her hand under her nose as if she had an itch. “Fancied myself a singer. Thought I’d take up the stage.”

  Both Hattie and Grace turned their heads to look at Julia. “You did?”

  “Oh, aye,” Julia said, and rested her hands on her round belly. “I’m quite a fine singer, mu’um.”

  “I never fancied I’d be anything but a maid,” Hattie said weakly.

  “That’s what dreams are for, lass,” Julia said. “Very well, Mr. Cox, I should see that his lordship’s rooms are in order,” she said, and marched off toward the stairs.

  “Is his lordship here?” Grace asked.

  “No, madam. He’s gone out for the day and bids you not wait for him. He expects to return quite late. Shall I show you to your rooms?”

  Grace glanced through an open door to one of the rooms, to a clock on the mantel. She had time to see Honor before supper. “Yes, thank you. Come, Hattie—we’ve much to do.”

  Her rooms—a bedroom, sitting room and dressing room—faced the street. From the corner of her sitting room, Grace could see a bit of Grovesnor Square. Hattie reported that the earl’s rooms were just down the hall, a mirror image of what had been reserved for the lady of the house, and his dressing room adjoined hers.

  The suite was very pleasingly painted in sky-blue-and-cream trim, with a cascade of papier-mâché ropes serving as the molding. The hearth was faced with marble, the carpets new. It was lovely, and under any other circumstance, Grace would be eager to show her sisters. But she had too many more pressing issues on her mind, not the least of which was how to explain to anyone how she had come to be married to Merryton while mourning her stepfather, without her family to attend her.

  If only she’d never gone to Bath. If only, if only.

  But then again, if she hadn’t done what she had, she would not have married Jeffrey. No matter what happened, no matter what Jeffrey might do when he learned the truth about her mother, Grace would not wish to have missed this experience. She put her hands to her abdomen and drew a deep breath. No, she wouldn’t have missed it for the world. She was forever changed by it, and for the better.

  But now, there was the issue of how she would explain her sudden marriage to her family and friends. If there was one person who would know precisely what to do, it was Honor Cabot Easton.

  Grace left Hattie to put her things away, and set out for the Easton house across the square. The day had turned gray, and a light rain had begun to fall, washing the ever-present scent of smoke from Mayfair as she walked. The rain began to grow heavier, however, and had turned into a deluge by the time she reached Audley Street. She dashed up the steps of Easton’s house, rapping loudly on the door.

  The butler there took her things and showed her into a sitting room while he went to announce her to Honor. Grace looked around her while she waited. The home was quite grand, with marble floors, gold-leaf inlays in the molding above and silk-covered walls. It did not look like the house of a man who had lost his fortune as Honor had claimed in her letter. This room was inviting—it looked as if people enjoyed living here. There was no concern for symmetry, no worry for uneven painting frames, no fretting over the proper placement of the accoutrement.

  “Grace!”

  Grace heard Honor’s shriek somewhere above, and then what sounded like a roomful of children running across the floor above her. That sound carried to the stairs, where the clatter of Honor’s shoes on the wooden steps must have echoed down the street. She fairly slid to a halt before the door of the parlor before she caught herself against the frame. She stared at Grace. “Good God, it really is you!” she cried, and burst into the room, throwing her arms around Grace and squeezing her into a tight embrace.

  Much to Grace’s horror, tears of relief began to stream from her face. “Honor!” she sobbed. “Oh, Honor.”

  Honor began to cry, too, and the two of them sank to the floor and to their knees, still clutching each other. But then Honor pushed back, swiped the tears from her face and then those from Grace’s face. “No more,” she said, smiling in spite of the quaver in her voice. “We are the brave and fearless ladies of London, remember?”

  “Oh, how I wish I could forget we ever said we were!” Grace said, and slid onto her bottom, her back against the wall. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said morosely, and swiped at her tears.

  Honor laughed and came to her feet. “Joy is bleeding from your veins, darling. I’m very happy to see you, too.” She grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her up. “Now come and tell me everything. Start with why you’re in London, when you arrived and what makes you cry.”

  “I am crying because I’ve missed you so, and I’ve been through so much,” Grace said. Images from the past few weeks began to fly through her mind.

  “You poor dear!” Honor exclaimed. “You’re so strong to have married him and have endured it—”

  Grace grabbed her sister’s hand. “God in heaven, how I’ve missed you, Honor,” she said sincerely. “I’ve missed your ordering me about and telling me what I ought to do from this moment to that.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Honor said. “I missed you worst when Easton refused my offer of marriage—”

  “Refused what?”

  “My offer. He refused me, publicly and dramatically.” She waved her hand. “We’ll speak of it later. The point is, he has apologized properly for it,” she said, pulling Grace to a seat on the settee next to her.

