The Devil's Bargain Read online

  Satan was as black as his name. He had no socks, no stockings—not a speck of white on him except on his forehead. There, a blaze of white shone, curiously shaped. The mark shot upward from the horse’s nose and rose to a peak at his forehead. Its distinction was in the two slight marks at the base of the blaze. Together the marks formed a sword. Richard was going to name the stallion Excalibur for it, but the horse had given him such a wild and scornful look when he walked up to him, that he could not help but exclaim: “There’s a bit of Satan in you, I see.” And so he was named.

  When Richard’s comrades-in-arms heard it, they laughed. “Aye,” said a Captain Sir John Grey, chuckling. “And isn’t it right that Satan should be carrying the Devil’s Hawk?”

  They were a good pair, for the horse was sensitive to Richard’s every move. Satan had come to trust Richard through gunfire and never lost heart when his master needed him most. The viscount often wondered if Satan did not have more than a little Lipizzaner in him. For though he was black as sin, he was not the usual hussar’s dainty mount. Satan was comparatively small and compact, with a short, thick neck and long back. He was not above using his powerful legs to strike out at enemies, but at the same time carefully tried to avoid fallen comrades.

  Richard reached up and scratched the blaze on Satan’s forehead. Satan pricked up his ears, then bent his neck to nip his master’s pockets.

  “Sorry, old chap,” said Richard ruefully. “No sugar. My pockets are all to let.” He leaned his head against Satan’s neck. “Even for you, old boy, even for you.”

  He patted the horse on the neck and got him saddled. His old friend should bring a good price at Tattersall’s. He’d make a good hunter, for his endurance was good and his feet sure. The price would possibly not be what he was worth, for he would be known as “Clairmond’s breakdown.” Richard clenched his hands, then made himself relax. Brantham knew of his financial condition; once Satan was up for sale, everyone would know.

  It’s just a horse, Richard told himself. Its price will bring enough money to go home, perhaps last enough to live on frugally until I see what shape the land is in—before I sell that off, too, of course.

  That thought depressed him further and threatened to overwhelm him, but he took in a deep breath and straightened himself with a resolute air. First things first, he told himself. I must get Satan to Tattersall’s.

  Richard then led his horse out of the inn’s stable and mounted him. London seemed shrouded; it was late afternoon, and the sun shone weakly through smoky-gray clouds. Few of the fashionable were out, for the clouds threatened wetness. Richard thought wistfully of his room at the inn and pictured a merry fire in its hearth. He was not at all sure he would be back before it started to rain.

  “Halloo there! Hawk!”

  For a moment he was not certain he had heard his nickname, for the wind had suddenly picked up and whistled in his ears.

  “Hawk!”

  Grinning, Richard turned. By all that was holy, it was Jack Grey, waving his arms like a bedlamite. His blond hair, bleached by the Spanish sun, blew in the wind, and his cravat was all askew beneath his unbuttoned military greatcoat—but that was Sir John Grey. He never cared for appearances.

  “Jack, you madman! What are you doing here?” Richard dismounted from Satan, the better to talk with his friend. “Last time I heard, you were with Wellington in France.”

  Sir John grinned back. “Last time I heard, you were dead. Thought I was dreaming when I recognized Satan—stood stock-still in the middle of the road, give you my word! Then you turned, and I couldn’t mistake that beak of yours. Should have known the Devil’s Hawk would have the devil’s own luck!”

  Richard’s smile was strained. The devil’s luck, indeed.

  “Not quite up to form, eh, Hawk?” Sir John eyed him keenly.

  “Took some shot in my shoulder, broken ribs, a saber thrust that missed my vital organs.” The viscount’s smile turned crooked.

  His friend looked incredulous. “And you’re alive? Good God, man, it’s a dashed miracle you aren’t even crippled. Whatever doctor took you in should have been sainted! Why, I’ve known men dead of a broken leg in those field hospitals.”

  Richard grimaced and shook his head. “More like a guardian angel named Lescaux.”

  “Lescaux! He here, too? Ingenious fellow, that. Never knew anyone who could cook up stringy jack rabbit as he did.”

