Devil's Bargain
Jade Lee
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY
HAT
D
EVIL’S
P
ROMISE
The bedroom had once been light and airy, even beautiful. The colors were a soft yellow touched with splashes of green, but time had dulled the tones and fabrics to an insignificant whimper of color. The gray daylight merely highlighted the nicks in the simple furniture and the stains on the coverlet. Though she detected no dust, the simple ravages of time made the room seem forlorn.
Still, it was much better and larger than any room Lynette had yet enjoyed in her life. She turned to her guide. “Is this my room alone? Or do I share?”
She detected a slight shift to his lips, but Adrian’s eyes remained remote, his tone distant. “It is yours alone.” Then he gestured to a doorway half hidden in shadow beside the bedpost. “That leads to my bedchamber. I will thank you to knock before entering.”
She stiffened, turning to him in shock. “I shall not enter at all, sir! I am to be married, and I shall enter that state with my purity and my honor intact.”
This time he did smile, though the expression seemed hard. He stepped into the room, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned negligently against the bedpost. “Your honor is not my concern. Your purity, however, shall be grossly torn.”
Lynette ran her fingers along the dark, black lines of Admiral Lord Nelson’s tomb. She held her breath in awe as she imagined the hero, his voice echoing through the crypt of St. Paul’s Cathedral as he said his most famous words:
“England expects that every man will do his duty.”
Every man, of course, included the women. And so she was doing her duty—to her father, who was now dead; to her family, which could no longer feed itself; and to her uncle, who did not want one more dependent relative than he absolutely had to have.
She clutched her bag tightly, feeling the tiny lumps that contained all her worldly possessions: two dresses and underclothes, two shillings, thruppence, and her Bible. If only the Baroness Huntley would appear, then Lynette could go on about the business of getting a wealthy husband.
Abandoning the spacious crypt floor, Lynette
climbed the stairs to the main cathedral. She had thought to be inspired here and so had arranged with the Baroness Huntley to meet at St. James’s. In truth, beyond Nelson’s tomb, the great building intimidated her. The soaring lines of massive stone weighed down, making her feel dwarfed and small.
It did not bother her overmuch, or so she told herself. Her father had been a tall and massive man, well used to booming his sermons from the small parish altar. She was accustomed to feeling tiny beside him. She just had not expected the feeling to follow her here, to London, as she at last took matters into her own hands.
The baroness had promised her a Season in London, and a rich husband to boot. And so Lynette had stolen away from her family on the very day they were to pack up and leave for her uncle’s tiny estate. She had written a note to her mother, claiming to enter a nunnery so as not to overburden her uncle. And then she had come here, to begin this quest despite the misgivings in her heart, despite the nervousness that even now made her limbs shake.
Lynette climbed the last steps to the main floor, skirting the edge of the pews, trying to stop herself from hiding in the shadows. She apparently succeeded, for a broad, imposing woman stood in the aisle between the last pews and cleared her throat imperiously.
Lynette hurried forward.
“You are late.”
“My apologies.” Lynette stammered, doing her best to quiet the rapid beat of her heart. “I was viewing Lord Ne—”
“Come along, then.” The baroness—for surely that
was who this woman was—didn’t look at Lynette, but let her gaze skim along the pews, nervously skipping past the altar.
“Where are we going?”
“Out of here,” the baroness snapped. Lynette recognized the symptoms: Obviously, the woman was uncomfortable inside a church, or at least one as large and awe-inspiring as this one. But the baroness’s discomfort was Lynette’s gain. Lynette had taken an enormous risk coming to London in this manner. She would not go further until she had a few of her questions answered.
“Before we leave,” she began, pretending to a confidence she did not possess, “I wish to know the details of our bargain. I was told you could find me a rich husband.”
The baroness’s eyes pinched down over her nose. “Nothing is for free, girl. I get a quarter of your marriage portion.”
Now it was Lynette’s turn to frown. “But I have no dowry.”
“Don’t be stupid.” The baroness practically growled as she turned toward the door. “Your husband will pay for you.” She stopped to glare at Lynette. “And it shall be a tidy sum if you do as you’re told.”
Lynette wanted to hear more, but the baroness had clearly reached her limit. The woman was leaving, her tall form covering distance fast. And yet Lynette hesitated. She had left her home in Kent full of confidence. She was going to London on a grand adventure, with no one to naysay her and everything to gain. But now that she was at last faced with her future—in the guise of a statuesque woman with beautiful skin but a sour expression—she felt all her fears
rush to the fore. Her hands actually trembled, and she could not make her feet move.
