Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Honoria nodded at Sligo as she crossed the hall, and wondered at Devil Cynster's idiosyncracies. On arriving at dusk two days before, she'd been taken aback to find the stoop-shouldered, thin, and wiry Sligo acting as majordomo. He had a careworn face, moon-shaped and mournful; his attire was severe but did not quite fit. His speech was abrupt, as if he was still on a parade ground.

Later, she'd questioned the Dowager; Sligo, it transpired, had been Devil's batman at Waterloo. He was fanatically devoted to his erstwhile captain; on disbanding, he'd simply continued to follow him. Devil had made him his general factotum. Sligo remained at St. Ives House, acting as its caretaker when the family was not in residence. When his master was in residence, Honoria surmised, he reverted to his previous role.

Which, she suspected, meant that Sligo would bear watching. A footman opened the breakfast-parlor door.

"There you are, my dear." The Dowager beamed gloriously from one end of the elegant table.

Honoria bobbed a curtsy, then inclined her head toward the head of the table. "Your Grace."

The devil nodded back, his gaze roving over her. "I trust you slept well?" With a wave, he summoned Webster to hold a chair for her-the one beside his.

"Tolerably well, thank you." Perforce ignoring the nine other empty chairs about the immaculately laid table, Honoria settled her skirts, then thanked Webster as he poured her tea. The previous day had gone in unpacking and settling in. A rain squall had cut short the afternoon; she'd got no closer to the park in the Square than the drawing-room windows.

"I have been telling Sylvester that we plan to visit the modistes this morning." The Dowager waved a knife at her. "He tells me that these days the ton selects modistes by age."

"Age?" Honoria frowned.

Busy with toast and marmalade, the Dowager nodded. "Apparently, it is quite convenable that I continue with my old Franchot, but for you it must be…" She glanced at her son. "Qu'est-ce que?"

"Celestine," Devil supplied.

Honoria turned her frown on him.

He met her look with one of ineffable boredom. "It's simple enough-if you want bombazine and turbans, you go to Franchot. If frills and furbelows are your fancy, then Madame Abelard's is more likely to suit. For innocent country misses," he paused, his gaze briefly touching Honoria's fine lace fichu, "then I've heard Mademoiselle Cocotte is hard to beat. For true elegance, however, there's only one name you need know-Celestine."

"Indeed?" Honoria sipped her tea, then, setting down her cup, reached for the toast. "Is she on Bruton Street?"

Devil's brows flew. "Where else?" He looked away as Sligo approached, carrying a silver salver piled with letters. Taking them, Devil flicked through the stack. "I daresay you'll find any number of modistes that might take your fancy if you stroll the length of Bruton Street."

From the corner of her eye, Honoria watched him examine his mail. He employed a small army of agents; one had followed on their heels from the Place and spent all yesterday closeted with his master. Running estates as extensive as those of the dukedom of St. Ives would keep any man busy; thus far, from all she'd seen, business had prevented Devil from pursuing his investigations.

Reaching the bottom of the pile, he shuffled the letters together, then glanced at his mother. "If you'll excuse me, Maman." Briefly, his eyes touched Honoria's. "Honoria Prudence." With a graceful nod, he stood; absorbed with his letters, he left the room.

Honoria stared at his back until the door hid it from view, then took another sip of her tea.

The St. Ives town carriage had just rumbled around the corner, bearing the Dowager and Honoria to Bruton Street, when Vane Cynster strolled into Grosvenor Square. His stride long and ranging, he crossed the pavements; cane swinging, he climbed the steps to his cousin's imposing door. He was about to beat an imperious tattoo when the door swung inward. Sligo rushed out.

"Oh! Sorry, sir." Sligo flattened himself against the doorjamb. "Didn't see you there, sir."

Vane smiled. "That's quite all right, Sligo."

"Cap'n's orders. An urgent dispatch." Sligo tapped his breast-rustling parchment testified to his cause. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

Released by Vane's bemused nod, Sligo hurried down the steps and ran to the corner. He flagged down a hackney and climbed aboard. Vane shook his head, then turned to the still-open door. Webster stood beside it.

"The master is in the library, sir. I believe he's expecting you. Do you wish to be announced?"

"No need." Surrendering his cane, hat and gloves, Vane headed for Devil's sanctum. He opened the door, instantly coming under his cousin's green gaze.

Devil sat in a leather chair behind a large desk, an open letter in one hand. "You're the first."

Vane grinned. "And you're impatient."

"You're not?"

Vane raised his brows. "Until a second ago, I didn't know you had no news." He crossed the room and dropped into a chair facing the desk.

"I take it you have no insights to offer either?"