Devil Takes a Bride (Knight Miscellany) - Softcover

A Pennsylvania native, Gaelen Foley holds a B.A. in English literature from S.U.N.Y. College at Fredonia. It was while studying the Romantic poets, such as Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley, that she first became interested in the Regency period, in which her novels are set. After college, she moonlighted as a waitress for five years to keep her daylight hours free for writing and honing her craft. Her dedication paid off in 1998 when Ballantine published her first novel, The Pirate Prince, which went on to win the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award for Best First Historical Romance. Since then, her books have won the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Bookseller’s Best Award, the Colorado Award of Excellence, the Beacon, and for two years running, the esteemed Golden Leaf.

Foley lives in Pittsburgh with her husband, Eric, and two spoiled bichons frises. She is hard at work on her next book in the Knight family series. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 522, South Park, PA, 15129, or visit her on the Web at www.gaelenfoley.com.

Chapter One

London, 1817

The fanciful cupola-topped pavilion languished in desolation on the frozen marshes south of the Thames, a gaudy ruin, with a gray February sleet blowing against its rusty, fake turrets and boarded-up windows. Some said the place was haunted. Others claimed it was cursed. All that His Lordship’s unassuming little man-of-business knew, however, was that if his glamorous patron did not soon arrive, he was sure to catch his death in this weather.

Clutching his umbrella over his head, Charles Beecham, Esquire, stood wrapped in his brown wool greatcoat, his beaver hat pulled low over his receding hairline, and a look of abject misery on his face. He sneezed abruptly into his handkerchief.

“God bless ye.” Mr. Dalloway, standing nearby, slid him a greasy grin.

“Thank you,” Charles clipped out before turning away from the unkempt property agent with a respectable humph.

Dalloway was the opposition in this matter, determined to bilk His Lordship out of three thousand pounds for the dubious privilege of owning the godforsaken place. Charles meant to advise his patron against the purchase in the strongest possible terms, not the least because it would fall to him to explain the mad expenditure to old Lady Ironsides. Stealing another discreet glance at his fob watch, he pursed his lips. Late.

Alas, his staid life as the Strathmore family’s solicitor had become alarmingly interesting since His Lordship’s return from his high adventures on the seven seas and elsewhere.

Though barely thirty, the viscount had done the sorts of things Charles preferred to read about from the safety of his favorite armchair. Her Ladyship had oft regaled Charles with tales of her dashing nephew’s exploits: battling pirates, chasing down slave ships, living with savages, fending off mountain lions, surveying temples in the wilds of Malaysia, crossing deserts with the nomad caravans of Kandahar. Charles had thought them a lot of cock-and-bull tales until he’d met the man. What on earth could he want with this place? he wondered, then rehearsed a diplomatic warning in his head: This, my lord, is precisely the sort of rash adventure that drove your uncle into dun territory. . . .

Ah, but thinking a thing and saying it to Devil Strathmore were two different matters entirely.

Just then, a drumming sound approached from behind the wintry shroud of pewter fog and needling rain, like thunder rumbling in the distance. Barely discernible at first, it swiftly formed into the deep, recognizable rhythm of pounding hoofbeats.

At last. Charles stared in the direction of the plea- sure grounds’ great iron gates. The ominous cadence grew louder—driving, relentless—reverberating across the marshes, until it shook the earth. Suddenly, a large black coach hurtled out of the indistinguishable gray, barreling up the graveled drive that offered the only safe course through the boggy waste.

The quartet of fine, jet-black horses moved like liquid night, their hooves striking sure over the mud and ice, steam puffing from their nostrils. Stationed fore and aft on the shiny body of the coach, His Lordship’s driver, groom, and two footmen stared straight ahead, impervious to the weather. They were clad in traditional Strathmore livery, a sedate dun color with smart black piping, stiff felt tricornes on their heads, and frothy, white lace jabots at their throats.

Charles looked askance at his opponent as Mr. Dalloway ambled down from his shelter atop the flamboyant curved steps of the pavilion. His wily stare was fixed on the approaching vehicle. Noting the gleam of greed in Dalloway’s eyes, Charles fretted with the unhappy premonition that his rival would win the day, and then what on earth would he tell Her Ladyship? He could only cork his terror at the thought of the formidable dowager’s displeasure by reminding himself of her stern orders seven months ago, upon her nephew’s return to London.

“Send all of Devlin’s bills to me,” the old dragon had instructed in no uncertain terms. When Charles had tactfully questioned the command, seeking only to pro- tect the elderly woman, Her Ladyship had pooh-poohed his hesitancy. “It is enough that he has come home at last, Charles. My handsome nephew must cut a dash in Town! You will send his bills to me.”

And so, obediently, Charles had.

