The Bride of Devil's Acre Read online

  Henry felt the color drain from his face. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t realize—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gates,” Lord John said, shaking his head sadly. “I love my daughter, and it is for her that I have kept silent about the unfortunate details while I try to figure out what is best. But I cannot let you make such a sacrifice without knowing the extent of Jacqueline’s shame.”

  “I see.” Henry rose slowly. “Well, I thank you, my lord, for your time and your honesty.”

  Lord John rose, watching his daughter’s childhood friend collect himself. He felt no shame over the lies he told; it was best for Jacqueline. Gates would never be man enough for his daughter.

  “I’m sure you can understand that under the circumstances, I regret I must withdraw my proposal.” Henry swallowed past the lump the words formed in his throat. “My father would never allow a woman in your daughter’s condition to bear the heir to the Arlington estate.”

  “Of course,” Lord John said. H tipped his head in acknowledgment, the gesture masking a flash of satisfaction. “I would do the same, were I in your father’s position.”

  Henry nodded and made his way to the door. Halfway across the study, he turned back to find Lord Edwards watching him. “You will give your daughter my regard? I would not have Lady Jacqueline believe I am wholly unsympathetic to her plight.”

  “I’m sure she will appreciate the sentiment,” Lord John said.

  Benson stepped forward and handed him his hat and gloves.

  “Good day, Mr. Gates,” Benson said, eyeing the young man’s pale face.

  “Thank you, Benson,” Henry said, stepping past him and out into the afternoon.

  Heart pounding, Jacqueline waited for the door to close behind Henry before stepping out from beneath the stairs.

  …under the circumstances I regret I must withdraw my proposal…

  Shame heated Jacqueline’s cheeks.

  …never allow a woman in your daughter’s condition to bear the heir to the Arlington estate…

  Jacqueline reached out a hand to steady herself. Pressing her palm to her stomach, she felt the stiff, new bandage Emme had insisted she wear before putting on her dress. It was a good thing, too. If it weren’t for that small delay, Jacqueline would have rushed headfirst into her father’s study, embarrassing them both in her hurry to see Henry.

  “Jacqueline?”

  Jacqueline looked up to find her father stepping out of his study, his eyes soft with concern. “Was that Mr. Gates?”

  Lord John nodded. “He came by to give his regards. I didn’t think you were receiving visitors.”

  “No, no.” Jacqueline forced a smile. “I appreciate you making my apologies.”

  “Of course,” Lord John stepped forward and took his daughter’s arm. “Why don’t you join me? I’ll send for tea.”

  “You don’t drink tea,” Jacqueline said, letting her father lead her into the library.

  “What Englishman doesn’t drink tea?” her father scoffed. Jacqueline took a seat on the couch, watching her father cross the room and give the bellpull a tug. “I just prefer mine with a bit of brandy.”

  “Perhaps I should try it,” Jacqueline said, her smile wobbling.

  “Or we could skip the tea altogether.”

  “Papa?” Jacqueline’s voice was childlike in its sadness. “Henry doesn’t want me anymore, does he?”

  Lord John crossed the room and knelt down beside his daughter. “Oh, my dear,” he said, taking up one of her delicate hands in his. “Do not concern yourself with Mr. Gates.”

  Jacqueline nodded and brushed the tears from her cheek.

  “You’ll always have me to take care of you,” Lord John assured his daughter, patting her hand.

  Jacqueline forced her smile to stiffen. Looking into her father’s face, she realized it would forever be just the two of them.

  Unfortunately, forever was a very long time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Devil entered Westminster Abbey, taking a moment to close the door quietly behind him. New beeswax and old sin permeated the air as he walked down the aisle, ignoring the high gothic arches and colorful stained-glass windows. Devil slipped into one of the pews and closed his eyes.

  The past few weeks had been hell. Word of Lady Edwards’ kidnapping had spread through London like pox on a whore. There were wages in the betting books covering everything from the lady’s first public appearance to whether or not she was increasing, to the exact date she would finally flee London.

  “Most of my parishioners attend church on Sundays,” Canon Andrew said, taking a seat beside Devil.

  “That’s why I come on Wednesdays,” Devil said, opening his eyes.

  “It’s never too late to change,” Andrew said, eyeing his friend.

  “I know.” Devil searched Andrew’s face. And Andrew knew; Devil could see it in the holy man’s eyes. “But I don’t want to.”

  “And no one has ever been able to get you to do something you don’t want to,” Andrew replied. He should know; they’d grown up together. Both boys running wild on the streets. But where Andrew had turned to God, Devil had turned to violence. “You look tired.”

  “I am tired,” Devil admitted. He hadn’t been sleeping. His dreams, and his nightmares, were plagued by visions of broken women—a long line stretching back to his mother. Noticeably absent was Lady Edwards, but it was just a matter of time before she made an appearance.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not if you’re going to lecture me about my wicked ways,” Devil said. News of a nobleman’s daughter being abducted was not something that could be kept quiet. The particulars may not make the morning edition, but there was enough speculation that it would be a long time before the gossip settled and the event passed into history.

  “No lecture,” Andrew promised, resting his arm on the back of the pew. “Just a friendly ear and maybe a bit of advice, if you wish.”