  “Very ingenious,” Richard said ruefully. “Somehow he got the idea that I was injured while saving his life. Well, I can’t remember any of that—” He tensed suddenly at the memory of his dreams. “Not much of it, anyway. But if I did, he’s amply paid me back for it I heard tell he practically bullied me back to life. Can’t convince him he’s done enough for me, though. Followed me here, determined to be my valet”

  Sir John grinned. “That’s Lescaux! Persistent.”

  “Damned stubborn, you mean.”

  His friend laughed. He looked again at the viscount, noting his civilian clothes, and his face grew sober. “Sold out, have you?”

  “Why do you say that?” replied Richard lightly.

  “I’ve got eyes in my head, Hawk. You were always one to live in your uniform. No uniform, no more army. Stands to reason.”

  Richard shrugged. “I have obligations. I’ve got a sister to take care of, you see.”

  “I’d think your father would—”

  “Dead.”

  “Ah.” Sir John gave a brief squeeze on Richard’s shoulder. “Deuced sorry, old chap.”

  Richard smiled at his friend—a smile of relief. So Jack did not know yet of his problems. Good. The man was a generous soul as well as a loyal one, and Richard would much rather not have to bear the embarrassment of his generosity. He did not want his—or anyone else’s—help. Taking Brantham’s charity was bad enough.

  “Here we are.” Richard looked up. White’s Club. It had been a long time since he last passed through its doors. “What say you to a visit?” suggested Sir John.

  Richard hesitated. He wondered if he was still “more than tolerated” there.

  “For old time’s sake?” urged his friend.

  Perhaps he could spare a bit from his prize money—and it wouldn’t hurt terribly to postpone selling Satan for one day. It would be the last for a long time that he would visit White’s. Richard nodded. “Of course.”

  White’s had changed very little. It still smelled of old tobacco and floor wax. Sir John summoned a servant and ordered brandy. Brandy. That was another thing Richard had not had for a while. He sipped it first, savoring the way the liquid seemed to disappear on his tongue, leaving a burning smoky sweetness behind. Then he took a larger taste, letting that same sensation flow over and down his throat. It warmed him, and he allowed himself to relax at last. Just for a little while, he told himself, I need not think of Father, and of ruin. Just for a little while, and then I will take on the burden once again.

  “Hawk!”

  “Clairmond!”

  Richard turned and spied two gentlemen coming toward him. He grinned. “Hobart! Demming! By God, it’s good to see you.”

  “Devil take it, Hawk, you gave me a turn!” exclaimed the Honorable Tom Hobart. He was a tall man, taller than the viscount, and built on much grander lines. He seized Richard’s hand in his own hamlike ones, and shook it heartily. “Thought I was seeing a ghost! Had it from the dispatches that you were dead!”

  “Almost was, Tom, almost was,” replied Richard.

  “Cracked ribs, shot in the shoulder, saber cut,” said Sir John, jerking his head at Richard.

  Edward Demming, also tall, but elegantly thin, raised his quizzing glass and surveyed Richard through it. “By all rights you should have been a ghost, Richard. You always did have the devil’s luck.”

  Something flickered at the back of the viscount’s mind, but the brandy and the warmth of his friends doused it. “Damned fool luck, more like, my friend.”

  A deep, lazy voice spoke up. “Care
to try that luck at whist, Clairmond?”

  Richard looked up. It was the Earl of Wyvern. The earl’s land marched with his, but though he was a neighbor, they seldom met. He was a widower, though only five years the viscount’s senior, and somewhat reclusive; even in town, he was not known as an open man. When Marianne and Richard were younger, they used to call him the Wicked Earl, and make up all sorts of stories about his supposed evil deeds. It had been easy to make up wild tales about him, for he had a saturnine countenance, with black eyebrows that formed almost a straight line above his eyes.

  The planes of his face were severe; but his well-formed lips were sensual. As Richard and Marianne grew older, Richard teased his sister that she was forming a tendre for the earl, for she delighted in making up stories of greater peril, with the Wicked Earl committing crimes of horrendous villainy. Marianne had only curled her lip at him in sisterly scorn.

