The Devil's Bargain Read online

Inebriated, thought Richard. He sighed and picked up his reins again.

  “But no, not inebriated at all,” the man said genially.

  “I bet your pardon!” Richard said, feeling his face grow warm. He must have been more tired than he thought to have said his thought aloud. “I did not mean—”

  “Of course not,” replied the man, “You may be more tired than you thought, but you did not say your thought aloud. You are Richard, Viscount Clairmond, are you not?”

  “Yes, but how—”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said. He pulled a delicate snuffbox from his pocket and took snuff with an elegant air. “I am …” He glanced swiftly at the viscount. “Teufel. Mr. Teufel.” He closed the snuffbox with a click.

  “Have we met?” The viscount dismounted, uncomfortable looking down on the man.

  “Mmmm … No, not really. But I have seen you often,” Teufel gave another wide, white smile.

  Richard did not know whether to be charmed or not. A sense of unease nagged at him, as if there were something he ought to do, but forgot. “Is there something you want of me?” he asked. He did not know why he said that; he felt somehow it was expected of him.

  Teufel cocked his head to one side, in a considering manner. “Yes … and no. Let us just say that there is something you might want of me.”

  Richard’s smile turned stiff. “I think not.” The man may not be inebriated, but he was probably mad. The viscount turned to mount his horse.

  “My dear Viscount, how you malign me,” Teufel said, his voice mock sorrowful. “I am not at all insane.”

  Richard stopped. He knew he had not spoken. His uneasiness grew, unfurling into dread. He turned back, facing the man.

  The mist behind Teufel shifted gray and black. An indefinable source of light seemed to flicker somewhere within the fog, for a dim glow suffused the area in which they stood. Richard looked at the young man before him. Despite the dimness, he could see Teufel’s face as clearly as if they were in sunlight. He fought down his dread and replaced it with anger.

  “Who are you?” he snapped.

  “Someone who can … help you.”

  “I need no help from the likes of you.” Richard turned to his horse again. He could feel Satan’s muscles stiffen, as if poised for battle. He patted and spoke softly to him. The horse relaxed a little, but still his ears pricked forward, alert.

  “I really think you should listen first. After all, you did ask for help.”

  Richard leaned his head against Satan’s saddle. What had he said? His mind wandered wearily over the last … hour … hours? He had gone over and over his problems, thoughts of suicide, Marianne …

  “A little something about your soul … ?” prompted Teufel.

  Richard turned and looked at the man, incredulous. He must be joking.

  “Wrong again, dear Clairmond. I am not joking either.”

  Closing his eyes, Richard shook his head in disbelief. He had heard tales of this and believed they were only tales. Was this not the nineteenth century? The supernatural had no place in a world where hot-air balloons could send men aloft, or great manufacturies of steel and coal poured form goods in quantities mankind had never seen before. He opened his eyes once again and looked at Teufel.

  “You are not real. I have been ill, and am wet and tired. You are but a sick and tired man’s dream.”

  Teufel smiled. “Oh, but I am quite real. Come, touch me.” He held out a beringed hand. Richard hesitated, then grasped the hand firmly. It was warm and dry, and quite real. “You see?”

  “What do you want of me?” Richard asked, releasing him quickly.

  “Let us say that I can be of great help to you. Your father has died, has he not? And left your estates encumbered with debts. You have no money but what can get you home, and your sister is near destitute. What will you do?”

  “I will manage.”

  “Stupid man!” Teufel suddenly seemed to lose his patience. He spoke sharply. “You have lost your money at gaming—I was there, I saw it!—and you have nothing with which to restore your lands, to feed yourself, or your sister. What occupation will you take, eh? You have been a soldier and are now a gentleman.” Teufel almost spat out that last word. “What useful trade have you been trained for?”

  Richard had to admit to himself there was nothing he knew, not even how to manage an estate, since his father had jealously held the reins when he was alive.

  “Your sister will have to earn her keep. She will make a fine governess. Shall I show you?”