Then she saw him: a man leaning with negligent grace against a column. He had dark hair and a brooding air, and when he noticed she was looking at him, he pushed away from the column, walking with a stride that seemed sinful, though Lynette could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his lips curved with feline cunning. Or perhaps because his steps seemed to stalk more than walk, prowl more than approach. And when he came near enough, she looked into his eyes and saw a blue so piercing she thought of morning sunlight through stained glass.
Her throat went dry, and instinctively her gaze skittered about her, looking for a minister or altar boy—anyone who might protect her, for the baroness had already pushed through the front door.
“You had best hurry,” the man said, his voice deep and low. It was musical, but in the way of a distant chime that one had to strain to hear. “She hates the church and will not wait long.”
“The baroness, you mean?” Lynette’s voice came out weak and high, and she swallowed, trying to calm her fears. This was just a man, she told herself sternly. And they were in a public place. A church, no less. And yet, for all her admonishments, her nerves still skittered and made her skin feel prickly.
“The baroness,” he acknowledged. “My aunt.”
She jumped as if pinched. “Your aunt?” She bit her lip, not knowing what to say but finding words nevertheless. “She is to find me a husband.” Then, for the oddest moment, she wondered if this man was her future bridegroom.
He smirked, as if reading her thoughts. “No, I am
not the one for you. Your husband will be old and wrinkled with bad teeth and even worse breath. He will remind you of a shriveled prune, but he will be rich. And he will die while you are yet young.”
She stared at him in silence. Then she made her voice cutting. “I do not know you, sir, nor do I wish to.” And with that she meant to walk away, but his chuckle stopped her. It was low and warm, despite her coldness to him.
“You have spirit. Good. You will need it in the years to come.”
She wanted to leave, but her desperation to know her future overcame her anger. She could not stop her question. “Years?” she echoed, hating the quaver in her voice.
“Six months to marry. Another ten years for him to die.”
“Ten years,” she whispered softly. “I will be thirty-one.”
“An excellent age to be a rich widow.”
Suddenly, it was all too much. Grief welled up inside her. Unbidden, the tears came, spilling over her cheeks to drip silently onto her gloved, clenched hands. She tried to stop them, but the grief was too raw, the change in circumstance too new.
How could her father do this? She knew he had not intended to die. The sickness came upon him quickly, tearing through him in barely more than a week. But how had he not made provisions for them: his wife and three children? Why had he left them destitute and dependent upon a pinch-penny uncle?
It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be what God intended. And yet it had happened, and Lynette was here now, doing the only thing she could to restore the situation.
Then she felt the stranger, his touch warm and reassuring as he gently led her out of the church. “Come,” he said softly. “The baroness is waiting.”
He guided her until they stepped out into a gloomy London afternoon. The baroness had already hailed a hackney, and all three of them climbed in. The baroness’s nephew sat beside Lynette, his arm a firm, hot presence against her side. Rather than look at him, she turned to the window, watching the streets of London to block the flow of questions in her mind.
In the end, they came to a respectable neighborhood with modest homes that seemed dull in the gray light. They stopped in front of one, striking only in its absolute sameness to every other house on the street. As Lynette stepped out of the hackney, she couldn’t help but think of what all that sedate sameness was meant to convey: moral correctness, wedded bliss, glowing children, and the contented veneer of a happy, wealthy family.
Was all of it a lie?
Of course it was, she answered herself. The house, the neighborhood, even the stiff-necked baroness herself could not hide the truth from Lynette. What they were doing—this buying of a husband—was immoral. Marriage was for love, not commerce. Lynette had assisted her father in dozens of marriage ceremonies. She knew the liturgy by heart. And a common business arrangement was not what God intended.
And yet it was so common as to be expected. So typical, in fact, that she—a parson’s daughter who knew better—was already enmeshed in a devil’s bargain to buy herself a rich, old man. She would not
have joy in her marriage. She would have to be content with wealth.
Her hands shook at the thought, but her back was straight and her shoulders square as she entered the baroness’s home. The interior looked much like the exterior—sedate and gloomy. The baroness did not stop, but went directly down a hallway to the back of the house. To her right, Lynette caught a sight of a large, ugly butler, quickly introduced and just as quickly disappearing into a side parlor.