His Lordship’s bills, like a flock of ink-smudged doves, had winged their way to the dowager’s elegant villa in the Bath countryside: the handsome house on Portman Street and all its elegant furnishings, Aubusson carpets, French damask drapes, Classical paintings and nude marble statues; the wine cellar; the staff’s wages; the coach, the drag, the curricle; the horses; the clothes; the boots; the club dues for White’s and Brooke’s; the opera box, the parties, the jewels for himself and a number of unnamed women; even the IOU’s from a few unlucky hands at the gaming tables. Dear old Aunt Augusta had paid them all without a peep. But three thousand quid for an old, abandoned pleasure-ground? It seemed excessive even for him.

As his coachman pulled the team to a halt in front of the pavilion, Charles swallowed hard, his heart beating faster. The footmen jumped down from their post in back of the coach and marched forward like soulless clockwork automata, one opening the carriage door, the other producing an umbrella, which he held at the ready. Dalloway cast Charles a nervous glance, no longer looking quite so cocky.

“You haven’t met His Lordship yet, have you?” Charles murmured under his breath, feeling a trifle smug.

Dalloway did not answer. He looked again at the coach, where the footman knocked down the folding metal steps and then held the door, staring forward in stone-faced efficiency.

The first person to climb out of the coach was the amiable Bennett Freeman, a neatly dressed, young black man from America who served as His Lordship’s gentleman’s gentleman, had followed him on his journeys around the globe, and attended the viscount in much of his day-to-day business. Behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Mr. Freeman’s intelligent brown eyes scanned the bizarre location with a perplexed glance, but when he saw Charles, he waved affably and dashed toward the pavilion to escape the weather.

Next, a dainty, gloved hand emerged from the carriage, accepting the footman’s assistance. Charles sneezed again as His Lordship’s latest elegant ladybird stepped down from the coach and minced toward the stairs, teetering over the mud on her high metal pattens. It was not her clothes but her mercenary eyes and wiggly walk that gave away her profession—these days the top courtesans dressed as fine as the ton’s best hostesses. She wore a tight spencer of maroon velvet and held up her skirts with one gloved hand, while with the other, she tried to shield her magnificent hat with its clutch of ostrich plumes from the steady drizzle.

Gentleman enough to show chivalry even to her sort, Charles hurried over and gave the high-priced harlot his umbrella.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she responded in a breathy purr.

Dalloway eagerly assisted the hussy in going up the wet stairs.

Last of all came Devil Strathmore.

The footman with the umbrella had to hold his arm higher in order to shelter his towering master from the weather. His Lordship slid out of the coach with a sinuous motion, then paused to adjust the fur-trimmed greatcoat of luxurious black wool that hung carelessly from his massive shoulders and draped his powerful frame. Small, tinted spectacles shaded his eyes from the flat, gray glare of afternoon; he wore his long, raven hair tied back in a silky queue. A small gold hoop adorned his left earlobe. Eccentricity, after all, ran in his family, as did his Irish good looks. His skin was still coppered from that desert he had crossed months ago, but his lazy grin when he caught sight of his loyal family retainer flashed like the white cliffs of Dover.

There was no helping it. Even to a middle-aged fuddy-duddy like Charles, that smile, when Devil Strathmore doled it out, could make a person stand up taller. He looked every inch the hardened, worldly roué—and he was no man to cross, to be sure—but if he liked you, there was a warmth in him that no one could resist.

“Charles, good to see you.” Lord Strathmore strutted toward him with long-legged, confident strides, the umbrella-holding footman hurrying to keep up.

“My lord.” Charles winced at his hearty handshake and nearly tripped forward when the big man clapped him on the back.

He swept an elegant gesture toward the building. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course, my lord. B-but, first I really must say—”

“Problem, Charles?” He took off his tinted spectacles and stared down at him for a moment with pale, wolf- like eyes.

Charles looked into that fathomless gaze and saw traces of the wilderness still lingering there: leafy shadows; blue vistas; deep, dark canyons. He gulped. “N-no, of course, my lord, no problem. It’s just, well, it’s a terrible expense, don’t you see.” He faltered, seeing he was having no effect. “That is to say, I am not entirely sure Her Ladyship would approve.”

Dev paused, studying him.

As an ardent student of human nature, he appreciated the courage, indeed, the loyalty it took his little solicitor to stand up to him. He truly did. All the same, in this matter, he would brook no denial. Explaining his true motives was out of the question, of course. It seemed he was just going to have to brazen it out and insist on having his way because—well, because he was Devil Strathmore and had always done exactly what he liked.

He slipped Charles one of his most charming smiles and tucked his spectacles inside his breast pocket. “Don’t be daft, Charles. Aunt Augusta thinks I hung the moon.” He turned and jogged up the stairs.

“Well, that is true—” Charles hastened to follow. “But perhaps I could explain it better to her if it would please Your Lordship to inform me wh-why you wish to buy this place?”

Dev laughed. “Why, for the same reason I do everything: because it amuses me. Come, come, Charles, don’t be a killjoy. Let’s have a look.”

“But, sir—she’ll have my head for this!”

