Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THREE DAYS LATER

B eatrix had been approached for conversation by no fewer than five ladies this evening.

While she might converse with that many ladies over the course of a night out in society, she didn’t within the first quarter hour of arrival.

As with gentlemen asking her to dance at balls for the last few years, she would’ve suspected a betting book wager of some sort—except she knew why she was being approached.

It was her mode of dress.

At the height of fashion, to put it simply.

Though she and Deverill were to create a little sensation together this evening—during the intermission, to be exact—she was causing a little sensation all on her own.

“You must give me the direction of your modiste.”

“I’m afraid I can provide you her name, but not her address,” replied Beatrix. “She came to me.”

An intrigued lift of eyebrows conveyed no small bit of surprise—for the fifth time tonight.

And for the fifth time tonight—or five hundredth, more like—the feeling that she’d been caught up in a whirlwind fluttered and tumbled through her.

These last three days… How quickly her life had transformed.

The very afternoon after she’d entered into her arrangement with Deverill, a housekeeper, a maid, and a cook had arrived on her doorstep, along with a pantry’s worth of food.

It sounded like the beginning of a joke.

But apparently, it was no joke.

It was her life.

For his part, Cumberbatch observed all with a canny lift of an eyebrow and his mouth pressed into a flat line.

Blessedly, he hadn’t asked a single question.

Of course, he hadn’t needed to.

They both knew the answer.

Deverill.

Next arrived the modiste, Madame Dubois, who required nothing of Beatrix other than she strip down to chemise and stockings and allow her measurements to be taken. The woman had ooo ed and ahh ed over Beatrix’s porcelain skin and dark sable hair. “And that black fringe of lashes… Oh, ma chérie,” she’d exclaimed. “Vibrant colors for you.”

“ Erm ,” replied Beatrix. It seemed the only thing she was capable of saying.

The woman hadn’t noticed, as she industriously set about her work of measuring and jotting notes. “You will stand out, rest assured.”

Stand out?

Beatrix had never stood out once in her life. At least, not for the right reasons.

The following morning, the new garments began arriving—everything from practical boots to satin slippers; from kidskin to silk gloves; gossamer stockings to sturdy stays. Then there were the dresses in a rainbow of bold colors. Riding habits…morning dresses…day dresses…evening gowns…ball gowns.

She’d been unsure she could wear such dresses, for they were bolder in other ways, too. The necklines lower…the fabric thinner… A lady held not a single secret while wearing such dresses. Yet she couldn’t deny they were in the first stare of fashion. No one would look askance at her, beyond idle curiosity about Lady Beatrix St. Vincent’s sudden new sense of style.

As for further evidence that her life had utterly altered… This morning, the maid had served her hot chocolate in bed.

That hot chocolate was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

Divine was the only word that fit.

The new cook was French.

Overnight, Beatrix’s life had changed.

That fateful night in Deverill’s hotel suite, she’d discovered he lived like a king. But what she couldn’t have known was that, after one shook hands with him, one lived like a princess.

Part of her longed to give in to the magic of it.

But a central problem lay with magic.

It only lasted so long.

Eventually, the spell broke—and one was flung back into stark reality.

No.

She wouldn’t— couldn’t —accept the magic as reality.

The return to earth would be too devastating.

“The style of dress quite suits you, Lady Beatrix.”

Lady Neale held a mean, little glint in her eye that had Beatrix bracing for the backside of the compliment.

“You don’t look a year over seven and twenty.”

Beatrix swallowed back a sudden chirrup of laughter.

She’d just been insulted directly to her face, all but called a spinster outright. Except the barb glanced away. Society’s arrows had long stopped finding their mark.

Though sorely tempted, she refrained from returning Lady Neale’s veiled insult. She wouldn’t make the observation that one had to squint very hard to see the faint sheen of green that yet lingered in her hair.

So, she nodded and began ambling through the room in the hope that movement would discourage questions about her modiste.

How very conspicuous she felt.

The feeling crawled across her skin and prickled the fine hairs to a stand. She didn’t care for the sensation.

