ë Archer - Demon’s Bride

A fine tension ran through Leo. He felt it in Bram, and the other Hellraisers, yet none of them wanted to speak of it on this day. Anne, unknowing, had spoken of the very issue—the very person—none wanted to discuss. The one who had been their closest ally and now threatened everything.

“Delicate,” Leo corrected, forcing his mind toward less troubling subjects.

“I would have thought you might favor a more robust girl.”

Over the rim of his glass, Leo watched his new wife move through the patterns of a dance. It was the Friar and the Nun. Or maybe Gathering Peascods. He could never remember all the names of the dances, nor their figures. It mattered little—he never stayed at assemblies and balls long enough to dance, and other, more important thoughts filled his brain. The cost of transporting pepper from Sumatra. The profitability of shipping English ale to India.

Today, he’d done his duty and danced one figure with Anne, then quickly retired to the side of the chamber, leaving the celebrating to others, including his wife.

She was a delicate thing. When Leo had first seen Anne Hartfield at an assembly, she’d made little impression on him. Small of stature, her hair somewhere between blond and brunette, eyes more distinctive for their liveliness than their hazel color. There were other girls, girls of more vivid beauty and sparkling dispositions, who giggled and artfully fanned themselves whenever he made mildly flirtatious remarks. Anne had only smiled and looked away, as if uncertain how to respond.

Even now, partnered with one of her elder brothers, she moved tentatively through the steps of the dance, though it was part of every genteel girl’s education to have a dancing master and learn to make pretty figures at assemblies. Her family’s reduced circumstances were no secret, however, so perhaps she never had a dancing master.

“I’ll own,” he said lowly, “that when I decided it was time to wed, there had been other girls that first attracted my notice. But I came to see that Anne was perfect.”

Bram looked skeptical. “Some of your Exchange logic?”

“I’m never without it. It was simply a matter of the best return for my investment.”

“An aristocratic bride—I see the reasoning behind that decision.”

As one of Leo’s closest friends, Bram could read his heart well. Nor did Leo make much secret of his demands. He burned for entry into a world long denied him. That could only be achieved by marrying a peer’s daughter rather than a daughter of one of the wealthy ironmongers or heads of a trade corporation. Such a marriage might net him wealth, and valuable business connections. But he already had wealth. He had connections. What he wanted, demanded, could only be gained through blood ties.

He would not gain a title, but by the Devil’s fire, he would have what his father had been denied: a place in Society.

And he refused to let Whit endanger that.

“Yet why not pick a bride with a fortune?” Bram asked. “Why the daughter of a baron treading the waters of genteel poverty?”

“For that very reason.” When Bram continued to look unconvinced, Leo continued. “Had she come with a fortune of her own, one that matched or was greater than the one I possess, it would serve only to divide us. She would hold it over my head as proof of her superiority.”

“I had no idea you were so mercenary, young Leopold.”

Leo looked askance at Bram. “A lecture? From the man who has debauched most of the female populace of London?”

His friend chuckled, though the sound was more a shadowed representation of laughter rather than the thing itself. “No lecture. All of us Hellraisers live in glass houses.”

“Damned drafty, those houses.” Leo shrugged. “Yet they’re better than dull, dense piles of stone.”

Bram patted an ornate plaster embellishment on the wall behind him. Everything in Leo’s home was new, this portion of Bloomsbury having been developed within the past few years. He had considered purchasing a townhome in Mayfair or Saint James’s. He had the money. Yet he wanted his own place, something entirely his.

“Now you have your house and your aristocratic bride. What more could you want?”

Now it was Leo’s turn to laugh. “There is always more. You, of all people, should know that.”

Understanding darkened Bram’s face. “Perhaps that is why Mr. Holliday picked us to be recipients of his gifts.”

The mention of the Hellraisers’ benefactor reminded Leo that the threat could no longer be ignored. “Find John. I’ll collect Edmund, then we shall all meet in my study.”

“Leave your wedding celebration?”

“For a few moments only. We must discuss Whit.”

Bram’s expression tightened. Of all of the Hellraisers, Bram had been closest to Whit. The betrayal had cut Bram deeply. Even months later, Leo saw the pain was still fresh.

Bram strode away in search of John, while Leo went to find Edmund. As he strolled through the chamber, guests continued to come up and wish him joy of his marriage. He accepted their felicitations, and felt a hard, sharp thrill to see his noble guests’ silken finery strewn with crumbs and stained with wine from his table.

Eat and drink, you bastards. Stuff yourselves stupid, drink yourselves senseless. You’ll be too fat and drunk to notice me tearing you to pieces.

He found Edmund watching the dancers and clapping along with the music.

“You aren’t dancing,” Leo noted. “You always dance.”

“Now my dances are reserved for Rosalind.”

“Dancing only with your wife? How provincial.”

Edmund merely smiled. “With her, I am content to be the most unfashionable of men.”

“You should have brought her.”

At this, Edmund’s usually cheerful expression dimmed. “Having her attend a social function such as this so soon ...”

Leo nodded in understanding. Rosalind’s first husband had died in a carriage accident not two months earlier. A month after that, she and Edmund had wed. There had been scandalized murmurs about how quickly the marriage had taken place. A few had even suspected that Edmund had somehow engineered the accident in order to finally gain the hand of the woman denied him years ago. The rumors never took seed—nobody could believe such an amiable man as Edmund could possibly do something so brutal and calculating.

