Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

NEXT DAY

H er booted heels a swift click-clack down the corridor, Beatrix caught a quick glimpse of the pendulum clock on her way to the kitchen.

Nine fifty-five.

Five minutes until Lord Devil arrived.

Lord Devil…

Indeed.

Lord Devil, here , in her house.

After a sleepless night of tossing and turning and mostly staring at the crack in the ceiling that bisected the entire width of her bedroom, she’d risen with the dawn and looked at the house with fresh eyes. Truly, the place had fallen into a state of ruin.

She’d immediately set to work and hadn’t stopped since. Floors swept… Surfaces dusted and tidied… That sort of thing.

The plan her mind had worked out was a simple one. When Deverill arrived, she would usher him from the front door to the nearest drawing room. Strictly speaking, that was the widest swath of the house he needed to experience.

He shouldn’t step through any floorboards, if he kept to that path.

Beatrix kept to paths, too.

Except she didn’t always keep to paths, did she?

Last night, she’d strayed off the path in rather spectacular fashion.

And today, she was to pay for it.

Blimey.

Still, one thing had gone right for her today.

Lydon never made it home last night.

Which was no great surprise. He might spend three of thirty nights in the house.

She offered up a silent, but fervent prayer that he would not shamble in during her tea with Deverill. It would be too much.

Too much.

Ironically, two words that were coming to define her life—a life characterized by its inability to have enough.

It would’ve been funny—if only it were.

She entered the kitchen and noted Cumberbatch’s napping presence in a corner. Too late, she’d realized she should’ve scoured London for a maid willing to work for a morning.

As it presently stood—and would proceed, unless a sudden catastrophic event struck London—Cumberbatch would serve tea.

Palms damp with perspiration, she reached for the kettle that had just reached the boil and poured water into the only unchipped teapot in the house. That it didn’t match the only pair of unchipped teacups—which didn’t even match each other—was something she would simply have to live with.

Perhaps Deverill wouldn’t notice.

She snorted.

The man lived like a king.

He would notice.

A loud harrumph came from Cumberbatch’s corner.

Her snort must’ve startled him awake.

She estimated she had fewer than two minutes before the clock struck ten.

“Be sure to serve at a quarter past the hour.” The instruction served as a settling of her own nerves rather than a reminder for Cumberbatch. There was nothing wrong with his memory.

“Aye, aye.” He waved her off in the long-suffering manner he’d adopted these last few years. “A valet serving tea. What’s this grand old world coming to, eh?”

Beatrix let the familiar lament wash over her as she gave the tray another once-over. The tea was brewing up to an almost dark brown—if she squinted hard enough. There was cream, even if it was watered down. No sugar. Bad for the teeth, anyway. Perched atop a pair of small unmatched plates were the prizes of the morning—two precious scones. She’d set out first thing and procured them expressly for this tea. She couldn’t resist a deep inhalation. It had been several months since anything that smelled so delicious had inhabited the four walls of this kitchen.

Sadly, the tray lacked butter, but nestled within a small bowl was a wee dollop of strawberry jam she’d paid an extra tuppence for. London prices were extraordinary these days.

Still, she was strangely proud of this hard-won tea tray. She would be able to serve Deverill a proper, if paltry, tea.

Right.

Dong , came the low thrum of the pendulum clock. The first chime of ten. Improbably, the clock yet remained in the house. Items of value tended to vanish during the night in the House of Lydon.

Ten o’clock.

Her heart a racehorse in her chest, she gave Cumberbatch a parting nod and, somehow, willed her feet to move toward the front of the house, every other step marking the next chime. The tenth chime sounded, and she stopped, the silence deafening as she anticipated the rap of the door knocker her bones knew was coming. One second loped past…then another…

But not a third.

Breaking the stillness so suddenly as to give her a start, three solid raps of the knocker echoed through her and down the corridor. She swallowed against a dry throat and waited three more seconds. The slowest three seconds of her life, though her racing heart didn’t know it.

It wouldn’t do to appear eager.

At last, with fingers that wobbled, she slid the bolt. Her hand curled around the door handle, she hesitated. Once she opened this door, there would be no turning back.

Except she’d passed that point the instant she opened the door to Deverill’s hotel suite last night.

She’d entered his rooms—and his life.

She saw that now—too late.

Now, she would face the consequences.

She pulled the door open and beheld the man on her doorstep who stood with a decided male power to his stance and a small parcel in his hand.