  Before Richard could speak, Teufel raised his hand. A small spot in the mist glowed red, then burned away a space to show a perfect likeness of Marianne. There, she was older then he remembered and had shadows of fatigue under her eyes. She wore an old brown dress that had clearly been mended. The likeness seemed to start at a movement that was beyond Richard’s line of sight. Then her form was momentarily obscured by another, larger one, that pulled her into its arms in a crushing embrace.

  Richard clenched his teeth, and his hands balled into two hard fists.

  Teufel seemed to regain some of his geniality. “My, my. It seems she might be having a little trouble, eh?” He gazed meditatively at his fingernails, then took out a small handkerchief and began buffing them.

  The image of Marianne seemed to struggle as the man who held her caressed her waist and hip. Finally, she pulled away, her hands flying to her cheeks to hide their redness. Then, Richard could finally see the face of the man who had accosted her. Wyvern!

  “I will kill him. I swear I will kill him for what he has done.” Richard gazed at the images before him, his body rigid with fury.

  “Now, now, my dear sir, no need to be hasty. Your friend Wyvern has done nothing … yet.” Teufel waved his handkerchief at the hole in the mist. It shrank and disappeared.

  “But I have just seen—!”

  “The future. What would happen if you left me here by my lonesome self without even considering my offer.”

  “And what is your offer?” Richard ground out.

  “Much better.” Teufel smiled. “Simply this: You will do a little favor for me in return for wealth, and then, of course, your soul will be mine after a year.”

  “Oh, is that all there is to it?” Richard’s voice was sarcastic. “No. I think not. I will find a way to manage.”

  Teufel tapped his teeth with a finger, looking at Richard thoughtfully. “You might, of course. But your sister? I think not. She will want to help you, you know. She, unlike you, has all the necessary skills to earn a living. And if not at Wyvern’s house, then another’s, more distant from your home. And who is to say how she will fare so far from your protection? She is an exceedingly lovely lady, after all.”

  The despair and pride that had waged a war within Richard’s mind and heart so recently threatened to break out again, and wreak havoc with his reason. His head started aching badly, making it even more difficult to think. He pressed a palm against his temple, hoping to still the pain. “I do not accept, but … what … what is the ‘favor’ you wish me to do?”

  Teufel nodded, as if he took Richard’s words quite seriously. “You have had an eye for the ladies, have you not? There is a particularly delectable one, not far from your home. I have heard she is untouched. But then, perhaps it is a matter of the right man to try and—”

  “I do not need a pander, Teufel,” cut in Richard. His voice was cold, and had an edge of steel.

  “My dear Viscount Clairmond! I never said—”

  “Cut line, Teufel!” His headache pounded now, so that he could scarce see what was in front of him.

  “Very well, then.” Teufel’s voice had grown equally cold. “It is this. You have a choice of sacrificing your sister’s virtue, or that of an unknown young woman. If you agree to seduce this woman and abandon her, your sister will be saved. Marianne need not go hungry, nor will she need to earn money for her … services. She will even live in luxury. Your choice.”

&n
bsp; Richard stared at Teufel. He’d known prostitutes and courtesans who had started out much the way Teufel said Marianne would. They were hard women, for they knew that in the end no one would be their protector—they’d have to do the protecting themselves. Some of them dwindled into poverty; some died of an illness contracted from a so-called benefactor. The thought of Marianne, her soft eyes growing hard with cynicism, her body riddled with disease—Richard closed his eyes in anguish.

  “This young woman. Does she have a family? A father?”

  “Yes, but only a father, and a frail one at that. Consider it, Clairmond. You have not lived an exemplary life—why else were you forced to join the army? I have watched your depredations amongst the demimondaine quite carefully.”

  Perhaps it would not be so bad for this young woman. Perhaps her father would make sure she was provided for after Richard … He swallowed bile. But not Marianne—not his sister. He had been a disobedient son, a rake and a seducer. He deserved that his soul be damned. But not Marianne. At the very least, he could save her.

  “Who is this woman?” Richard said at last.

  Teufel smiled, and a hint of triumph lingered on his lips.

  A thump on the chamber door roused Lescaux from his chair by the fire, and he rose, rubbing his eyes. The door opened.