“Charles.” He stopped, turned, and sighed, then affectionately fixed the little man’s lapels. “Dear, dear, Charles. Neat, tidy Charles. Very well, I shall tell you what’s afoot, but I am taking you into strictest confidence. Understood?”

“Sir!” His eyes widened at this spectacular show of favor. “Of course, my lord. You have my word a-as a gentleman.”

“Capital.” Dev grasped his shoulder and pulled him nearer, staring firmly at him. “Now, then.” He bent his head toward the shorter man and lowered his voice. “Have you ever heard, Charles, of the Horse and Chariot Driving Club?”

Charles’s eyes widened in scandalized innocence. “Sir!” he breathed.

“Quite,” Dev replied. “You know how I enjoy the sport of driving.”

“Y-yes, sir. The curricle, the racing drag, your silver stallion—”

“Precisely. Well, there are a few . . . shall we say, requirements for entrée into the club, you see.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, a prospective member must be of good birth, have no morals and a great deal of money.”

“But—you don’t, sir.”

Dev laughed without humor. “Not yet, of course, but it’s the same as if I did.”

Indeed, he was counting on his aunt’s fortune as critical to his success. Gambling, for example, was how he had gotten close to his targets in the first place, for such sharpers as the boys of the Horse and Chariot Club could always use another deep player to round out the whist table. Curious—the more he lost without complaint, the more the blackguards seemed to enjoy his company. But let them win for now, he thought. Soon, they would lose everything.

Including their lives.

“The second requirement an aspiring member must fulfill is to show his respect by presenting the brotherhood with a suitable gift. This—” Dev glanced around at the building, then gave Charles a conspiratorial wink. “—will knock ’em off their bloody feet.”

At least it would when he had packed the floor with explosives.

“I’ve heard there’s a third requirement,” he added breezily, “but so far, I’ve been unable to find out what it is.” “Yes, but sir—the Horse and Chariot!” Charles whispered in dread. “Everyone knows—well, you have been away from Town all these years—perhaps you have not heard—?”

To Dev’s amusement, his little lawyer glanced from side to side, as though Damage Randall, Blood Staines, or that elegant pervert, Carstairs, might be lurking nearby.

“They are a very bad sort, sir. Very bad. Duels— unspeakable things! I am quite sure your aunt would not at all approve. Not at all!”

“Well, Charles, you may be right, but as I said, I do love the sport. A true aficionado of the four-in-hand is prepared to overlook such things. Don’t you agree? I’m so glad you gave me your word not to mention this to old Lady Ironsides. Shall we?” Dev cast him a silky smile.

“Oh, dear,” Charles said under his breath, hurrying after him as Dev continued up the stairs. “Very well, but do please take care not to appear too eager in front of this Dalloway creature, my lord. He is a low, sly thing.”

Having traded guns, camels, and spices with the Bedouin caravans in Marrakech, possibly the shrewdest hagglers in the world, he trusted he could manage one ill-groomed Cockney property agent, but Dev hid his amusement and bowed to his solicitor with princely grace. It was the man’s loyalty that mattered, after all. “Thank you, Charles. I stand duly advised.”

Mollified by his acknowledgment, Charles followed him into the building without further fussing. Introductions were quickly exchanged, and in short order, they embarked with Mr. Dalloway on their tour of the pavilion.

Leaving the octagonal foyer with its red-painted ceiling, tainted mirrors, and touches of chipped gilt, they went through a pair of large, ornately carved doors that looked like the product of some opium eater’s fevered fancy. The whole place had an eerie, almost sinister air of intoxication and decay; the lingering odor of stale beer rose up in a fog from the worm-eaten floorboards and mingled with the general musty smell.

As they moved away from the foyer, the gray daylight shaded into darkness, for the windows were all boarded over. Dev’s two footmen carried candles for their party, as did Mr. Dalloway. They ventured deeper into the gloom, the floors creaking like tortured ghosts. One could almost hear the phantom echoes of forgotten laughter; spiders went scuttling across the walls. Even inside, the place was cold enough to cloud their breath.

The blonde shrieked and huddled close to Dev when something swooped over their heads. Lifting the candles higher, they soon discovered the colonies of bats and house martins that had gotten in through one of the chimneys.

In the main corridor, the flickering flames of their candelabra revealed tall columns painted like candy canes, a grimy parquet floor laid out in a dizzying zigzag design. Brightly colored, swirling murals flowed fantastically across the walls. Interior doors led to shadowed galleries and a dozen garish salons. There was even a ballroom with an elevated stand for an orchestra.

“God, it’s hideous,” Ben declared, turning to him.

“Deliciously so,” Dev purred too low for Dalloway to hear. He sent his trusty valet and friend a devilish glance. “It’s perfect.” The twisted lads of the Horse and Chariot would love it. The perfect setting in which to lull their senses so he could move closer to the answers he so desperately craved.

Ben fro...