Deverill, however, did.

She understood that.

He knew he drew eyes and didn’t shy away from them.

Which was how she knew he hadn’t yet arrived.

Though a vibrant affair, the mingling hour before the music began wasn’t yet enlivened with the specific energy Deverill produced in any room he entered.

Again, she found her mind running through his stated reasons for the arrangement they would set in motion tonight—business interests…position in society… future progeny .

All very good reasons.

All very solid reasons.

All very believable reasons for a man on the rise.

Yet there was something those reasons weren’t—the deeper reason.

His true reason.

There was more to the pretend engagement they were about to embark upon than he was telling her.

But what she’d decided was—and this was the important part—she didn’t care.

￡5,000.

It was the windfall she needed.

Sure, it wasn’t enough to make her an heiress, but it was enough to start her life over.

Start over?

The end of her twenties was in sight. It wasn’t a stretch to say her life had never gotten started in the first place.

This arrangement with Deverill… While it felt like a whirlwind had taken over her life, it also felt like momentum— forward momentum.

Her life had never had that sense of progressing from one stage to another. Oh, after years of saving her meager horse race winnings, she’d once thought it had—but that had been an illusion. The truth was, eight years ago, she’d fallen into a bog and had lacked the means to pull herself out of it. All she’d been doing in the intervening time was keeping her head just above the muck.

But this arrangement with Deverill… It held the allure of possibility coming within reach.

For the first time in a very long time, a forgotten feeling blossomed within her— hope .

She could have a life.

It wouldn’t be what she’d envisioned at twenty, but that was all right. She was realistic about her prospects. A widower, perhaps… A third or fourth son, even… With a dowry of ￡5,000, she could be wed. A possibility she hadn’t allowed herself to consider in years.

But now…she could dream again.

“Is Lydon about perchance?” came a question at her back.

She turned to face her interlocutor, Lady Berenger, and nearly groaned. The mention of her father tended to elicit that response. “I do not believe he is,” she replied neutrally.

A condescending smile curved the lady’s lips. “Ah, well, he wouldn’t, would he?”

Beatrix didn’t want to ask—truly, she didn’t—but she must. Though to do so was to fall into Lady Berenger’s trap. “And why is that?”

The lady gave a bright, tinkling laugh. “The card room is closed tonight,” she said. “And even if it were open…”

Beatrix braced herself. As bad as this conversation was, it was about to get worse.

Lady Berenger leaned in conspiratorially. “The play would be too rich for his coffers, I dare say.”

Beatrix couldn’t control the clench of her hands at her sides. “Indeed, you do dare say.”

The lady’s eyes narrowed with gratification. She’d hit her mark. “No need to get uppish, Lady Beatrix. A new dress notwithstanding, everyone in society knows the House of Lydon is in shambles.”

Swift anger soared through Beatrix, whipping her blood into recklessness. “Is that Lord Spivey I see near the terrace doors?”

Lady Berenger shrugged a creamy shoulder. “Why should I know?” However, the blush creeping up her décolletage told a different story—one of keen awareness.

“Oh, I thought you would since he and your husband are bosom friends and known to be generous with one another. By all accounts, they share absolutely everything.” Now, it was Beatrix leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ve even heard it whispered they share?—”

She left the you unspoken.

But Lady Berenger heard it. The blood drained from her face, and she blinked before hastily excusing herself.

Beatrix shouldn’t have done it, she knew that. She didn’t think herself a petty or uncharitable person, but when one stood on the fringes, one gathered insights about others and heard little whisperings, too.

She experienced a niggle of doubt regarding the arrangement she’d made with Deverill.

Simply, she wasn’t sure his plan would succeed.

She wasn’t exactly the most popular or known lady in the ton , even if she was the daughter of a marquess.

She was the daughter of a debt-ridden, debauched marquess.

An important distinction.

Still, as he said he would, he’d paid out half of the agreed-upon ￡5,000, so she would be giving his plan her all.

￡2,500 … That was the amount presently hidden away beneath the floorboards under her bed.

Oh, yes, she would be giving his plan her very best effort.