  “Mon Dieu!” he cried. He hurried to the viscount and helped him to the chair he had just vacated. He rubbed his master’s hands and gazed anxiously at this face. Milord le Capitaine did not look well. The viscount’s face was pale, and his eyes red-rimmed, and he shivered as if in an ague. Lescaux did not know what time it was. There was no clock in the chamber, but he knew it must have been well past midnight, for it was silent in the inn. He pulled his master’s coat from him and put a blanket from the bed around him.

  “How is this, Milord? You ’ave the cold to the bones, and come so late! Was my care to your health as nothing? Now you ’ave walk about in the bad weather and catch the death of yourself.”

  Richard sat, gazing at the fire, and let Lescaux pull off his boots. Lescaux glanced at him, worried. Milord looked very much as if he had caught his death. To be sure, Milord’s face was less drawn and still as when Lescaux had ministered to him in the field hospital, but his eyes—they were as shadowed now with as much pain and anguish as they had been a year ago.

  A bitter smile barely lifted the corners of Richard’s mouth. “Caught my death, Lescaux? Indeed. And I have seen the devil, too, and sold my soul to him.”

  Lescaux shook his head and led the viscount to bed. Milord le Capitaine was very ill, alas.

  The Earl of Wyvern was gazing out his study window when a knock sounded at his door. “Enter,” he said without turning around.

  “Excuse me, my lord, but Lord Clairmond is awaiting you in the parlor,” came his butler’s voice.

  “You may show him in here, Stewart.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The door closed with a soft click.

  Wyvern sighed and rubbed his face wearily with one hand. Drat the man. He’d given him a month, but Clairmond’s pride was apparently such that he had to come two days later. The viscount could hardly have got the money in this short a time, unless he had received some miraculous windfall. Wyvern shook his head. The Clairmonds—save one—were all very high in the instep. For all that he, Wyvern, was of higher rank than they, the late elder viscount had scarce to do with any neighbor of his that was of later lineage, and whose lineage might have smelled of the shop. As a result, Wyvern had little chance—until lately—to come to know any of the Clairmond family. It seemed on the face of it that the new viscount was of the same stripe. He looked down at the vowels in his hand. Well, he would see what came of their interview.

  “The Viscount Clairmond, my lord,” announced Stewart.

  Wyvern rose and bowed gravely to the viscount. Clairmond returned it, stiffly. The man did not appear well. Wyvern heard Clairmond had been near death from battle wounds. From the looks of his pale, gaunt face and shadowed eyes, he was still not recovered. Wyvern felt a stab of pity for the man, but suppressed it.

  “A good morning to you, Clairmond. Please be seated.” Clairmond gestured to a chair.

  “I prefer to stand,” replied Clairmond stiffly.

  Wyvern glanced at him and was surprised to see a blaze of anger in his visitor’s eyes. “Well, I don’t prefer to stand, so I would appreciate it if you would take a chair. Damned awkward to have to crane my neck to look at you.” The viscount sat reluctantly. Wyvern wondered if Clairmond had got wind of Miss Clairmond’s activities. No matter. He had Clairmond’s vowels in his hands. They should serve as a lever to forward his desires. He smiled to himself. Desires. Appropriate word, that.

  “I would prefer to get to business immediately,” Clairmond said abruptly.

  Wyvern lifted an eyebrow. “Of course, if that is your wish.”

  “I cannot give you the money at once,” Clairmond said. “It … my father left the estate badly in debt. It will take a while before I can repay you. I have a ring, however—it has been in my family for generations—I can give you as collateral.” The viscount pulled the ring from his finger and put it on the table before Wyvern. It glinted gold, and the large single emerald in the center sparkled.

  Wyvern looked at the ring and then at Clairmond from under his brows. He did not touch the ring. “Keep your ring, I have no need of it.” He brought his fingers lightly together and contemplated the viscount over them. “But perhaps we can come to another arrangement.”

  “My estates, sir?” Clairmond did not take the ring.

