Devil Takes A Bride (3 page)

“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 frowned, but Dalloway kept up his lively soliloquy, ignoring the rotting floorboards, the decade's worth of cobwebs hanging from the lightless chandelier, and the little cascades trickling down here and there where the tin roof leaked.

Charles wiped a chilly droplet off his forehead, his lips pursed in distaste, but Dev saw that his solicitor had been right about the property agent. Dalloway was as slick as oil and cheerful as a rat atop a garbage pile as he led them through the place, extolling its supposed virtues.

“The main pavilion in which we now stand encompasses eleven thousand square feet, with extensive kitchen facilities suitable for feedin' an army. Mind your step, miss. Here's the stairs. Ye must see the rooms above….”

On the upper floor, themed chambers led off the main corridor. One was made like a jungle; the Egypt Chamber had a fake palm tree sprouting up from the center of the room and walls painted with a faded trompe l'oeil of the Pyramids. Another chamber represented Caesar's palace in ancient Rome, with faux-marble nudes in cheap white plaster and sprawling scarlet divans, lately serving as tenement housing for mice. Dev's survey took in the tattered wall hangings and piles of bat guano.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dalloway creep nearer, watching him like a stray dog sizing up a ham-bone that someone had left unguarded on the table. “What do you think of 'er, sir? If this property does not suit your needs, we 'ave others ye might like to see. What exactly is it you're after, if I may inquire?”

Dev stroked his chin, glancing all around him. “I need…”
Home territory. An environment I can control.
After all, he would be surrounded by enemies. He turned smoothly with a smile, playing the role of dissipated rake to perfection. “A place where I can entertain my friends.”

The blonde giggled with excitement at the prospect. Dev smiled at her, rather wishing he could remember her name. So far he had gotten by with
darling
.

Last night was a bit of a blur, as well, but he imagined he must have enjoyed himself a great deal, by the look of her. Nevertheless, he had been astonished to wake up and find her still there, especially after he had worked her so hard. It had taken him half the night to come, not that she had seemed to mind. He couldn't help it. He was losing all interest in these hardened professionals with their bag of tricks and their scheming eyes. Now he merely wondered if the chit ever planned on going home.

“Entertaining, sir? Then this could be just the spot!” Dalloway beamed, determined to make the sale. “This is a capital establishment for private parties! As Your Lordship will 'ave noted, it's convenient to London by a short drive over the bridge, or the guests can be ferried over the river by the watermen. There's plenty o' space and many whimsical outbuildings suitable for all manner o' charmin' entertainments.”

“There is also the matter of privacy. My, er, friends prefer to take their pleasures away from the scrutiny of prying eyes. The bloody gossip-writers follow us everywhere, don't you know, scribbling their little tattletales.” Dev waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I need a place…far from any crowds. An isolated place.”
One I can destroy without fear of harming innocent bystanders.

“Well, sir, you passed the gatehouse when you come in—very sturdy, just needs a coat o' paint. And there's an admirable wrought-iron fence that runs the perimeter o' the premises. The property has only one entrance, straight up the drive. To either side is bog. Very treacherous, them mud flats. The only other way in would be by boat, but then, an intruder would have to catch the river's tide just right or be stranded.”

Dev gave a businesslike nod and feigned indecision, but by the time they returned to the ballroom, his mind was made up. The place would suit his purposes to a tee.

Dalloway turned to him, beaming. “As I said, sir, all she wants is a little tender lovin' care to be brought back to 'er former glory.”

“That will, ah, cost money,” Charles delicately asserted.

“Hmm,” Dev said in a noncommittal growl. Clasping his hands behind his back, he drifted over to inspect the murals on the walls in all their flowery, faded exuberance, leaving his lawyer to ask Dalloway the appropriate questions.

He gazed at a section of the mural that portrayed the beautiful goddess Flora, wearing nothing but an artfully placed garland of roses.

“Er, my lord?” His solicitor cleared his throat.

“Yes, Charles?” Dev asked in a tone of weary indulgence as he went on studying the picture, but Dalloway interrupted before Charles could speak.

“All the paintin's you see before you are likenesses of the famous beauties of the previous decade, milord. They all performed 'ere when this place was in its prime. We had water spectacles with fireworks, musical extravaganzas, tightrope walkers—”

“Tightrope walkers, really?” he asked with interest.

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“As I was saying—,” Charles tried again, flicking Dalloway an annoyed glance. “I have doubts, sir. Serious doubts. I—I fear the building is not safe.”

“Life…is not safe, Charles.” Dev bent closer to the wall, narrowing his eyes at the figure of Flora as he noticed some marred and faded words etched on the gold ribbon that was painted below the goddess.

Good God.
He suddenly raised his arm and snapped his black-gauntleted fingers. “Candle.”

One of the footmen immediately stepped forward and held up the light. Dev scrutinized the awkward calligraphy by the candle's feeble glow, stunned to make out the name inscribed there:
Miss Ginny Highgate, 1803.
He stared. By God, 'twas an omen.