But Leo knew the truth. As did Bram and John. And they would tell no one. For it was their truth, too. One far beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.

Whit also knew the truth. Yet he could do much worse than damage their reputations.

“Join me and Bram and John in the study,” Leo said now. “We need to discuss the traitor.”

Edmund nodded tightly, determination writ plain on his face. As Leo and Edmund skirted the edge of the chamber, the dance ended. Anne glided toward him with an anxious frown.

“Is everything well?” she asked.

“Private business, my dear. Between old friends,” he added, with a glance toward Edmund.

“Of course.” She was quick to make herself amenable, which oddly disturbed him. He supposed most men desired an acquiescent wife. Yet he found just then that a display of spine might suit Anne. He admired strength and determination in others—his wife would be no exception.

Hell, he hoped his choice in a bride hadn’t been a mistake, guided by his own sense of retribution.

“Only,” she added, “there is talk of putting us to bed soon, and it would be rather awkward if there was no groom to join me in the bedchamber.” Pink flooded her cheeks, yet he was pleased to see that she did not look away, but held his gaze. Tremulously.

“You will find me at the head of the procession.”

She smiled, relieved, and dipped into a curtsy. “I shall see you then.”

“A very sweet girl,” Edmund said after Anne moved away. He raised a brow. “How very unlike you.”

Leo scowled. “I desire sweetness, too.”

“Have a care with her.” Edmund’s normally genial expression grew serious. “Women are not trade routes to be aggressively negotiated.”

“And my brutish peasant hands might crush her.”

“Don’t be an ass.” Even affable Edmund could lose his temper. “Only, use that clever brain of yours to see your wife. What she thinks. What she feels. You will find it a better path to happiness.”

Leo laughed. “I’m married now. Happiness has nothing to do with it.”

Edmund shook his head, yet he followed as Leo led him from the chamber and down the corridor to his study. Sounds of music and merriment faded the deeper he went into his house. The sounds of an unknowing, innocent world, beholden to no one, subject only to reason and scientific principles. But Leo and the other Hellraisers knew differently.

A thought leapt into Leo’s mind: What if Anne learned the truth about him? About the nature of the meeting he was about to have? What might she do?

He shrugged. If Anne ever discovered his secret, she could do nothing. He was the one with the power. Even if someone believed her allegations—which they never would—she had no leverage and could not harm him. No, the bigger threat came from Whit.

Within the book-lined room, he found Bram and John already there, illuminated by a single candle on his desk. Full night had fallen, and shadows were thick in the room, so that in the light of the candle, Leo and his friends appeared to be shades emerging from the Underworld.

Leo locked the door, and made sure all the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. With actions deliberate and ceremonial, he poured five glasses of brandy and handed them to his fellow Hellraisers.

“There’s only four of us now,” John said, eyeing the remaining glass.

As if Leo, or any of their company, could forget. That was what this private meeting was about. Whit’s absence, and its tacit condemnation, howled like a cavern. Three months had passed since Whit had severed his ties with the Hellraisers, had urged Leo and John and Edmund to turn their backs on the source of their power. But Whit had been troubled, and misled. Especially by that Gypsy girl.

Leo had the scar on his shoulder as proof of his erstwhile friend’s perfidy. Whit had made his choice, and no one had seen him these past months. Running scared, Leo supposed.

Only to himself did he admit that he missed Whit, his company, his counsel. Leo could not step into White’s and see the hazard tables without thinking of Whit, for he had been a familiar figure there, wagering outrageous sums of money only for the thrill of risk. Gone now. All gone. Once inseparable, the five of them had been cleaved apart, never to be whole again.

Whit was a danger, one that had to be found and contained. And Leo knew the best way to find him, but he required assistance.

“For our guest,” said Leo. He drew a breath, then spoke. “Veni, geminus.”

The candle guttered. Went out. The room became a black chasm, and the scent of burnt paper thickened in the air.

By touch, Leo struck a flint, lit a tinder, and brought it to the candle.

The doors to the study were locked, the windows shut. No one could get in or out of the room unnoticed.

Yet now a fifth man stood before Leo and the others. As always, the man wore elegant, expensive clothing, and he glittered as he bowed.

“Compliments, Hellraisers,” the man said, smiling and making his leg. “And compliments from my master, the Devil.”

“The Devil?” Leo felt his mouth curl. “Your master’s usually more discreet with his name. Last we were informed, he preferred to be known as ‘Mr. Holliday.’”

The geminus smiled. Or rather, Leo had the sense that the thing smiled, for try as he might, he had never once truly beheld its face. It was always ... blank, and Leo’s gaze kept sliding away from it, as though trying to find purchase on a slick incline.

“He cannot resist a moment of theatricality, my master, and I am always obliging.” The geminus eyed the three other Hellraisers. “Good sirs, this is a rare occasion to be summoned before the entire company.”

“Not the entire company,” said Bram tightly.

At this, the geminus made a clicking sound of displeasure. “Our prodigal. Lord Whitney.”

“Thus my presence here, and not at my own wedding.” The sounds of revelry could be heard only faintly through the door to the study, like vestiges of memory. “We need intelligence—the whereabouts of Whit. What can you or your master tell us?”

“Very little,” said the geminus.

“Bloody nonsense.” Cerebral as John usually was, he also possessed a temper of quick and biting ferocity, and it snapped from him now like a whip. “We’re to believe that the Devil himself—a being of unimaginable power—he and all his minions have not the means between them of locating one damned man?”