Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

In the distance, they heard the dinner gong boom. "Now," he said, rising gracefully and holding out his hand, "we keep searching." He'd explained they were looking for someone else's secret. "Until we have a scent to follow, we can do nothing more."

Honoria wasn't so certain of that. She allowed him to draw her to her feet. "Perhaps-"

One long finger slid beneath her chin; Devil tipped her face up to his. "I'll keep you informed of developments, Honoria Prudence."

His voice deepened on her name. Mesmerized, Honoria saw the color of his eyes change, a gleam silvering their depths. His gaze shifted, dropping to her lips; she felt them soften, part, felt her lids grow heavy.

"Ah… yes." Breathless, she lifted her chin from his finger and stepped sideways, bringing the door into view. "I'd better change."

One black brow rose, but beyond that and a quizzical glance, he made no comment, escorting her to the door and holding it while she made good her escape. It was only when, half an hour later, she sat before her mirror for her maid, Cassie, to do her hair, that understanding dawned.

He'd told her what they'd discovered-nothing. He'd promised to keep her apprised of developments-eyes narrowing, Honoria realized he meant after they'd been acted upon. Even more telling, he'd prevented her from offering to assist-so that he wouldn't have to refuse and make it plain that she was still not permitted any meaningful involvement.

When she entered the drawing room, she was poised and assured, able to meet Devil's eye with calm serenity. Throughout the meal, she remained distant, listening to the conversation with but half an ear, her mind busy formulating her investigative strategy.

Nothing useful had yet been discovered, which left the field wide open. As for His Grace's antiquated notions, she was sure that, when she discovered the vital secret, he wouldn't be able to deny her. How could he?-she wouldn't tell him until after, until it was too late for him to exclude her.

Chapter 11

Investigating Tolly's murder proved more difficult than she'd thought. While his cousins had entree to Tolly's largely male world, Honoria did not. Likewise, they knew Tolly, his habits, his interests. On the other hand, she reasoned, she could view his last days impartially, the facts uncolored by preconceived notions. Besides, women were notoriously more observant than men.

Tolly's youngest aunt, Celia, had been elected by the conclave of Cynster wives to give the first "at home," a declaration to the ton that the family had emerged from deepest mourning. Even Louise was present, still in deadest black, her composure a shield against those proffering their condolences.

At St. Ives House, black crepe had wreathed the knocker ever since they had come up to town; on the Dowager's orders, it had been removed this morning. Their first week in the capital had been spent quietly, eschewing all social functions, but it was now three weeks since Tolly's death; his aunts had decreed their time in deep mourning past. They all still wore black and would for another three weeks, then they would go into half-mourning for another six weeks.

Honoria circulated amongst Celia's guests, noting those whose acuity might prove useful. Unfortunately, as it was the first time she'd ventured into society, there were many eager to claim her attention.

"Honoria." Turning, Honoria found Celia beside her, a plate of cakes in her hand, her eye on a chaise on the opposite side of the room. "I hate to ask, but I know you can handle it." With a smile, Celia handed her the plate. "Lady Osbaldestone-she's a veritable tartar. If I go, she'll shackle me to the chaise, and I'll never get free. But if one of the family doesn't appear to appease her curiosity, she'll batten on Louise. Here, let me take your cup."

Relieved of her empty teacup, Honoria was left with the cake plate. She opened her lips to point out she wasn't "family"-but Celia had disappeared into the crowd. Honoria hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, straightened her shoulders and bore down on Lady Osbaldestone.

Her ladyship greeted her with a basilik stare. "And about time, too." A clawlike hand shot out and snaffled a petit four. "Well, miss?" She stared at Honoria. When she simply stared back, politely vacant, her ladyship snorted. "Sit down, do! You're giving me a crick. Daresay that devil St. Ives chose you for your height-I can just imagine why." This last was said with a definite leer-Honoria swallowed an urge to request clarification. Instead, she perched, precisely correct, on the edge of the chaise, the cake plate held where Lady Osbaldestone could reach it.

Her ladyship's black eyes studied her carefully while the petit four was consumed. "Not just in the usual way and an Anstruther-Wetherby to boot, heh? What's your grandfather say to this match, miss?"

"I have no idea," Honoria answered calmly. "But you're laboring under a misapprehension. I'm not marrying anyone."

Lady Osbaldestone blinked. "Not even St. Ives?"

"Particularly not St. Ives." Deciding she might as well eat, Honoria selected a small tea cake and nibbled delicately.

Her declaration had struck Lady Osbaldestone dumb. For a full minute, her black eyes, narrowed, rested on Honoria's profile, then her ladyship's face cracked in a wide smile; she cackled gleefully. "Oh, you'll do. Keep up that pose, miss, and you'll do for Devil Cynster nicely."

Haughtily, Honoria looked down her nose. "I have no interest in His Grace of St. Ives."

"Oh-ho!" Her ladyship poked her arm with a bony finger. "But has His Grace an interest in you?"

Her eyes trapped in her ladyship's black gaze, Honoria wished she could lie. Lady Osbaldestone's grin grew wider. "Take my advice, girl-make sure he never loses it. Never let him take you for granted. The best way to hold such men is to make them work for their pleasure."

Adopting a martyred expression, Honoria sighed. "I really am not going to marry him."

Lady Osbaldestone, suddenly terrifyingly sober, looked at Honoria through old black eyes. "Girl-you don't have a choice. No-!" She pointed a skeletal finger. "Don't poker up and stick that Anstruther-Wetherby chin in the air. There's no benefit in running from fate. Devil Cynster has all but declared he wants you-which means he'll have you-and if that chin is any guide, it'll be a good thing, too. And as he's too experienced to pursue where there's no reciprocating sentiment, you needn't think to deny it." Her ladyship snorted. "You'd have to be dead to be immune to his temptation-and you don't look too desiccated to me."

A blush stole into Honoria's cheeks; Lady Osbaldestone nodded. "Your mother's dead-so's your grandmother-so I'll give you the right advice in their stead. Accept fate's decree-marry the devil and make it work. Handsome may be as handsome is, but underneath it all he's a good man. You're a strong woman-that's the way it should be. And despite any thoughts of yours, the devil, in this case, is right. The Cynsters need you; the Anstruther-Wetherbys, strange to tell, need you as a Cynster, too. Fate has landed you precisely where you're supposed to be."

Leaning forward, she held Honoria's gaze mercilously. "And besides, if you don't take him on, who do you imagine will? Some namby-pamby chit with more hair than wit? Do you hate him so much you'd condemn him to that-a marriage with no passion?"

Honoria couldn't breathe. A gust of laughter reached them; the rustle of silk heralded an approaching lady. "There you are, Josephine. Are you grilling poor Miss Anstruther-Wetherby?"