  Yet, here was the Wicked Earl himself, a small smile on his lips, inviting Richard to play a game of whist. How very unwicked, and quite ordinary, thought Richard, smiling to himself. He would have to tell Marianne when he got home.

  Richard rose and bowed as well as his recovering body would let him. “I am honored, sir,” he replied. Perhaps one game, not very high stakes, he thought.

  “And would any of you care to play?” Wyvern looked at the other gentlemen.

  Tom bowed out apologetically. “Pockets to let until quarter day, I’m afraid. I’ll gladly watch, however.” The others joined with alacrity. They called for more brandy, and a servant filled Richard’s glass again.

  Richard knew a moment’s unease at Tom’s words, but quashed it. He drank more brandy, readying himself for the game. He had always been lucky at cards before—the devil’s own luck, his opponents often said.

  It seemed his luck was in this night. He won handily at the first game, and won the second as well. At his friends’ urging, he played a third. This one he lost, but not badly, and then made it up in the fourth. By the fifth Richard was doing very well, and the coins piled up before him. He played yet another game.

  The earl lost some, gained some, but throughout maintained a cool equanimity. One could tell little from his expression, or from his gray eyes almost hidden beneath those dark brows.

  Richard was startled by distant thunder. The storm that threatened earlier that afternoon finally arrived. He looked up and spied a clock, and as he did so, it struck the hour. Was it midnight already? His concentration had been such that he had not noticed the time passing, or the clock striking the other hours. Richard looked at the stake he was wagering. It was quite large, for he lost the last game and hoped to make up the loss.

  Suddenly, he shivered. What in God’s name had he been doing? He glanced at his companions’ faces: Jack gazed at his cards, a small smile curving his mouth; Edward was biting his lower lip. The earl—his expression was the same as ever, unreadable. Richard tried to remember the last—God, had it been five … no, six hours? What had he been doing? He had little money, yet he was wagering as if he were as rich as Croesus. It was as if he had played in a haze. It was gone now, but was replaced with an overwhelming fatigue, and his ribs ached. He looked down at his glass of brandy. It was half empty. Richard grimaced and pushed it away.

  Wyvern looked up from his cards. “Demming?”

  “Fold!” Edward threw down his cards in disgust. He looked at Jack Grey.

  Jack’s small smile turned rueful. “I’m out.” He tossed his cards down. He had lost badly, but it was ever Jack’s style to smile even when things went awry.

  “Clairmond?” Wyvern looked at him from beneath his brows.

  Richard looked at his cards. They were fairly good, but not the best he’d seen either. It was wholly possible for Wyvern to have a better hand. He glanced at the clock again. He shouldn’t have stayed so long. Tattersall’s had closed long ago. He should have already sold Satan and been on his way home. His head started to ache. He shouldn’t be here.

  Abruptly, the viscount laid down his cards. Wyvern shot an undecipherable look at him, and let out a small sigh. He put down his own cards.

  Richard felt his mouth go dry. He had lost—and lost enormously. He’d be lucky if he had enough money to get himself halfway home. He stood up, and the room wavered around him for a moment. Quickly, he grasped the back of a chair and steadied himself.

  “I shall meet with you tomorrow, sir, to settle my account,” he said to Wyvern. “If you would kindly give me your direction?” Richard was glad to hear that his voice did not waver at all.

  “At your convenience, of course,” replied Wyvern. “You may call upon me at Pall Mall; I shall be there for at least a month.”

  Richard’s hand tightened upon the chair back. Wyvern was being entirely too generous. It was usual to settle one’s accounts within the week, preferably the next day.

  “Tomorrow,” he said firmly.

  Wyvern inclined his head briefly. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Richard turned and walked toward the door.

  “Hawk, wait!”

  The viscount did not hear Jack’s voice. He walked swiftly out into the night.

