ë Archer - Demon’s Bride

A disaster.

“Bailey?”

Norwood’s voice broke the scene. Leo quickly pocketed the coins and the vision of distant calamity faded. He was back in a London coffee house, amidst news sheets and talk of business, with Norwood gazing curiously at him across the table. A phantom scent of burning wood and pepper pods remained in Leo’s memory.

“Are you well, Bailey?”

“Forgive me. My mind ... went somewhere else for a moment.”

A knowing grin spread across Norwood’s face. “Back to your new bride, I imagine.”

Leo manufactured a smile. His ability to foresee financial disaster had been his particular gift from the Devil, a gift that remained a secret between Leo and the other Hellraisers. Anne would never learn of it—for many reasons.

“Are you at the ’Change today in search of new ventures?” he asked.

“There are several, all clamoring for my coin,” answered Norwood, “and the matter remains only to discern which would be the wisest investment.”

“I’ve more than a little intelligence in such matters. Tell me which have commandeered your attention.”

Norwood raised a brow. “To what end? That you might seize an opportunity and leave me out in the cold?”

Leo placed a hand on his chest. “Injurious words. My offer was extended in friendship, that I might advise you.” He glanced down at the heavy ruby he wore on his right ring finger. “And I’ve no need to cut you out of the profits, not when my own are so abundant. There is plenty to share.”

If Norwood understood that Leo threw his own crime back at him, he made no sign. Slowly, he nodded. “Everyone has said that lately your investments never fail.”

Leo always possessed good sense, but with the Devil’s gift, he had become infallible. The gold in his coffers and the country estate he had purchased for his mother’s use testified to this.

“Unburden yourself,” he urged Norwood. “Make use of my council.”

After taking a sip of his coffee, the other man proceeded. “Three ventures have applied to me for investment funds. A housing development here in London, sugar from Barbados, or a pepper shipment from Batavia.” He spread his hands. “They have all presented themselves in the best possible light, and I have done as much research into each business as feasible, yet I cannot decide which shall be the recipient of my capital. For I can invest in only one.”

Leo kept his outward appearance calm. He crafted his expression into one of contemplation. Within, however, he felt the quick, exhilarating anticipation of a predator lying in wait. He had merely to let his prey wander farther into the kill zone, and the deed would be accomplished, his claws bright with blood.

“All three have their merits, their potential.”

“But one must be better than the others, surely?”

How long could Leo toy with him? A pleasure to draw it out, knowing that the blow would come, or strike quickly, and then watch the carnage? Both appealed.

“Housing developments are certainly intriguing,” he said. “Every day, more and more people come to London, looking for work beyond tenant farming. They all need places to live.”

“So, that should be my investment?”

Leo feigned deliberation. Finally, he said, “Choose the pepper from Batavia. The appetite for spice goes unabated, and it always finds a buyer. With the desire for French cooking growing, especially amongst the swelling ranks of the bourgeoisie, such goods can only increase in value.”

“Are you certain?” Norwood’s brow pleated.

“A better investment cannot be found.”

For a moment, Norwood simply stared at Leo, as if trying to make sense of a labyrinth. He released a breath. “You are ... generous.”

“This surprises you.”

“No. Well ... aye. You’ve something of a reputation.”

“The Demon of the Exchange.” Leo laughed at Norwood’s pained expression. “I know every name I’m called.” Including upstart, peasant, lowborn bastard. Leo had once overheard Norwood call him that. The lowborn bastard won’t know the difference in the balance sheets. A simple matter, and the profits are ours.

Abruptly, Norwood pushed back from the table and stood. He held out his hand. “My thanks to you, Bailey. You’ve done me a kindness.”

“Nothing kind about it.” Leo resisted the impulse to crush Norwood’s hand in his own, and merely shook it instead. “I have a very good feeling about your investment.”

“I wish you great happiness in your marriage.” With that, Norwood bowed before hurrying out of the coffee house.

Leo sat alone, with two cups of coffee growing cold, yet within, he was a volcano of hot, vicious joy. He took from his pocket Norwood’s coins, the thruppence and tanner, and set them on the table.

Seeing the coins, the proprietor quickly walked over and hefted a steaming pot. “More coffee, sir?”

“Consider that a gratuity.”

“All of it?”

“I’ve no use for the coin.” Not anymore. It had given him precisely what he needed, for his gift of prescience required him to touch an article of money belonging to an individual, and from that, he would have a vision of their future financial disasters. Seldom did he not encounter a disaster, for they marked everyone’s lives, and he’d gained most of his fortune since by counterinvesting. On the rare occasion when he saw no calamity, he knew the venture to be solid. Yet in the time that he’d gained this gift, he’d been witness to scores, perhaps hundreds, of catastrophes. Difficult now not to see disaster everywhere, lurking around corners and in the shadows of crumbling bridges.

The proprietor’s mouth opened in surprise. “You are very generous, sir.”

The second time in a handful of minutes Leo had been called such. But his generosity extended only to the coffee house owner. What he had offered Norwood served merely Leo’s own appetite for vengeance.

Donning his hat, Leo stood. “Point of truth,” he said to the proprietor, “I’m the most selfish bastard you’ll ever meet.”

“My wife’s brother might have you beat, sir.”