  Grace blinked. “What are you saying? I can’t believe—”

  “Of course you will believe it. But enough of that! Here you are, returned to me! I need you with me, Grace.” Honor squeezed her hand between hers. “I am terribly happy, more than I ever thought I would be. It’s not ideal—we’ve very little money—but George is very clever and he’s not given up on his ship. It won’t be long before he turns it all around. There I go again—enough of me!” she cried. “What of you? I want to know it all. You mustn’t omit a single thing. Merryton? How could you make such a dreadful mistake?”

  How could she indeed? “Because it was dark, and I thought— Oh, I don’t know, Honor, it all happened so quickly. I caught a man other than the one I intended, but now, I don’t think I made a mistake at all.”

  “Of course it was a mistake.”

  “No,” Grace said with a shake of her head. “I mean that I am glad I mistook him for Amherst.”

  Honor gasped. She fell back against the settee as if Grace had just admitted treason. And just as quickly, she sat up again, her blue eyes twinkling. “All right. Tell me everything.”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Grace said. “With the night I seduced the wrong man? Or
should I begin with how desperate and alone I felt when I arrived at Blackwood Hall? It’s dreary, Honor, so very dreary and dark. Or perhaps I should refuse any mention of that at all and tell you how I have come to care for him, but not in the way I ever imagined I would care for a husband. And then again, perhaps none of that matters or will ever matter, for I haven’t told him everything.”

  “What do you mean?” Honor asked.

  Grace winced. “I haven’t told him about Mamma.”

  Honor gasped so loudly she startled Grace. “Grace! You must tell him! Everyone knows it now! Mamma—we can’t hide her any longer. I mean that yes, we hide her, for God’s sake, for can you imagine what all of Mayfair would say if they saw her wandering about, talking to people who aren’t there? But everyone knows that she is quite mad.”

  “They do?” Grace had suspected it, but it pained her to hear it.

  Honor suddenly leaned close. “One day, Hannah took her for a turn about the square,” she whispered. “She usually says nothing, for she is locked in her own world. But that day, she saw a gentleman and became convinced he’d stolen her reticule. Hannah said it was quite dreadful, her shouting, Thief! and what not.” She leaned back. “You may rest assured that everyone knows it, darling. It is a poorly kept secret. Have you seen her?”

  Grace shook her head. “I came to you first.”

  “And I’m so very glad you did. We’ll go around together. But first, you must tell me about Merryton and Blackwood Hall. I am dying to hear it, I’ll be honest. I’ve always thought him so disagreeable.”

  Grace felt sorrow for her husband, considered by the world to be peculiar and aloof, trapped by his own thoughts. Grace did not tell Honor that, but she told her everything else. She even told her about Molly Madigan, and Bother and the newly named Trois, for only having three legs. She talked of how difficult it was to reach her husband, and how he seemed to resent her so completely in the beginning.

  “He sounds wretched and odious,” Honor pronounced when Grace had finished telling her everything.

  “I thought so, too. But I discovered recently that he’s not, Honor. Not really.” She told Honor how, by some miracle, he’d begun to be kinder to her, and had actually been affectionate. She admitted there was something quite raw about him. “He reminds me of a wounded animal, as if he’s in pain and struggles to hide it. I ache for him, really, for I think it must be terribly exhausting to hide one’s pain, don’t you?”

  “What pain could he possibly have?” Honor scoffed.

  “We’ve all some pain in us, haven’t we?” Grace said. “His father was unkind, I gather.” She looked down at her hands. “Quite hard on him. And his mother—he scarcely knew her. But I think it is more than that. I see that it is more, and in those moments when we are alone, he lets go of it, and he is...he is everything I ever dreamed of. He is kind and attentive, and he says I am beautiful, and I can see how desperately he desires me.”

  “Really?” Honor said with delight. “And...?” She nudged Grace’s knee. “Does he please you in the way a husband ought to please his wife?”

  Heat flooded Grace’s cheeks. “I don’t know if it’s the way a husband ought to please a wife, but I am quite...happy.”

  Honor squealed with a laugh, her hand going to her belly as she fell back against the settee. “The very same happened to me!”

  “But then, he turns,” Grace said, grabbing Honor’s hand and forcing her attention back to more important matters. “It’s as if there are shutters on his eyes, green shutters, and they close. And I think, if only I could reach him when the shutters close, I could help him.”

  “Oh, Grace,” Honor sighed, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Isn’t it just like you, to tend to the wounded and the outcast?”

  “What do you mean?” Grace asked, surprised by that.

  “Don’t you know that about you? You have always been able to see something in others that no one else can see. Remember Frederica Morton?” Honor shuddered. “She had an appalling disposition, but you alone remained her friend.”

  “You were unkind to her.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt that I was,” Honor said, almost cheerfully. “So was most of London. She never had a kind word for anyone.”

  “She was lonely. She didn’t have a single friend.”

  “Of course she didn’t have any friends. If she wanted any, she went about it in a peculiar way, didn’t she? But you were her friend. I shall never forget the sight of the two of you strolling arm in arm through Hyde Park.”

