The Devil's Bargain Read online

  The Devil's Bargain

  Karen Harbaugh

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Copyright

  Prologue

  It was a place between worlds and times, not yet formed into reality: what Eden was before it was made true. Ariel raised a hand, and an area shimmered and took shape. A field of soft grass rolled to the angel’s feet and under, then past. Some blades of grass joined, then fountained into a tree, tall and stately. A few more sprayed their limbs into the newly blue sky, and blossoms quickly transformed to sweet and fragrant apples. A faint rumble sounded from clouds that suddenly covered half the sky, and rain poured into a gentle hollow in the field, filling it until a small lake was born. Then the clouds faded, and the angel surveyed his handwork.

  Ariel winked an eye, and a gazebo sparkled into being upon a little hill. It was nothing more than an arched roof supported by slim, elegant columns upon white marble floors, a miniature temple. But a meeting place was needed, though it was only temporary, and the angel admitted to a certain fondness for architecture. He drifted toward it.

  Lucifer was already there when Ariel reached it. He bowed gravely and exquisitely to the angel when their eyes met, but Ariel took his hand and pressed it in greeting.

  With a wry grin the angel took in Lucifer’s attire. “How you affect their raiment, Lucifer! How can you ape their manners, when you say you despise humankind so?”

  Lucifer took an elegant pinch of snuff, careful not to let any drift upon his blue superfine coat and white linen cravat. He smiled genially. “I never imitate anyone. On the contrary, my dear Ariel, they imitate me. You have been in human form; you should know that fashion is the very devil.” He chuckled, and low thunder vibrated through the ground.

  “Extremes always are, as you do know, to your sorrow.” Ariel gazed at Lucifer sadly.

  When Lucifer smiled again, fiercely, the angel saw that he had also taken on the fashion for filing one’s teeth—it was an affectation of sporting coachmen. The contrast between Lucifer’s pale, beautiful countenance and the sharpened teeth made Ariel’s wings shudder briefly, though his face showed nothing.

  Lucifer’s sharp eyes noted the disturbance, however. “And to yours, apparently! Do you not like my dental work, then? It is all the rage, and I earned it, you know! I am devilish good at the reins.” He laughed aloud, and the skies rumbled, though there were no clouds in the sky at all.

  Ariel said nothing, but sat still, watching. Lucifer sneered. “But what do you know of extremes? You were always in the middle, never yea or nay, never for or against—as exciting as a bowl of gruel. And in the heat of my battle, millennia and millennia ago, you could not stand at my side, but turned back like a kicked dog to our Father.”

  “My brothers and my sisters hoped that because I had once stood at your side, and because I once understood you, that I could persuade you to come back,” Ariel said, looking at him steadily.

  “I?” Lucifer affected surprise, his eyebrows raised, and his hand spread upon his chest. “Surely, you jest.”

  “I do not jest, Lucifer,” replied Ariel earnestly. “I knew you rebelled because of the creation of humankind—out of love of our Father, it was because I understood and felt that love as fiercely as did you that I first joined you. But then I saw that your hatred and jealousy of humans far outweighed any love you felt. I could not stay with you then, for I saw you acted out of hatred rather than love. We know there is still some love within you, Lucifer. Forget your revenge and your temptations, and come back.”

  “What, and do penance, as you have done—and still do to a certain extent!—and become a groveling little human worm, to sweat and stink and roll in the mud of his own making?” Lucifer gave a short bark of laughter, and lightning flashed in the sky behind him. “I think not.”

  The angel smiled reminiscently. “It has been a long time since I was required to live as a human—and yes, even having to resist your temptations, Lucifer. It is not so very bad, you know. They do experience love as we experience it. Sometimes it is of a depth and grace that even we angels aspire to.”

