Page 1 of The Devil to Pay

Chapter 1

How disappointing that our mystery writer seems to have developed a character about which he or she knows nothing at all. Perhaps they come from an elevated position in life and have never experienced what it is to work for a living, for I found the blacksmith entirely unconvincing, and as for the housekeeper…

― A review of the recently published novel, “The Jewel and the Iron Key” by Anon. Review submitted to The Lady’s Gazette by Miss Selina Davenport.

15thFebruary 1845, Goshen Court, Monmouthshire.

Jules Adolphus, Marquess of Blackstone, peered out of the window as the carriage jolted up the pitted driveway, and grimaced.

“You’ve made a mistake, old chap. It can’t possibly be this pile of mouldering stone.”

Briggs, a most superior valet and the envy of every man of fashion among the ton, looked down his long nose at his master and gave a little sniff. “This is Goshen Court, I assure you, my lord, and I might remind you that I warned you as how you would live to regret this little jaunt.”

Jules waved this observation away with irritation.

“No one likes a know-it-all, Briggs,” Jules muttered darkly, staring with increasing apprehension through the window. “Hell, and the devil! I know he said the place was in disorder, but I thought he was exaggerating.”

“It would appear not. He’s probably not even here.” Briggs replied, in Cassandra-like tones.

Jules glared at him. “Stop sulking. I’m sure he is, and more to the point, we’re here now. The inside can’t be as dismal as the outside. Pip would never stand it. Likes his creature comforts, does Ashburton.”

“So you say, my lord.” Briggs heaved a heavy sigh, resigned to his fate, and awaited a footman to let down the steps.

As there were no obvious signs of life from the house, Jules opened the door himself, jumped down, and stretched his long limbs, which were ill-suited to the confines of a carriage. Briggs made his way to the front door with the air of one climbing the Tyburn steps. Stamping his feet, which had lost all feeling about ten miles previous, Jules looked around with disfavour. Goshen Court, seen on a freezing winter afternoon, with the sun already having decided the day was best over and done with, was hardly an inviting prospect.

Briggs seemed to have no luck at the front door, the heavy pounding of the knocker only disturbing the crows who had settled to roost in a nearby oak tree. They rose into the sky with a great flapping of wings and ominous caws of irritation that sent chills of foreboding skittering down Jules’ spine.

“What in the name of everything holy would Ashburton be doing, hiding himself out here in this crumbling old pile of sh—”

Jules broke off as a tall figure rounded the building, his shock of platinum blond hair startling against the twilit gloom. It could be none other than Ashburton. If the hair weren’t a dead giveaway, the height, the broad shoulders, and that impossibly handsome, aristocratic face would have settled it. Yet Jules still blinked and stared, for never in his life before had he seen the haughty Earl of Ashburton with a grubby blond urchin perched upon his shoulders. The child’s muddy boots swung heedlessly against an impeccably tailored coat in a way that would have had Briggs throwing himself into the closest body of water with cries of anguish. What really gave Jules a turn, though, and made him wonder if his last brandy-fuelled bender had done him more damage than he’d realised was the singing. Ashburton was singing.

Jules had heard Pip sing on a few memorable occasions, but only when the fellow had been as drunk as an emperor, and those songs had certainly not been suitable for the ears of innocent babes. But now… now he was not bellowing out a bawdy ditty for the entertainment of his friends but singing nursery rhymes.

What the bloody hell was going on?

“Pip?” Jules called across the considerable expanse of weed-riddled gravel that may once have been a driveway.

Ashburton froze, his eyes widening in a manner that might have been amusing if the setting sun hadn’t just cast a final golden shaft of light across the dim landscape before disappearing for the day. It shone on the earl’s white-blond hair, and upon the child. It was a girl child, Jules saw now, enchantingly pretty, with silver glinting eyes, the fairest of fair skin, and the extraordinary bone structure Pip and his brother and sister had all inherited from their father, the Marquess of Montagu.

Jules sucked in a breath of shock and spoke before he could think. “Christ almighty.”

That the child was Pip’s was too obvious to deny, not that he attempted it. He only glared at Jules with indignation glittering in his eyes.

“What in dam— What are you doing here?” Pip demanded, his tone far from welcoming.

Jules quirked an eyebrow. “I came to pay my old friend a visit and discover why he’d buried himself in the middle of nowhere for so long. But I suppose I have an answer to that question.”

“Who dat, Papa?” piped up the little girl, who was holding onto Pip’s blond hair with small, chubby hands.

“I’m Jules,” Jules said cheerfully, walking closer and executing a very formal bow for the little girl. “I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

“Tilly,” the girl said with a shy smile.

“Ah, like your grandmama,” Jules replied, darting a look at Pip, who looked rather green.

Oh, there was a story here and no mistake. Poor old Ashburton had been caught out and, if Jules was any judge, he hadn’t told his parents. Not that he could blame the fellow; the idea of telling Montagu he’d sired a child out of wedlock made Jules sweat on Pip’s behalf. Poor devil.

“Down!” demanded the child, and so Pip swung her down from his shoulders. She stood, staring up at Jules, her tiny blonde brows furrowed. “Jules?”