A confounding thought came to her. She’d encountered this man in any number of ways—sopping wet…clad in impeccable evening attire…undone in a state of near undress. But never like this —in the full glory of a sunlit morning looking every inch a gentleman with his clothes of the finest quality and latest style, tailored to perfection on a form that, despite all his finery, held an undiminished masculinity.

Lord Devil wouldn’t be ignored. He was too imposing and too handsome and the glint in his eyes said he knew it.

He removed his hat and offered her a shallow bow. It couldn’t come across as anything other than ironic.

“Mr. Deverill.”

An awkward beat of time ticked past as they stood silent, facing one another not unlike adversaries, before she had the presence of mind to move aside and allow him entry.

“I didn’t know ladies opened their own doors,” he said as he stepped past her.

She followed her plan and led him along the prescribed path into the drawing room, understanding his sharp blue eyes were taking in every inch—the threadbare carpets…the quarter inch of dust coating the chandeliers she’d been unable to reach… She could hardly stand it—simultaneously wanting to jump out of her skin with nerves and melt into the floor with humiliation.

Her feet led her straight to the settee where she took a seat, expecting Deverill to lower onto the settee opposite.

Except he wasn’t the sort of person to follow the expectations of others.

He remained standing.

And not only standing, but on the move, ambling from one corner of the room to the other—from the cracked marble hearth…to the bare patch of wall with a faint rectangle imprinted where a painting of some value had once hung…to the glass case of miniature animal figurines that were of no value at all or they would’ve long found their way to Lydon’s favorite pawnbroker.

All this—and more—Deverill observed.

Hands clasped tightly on her lap, Beatrix wasn’t sure she could bear another second of it.

“Your lot doesn’t believe in buying anything new, do you?”

Your lot…

Aristocrats.

Was that what he thought?

Well, who was she to disabuse him of the notion… “We take pride in our heritage.”

What a load of rot.

Still, he might buy it for a penny.

The aquamarine depths of his eyes flickered with amusement. “Is that what you call it? Heritage? ”

A thin ribbon of relief fluttered through her. It appeared the universe would leave her with a shred of pride—even if it was purchased with a lie.

At last, he lowered his imposing form onto the opposite settee. She wasn’t sure she imagined a cloud of dust puffing up around him as he settled back, the ancient piece of furniture creaking ominously. He set the small parcel beside him atop frayed damask.

Which left them no option but to stare at each other across a low table whose walnut inlay curled up at the edges. Direct and unflinching, Deverill’s eyes were an otherworldly hue. But that wasn’t what was interesting about them.

His eyes weren’t cold. When he smiled, as he did now, they smiled along with his mouth.

Genuine.

Whatever else his immortal soul might be, it held not a bit of falsity.

She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“Now,” he said. “You can start by telling me precisely why you were trespassing in my rooms last night.”

So much for small talk.

Instinctively, she squared her shoulders and was opening her mouth to reply when his head cocked to the side, as if he’d caught an irregular sound.

Then she heard it, too.

Just beyond the door…faint…

Shuffle…clank…shuffle…clank…

Beatrix’s stomach plummeted to her feet.

Blimey.

That would be Cumberbatch making his— interminable —way down the corridor, carrying the tea tray.

Deverill’s brow creased, but he didn’t express a word out loud— blessedly .

After what felt like thirty years, but could’ve been no more than thirty seconds, Cumberbatch appeared in the doorway, tray held precariously before him, his mien dour and noble in the manner of a servant proud of his house. He and Beatrix might know the lie, but the outside world wouldn’t. At this moment, she felt immeasurable gratitude for the old grumbler.

Porcelain clanking ominously, he tottered into the room.

Deverill was regarding the proceedings as he regarded everything— directly…unflinchingly…

Unsparingly.

Beatrix cast her gaze toward her hands clutched in her lap. It was the safest option.

With every clink and clank , she winced.

Deverill would’ve noticed that, too.

Who knew disaster could unfold so… very … excruciatingly … slowly …

Deverill shifted forward and muttered, low so his voice wouldn’t carry, “Does he need assistance?”

The icy glare Cumberbatch shot Deverill froze the response in Beatrix’s mouth. “Of course, I don’t need assistance,” he intoned. “’Tis you who will need assistance, young man, if you dare to assist me.”

Deverill gave a nod that communicated both apology and suitable humility. Cumberbatch, however, was in no mood to accept either. “Do you know what they called my right fist when I was coming up in the rookeries?”