Unsure what to do, Lynette moved to follow the baroness. She was stopped by the nephew—she had no other name for him—who touched her arm and gestured upstairs.
“Let me show you to your room,” he offered.
She nodded, agreeing only because it would be rude not to. She followed him to a bedroom that had once been light, airy, even beautiful. The colors were a soft yellow, touched with splashes of green; but time had dulled the tones and fabrics to an insignificant whimper of color. The gray daylight merely highlighted the nicks in the simple furniture and the stains on the coverlet. Though she detected no dust, the simple ravages of time made the room seem forlorn.
Still, it was much better and larger than any room she had yet occupied in her life. She turned to her guide. “Is this my room alone? Or do I share it?”
She detected a slight lift to his lips, but his eyes remained remote, his tone distant. “It is yours alone.” Then he gestured to a doorway half hidden in shadow beside the bedpost. “That leads to my bedchamber. I will thank you to knock before entering.”
She stiffened, turning to him in shock. “I shall not
enter at all, sir! I am to be married, and I shall enter that state with my purity and my honor intact.”
This time he did smile, though the expression seemed cold. He stepped into the room, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned negligently against the bedpost. “Your honor is not my concern. Your purity, however, shall be grossly torn by even the most lax standards.”
His words shook her. He spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion that she would be dishonored. But what were her alternatives? She could not run. She had no money to return to Kent, and even if she did, her family had already left for her uncle’s. They thought her safely ensconced in a nunnery. What would she say to them? That she had decided to take a jaunt to London? Alone?
Her reputation would be in tatters. She had to make the best of her situation here. So she lifted her chin, deciding to salvage her pride if nothing else.
“Sir, you are offensive,” she said stiffly.
He nodded, as if that, too, was a foregone conclusion. Then he abruptly sketched a mocking bow. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Adrian Grant, Viscount Marlock, and this is my home.”
“Your home,” she echoed weakly. Her mind whirled. Had she heard tales of the Viscount Marlock? Even in Kent? Was he the one with a reputation for debauching young girls? She could not remember. So she took refuge in good manners, dropping into a demure curtsy.
“Perhaps you were told that I shall be assisting in your education,” he drawled.
Her gaze hopped to his face, seeing his lips curve into a sensuous smile. There was no doubt what he
was suggesting, and yet it could not possibly be true. “I have been told nothing,” she said slowly. “Perhaps you could explain exactly what your duties will entail.”
He was silent as he stepped closer. She wanted to shy backward, but there was no room. She was already backed against the door. So she stood firm, holding her breath as he extended his hand and touched her cheek in a slow caress. “You were told nothing? But I understood that you arranged for this meeting.”
“Yes, my lord. A family friend recommended the baroness, and so I wrote to her.” In truth, he had been a friend of a member of her father’s congregation, visiting from London. The elderly man, the Earl of Songshire, had approached her quietly one evening as she performed her cleaning duties in the church. They had spoken at length, mostly about herself, her father’s death, and her family’s destitution. Then he had pressed the baroness’s address into her hand, urging her to inquire—secretly—into the woman’s services.
“What you do not know,” said the viscount, his smile growing, “is that all that the baroness does, she does at my bidding.”
Lynette was trembling. She did not know why, but she felt weakness in her limbs and was powerless to stop it. If only she understood what he intended. “You will not find me a husband?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. You will have a bridegroom, and a rich one at that. But it is I who shall be in charge of your education. Not the baroness.”
“But why?” she cried out. Then she hastily moderated her tone, dropping her gaze until she appeared
appropriately modest. “I mean, why should a gentleman of your obvious breeding concern yourself with my education?”
His sharp bark of laughter startled her, but when she lifted her gaze, the traces of humor were already fading. “You will find, little Lynette, that breeding, as you put it, does not fill one’s belly.” He made an expansive gesture indicating the house. “This and a moldering pile of rocks are all that are left of the family fortune. I cannot wed an heiress; my reputation is too unsavory. And so I market young brides instead.”
Lynette gasped in shock. He
was
the evil viscount. And she was here. With him. And if that was true…Her thoughts spun away. Good Lord, this whole scheme was impossible!
“You have a question?”
Her gaze lifted only to find that he was watching with the intensity of a cat staring at a mouse hole. “I…I have many questions,” she stammered.