Page 3 of To Dare the Devil

Eliza will keep a secret if I insist, but it may sit ill with her. She adores her aunt and uncle and is a friend to her cousin Evie. However, as your happiness is at stake, I will do so if you will allow it.

Why not come and stay with us, brother? Living alone does you no good and we should be delighted to have you here. Remember, I know how much you hate being by yourself, Louis. Please come, even if only for a short while. And lay off the brandy. When Evie comes home, you’ll not want her to discover you’ve become a sot in her absence.

―Excerpt of a letter from Monsieur Nicolas-Alexandre Demarteau to his brother Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

Two and a half years earlier…

7th June 1839, The Crown, Great St Andrew’s Street, Covent Garden. Parish of St Giles.

The pub was a god-awful place by Mayfair standards, but many fine young bucks like to drink in it all the same. The company was lively and held an edge of danger irresistible to many young men. Max was not in the mood for lively company however, and the underlying stench of despair, and unwashed bodies was so thick he could taste it. He took another large swallow of gin to wash it away. The relief lasted only briefly, and the foul miasma settled about him again, invading his nostrils, inveigling its way down his throat to his guts, laying upon his tongue like decay. More gin, then. That ought to improve his mood. It was the only way, as most residents of St Giles came to realise eventually.

Not that Max was a resident. Oh, no. He did not belong among the filth and squalor, not he with his shiny boots and his gilt buttons and his bank accounts groaning under the weight of gold and prosperity. His work, all that prosperity. Not that his bloody mother appreciated his hard work. Miserable bitch. What had he been thinking, trying to impress her? He’d never managed it before. Neither she nor his dear departed father had ever been interested in anything he achieved. His father. That was a laugh, as it turned out. But he was the best they’d had. No. He was all they’d had. Their only option despite years of trying and trying for another. No wonder they didn’t care. Fate would let him live or it wouldn’t. What his life looked like, if he was happy or successful, well, that was his affair. He bit back a curse as he considered the news he had to tell her. He’d made a mess of things again, not that it would surprise her. It was what she expected of him, after all. At one and twenty he was already dissipated and cynical, and now he’d made someone else’s life a misery too. He snorted and filled his glass again, reminding himself he liked it here. No one could look down at him from this low pit of vice. Slumming it, that’s what he was doing. Drowning his sorrows in a dingy pub before he forced himself to do the right thing for once in his misbegotten life.

The barmaid winked at him and jiggled her tits suggestively and Max considered taking her upstairs. Sally had been trying to get him upstairs for weeks, her interest obvious enough. But she’d had Humphrey Price last night and the fellow was notoriously jealous about his women. Price was here tonight, and Max didn’t need the aggravation. Sally caught his eye again and jerked her head towards the stairs. Temptation nagged at him until a face swam into his mind, full of accusation. He shoved it down again. Badly done, Vane. Regret niggled, suggesting he needed more to drink. He’d killed his conscience—or perhaps pickled it—many years ago, and he wasn’t about to let the damn thing bother him again. Besides, he’d resigned himself to the inevitable. He’d get it done within the week, so he’d not waste time feeling guilty about it.

Where the hell was Kilbane, anyway? The devil was supposed to have met him here an hour ago. No doubt he’d found something, or someone, more interesting to do. Max chuckled and lifted the bottle to pour himself another and found it empty. Bollocks.

He lifted his hand to order another, and the barmaid sashayed over and set it on the table in front of him. She leaned towards him, arms braced on the table to give him an eyeful of her abundant charms.

“Anything else you want, ducks?” she asked, her voice low. She licked her lips, looking him over.

Max reached out and squeezed one of her tits. She gasped, cheeks flushing.

“Come upstairs, handsome,” she said, her voice urgent now.

With a laugh, Max shook his head. “No love, no pox for me tonight. Just the gin. Here, though, for your trouble.” He took out a silver crown and slid his hand under the low neckline of her gown, settling the coin against her plump flesh and getting a good feel of her breast at the same time.