Then he would pay her the other half.

Money … For the first time in her life, she had a substantial amount of it. Money had always seemed more like a shapeless concept than a tangible thing. But now, against her skin, the slide of new silk and fine muslin— luxurious…decadent…possibly sinful…

She liked it.

Further, though she was nearing confirmed spinsterhood, she felt… lovely .

Her place within society had been set these last eight years, but this new stylish dress suggested her place might need to be reevaluated.

Which only helped her purpose along.

This lovely dress—and the conferred loveliness of her in it—suggested to society that she might be a catch.

Of a sudden, she felt it —an alteration in the air. A dip in the volume of the crowd, followed by an immediate buzzing spike, even louder than the volume that preceded it.

The intriguing Lord Devil had arrived.

Oh, the figure he cut in society.

A veritable collector of superlatives was Lord Devil.

He wasn’t the tallest man in the room—but rather the most imposing.

So, too, was he the best dressed and most handsome.

And the most magnetic.

It was those eyes of his.

Eyes that held a wicked glint—and wicked secrets. He might even share them with you—but only if you were very lucky.

Oh, where had that last thought come from?

Her own wicked places, she supposed. For she held wicked places within herself, she’d recently accepted.

Or perhaps it was Lord Devil himself who stirred those places to life.

That, more than anything, was his effect on a room.

And upon an individual within it.

“We should be friends.”

She didn’t have many friends.

Really, just the one—Artemis.

And a man for a friend?

That man?

But…why not that man?

Out of everyone populating this room, he was a person she could respect.

And he was helping her achieve what she wanted in life—a good, solid future.

Why not be his friend?

Who would suspect?

The spinster Lady Beatrix St. Vincent entered into an arrangement with Lord Devil?

Such a notion existed so far beyond the realm of possibility as to be delusion.

Yet this delusory notion wasn’t only possible, it was an appealing one, too. She’d become so accustomed to feeling alone—even viewing the world as a hostile place, at times—that this notion of friendship with someone who knew a few private truths about her held appeal.

Even as it should have inspired a healthy dollop of caution.

When she’d reached out to seal their arrangement and his fingers had closed around hers, she’d almost snatched it back. The warmth of his hand…the strength…the way it pulsed with life…

Deverill’s was the sort of vibrancy that was impossible to contain or control.

She would do well to remember as much.

The ringing of a small brass bell cut through the spiky buzz of the crowd. The music was set to begin henceforth, if everyone would take their seats.

Beatrix’s heart struck up a little dance against her ribs as she made her way down the central aisle. Typically at these affairs, she sat in the back—the better to observe all. But Deverill had instructed in his note that she take her place in the front row.

So, here she sat in her new finery, sweat-slick palms clasped tightly in her lap, gaze fixed straight ahead—the observed.

Tonight, she —Lady Beatrix St. Vincent, who had been dismissed as a spinster by all society—would create a little sensation with the man they called Lord Devil.

Once everyone had taken their seats—a small gathering of a hundred or so—the soprano recently arrived from Italy took her place beside the pianoforte. Gentle notes began flowing from the instrument, and she opened her mouth and produced the most heavenly sound Beatrix ever heard. Until this moment, she hadn’t been aware the human voice could be so transfixingly lovely.

Yet, even as her soul longed to be swept up and transported to Italy, she had an assignation tonight.

This lovely dress on her back…

It hadn’t yet been earned.

So, with subtle taps of her fingers, she kept time with the music and a tally of the seconds and minutes. Once ten minutes had ticked past, she inhaled a deep, bracing breath and stood—and attempted to tamp down mortification. All eyes were certainly on her and not the soprano, who was surely throwing eye daggers Beatrix’s way for intruding upon the brilliance of her performance.

Well, there was no help for it, as this was a key part of Deverill’s plan. The gathered would notice when Lady Beatrix excused herself.

So it was that she let the momentum of destiny carry her down the aisle.

The momentum of destiny?

Wasn’t she one for dramatics tonight?

The answer to that question was a resounding yes .

In fact, she’d only gotten started.