  Grace hadn’t liked Frederica much, either, but she’d felt such sympathy for her. Frederica never seemed to understand just how unpleasant she was in social situations. “She was tedious. But she truly wanted to be included.”

  “And remember the baby goat caught in the fencing?”

  “Oh,” Grace said, wincing at that painful memory.

  “You stayed with that poor wretched thing until it died.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Honor, it was mortally wounded! I could hardly leave it to die alone.”

  “You couldn’t. But I could, and so could Prudence. It was too heartbreaking to bear! But that’s precisely what I mean, Grace. You, of all of us, have always had the ability to see past the surface. You see pain, and you see the good in people. Even in someone as awful as Merryton. I’m not the least bit surprised that you’ve spotted a bit of good in him. He must be over the moon that he has managed to marry you.”

  Grace laughed ruefully. “He was hardly over the moon. And while he has warmed to me, he has been very plain that the one thing he will not tolerate is for any dishonor or scandal to touch his name.”

  “Mmm,” Honor said, her gaze narrowing a little. “Seems a little too late for that, doesn’t it? Everyone was talking about the sudden marriage of the Earl of Merryton, and now, the disgrace of Amherst.”

  “Pardon?” Grace said.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Honor said, surprised. “Isn’t that why you’ve come to London?”

  “No—come for what?” Grace asked, her brow furrowing.

  Honor cried out with shock. She looked to the door as if she was concerned someone might be listening, and said, “You’ve not heard! Oh, darling! First, the word went around town that Merryton had married quite unexpectedly, and not under pleasant circumstances, and very soon thereafter a most salacious rumor began to go around—that Amherst had sired a child with the daughter of his tailor.”

  Grace gasped. “What?”

  “Yes! Prudence has heard he keeps her in a town house north of Bedford Square.”

  Grace gaped at her sister.

  “Yes, it’s shocking,” Honor said, nodding her head. “He seems too affable to carry such a deep secret, doesn’t he?”

  “Are you certain, Honor? It’s not merely an ugly rumor?”

  “Well, naturally, I can’t be entirely certain—but I think it is true.”

  Grace buried her face in her hands, alarmed by her own foolishness, grateful that Amherst had not come. She didn’t care that he’d sired an illegitimate child—Lord knew he’d not be the first young lord to have done so. It was the realization that if Amherst had come to the tea shop that night, she would have harmed even more people with her folly. A child! And behind that child was a woman who must care for Amherst. Grace had been so naive, and so bloody impressed with her own cunning.

  “Oh, no! You mustn’t be glum!” Honor said. “I suppose given what we know now, if you were determined to snare one of the Donovan men, you ended up with the right one, didn’t you? Oh dear, don’t fret about it, darling—after what I did in the gaming hell of Southwark, your transgression seems quite mild in comparison.” Honor laughed, as if she were proud of that. “I can now scarcely wait to make the acquaintance of Merryton. But first, we must go to Beckington House. Prudence and Mercy miss you horribly, and so does Augustine.”

  “How are they?” Grace asked as Honor stood.

  “Very well,” Honor said. “Pruden
ce has been so very helpful in seeing after Mamma. She’s taken it upon herself, but you know Prudence, always stepping in to turn things to right. Augustine thought it best that Mamma and the girls stay under his roof until Easton and I can take them. And Mercy...” Honor clucked her tongue. “Mercy is Mercy, sticking her nose in places it ought not to be, and creating wild tales. She keeps Augustine in fits.”

  Grace smiled fondly. Mercy had always vexed Augustine’s tender nature without intending to. “I’m desperate to see them.”

  “You’ve not said a word about Mamma,” Honor said accusingly. “You do intend to see her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course!” Grace said, gaining her feet, too. “Oh, Honor, I’m a wretched daughter! Do you know that I’m afraid to see her, to see how she’s worsened? And I don’t want to introduce her to Merryton.”

  “You have no choice,” Honor said calmly. “Why have you not told him?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace moaned. She felt a little sick inside. It was impossible to convey the war in her head about it, but she did her best to put it into words. “In the beginning, I didn’t tell him because he spoke so harshly against scandal and told me explicitly that he would not tolerate any more than what had happened. I feared he would cast me out.”

  “At least you could have come to us,” Honor said. “We’re not afraid of scandal, Easton and me.”

  “That is hardly a superior position to take. Nevertheless, had I known of your marriage, I would never have been in the tea shop,” Grace reminded her. “I didn’t know until it was too late! I was desperate—I thought we were on the verge of losing all opportunity for Prudence and Mercy. And who could say what Augustine would do with Mamma?”

  “I am ashamed that I doubted him, in truth,” Honor said. “He has been kind to Mamma. He knows Easton has no money at present. But I’ll warn you, darling, he told me very recently that now you’ve married into privilege, there really is no reason for the Cabots to remain at Beckington. ‘Wouldn’t they be more comfortable with you or Grace, dearest?’” she said, mimicking Augustine. “So there, you see? You have no choice. You must tell Merryton.”