“What is it?” Ben asked, joining him by the wall.

“Ginny Highgate,” Dev murmured, turning to him in amazement.

They exchanged a shocked, ominous glance.

“Oh, yes, milord,” Dalloway offered, “Miss Highgate used to sing here every summer. Such a favorite she was with the lads!”

“Who is, ah, Miss Highgate, if I may inquire?” Charles asked.

“A beautiful lady of the theater, sir. Irish, I think,” Dalloway told him. “Such long red hair as you've never seen. Aye, all the young gents were mad for Ginny Highgate.”

“What happened to her?” the blonde piped up a trifle jealously.

“Nobody knows,” Dalloway said. “She disappeared.”

Not entirely true,
Dev thought, pained by his fairly clear idea of the ugly fate the young beauty had met.

For two years, through various hired agents, he had been covertly investigating the fateful night of the fire that had taken his family from him. He had run from his guilt for a decade, sailing from one end of the globe to the other, but on the ten-year anniversary of his family's deaths, he had resolved himself to examine every last detail of that night, something he had not been able to face as a shattered youth.

It had not taken long before he had begun to notice that many of the facts about the fire did not add up. Since then, he had chased down every lead, had spent a fortune in bribe money, and had collected a trunkload of documents on the case—newspaper obituaries, indeed, full background investigations of every person who had died in the fire, interviews with the intimidated fire official, depositions from a few useful witnesses, logbooks from the stagecoach companies whose vehicles had traveled that stretch of the road that night. Everything he could lay his hands on.

Unraveling the knot thread by meticulous thread, Dev had finally traced his way through the disappearance of Ginny Highgate, aka Mary Harris, to the Horse and Chariot Club, and it was there that he had met a brick wall. It seemed the murdered redhead was the club's best-guarded secret.

To learn it, Dev had spent the past six months infiltrating the group, slowly attempting to gain their trust, even though doing so was akin to playing roulette with his life, for they knew full well who he was.

Why they hadn't killed him already, he was not exactly sure; he could only conclude that, so far, they had bought into his highly convincing facade as a dissipated rogue of the first order. He made them believe he was such a thoughtless pleasure-seeker that it had never crossed his mind that his family's destruction was anything but the tragic accident that it had been ruled.

They surely suspected him, he mused, but he supposed they let him near because it helped them to feel that they were keeping an eye on
him
. The thing required the utmost finesse, but Dev was prepared to chance it, for the prize was the one thing he craved more than anything else in the world: peace.

Answers. There could be no peace until he had answers. Why? How? All he really wanted was for life to make sense, but it didn't and it wouldn't. Not until he had the answers to the question, nay, the furious demand, that had burned in his brain for twelve long years and had turned the heart in him to ashes.

What had really happened on that terrible night his family had been taken from him? Who was to blame? If there was one shred of hope that there was someone, anyone else that he could blame instead of himself, he was willing to go to any lengths to find it.

By God, if it cost him his life and every last penny of his inheritance, he would find the truth, lay hold of the answers—answers that only his enemies could give him. And when he had the truth in his grasp, when he finally knew who had set that blaze, he would wreak vengeance on them in an orgy of violence the likes of which they had never seen.

Rising once more to his full height, he moved restlessly away from the painting of Ginny Highgate and sent Dalloway a brisk nod. “Right. I'll take it.” Charles looked at him in alarm. “However, there is the question of price,” he conceded. “It's much too high. Charles?”

He left his solicitor to negotiate with Mr. Dalloway and sauntered back out to the foyer, where he leaned in the battered doorway and stared out at the frozen swamp, feeling moody and pensive with the return of old memories.

Ben joined him, his large brown eyes full of sensitive intelligence behind his rain-flecked spectacles as he searched Dev's face. “Are you all right?”

He shrugged, lost in his thoughts. Folding his arms across his chest, Dev cast a jaundiced eye over the ragged gardens. “I look at this place and see something of myself,” he said, his voice low, edged with bitter irony. “Sinking into the swamp.” His stare wandered across the lifeless marsh, the stubbled grasses, grayed and stiff with frost. He cast Ben a cynical half-smile. “They say it's haunted, have you heard? And cursed.”

His friend stared earnestly at him. “I wish you would not do this, Dev. You can still walk away.”

“No, I can't.” His wry smile faded, the cold hatred darkening his eyes once more, like a cloud shadow moving across the face of a sun-swept hill. “I pay my debts.”

“Even in blood? Even if it costs you your life?”

“What life?” he whispered.

He walked back to rejoin the others, leaving his loyal valet staring after him in distress. As Dev strolled back into the gaudy ballroom, Charles turned to him brightly.

“Ah, there you are, sir!” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Mr. Dalloway has agreed to a new price of thirteen hundred pounds. If this is acceptable to Your Lordship, the deal is done.”

“You think it fair?”

He nodded. “It is reasonable.”