Beatrix knew the answer, but decided it best to let Cumberbatch inform Deverill himself.

“ Destroyer of Worlds ,” said the valet with a firmness that communicated his right fist could still wreak proper destruction, if called upon. “Now, I left that life behind when the Marquess of Lydon fancied having a boxer for a valet, but Destroyer of Worlds could be prevailed upon to come out of retirement.”

By now— bless the heavens —Cumberbatch had reached the table. So very slowly…so very deliberately…he bent forward with the tray held at a stiff right angle. It was all Beatrix could do not to wrest the tray from his hands and set it down herself. But if she took such action, Cumberbatch would be in a sulk for the rest of the week.

So, she sat, with her jaw clenched and her hands clasped tight, and kept half an eye on Deverill, his eyebrows reaching new heights of alarm as teapot, teacups, scones, and scrumptious strawberry jam threatened to slide off the tray and tumble onto the table in a messy heap.

Messy heap.

Well, there was a phrase that summed up her life these days, now wasn’t it?

However, by some mercy of the universe, no such happening occurred. At the very last moment, Cumberbatch released the tray and, miraculously, it landed flat. To be sure, there was a great clatter of porcelain that set Beatrix’s ears ringing and tea had spilled into the strawberry jam, but all wasn’t lost, which she would count as a win.

Wins were so very few and far between.

She mustered every last ounce of dignity yet in her possession and said, “Thank you, Cumberbatch.”

Already turning, he grunted and began very, very slowly shuffling out of the room.

Once she decided the valet was safely out of earshot, she said, “Cumberbatch’s hearing is excellent.”

“Oh, I think we’ve established that.”

She found herself biting back a smile as she reached for the teapot and commenced with the ritual of serving tea—pouring them each a cup, then placing a scone to either side of the table, the strawberry jam accessible between. Deverill took his teacup and saucer and settled back, watching her as he sipped tea that wasn’t much stronger than water.

Beatrix reached for the scone that she, at last, had permission to eat. Deliberately, she tore off a crisped edge with the intention of consuming the crumbly pastry with the elegant indifference of a lady. But one bite led to another delicious bite and, of a sudden, the scone was gone—save the final bite, which had become lodged in her throat. She reached for her teacup and swallowed a rather large, very decidedly unladylike gulp.

When she glanced up, it was to find Deverill watching her with a subtle cant of the head. In an instant, a flood of realizations crashed through her. She’d eaten her scone neither elegantly nor like a lady. In fact, the possibility—nay, probability —existed that she’d devoured it in fewer than five bites. Further, in her haste, she’d disappointingly forgotten the strawberry jam.

And Deverill had quietly watched.

As if she were an animal at the zoo.

Well, she might not have behaved all that dissimilarly from one.

The heat of mortification thrummed through her.

He shifted forward and, with the hand not holding teacup and saucer, pushed his scone across the table—toward her.

She should’ve experienced a doubling of humiliation.

And she almost did.

Almost .

But the scone yet held a hint of warmth from the oven and it would be a sin to allow the strawberry jam to go untasted…

She lifted the pastry from the plate and willed her fingers to go slow—first, splitting open the scone…then spreading a thick swathe of jam across the crumbly surface, making sure to save some for Cumberbatch. Strawberries were a particular favorite of his.

So it was that Beatrix ate Deverill’s scone, too.

And perhaps with a little more ladylike finesse than she’d consumed the first.

Afterward, she couldn’t say.

It had been a fever dream of deliciousness.

She reached for her tea and took a delicate sip.

All the while, Deverill hadn’t moved a muscle. “All finished?”

“I like scones.”

“Now, will you answer the question?” he asked. “Why were you in my hotel suite last night?”

As she’d been about to do earlier, she offered him the truth. “I wanted to see how you lived.” She couldn’t not add, “For my grubby gossipmongering, of course.”

A dry exhalation sounded through his nose as he settled back into his creaky settee and took a sip of tea, never once taking his eyes off her.

The man was contemplating her.

And she wasn’t certain how she felt being the object of his contemplation.

Whatever he was seeing, it was too much.

Something she hadn’t volunteered.

And she didn’t like that.

But she saw something, as well.

It was too late for him not to see it.

It had been so from the moment she’d invaded his private rooms and set all this in motion.

Consequences .

There were consequences when one crossed such a man.

And a devil to pay.