Page 16 of The Devil to Pay

Unbidden, the image of Mark Briggs flitted behind her eyes, his broad shoulders and too handsome face, that thick dark hair and those arrogant, glittering eyes. He looked like no gardener she had ever seen in her life. Heavens, if it came to that, he looked like no man she had ever seen in her life. He was certainly not used to being told what to do and had clearly never done a day’s labour in his life, going on the damage the spade had done to his palms. She remembered the feel of his powerful hands beneath hers. She had been viscerally aware of his discomfort, his irritation, the desire to tell her to go to the devil, but why? Unless, perhaps, he was used to being the one giving orders.

Selina blinked, considering. No. She glanced back down at her review, and at her name clearly written underneath. Miss Selina Davenport. Monmouthshire.

A jolt of unease shot through her, and she remembered then the thought she’d had in the moments after Archibald Briggs had knocked his cousin down… accidentally on purpose. He’d done it to stop the fellow looking at her so boldly, to halt the smile she had been certain was about to curve over that hard, wicked mouth. Selina had thought in that moment that only one kind of man would have had the temerity to look at a lady of quality so boldly. A highbred gentleman. Which was clearly ridiculous. What in the name of everything holy would a man be doing man like that be doing digging up her rose garden?

Unless he was the author of the books she had reviewed and had taken exception to her words. Unless he had come here to make mischief for her in retaliation for her criticism.

Startled, Selina gave a little gasp and leapt out of her chair. No. She told herself to get a grip, for it was ludicrous. Surely? What kind of pig-headed fool would do such a thing? It was too silly for words. She crossed the room, pouring herself another tot of brandy, rather larger than the first one. Taking a large swallow, she coughed as it went down the wrong way, and stood for some moments gasping, her eyes watering.

“Oh, good grief, Selina, you must be mad,” she told herself breathlessly. But the more she thought about it, the more the idea stuck in her brain and refused to budge.

Mark Briggs was no gardener. Of that, she was certain. He was certainly in no need of protecting, and the likelihood of him never having spoken a word in his life seemed so preposterous when she remembered the fierce look in his eyes and the tightness in his jaw… oh, he had wanted to ring a peel over her and no mistake. How it must have rankled not to have been able to do so.

So, what if Anonymous really had come to take her measure? Who the devil was he? She certainly did not recognise him from her brief debut in town, but then she’d hardly mixed with the fashionable set, far less the cream of the ton, if that was where he belonged. Yet she could not believe any gentleman of such standing would lower himself so far as to become a gardener just to get back at her. It was utter madness. He’d need to be out of his mind to try such a thing. The scandal that would erupt if anyone found out about it would be dreadful. It would be reckless and foolish to court such disaster, and for what? To teach a woman already widely disapproved of for having too many bold opinions and for being an old maid a lesson? Surely not.

A foolish lark might appeal to someone with less to lose, though. So perhaps he was only on the edges of high society. She snapped her fingers as an idea occurred to her. He might be a noble bastard. That would make sense. One who had all the trappings of nobility—presuming his sire had recognised him—but was not quite respectable. Heaven knew there was something not quite respectable about Mark Briggs. Everything about him screamed danger, beware, abandon your virtue all ye who dally here.

Selina snorted, shaking her head. Good heavens, she was becoming ridiculous. It must be the brandy. Sighing, she decided she had better check the children had gone to bed as instructed and made proper use of their toothbrushes. What she would do about Mark Briggs—or whoever he was—she did not yet know. But she would think of something.

Chapter 7

Jules,

I suppose I ought to be thankful you at least made it to the last meeting of the Sons of Hades before you disappeared again. What is it now? Is some husband after you wielding an axe? Or were you simply your usual charming self and caused a riot somewhere and there’s a warrant for your arrest? I assure you neither would surprise me. It might have been nice if you had let me know you were going out of town, however, as I’ve come all the way from bloody Scotland to see you, you absolute arse!

Now I’m stuck here with Hamilton, assuming I don’t murder him before the end of the day, which is becoming increasingly likely. We came down with Georgie and Rochford. He’s none too pleased either, ye ken, having thought to catch up with you. He also said to tell you - you’re an arsehole.

So, have you at least figured out why Ashburton has buried himself in the back of beyond? Did he murder someone? We’re all dying to know but the devil has always been too damned proud to admit he’s flesh and blood like the rest of us. What’s the craic? You can at least give us that much to make up for being an epic arse!

Yrs, etc.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Muir Anderson (Son of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven) to The Most Hon’ble Jules Adolphus, The Marquess of Blackstone (eldest son of Their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin).

26th February 1845, Llun-y-mynydd, Monmouthshire.

The glasshouses were a good deal nicer than being outside breaking his back with digging, but Dixey had set him to work with a cloth and a bucket, and washing down the dirty glass with cold water was not much fun. The bandage on his hand was now dirty and sodden and the blisters were stinging like fury. Not that he was about to murmur a word of complaint. He could not help but wonder what Davenport would say if she discovered the state of her handiwork, however. That she had not intended for him to be doing the washing part of the job was obvious to him, if not to Mr Dixey. He glanced down at the grubby bandage and grinned. Oh, she’d pitch a fit.

Why the idea pleased him so much, he couldn’t say, except that anything that riled Davenport was fine by him. He was feeling very pleased with himself too, for he had finally decided on the best way to get back at her. It was obvious, really, and he only wondered he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Every writer’s revenge was plain: you put your nemesis in a book.

“Well, that’s the last bit of glass in place,” Mr Dixey said, standing back to admire his handiwork.

“Mark, give that a wipe down and you can call it a day. Good work, lads. Archie, just bring those tools into the potting shed, would you? They’ll all need washing before we can use again them this year.”

“Right you are, sir,” Briggs said, hefting a wooden tray filled with dibbers and trowels and other things Jules had no names for. “I’ll see you back at the cottage if you want to get off, eh, Mark?” Jules nodded and raised a hand before giving the new pane of glass a rub over with the soapy cloth. With a sigh of relief, he dropped the cloth back into the water and stooped to pick the bucket up when the door opened again.

“There you are, I wondered how you were getting on and… good heavens. What have you done to your bandage?”

Jules bit back a grin as he saw Davenport standing in the doorway. The damp air had made her red hair frizz madly, and it was escaping its pins on all sides. She looked like one of the Furies, backlit by the dying light outside, her chin up, eyes flashing annoyance.

He held out his hand to her, presenting the sodden bandage for her inspection. It had been white and pristine but was now a dingy grey and streaked with green from the moss and algae that had grown over the glass.

“Well, I suppose you’ll look that pleased when you die of blood poisoning too,” she said, with a tone that could have etched every piece of glass in the place. “I really ought to let you, but never let it be said that I allowed a foolish man to kill himself because he was too bloody minded to be sensible. Come along. Chop, chop, I don’t have all day.”

Allowing himself something of a swagger because he knew it would annoy her, Jules took his own sweet time picking up the bucket and carrying it outside.

“Leave that,” she said impatiently.

Jules shook his head, pointing towards the figure of Mr Dixey, who was disappearing around the corner with Briggs.