  Devil was quiet for a moment, raking his hair with his fingers and scratching at his scalp. “Do you think intent matters?” he finally asked.

  Andrew paused to consider his answer. “Like many things, it often depends on the circumstances.”

  “You know the circumstances,” Devil said. Andrew, better than anyone, knew what he was trying to accomplish, and what drove him.

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Andrew said sadly. “Intent always matters, but God gave us free will, and with it comes responsibility.”

  Devil was quiet for a moment. Free will. Did any of them actually have free will? God may have intended it to be so, but every choice, every decision Devil made was in response to forces too often beyond his control.

  Devil’s mother had been a whore, working at a brothel he now owned. It had been one of the first businesses he’d bought. How was that for choices? He didn’t know who his father was. He could have been any one of his mother’s clients, just as likely a lord as a merchant.

  Everything in Devil’s life could be attributed to the one event he couldn’t change; his birth. So, how was that free will?

  “I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  “Of course not,” Andrew was quick to agree. Devil was, at heart, a good man, if a bit tarnished. “But you made a choice and set yourself along a path. Our lives do not progress in isolation, and our choices have consequences.”

  Devil barely stifled a curse. He wouldn’t disrespect Andrew in the man’s house, but it was the same thing Finn had said to him before disappearing into the Petal & Thorn.

  “Whatever your intent—good, bad or indifferent,—he young lady has suffered grievous harm,” Andrew said. Though he could only guess at the girl’s fate, he knew that something serious had brought Devil to him today. “And you bear the burden of making it right.”

  “I made it right,” Devil said. “The man responsible is dead.”

  Andrew said a silent prayer. Not for the dead man, but for a friend so comfortable with death.

  “That do
esn’t right the wrong,” Andrew said. “That was punishment of the guilty for the crime.” Though true judgment would come when the man stood before his Lord.

  “You don’t think knowing her rapist is dead brings the girl some comfort?” Devil demanded. It certainly made him feel better.

  Rapist? This time Andrew prayed out loud.

  “I can’t speak for the girl,” he said to Devil, “but I am sure there is peace in knowing the man responsible can never hurt her again.” Then Andrew grew quiet, trying to think of a way to help his friend understand. “Punishment, retribution, revenge—these are all words we use to address a past injury. They do not offer much comfort in the dark times to come.”

  Devil crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at his feet. His shoes were scuffed from the walk to Westminster, their shine dull from the street dust.

  “I don’t know how to comfort a woman,” Devil said, without looking up. Not that he would have the chance. Lady Edwards was back home, safe in the bosom of her father’s love. He’d ridden home with her himself, slipping out of the hackney and watching from the shadows as the driver’s knock brought Lord Edwards running.

  “Women are like anyone,” Andrew said gently. “You have to listen to understand what they need.”

  “Well, this woman certainly isn’t speaking to me,” Devil said, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips.

  “Perhaps not,” Andrew said. He didn’t share his friend’s smile. Devil was a man made hard by his childhood, and his choices. Something told him that Devil was about to find out where his breaking point was. “But something is speaking to you; otherwise, you wouldn’t be here seeking my advice.”

  “I didn’t come here for advice,” Devil said, shaking off Andrew’s words. “I came to give you this.”

  Andrew accepted the envelope. It was twice as thick as usual. “You cannot pay God to ease your conscience.”

  “I’m not,” Devil said, rising and stepping into the aisle. “That’s what I pay you for.”

  Devil leaned up against a two-hundred-year old elm tree, watching as Lord Edwards left his townhouse. He climbed into his waiting carriage, looking neither left nor right, and started off towards the palace.

  It wasn’t by chance that Devil stood cooling his heels in the shade. He’d planned his arrival down to the minute, taking into account what he knew about Edwards’ schedule and proclivities.

  Devil gave it another five minutes before stepping out of the shadows and into the afternoon sunlight. After half an hour spent in the shade, even the weak English sun felt warm, and burned the chill from his shoulders.

  The Edwards’ townhouse was just what one would expect; big, elegant, and unapproachable. The house symbolized wealth and longevity, the Edwards’ name having survived through the ages. The house had stood for over two hundred years, and Devil had no doubt it would be here in two hundred more, an Edwards firmly entrenched behind its iron gate.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Lady Edwards.” Devil handed the butler his card.

  Benson dropped the card onto a tray without reading it. “I’m sorry, sir. Her ladyship is not receiving callers.”

  “Give her my card. I guarantee she’ll see me.”

  “Her ladyship is not at home.”

  Not at home. The universal excuse when a lady wishes to avoid a caller.

  “I believe you are mistaken, Benson.” Devil drawled out the man’s name and succeeded in gaining the butler’s attention. “Perhaps you should check on her ladyship.”

  Benson stiffened.

  Devil stood half a head taller than the man, but the butler still managed to try to look down his nose at him.

  “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Perhaps not, but I know you.” Devil handed Benson another card. “Perhaps you should read it this time.”

  Benson hesitated, the card waiting between them.

  Devil extended the card a little further, giving it a little shake for good measure.

