Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Devil grimaced. "Not common knowledge, but widespread enough to be easily learned."

Honoria set another stitch. "Have your cousins discovered anything in London?"

"No. But there must be something-some clue-somewhere. Young gentlemen don't get murdered on country lanes for no reason." He looked out across the lawns-and saw his mother approaching. With a sigh, he uncrossed his legs and stood.

"Is this where you are hiding, Sylvester?" The Dowager came up the steps in a froth of black lace. She held up her face for a kiss.

Devil dutifully obliged. "Hardly hiding, Maman."

"Indeed-you are a great deal too large for this place." The Dowager prodded him. "Sit-don't tower."

As she promptly took his place beside Honoria, Devil was reduced to perching on a windowsill. The Dowager glanced at Honoria's work-and pointed to one stitch. Honoria stared, then muttered unintelligibly, set down her needle, and reached for her shears.

Devil grabbed the opportunity. "I wanted to speak to you, Maman. I'll be leaving for London tomorrow."

"London?" The exclamation came from two throats; two heads jerked up, two pairs of eyes fixed on his face.

Devil shrugged. "Purely business."

Honoria looked at the Dowager; the Dowager looked at her.

When she turned back to her son, the Dowager was frowning. "I have been thinking, cheri, that I should also go up to London. Now that I have dear 'Onoria to keep me company, I think it would be quite convenable."

Devil blinked. "You're in mourning. Full mourning."

"So?" The Dowager opened her eyes wide. "I'll be in full mourning in London-so appropriate-it is always so grey there at this time of year."

"I had thought," Devil said, "that you would want to remain here, at least for another week or so."

The Dowager lifted her hands, palms upward. "For what? It is a little early for the balls, I grant you, but I am not suggesting we go to London for dissipation. No. It is appropriate, I think, that I introduce 'Onoria, even though the family is in black. She is not affected; I discussed it with your aunt 'Oratia-like me, she thinks the sooner the ton meets 'Onoria, the better."

Devil glanced, swiftly, at Honoria; the consternation in her eyes was a delight to behold. "An excellent idea, Maman" Silver glinted in Honoria's eyes; he hurriedly looked away. "But you'll have to be careful not to step on the tabbies' tails."

The Dowager waved dismissively. "Do not teach your mother to suck eggs. Your aunt and I will know just how to manage. Nothing too elaborate or such as will… how do you say it?-raise the wind?"

Devil hid his grin. "Raise a dust-the wind is money."

The Dowager frowned. "Such strange sayings you English have."

Devil forebore to remind her that she'd lived in England for most of her life-and that her grasp of the language always deteriorated when she was hatching some scheme. In this case, it was a scheme of which he approved.

"Everything will be tout comme il faut," the Dowager insisted. "You need not concern yourself-I know how conservative you are growing-we will do nothing to offend your sensibilities."

The comment left Devil speechless.

"Indeed, just this morning I was thinking that I should be in London, with your aunt Louise. I am the matriarch, no? And a matriarch's duty is to be with her family." The Dowager fixed her undeniably matriarchal gaze on her silent son. "Your father would have wished it so."

That, of course, signaled the end to all argument-not that Devil intended arguing. Manufacturing an aggravated sigh, he held up his hands. "If that's what you truly wish, Maman, I'll give orders immediately. We can leave tomorrow at midday and be in town before nightfall."

"Bon!" The Dowager looked at Honoria. "We had best start our packing."

"Indeed." Honoria put her needlework in her basket, then glanced briefly, triumphantly, at Devil.

He kept his expression impassive, standing back as she and his mother exited the summerhouse. Only when they were well ahead did he descend the steps, strolling languorously in their wake, his gaze on Honoria's shap

ely curves, smug satisfaction in his eyes.

St. Ives House in Grosvenor Square was a great deal smaller than Somersham Place. It was still large enough to lose a battalion in, a fact emphasized by the odd individual of military mien who presided over it.