Demon's Bride

“Not everyone must be here for the advancement of business, surely.”

“Oh, no.” He flicked a glance toward a cluster of people, men and women A

The coldness of his tone startled her, as did the predatory animal lurking behind his wintry eyes. Good God, whom had she married?

“There must be some guests in attendance that are truly your friends,” she protested.

At this, his expression thawed. “Over there, by the windows. Those men are my friends.”

A

The Hellraisers.

Sheltered A

They were never mentioned directly by name. Lord W—y, habitué of the gaming tables. Lord R—l, a veteran of warfare against the French in the Colonies, lately seeing more action at certain establishments of pleasure in our fair metropolis. Mr. B—y, as feared at the Exchange as he is known for the noble company he keeps.

These three Hellraisers were spotted without their companions Sir E F-S and the Hon. Mr. G—y in a den of fashionable iniquity, after which they retired to more private entertainments at the home of Lord R—l.

The one reason why men of such wicked reputation saw admittance to polite society was by virtue of their titles. Only Leo lacked a title, but his vast fortune admitted him where absence of breeding might deny.

Surely it must be wonderful to be a man, to have such freedom.

Yet she should not trust the scandal sheets. Everyone understood that they manufactured most of what they printed, and A

“Come, and I’ll introduce you to them.”

Before A

It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation.

Distracted as she was by Leo’s touch, she found herself nearing a trio of men she had read about many times, but never met.

Strange. As A

Sinister energy, indeed. I’m merely hungry. Couldn’t even finish my chocolate this morning.

She shook off her peculiar mood, and made herself smile politely as Leo performed the introductions.

“A

“My felicitations, Mrs. Bailey.” Thin and gingery, Mr. Godfrey bowed over her hand, and it surprised A

How could such a bookish man also be a profligate and a political threat? Surely she must have misheard, and the reports in the papers were scurrilous.

She curtsied her greeting, murmuring pleasantries.

“Here we have Sir Edmund Fawley-Smith,” continued Leo.

“You illuminate the room, Mrs. Bailey.” Sir Edmund offered her a very charming bow, and she could not help but smile at him. He was a very pleasant young gentleman, of shorter stature than the other Hellraisers, with kindly eyes and a rather rumpled appearance. Certainly he could not be a rake.

“And lastly, this is the extremely dishonorable Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell.”

A

The only thing marring his masculine beauty was the large, ugly scar that traced from just beneath his right ear to disappear beneath the folds of his stock. It looked as though someone long ago had tried to cut Lord Rothwell’s throat, and very nearly succeeded.

That Lord Rothwell stood before her now, bowing, proved that not only had the attacker not succeeded, but it was highly likely that Lord Rothwell had dispatched the assailant. Killed him. Looking into his glacial eyes, A

Violence, or seduction. Doubtless both.

“You have done England a great service, Mrs. Bailey,” he said, straightening from his bow. A

“How so, Lord Rothwell?”

“By marrying this villain, you have removed a great danger from the London streets.”

Leo scowled as Mr. Godfrey and Sir Edmund laughed. “I’m no more a danger than you, Bram.”

Lord Rothwell spread his hands. “Thus you prove my thesis.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Mr. Godfrey, gri

A

Still, something, or rather, someone seemed missing.

“Is Lord Whitney here?” she asked. The scandal sheets had been very specific in naming five men as Hellraisers: the four who stood before her now, and James Sherbourne, the Earl of Whitney, or Lord W—y. Wherever one of the Hellraisers went, the others were certain to follow.

She may as well have dropped a moldering carcass in the middle of the room. Whatever lightheartedness the men might have been feeling disappeared immediately. Everyone looked grim, and something very like grief flashed in Lord Rothwell’s eyes.

“Oh, dear,” A

“Don’t apologize.” Leo patted her hand, but the gesture did not soothe her. “Whit ... Lord Whitney is alive. Last I heard.”

“Have you seen him lately?” Lord Rothwell put the question to her with surprising kee

Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, all of them sharp and demanding. And her husband’s gaze was hardest of all. A