  Benson snatched up the card. He was reluctant to take his eyes off the unwelcome caller. Something about the man warned him against looking away.

  Devil waited while Benson glanced down, his eyes going wide. It was a reaction to which Devil was accustomed. “Now you know who I am.”

  “Yes, sir. I do believe I am familiar with the name.”

  “Very good.” Devil smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, but one that meant he expected no more trouble from this point forward. “Now, her ladyship…”

  “My lady?” Benson hesitated at the sitting room doorway. Their unwelcome guest stood waiting in the foyer, a dark presence that caused the space between Benson’s shoulder blades to itch.

  “What is it, Benson?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  Jacqueline sighed. She’d been enjoying the quiet of having the house to herself. It had taken everything she had to convince her father to keep to his daily schedule. Relief at having her back—and fear of something else happening to her—had prevented him from leaving her side for more than a few minutes since her kidnapping. He meant well, but if Jacqueline didn’t get some space soon, she would be one for the asylum.

  “Who is it?”

  Benson handed her a card. Jacqueline ran her thumb across the engraved lettering: Purgatory

  Jacqueline’s head snapped up. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, my lady.”

  Jacqueline examined the card again. Made of expensive card stock, it lacked any embellishments, or a name, but she didn’t need one. There was only one man in London with the audacity to affiliate himself with the underworld.

  “And he asked to speak with me, not my father?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I wonder what he wants,” Jacqueline said, staring at the card in her hand. The lettering was bold, like the man, she supposed.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, my lady. Shall I make your excuses?”

  “What? Ah, no, send him in.” Jacqueline set the card aside. “Lets see what he has to say.”

  Benson hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “My lady, the gentleman’s reputation…” Notorious didn’t begin to describe the man who stood waiting. It wouldn’t do for her ladyship to be found alone in the man’s company. “Perhaps I should send Emme?”

  Jacqueline resisted the urge to laugh, but just barely. It would be considered extremely unseemly for her to break into hysterics, especially with company waiting. “Benson, I have very little reputation left worth protecting. There is no reason to disturb Emme.”

  “If you insist,” the butler said, but didn’t move from his place in the doorway.

  Jacqueline lifted her chin. “Send him in, Benson.”

  Benson’s shoulders sagged with defeat. “Yes, my lady.”

  Jacqueline watched Benson bow out of the room. She could hear his clipped footsteps retracing his way to the foyer. The sound echoed in the afternoon stillness of the house, an unmistakable tattoo of disapproval.

  A moment later, Benson’s footsteps returned, this time accompanied by a second set of steps and the distinct tap of a walking stick.

  The man who walked into Jacqueline’s sitting room was nothing like what she was expecting, and everything his name suggested. Black hair, green eyes, and an arresting face, he didn’t just enter the room, he dominated it.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Devil said.

  Jacqueline rose as feminine awareness roared to life. The sensation caught her by surprise. Masculine power rolled toward her, heating the air in the room and squeezing her chest.

  “I admit to taking this meeting out of curiosity.” Jacqueline indicated the chair across from her, the delicate table between them pitiful protection, should she need it. “Are you sure it isn’t my father you wish to speak with?”

  “No, I came to see you.” Devil took the seat across from Lady Edwards, searching her features carefully. Hazel eyes set in a pretty face watched him with po
lite curiosity, but not a glimmer of recognition. Apprehension, perhaps, but not fear.

  Devil could work with that.

  “Would you care for tea?” Jacqueline wasn’t sure what one offered a notorious club owner, and, if the rumors were true, criminal. “Perhaps something stronger? I can have a bottle of brandy brought in.”

  If there was any left.

  Jacqueline’s father had been working his way through their supply of spirits, her kidnapping sending him to the bottom of a bottle each night.

  “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.” He hoped. Having made the decision to come, Devil was eager to get on with the business at hand.

  “Very well.” The social niceties seen to, Jacqueline tugged her cuffs down over her scarred wrists and folded her hands in her lap, expectantly. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

  “Radcliffe, Douglas Radcliffe.” The use of his given name felt foreign, he had been Devil for so long. His mother had called him her little devil, and the childhood nickname had stayed with him long after her death. “But you can call me Devil.”

  “Devil,” Jacqueline said. The name felt strange on her tongue. Inappropriately familiar, perhaps, but not unpleasant. Nothing went on in London’s underworld, it was said, without this man’s expressed knowledge, and permission.

  “I have a business proposition for you,” Devil said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs.

  “If it’s business you’re after, then it’s my father you should be speaking to.”

  “This is business of a more personal nature.” Devil watched a dimple appear between Lady Edwards brows. “Recently, I’ve discovered that, due to my lack of pedigree, certain business opportunities remain closed to me. I am in need of a wife, one with an exceptional name to help pave the way into the upper echelons of society.”

  Jacqueline blinked. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple, really. I’m asking you to marry me.” Devil ignored Lady Edwards’ stunned expression. It was a plausible explanation—one that would make sense to a woman raised in a society that traded its daughters like chattel and regarded marriage as a business arrangement. “I need a wife, and as I understand it, you need a husband. Marriage would go a long way toward repairing your reputation.”