Leo’s laugh was genuine. They came so seldom, the sound astonished him. He left the coffee house, energy and urgency in his step. He needed to counterinvest in shipments of pepper from Malabar—the price would surely go up after the destruction of the Batavian cargo—and then he needed to get to the pugilism academy. He trained there daily after leaving the ’Change. A necessary outlet, for nothing exhilarated him more than good, ruthless business, and the gentlemanly sports of fencing and riding held no appeal. Peasant blood flowed in his veins, demanding the most primitive, brutal means of release. To hit, and be hit in return, and then emerge the victor, his opponent’s blood on his knuckles.

He wanted to crow about his victory, but the only people he could speak to of it were his fellow Hellraisers. Anne would never know. She could not know. The realization struck him, swift and unexpected. Only yesterday, he had believed that he would not care if she learned about his magic. Her opinion of him had not mattered, nor the need to offer explanations. Now, however ... now he actually cared what she thought of him.

The thought disturbed him. He strode off to seek the uncomplicated interaction of the boxing ring.

Anne paced the corridor, watching night fall in thick black currents. Her skin felt tight and confining. She was a ghost haunting her own home. Aimless. Uneasy.

Keeping house for a man who seldom made use of it proved a more difficult task than she had anticipated. She had spoken to the cook about planning meals, only to learn that Leo sometimes took coffee in the mornings, but that constituted the whole of his requirements. The cook, in fact, had been painfully eager to talk with Anne, desperate for something to do. Just as Anne was. Yet she had no answers for the poor man. Could they expect guests? Possibly. Would the master be joining them for meals more often? Perhaps.

The clatter of carriage wheels on the street drew Anne to the window. But it was only the man who lived across the street. She watched as he alit from the carriage, and the door to his house opened. A woman stood there, her shadow thrown in jagged increments down the stairs. Her shade swallowed the man as he climbed up to her, then, with their arms looped, they went inside together, and the door closed. The carriage rolled on toward the mews.

Not a word from Leo all day. She’d had supper prepared and waiting for him at four. The hour had passed, and another, until there had been no choice but to eat alone, again, and have the remainder of the dishes shared amongst the servants.

The more hours passed, the more she thought of the previous night. Leo’s warm hands and hotter gaze, the press of his body close to hers, and the even more intimate revelation about his parents’ marriage. A tentative step toward knowing each other. Yet as the day crept forward and Leo’s absence resounded in the empty halls of his home, she began to think of last night as a dream whose details faded after waking. Soon, she would begin to wonder if his touch and disclosure had happened at all.

Anne turned away from the window and resumed her restless pacing. Back and forth, crossing the landing that had a view of the entryway below. Everywhere her gaze fell, she found expensive objects. Axminster carpets, marble-topped tables with elaborately curved, gilded legs, Chinese porcelain. Brilliant things, glittering things. Soulless. Empty. Like elegant corpses.

She hugged herself and kept walking. These were idle fancies brought about by a day of inactivity. Seldom had she had so little to do, and so much time in which to do it.

Leo kept far more servants than her own family. Until yesterday, he was the house’s sole occupant, and even then, he was rarely there. Between the abundance of servants and a master with few demands, Anne found herself superfluous. She’d been far busier at home—her old home. This is where she lived now. This richly furnished ... mausoleum.

Sensation prickled along the back of her neck. The strangest feeling. As if she were being observed.

Anne spun around. “Meg?” She tried to recall the names of other servants she had met today—Leo’s valet, and the steward. “Spinner? Mr. Fowles?”

No answer. Nothing at all, until the middle candle in a three-branched candelabra abruptly went out. A curl of smoke drifted up to the ceiling.

She took one of the lit candles and used it to reignite the one in the middle. Yet the moment she replaced the taper, the middle candle went out again. It didn’t gutter or flicker, as it might if there were a draft. It simply extinguished itself.

As if someone had blown it out.

A rolling clatter sounded on the street outside. Startled, her heart contracted, a painful grip in the center of her chest. Then came the footman’s steps echoing across the checkerboard floor as he strode to the door and held it open. Anne drifted to the railing and looked down.

Cold air swirled in, and a man stood in the doorway. Light from the linkboy’s torch outside made the man a figure of darkness, limned in fire. Tall, and broad-shouldered. He came into the entryway, sleek and sinister as night. She felt a clutch of instinctive fear, the urge to turn and run. Then light from the footman’s candle touched the stranger’s face and she saw it wasn’t a stranger, no one to fear. Only her husband.

Though calling him only anything seemed paltry. For, as Leo strode into the house, removing his hat and caped coat and handing them to the footman, he looked up. Right at her. His storm gray eyes fixed on her with startling accuracy. The chandelier hanging in the domed entry bathed him in light, all the hard and handsome angles of his face, the long lines of his body. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, but the guise did not fool Anne. This was a dangerous man.

They stared at each other. It seemed to take a moment for Leo to place her, like running into an acquaintance after several years’ absence. Then came recognition. He smiled, yet it did not much soften his face.

“Is that a bruise on your cheek?” Her voice sounded overloud, echoing in the foyer.

He reached up and absently touched his face. “I was in a fight.”

Anne hurried down the stairs. “Footpads? Are you injured? We should summon the constabulary.”

“And tell them I paid for the privilege.”

She reached his side, tilting her head back to look at him in confusion. “Paid?”

“A pugilism academy.” He held up his fist. Small cuts and bruises adorned his knuckles. “Every afternoon, after business at the ’Change is done. The man who did this to me looks much worse, but he was given a half crown for his troubles.”