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“I do.” He nodded to one of his men, who immediately headed out into the night. With one more nod, his men closed in, muscling aside the footmen who suddenly hovered like marionettes with no one to man the strings.
“You may wait in the cloakroom for the magistrate,” Clara told them sharply.
She had to hide her surprise when they obeyed. Devil’s men at their backs were no doubt incentive enough. “Well done, Lady Clara,” Devil said smoothly, impressed.
Bram snorted. “Get your own spinster.”
Everyone agreed it was the best house party the marquis had ever hosted.
The best party of the decade, in fact.
Even if he did end up in chains in his own cellar before dawn.
Maybe especially because he ended up in chain in his own cellar before dawn.
Bram was not inclined to be merciful. Devil did not know how to be. Clara had a feeling that the marquis only survived the sunrise because there were too many witnesses.
*
Clara was back in her bedroom, the sun washing the sky with pink and orange, with a package wrapped in pretty blue and gold paper waiting for her on the bed. Across it had been written: A gift courtesy of the Marquis of Eastbourne.
A copy of her new book. Care of Kitty and the Golden Griffin Bookshop, no doubt, before the night had taken such a turn.
“Everyone got one,” Bram said from the doorway. “Nightingale’s new book, delivered during the festivities. Hell of a party favor, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
That was when Clara realized she had never made it to the lion fountain.
Not that she had five thousand pounds to pay the blackmail in any case. But she’d planned to lie in wait, hopefully catch a glimpse. Find out who had been sending her those notes. Punch them at least once, very hard, right in the nose.
“What is it?” Bram asked, watching her carefully. “Do you need something? Tea? Whiskey? A basket of scones? Mrs. Meadows already sent one up with six different types of marmalade.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Better than fine. Sybil and the others are safe.”
They were sleeping in Devil’s suite of rooms, as he would be leaving right after breakfast. Apparently, he never lingered. Heloise had run down to the cottage, to see if Martin waited for her. As she had not returned, she had clearly found him. A message confirming it had arrived shortly after dawn.
“But?” Bram prodded.
Clara busied herself with pouring water from the pitcher into the basin and fetching a towel. “You still have blood in your hair.”
“But?” Bram repeated, not moving.
“I didn’t get a chance to corner my blackmailer,” she admitted. Satisfied, he shut the door behind him and stalked toward her. It was like being cornered by a giant Viking. Delicious.
“Sit down,” she ordered him primly, instead of jumping on him like she wanted to. The man must have the very devil of a headache.
He sat down. “The bawbag never showed for his payment,” he said, nodding to the book.
“How do you know that?”
“I had someone watching.”
“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you were up to something,” he replied, grunting when she wiped his bruises and bumps gently. She eased him out of his shirt to wash the back of his neck and muscular shoulders. “And I was right, wasn’t I? Provoking the marquis like that.”
“It worked.”
“You took ten years off my life.”
