Read Online The Devil to Pay by Liz Carlyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Liz Carlyle
Tags: Historical
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canceling piano tomorrow. She’s taken that sore throat which is going round.”
“How dreadful,” she said. “Was there anything else?”
“Actually, there was.” Julia fumbled in her pocket, and handed Sidonie a note. “The crossing sweep brought it.”
Sidonie knew at once what it was. As usual, the envelope bore no name or direction, merely a seal. A griffin couchant, pressed into black wax. “Jean-Claude,” she said quietly.
“I daresay,” said Julia softly. “Good night, my dear.” The door clicked softly shut.
As if it were a signal, Thomas bounded to the floor. Thus completely abandoned, Sidonie read her note and hurled it into the fire, destroying the evidence. Then she put out her candles and pulled a chair to the window. And there she remained, until dawn began to light the sky, simply staring through the gaslit gloom at the house across the street and, strangely, thinking about her mother.
The Marquess of Devellyn had been pelted with a great many slurs in his long and dissolute thirty-six years, and at least half of them were deserved. Inebriate, idiot, cad, coxcomb, rakehell, rounder, and rotter were amongst the ten most popular—the other three had momentarily escaped him thanks to a near-mortal morning-after headache—but no matter how drunk or dissipated he became, there were two invectives he always took pains to avoid: cheat and coward.
Today it was the latter which most concerned him. And so Devellyn put on his tall beaver hat, picked up his gold-knobbed stick, and forced himself to step out his front door and set off down Duke Street in the direction of Piccadilly just as a distant clock struck noon. There was no evading what he had to face now, so he might as well have done with it at the earliest possible opportunity.
It was a cool but bright morning in Mayfair; a little too bright, really, for the sunlight was making his pounding head worse. Fortunately, the walk was but a short one. Unfortunately, he had not even reached the steps of his club before the first round of applause broke out, sharp and clear in the crisp spring air. Devellyn looked up to see a trio of young bucks literally hanging out the bay window of White’s, clapping and hooting like a cell full of bedlamites.
Wondering whether he ought to simply call one of them out and shoot him for sport, Devellyn cut the three a look of warning, a malicious black snarl which had left many a man shaking in his shoes. The hooting stopped. Their color drained. The young men drew back through the window, their eyes averted, their voices lowered.
Devellyn soldiered on up the short flight of stairs, forced himself to push open the front door, then somehow managed a gracious smile for the porter who hastened to take his coat. Despite the hushed tones still ensuing from the morning room, the porter kept a straight face and bowed respectfully as Devellyn passed through to the drawing room.
Tales of the Black Angel’s exploits had been providing grist for the ton ’s gossip mill for months now. So it had been too much to hope, of course, that Sir Alasdair MacLachlan, raconteur extraordinaire, could have kept his mouth shut about last night. But Devellyn really had hoped he wouldn’t draw quite so large a crowd. That hope was crushed the instant he stepped into the room. Alasdair already stood before the hearth, one boot set on the fender and one elbow propped on the mantelpiece, enthusiastically regaling what looked like half the membership.
“And by then, everyone in the taproom could hear Dev roaring!” Alasdair waved one hand theatrically. “Why, he was bellowing for the innkeeper, and demanding we break the blasted door down, and shouting some other wild nonsense about a red-haired doxy with a tattoo on her breast.”
Mortification swept over Devellyn again. Damn it, he should have sworn Alasdair to silence. Then and there, the marquess renewed tenfold his vow to find the Black Angel and make her life a living hell.
“How dreadful,” she said. “Was there anything else?”
“Actually, there was.” Julia fumbled in her pocket, and handed Sidonie a note. “The crossing sweep brought it.”
Sidonie knew at once what it was. As usual, the envelope bore no name or direction, merely a seal. A griffin couchant, pressed into black wax. “Jean-Claude,” she said quietly.
“I daresay,” said Julia softly. “Good night, my dear.” The door clicked softly shut.
As if it were a signal, Thomas bounded to the floor. Thus completely abandoned, Sidonie read her note and hurled it into the fire, destroying the evidence. Then she put out her candles and pulled a chair to the window. And there she remained, until dawn began to light the sky, simply staring through the gaslit gloom at the house across the street and, strangely, thinking about her mother.
The Marquess of Devellyn had been pelted with a great many slurs in his long and dissolute thirty-six years, and at least half of them were deserved. Inebriate, idiot, cad, coxcomb, rakehell, rounder, and rotter were amongst the ten most popular—the other three had momentarily escaped him thanks to a near-mortal morning-after headache—but no matter how drunk or dissipated he became, there were two invectives he always took pains to avoid: cheat and coward.
Today it was the latter which most concerned him. And so Devellyn put on his tall beaver hat, picked up his gold-knobbed stick, and forced himself to step out his front door and set off down Duke Street in the direction of Piccadilly just as a distant clock struck noon. There was no evading what he had to face now, so he might as well have done with it at the earliest possible opportunity.
It was a cool but bright morning in Mayfair; a little too bright, really, for the sunlight was making his pounding head worse. Fortunately, the walk was but a short one. Unfortunately, he had not even reached the steps of his club before the first round of applause broke out, sharp and clear in the crisp spring air. Devellyn looked up to see a trio of young bucks literally hanging out the bay window of White’s, clapping and hooting like a cell full of bedlamites.
Wondering whether he ought to simply call one of them out and shoot him for sport, Devellyn cut the three a look of warning, a malicious black snarl which had left many a man shaking in his shoes. The hooting stopped. Their color drained. The young men drew back through the window, their eyes averted, their voices lowered.
Devellyn soldiered on up the short flight of stairs, forced himself to push open the front door, then somehow managed a gracious smile for the porter who hastened to take his coat. Despite the hushed tones still ensuing from the morning room, the porter kept a straight face and bowed respectfully as Devellyn passed through to the drawing room.
Tales of the Black Angel’s exploits had been providing grist for the ton ’s gossip mill for months now. So it had been too much to hope, of course, that Sir Alasdair MacLachlan, raconteur extraordinaire, could have kept his mouth shut about last night. But Devellyn really had hoped he wouldn’t draw quite so large a crowd. That hope was crushed the instant he stepped into the room. Alasdair already stood before the hearth, one boot set on the fender and one elbow propped on the mantelpiece, enthusiastically regaling what looked like half the membership.
“And by then, everyone in the taproom could hear Dev roaring!” Alasdair waved one hand theatrically. “Why, he was bellowing for the innkeeper, and demanding we break the blasted door down, and shouting some other wild nonsense about a red-haired doxy with a tattoo on her breast.”
Mortification swept over Devellyn again. Damn it, he should have sworn Alasdair to silence. Then and there, the marquess renewed tenfold his vow to find the Black Angel and make her life a living hell.
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