  The earl’s smile was ironic. As stiff-backed as his father, he thought. It would be amusing to see how the viscount would react to his next words. “Another arrangement,” he repeated. “I really have no interest in anything of yours. I am willing to forgive your debt to me—to throw these vowels in the fire over there—” and he nodded to the fire burning merrily in the grate close to them “—in return for your sister, Marianne.”

  “You bloody—” hissed the viscount and rose with such force from his chair that it fell over with a crash.

  “Silence!” roared Wyvern.

  Clairmond stopped his lunge across the space between them, but his hands clenched into fists, and his face spoke of murder.

  “Sit! You insult your sister, not to mention myself,” Wyvern said sternly, rising. “Miss Clairmond is a lady, and well I do know it, though you seem to have forgotten it with your … assumptions.” He strode to the fire, then turned to face the viscount. “It came to my ears, after your father died, that your sister was in grave straits. She is prideful—as are all you Clairmonds—and she would not accept my help—the help of a concerned neighbor. However, she would accept employment and has been governess to my two daughters. She has been an excellent governess, and I do not want to … lose my investment. I wish to make her my wife. In return, I will burn your vowels and you will owe me nothing.”

  Clairmond curled his lip. “My sister is not for sale. She marries where she wills, and I will not force her into any sort of … arrangement.”

  “But think, my dear Viscount. How will you live? And do you think your sister will truly be content to hang on your sleeve when she knows what a bad state you are in? I think not. I am offering her a comfortable life and a respectable position in society. She will never lack for the necessities—even the luxuries—of life.”

  “No. I will find a way.”

  “Think of the alternative, Clairmond. She is an excellent governess. If not at my home, then she will surely want to earn her keep at another’s. And she is a singularly lovely young woman. I am offering her marriage. Some men may not, however much a lady she is. With me, she will live in luxury and respectability.”

  The viscount seemed to freeze at Wyvern’s words. He turned his eyes to the earl, and Wyvern could see a curious emotion just below the surface calm. It was almost as if the viscount were gazing past him into a distant horror. He looked down, and apparently noticing the
fallen chair, bent down mechanically and brought it upright. He sat, carefully folded his hands in his lap, and then looked again at the earl.

  “It must be by her consent I will not compel her, and neither will you.” The viscount’s voice was almost a whisper.

  Wyvern smiled sardonically. “Done. And I know you are a man of your word. It is the pride of the Clairmonds, is it not?” He took Richard’s vowels and tossed them in the fire.

  Chapter Three

  “Now do stop fussing, dear Conny. I shall do well enough!” Eveline looked impatiently at herself in the mirror. Her white round gown with pink piping at the neck and down the front of the skirt was of the latest fashion. Though she was delighted with it when she first saw it, she was never one to dwell on finery much. There was much more to life than that.

  “Tch! Sure and I may be only your old nurse, Miss Eveline, but I do know some things that are right and proper at an assembly, and untidiness is not one of them!” Nurse Connor—or Mrs. Connor as she was respectfully known belowstairs—gave a final tug to the ribbon at the back of Eveline’s dress. “There, now.”

  Nurse looked at her charge fondly and sighed. What a fair colleen she is, her face as sweet as the Blessed Virgin’s with her dark smooth hair and large eyes—though she’d never seen a picture of Our Lady with sea green eyes. She shook her head at herself. She’d best remember Miss Seton was a lady grown, and not the little child who snuggled in her arms so many years past. She brushed away a sentimental tear and found herself hugged very fiercely.

  “Oh, Nurse Conny! Now do be happy! I shall enjoy myself enormously, and you shall hear all about it when I come home. And I am sure Lady Brookland will take good care of me.”

  Nurse shook her head dolefully. “That one! Far be it from me to say aught against my betters, but she’s one that has more hair than wit.”

  Eveline’s grin was mischievous. “And that cannot be much, for she wears a wig, you know.”

  Nurse’s ears almost seemed to prick forward. “Well heaven bless me! Does she, now? I never would have thought, for ’twas a most cleverly done head—” She stopped and eyed her young mistress sternly. “Miss Eveline! I’ll wager ’tis all of her ladyship’s own hair, and not a wig at all! Haven’t I warned you, often and often, of the evils of gossip?”