  Lucifer waved an elegantly manicured and beringed hand. “Oh, I grant you there have been a few saints here and there. But for the rest? Nothing but that sickening nervous affectation they suppose is love, or at most, honest lust. Why, only look—” The Fallen One put up his hand, and a hole glowed hotly in the air. Through it Ariel could see a raging battle; horses charged, swords slashed, and the boom of guns and the dying cries of men and beasts rent the silence of the little temple.

  “I do not see it here, my dear Ariel,” mocked Lucifer. “Or, wait! Here is a man pierced to the quick—ah, ah, no, alas, it is with a bayonet, not with the look from a lover’s eye. And here is one who has lost his heart! No, mistaken again. He has not given it to his sweetheart; it was blasted from him with a cannon-shot.”

  Grief crossed Ariel’s face, but he continued to scan the scene. In the midst of the battle the angel saw a man who leaped in front of another, more tired comrade to save him from a saber thrust, taking the thrust himself.

  “There, do you see? Even in the midst of violence, there is self-sacrifice and love.”

  Lucifer eyed the man, now fallen. “He was merely stupid. Men do stupid things in the heat of battle. Put him in the right circumstances, he would take whatever path I give him.”

  “I think not.”

  Smiling, Lucifer turned to Ariel. “I think he would. Most do. Would you, ah, care to wager on that?”

  Ariel looked at Lucifer for a long moment, considering. Ariel risked much if he did, for he was still doing penance, and under the conditions of his penance, he was still vulnerable to temptation. Ariel remembered life after life, living as a human: the hardships, the pain, the sorrows, and bodily death. Then, too, the joys, the loves, the laughter. And yet, if he won, perhaps there might be peace for a while, though his fallen brother would not repent. Ariel smiled a little. Living human life had left its mark.

  “Perhaps. What are the conditions?” replied the angel.

  “I will take that man and put him in such a situation that he cannot but do as I instruct. You cannot influence him directly—his actions must be his own. If he completes the task I set him, his soul is mine, and you must submit to living as a human again—whom I will tempt mercilessly, by the way.”

  “And if I win?”

  “I will not repent, so you might as well forget that,” said Lucifer.

  “It seems your risk is small. Afraid that I might win?” mocked Ariel gently. Lucifer flashed him an angry look. Little by little, thought Ariel, little by little. “Well, then, that war. I want you to end it. And I have some special social reforms I am sponsoring—I want you to lift any blocks you have put in the way of their success.”

  Lucifer smiled grimly. “Done.” Lightning flashed, thunder rolled again, and he was gone.

  Sighing, Ariel turned again to the battle scene and moved closer. The angel’s form changed and shifted. A small medical bag appeared in his now quite human-seeming hand, and he straightened his uniform with a smart jerk at the waist. He lifted his hand, widening the hole, and stepped through.

  Chapter One

 
Sometimes he would wake up to the sound of cannons and the screams of horses and men ringing in his ears. Then he would open his eyes. The reek of blood and dust would fade from his nostrils, and Richard, Viscount Clairmond, would remember once again he was not in Ciudad Rodrigo anymore, but his own sweet England.

  Richard lay still, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, and breathed deeply. He focused on the sounds of London’s morning traffic, the mundane sounds of people hawking their wares, and the voices of the inn’s guests just outside the door of his chamber, until his muscles gradually lost their tension. A small bit of pride grew in him; he was able to lie still upon waking. It was proof that he had a measure of control over some aspect of his life. He smiled grimly to himself. It was a hard-earned control. There had been days that he had awakened and jerked against his splints and bandages and screamed—whether from the pain in his body or in his mind, he knew not.

  A knock sounded at his door. “One moment!” he said. Slowly, the viscount eased himself up to a sitting position. His shirt and breeches were within easy grasp, for he had remembered to lay them at the foot of his bed last night. He pulled them on.

  “Come!” he called.

  The door opened, and a small, neat man appeared. His clothes were shiny at the elbows and faded at the collar, but he wore them with an impeccable air. He peered at Richard with earnest round eyes, and the man’s thin mustache twitched. A squirrel, thought Richard. That is what he reminds me of. A squirrel made into a man.