  Chapter Two

  Chill and heavy rain slashed Richard’s face as he rode Satan back to the inn, but he felt nothing. His thoughts jumped about in a confused manner, like mice scampering just beyond his grasp, and he could not catch even one of them to form a comprehensible plan. Finally, one thought came clear, and in his anguish he dropped his reins, groaning loudly. His hands balled up into fists, and he pressed them into his eyes.

  He was ruined—even more so than his father had done already. How could he have done it? How could he have wagered what little money he had left? He must have been mad. What the devil had he been thinking of? And Marianne, his sister. How could he face her after this? His stupidity had ruined her, too. He thought of his pistols at the inn. It would be so easy …

  No. Richard shook his head fiercely. No. It would be worse for her if he died. Not only would she have no family to protect her, but she would bear a double shame—the suicide of both father and brother. He could not do this to her.

  What was he to do? Again the thoughts scampered frantically round and round in his head, until he was nigh dizzy with it. “Oh, God,” he whispered desperately, “I would sell my soul just to find a way out of this.”

  The rain lessened to a drizzle as Richard’s horse plodded on, and soon resolved itself to a fine mist. The viscount shivered. He was soaked through and cold and would catch his death of the ague if he did not get to the inn soon. He smiled grimly to himself; at least it would not be suicide. It took a few minutes before Richard realized he was lost. The mist had turned into an enveloping fog, and the buildings were vague shadowy shapes in the lamplight. He swore. Stupid! He did not remember how long he had been riding; he had just let Satan amble on, directionless, while he tried to restore some order to his emotions. He wondered if he had gone past the inn, or if he had yet to come to it. Perhaps if he knocked at one of the buildings. He hesitated, for it was very late, still in the wee hours of the morning. Catching sight of his sodden clothing, he grimaced. It was more likely that any occupants of a house would have the watch throw him behind bars than give him directions. He could feel his face grow warm with shame. It would be no more than he deserved for his stupidity.

  Richard glimpsed a large, dark shape that could have been a house; it was enshrouded by fog and seemed to shift its form. He rode for a few minutes toward it, but he seemed to come no closer to it. More fog rose up and obscured the shape, making a dark gray wall before him. He tugged at Satan’s reins then, and the horse obediently turned them around, but the viscount saw nothing but a seamless gray mass of fog surrounding them. Surely they must be near something, he thought. He decided to ride on, for they must come to some building or person—one could not be lost forever in London.

  It seemed, however, they could. The fog hinted at shapes, but a steady pace toward the shapes brought them to more f
og. Satan’s hoofs made only a muffled sound upon the cobblestones, as if there were a carpet between the street and his feet; the mist seemed to absorb all sound. A chill crept up Richard’s spine, one that had little to do with the cold and wet. How could it be that he would turn Satan at right angles, and still arrive nowhere? There were houses everywhere around White’s Club. He shook his head and rode doggedly on.

  After what seemed to be hours, Satan’s ears pricked forward. Richard reined to a stop and listened. There—faint and muffled by the thick fog, Richard could hear footsteps. He urged Satan on toward the sound.

  The mists parted. An impeccably dressed young man appeared, twirling his silver-headed cane with a jaunty air. Richard’s horse started and almost reared. “Hush, old boy! There’s nothing to be afraid of. We might just have found our rescuer,” he murmured to the animal. Satan settled down, but Richard could feel him twitching nervously under him. The young man came up to the pair and stopped, smiling up at them.

  Richard stared. He was not one to notice his fellow man’s looks much, but this young man’s countenance was extraordinary. If a man could be called beautiful, this one certainly was. His hair was as black as night, his eyes dark in the dim light. The lineaments of his face were noble and sharply defined. His skin was pale, but had a luminous quality about it, almost as if it were lit by some fiery spark within. He wore a fine greatcoat, unbuttoned, and beneath it Richard could glimpse a black-and-silver waistcoat.

  “Excuse me, sir, but this fog has confused both myself and my horse, and we are quite lost. Can you tell me how close we might be to Hans Crescent?” Richard asked.

  The young man’s smile widened, showing white teeth. “Why, as close as around the corner, and as far away as a schoolboy’s thoughts at midterm.”