  “Ah! Milord le Capitaine is awake!”

  Richard let out an exasperated breath. “What are you doing here in England? I thought I told you I did not need a valet, Lescaux.”

  The Belgian looked skeptically at some clothing piled upon a chair. “Certainement, Milord, but I see you ’ave not recovered all of your wits, for it is with my own eyes I see your clothes in a state most deplorable.”

  “Milord” put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat to help suppress a smile. “Yes, well then, if you must know, I have not the money to pay you.”

  “Bah! What is money to me? The demands of l’honneur dictate the actions of Robert Lescaux, not the base coins.” Lescaux’s lip curled.

  “I may not be able to pay you for a long time, and then it would only be a pittance.”

  The would-be valet frowned terribly, then his face cleared. He shook a finger at Richard. “Ah, hah! Milord is clever, hein? Milord seeks to offend Lescaux so that Milord will ’ave no valet. But me, I am clever, too. I ’ave guessed what is in the mind of Milord le Capitaine.” He tapped his head with his finger, then strode confidently to the chair. He proceeded to straighten the clothes draped upon it.

  Richard gave it up. The man believed Richard had saved his life during battle; perhaps it was so, but Richard could not remember it. But then … He closed his eyes for a moment. He remembered leaping, his sword flying from his hand in response to a greater force even as he fell. Then memory faded. Perhaps he had leaped in front of someone, but whether it was Lescaux or not, he could not tell. And how a Belgian had managed to enlist himself in Wellington’s Peninsular army was another mystery. Perhaps it was because of Lescaux’s facility with languages, despite the danger that he could have been easily mistaken for a Frenchman.

  But whatever Lescaux believed, Richard knew one thing: It was the little Belgian’s face he first saw when he woke from his delirium, anxiously hovering over him and weeping with joy when Richard opened his eyes at last. It was Lescaux, too, who fed him, put cold cloths on his forehead, and snapped off the head of anyone who dared approach Milord le Capitaine. No, Richard thought, he was mistaken. The man was more like a little terrier than a squirrel.

  Whatever brave but foolhardy act Richard might have performed, Lescaux’s care was enough to repay him. Without it, he might have died, as so many did in the field hospitals. But Lescaux was adamant. Milord had saved his life. He owed Milord his, or at least his service, for as long as he lived. Richard believed differently, so as soon as the doctor gave him leave to rise, he left half of his quarter’s pay in one of Lescaux’s boots and used the rest to return to England. Even so, the man had followed.

  The viscount shook his head. How he was going to afford to keep himself, much less Lescaux, he did not know. The maintenance of his captaincy cost more than his pay allowed—that is, if he wanted to pay to have a new uniform made, with all its braids and buttons. He was certain he would have to sell his horse, Satan; then he would have to travel eighty miles home to Wiltshire.

  Unless he sold out.

  Ah, what was the use? Of course he would have to sell out. As soon as he was well enough, he had visited his solicitor in the City. It had been worse than he thought.

  He never received word that his father had died, and during his campaign in the Peninsula, his father never wrote to him of the condition of his estates. Why should he? thought Richard bitterly. He never wanted me to enlist. Perhaps Father had been right. Had I been home, perhaps I could have kept him from bringing us to the point of ruin. And Marianne—

  “Lescaux, I must shave.”

  Lescaux beamed. “But of course, Milord.” He bustled out the chamber door to order hot water for his master.

  Marianne. The last time he had seen his sister, she was fifteen. That was five years ago; she would be a young woman now. Was she married? No. He lived for her letters during his campaigns, and she never mentioned marriage. He must sell out quickly and return home. She must be living all alone—God, he hoped she was all right.

  He searched the chamber for paper and ink, and finding it, wrote a letter. There. At least she would know he was alive still, that he was coming home. He included a draft on the bank as well; it was for more than he should have written, but the thought of Marianne living in straitened circumstances horrified him.

  It was a simple thing, to sell out of the army. “I’m that sorry, lad,” said Colonel Brantham as he pushed forward Richard’s prize money. “We could use more good men like yourself. But Lord help me—and no offense meant, my boy—I wouldn’t have you the way you are looking now. You aren’t well yet. Dashed good thing you thought to bring that—what is he? Netherlander? Belgian?—along with you. You still need someone to look after you, and that’s a fact.”

  Glancing at a mirror near them, Richard ruefully had to agree. His normally wiry frame looked attenuated and graceful, for he had lost a great deal of weight, but it was far from graceful he felt. Under his tan he was pale, and the combination made him look sallow and wan. His skin stretched over the fine bones of his face, and his nose jutted fiercely out of its stark planes. The only softness about him was his mouth, which drooped with weariness, and his eyes, large and tired. He smiled wryly to himself. He looked like the hawk his comrades called him, more than ever now.

  He smiled at the colonel. “I’m no beauty, I agree! But I’ll recover soon enough. I must look over my affairs, see to my sister, make sure all is well with her. Perhaps I’ll volunteer again, in time.”

  Colonel Brantham shook his hand. “I hope to see it, lad, I hope to see it.” He grinned. “The Seventh will miss the Devil’s Hawk, no-mistake!”

  When Richard came back to his room at the inn, he took out the money so that he could pay his fare. He paused. It was much more than he was sure he was supposed to receive upon selling out. A note peeked from under the pile. “A small loan, Clairmond, for your father’s sake and for your own. Yrs., Brantham.”

  He crushed the note. Richard could feel the heat creeping up to his cheeks. So. Brantham knew. Perhaps everyone knew. He was amazed that tradesmen were not already hounding his footsteps. His stomach twisted with shame. If Brantham knew Richard’s pockets were all to let, then the colonel must have known that Richard’s father had committed suicide. A hunting accident, his solicitor had said. Impossible. Everyone knew how careful the late Viscount Clairmond was with his guns. One does not accidentally point a pistol to one’s head and pull the trigger. And as far as Richard was concerned, it was no b
etter than if he had helped his father to the grave.

  If he had only been there! But no. No doubt his father would have done himself in sooner, he thought grimly. They’d argued before he’d left for the army.

  “Have you no concern for our name, Richard?” his father had roared. “Having mistresses is one thing, but you flaunt them in the ton’s face! I could have overlooked it a little, but then you cap it off with that … that married whore you ran off with. Good God. I should thank God you were not killed in that duel, but I almost regret it. I doubt they’d let you into Brook’s despite any influence I might bring to bear.”

  Richard had seethed in anger. Who was his father to point fingers? He’d already mortgaged half of the estate to pay for his gambling debts.

  “I don’t go to Brook’s,” he had said as coolly as he could. “I go to White’s.”

  “As if you were more than tolerated there!”

  “I could always join the army. Then you’d be rid of me for sure.”

  “You will go nowhere! By God, you will stay here and learn to manage these estates!”

  “As you did?” Richard had not sneered, but his father’s face turned red with fury. He’d seized a glass of brandy near his hand and had dashed it in Richard’s face.

  The brandy had stung his eyes, but Richard merely looked at the old viscount. He bowed briefly. “I will do you the favor of leaving your sight.”

  The next day Richard had joined the army. Today, he’d left it—and everyone knew why. Visions of throwing his prize money in Brantham’s face boiled to his mind, but he knew he could not do this. Brantham had given the money to him out of friendship and kindness, even though he was—had been—Richard’s superior officer. Richard could not offend the man so, but the humiliation of others’ knowing about Richard’s straitened circumstances and the manner of his father’s death left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Sighing, he gazed around his room. It was small, not the best room in the inn. He should have taken a smaller room at a smaller inn to save on expenses—but enough. He did not know how bad his situation was then, and besides, a few hours more and he would be shut of this place. He left to pay for his room, then he went behind the inn to the mews to see to his horse.