She covered his hand, holding it in place. “You sure? I’ve never tupped an earl, and you’re easy on the eye I’ll give you that. I’d treat you real nice.”

“No thanks, love. Not interested. Now, sod off and leave me be,” he said, enjoying the flash of anger in her eyes.

“Suit yourself. Bet you couldn’t get it up anyway,” she retorted cattily as she stalked away.

Max laughed and got to his feet, leaning against the chair to steady himself as the room lurched. Or was that him? He shook his head and took a breath. Shouldn’t have got so bloody drunk in this pit, but he knew better than to pass out here. He’d find himself bare arsed in an alley somewhere he if wasn’t careful, robbed of everything… or worse. Snatching up the gin bottle, he made for the door, relieved to be outside. The cloying heat of the pub diminished somewhat, though the air outside was only sweet by comparison. What the devil was he doing in town still? He couldn’t remember what kept him here in July, but the stink of the Thames rolled over London like a bolt of damp felt, smothering everything beneath a heavy fug.

He stared up at the night sky, squinting to see if the stars were visible, but that was a laugh. No one in the Dials could see anything bright. Nothing survived the squalor. He took a deep draught from the gin bottle and then cast it aside, hearing it smash against the wall. Max lurched forwards, taking one of the seven streets for which the Dials were named. He walked quickly, knowing better than to linger. Two small, filthy children played in the gutters even at this late hour, whatever the hour was. Their mother sat on the steps of a dilapidated building with a ragged blanket for a door, crooning a melancholy lullaby off-key, clutching an empty bottle of gin to her breast. Max stuck his hands in his pockets, feeling the jingle of coin, and walked on. The children looked up as he passed, staring at him with wide, old eyes. He could hear two women arguing, voices raising to a pitch that threatened violence, and the sound of breaking glass followed. He turned right and strode on, following his usual path except… no… this wasn’t it.

Confused, he turned in a circle, frowning. Wrong road. Must have been the next he wanted, and he struck off at an angle down some narrow alley. Footsteps followed him and the darkness seemed suddenly thicker than the stench. Max hurried on, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as the footsteps got closer. He didn’t look back, just walked faster. Damn him for a drunken fool, taking a wrong turn after all these years of carousing in low places. The alley took a sudden dart to the right, but the road Max had hoped to find was not there, just another long stretch of bleak, reeking alleyway.

He took a breath, trying to force his gin-sodden limbs to move, but there was a sudden pressure in his side, a hand covering his mouth, forcing the cry of pain to remain in his throat where it burned and choked him. The hand released him and, overwhelmed by dizziness, Max crumpled to the filthy cobbles.

Distantly, he heard footsteps running away as others got closer. Hands moved over him, checking his pockets, taking the coins, his grandfather’s pocket watch, and tearing the buttons from his clothes.

“Help me,” he pleaded, “Please… help….” He struggled to focus, to hold on to consciousness as pain rose in a razor-sharp wave and bore down on him, cutting and shredding as it pressed into tender flesh and organs. He was so damned cold, shivering. Warm wetness poured over his fingers. Blood. His blood. He was dying, here in the gutter, like some mongrel dog, another corpse to add to the stench of rot and decay.

The two children stared down at him, eyes too large in their heads, incongruous how old those eyes were, staring at him like judgement. He ought to have spared them a coin. Words tumbled about in his head, pleas to a god he’d barely acknowledged in his too short, wicked, decadent life before. Not until now, not until it was too late. All the same, he closed his eyes and prayed.

I’ll change, he promised, weeping with fear and sorrow. I’ll be better. I swear I’ll be better if you give me another chance. Please, give me another chance.

He opened his eyes, but there was no beneficent god staring down at him, only the two dead-eyed children, watching him with curiosity.

“Please…” he whispered, raising a trembling hand. Such effort it took, that gesture of supplication, of desperation. The smallest child took a hesitant step closer, reaching for him.

Yes! Yes, please. I’ll buy you a house and food and….

The small fingers firmed around his, tugging.

His ring. His signet ring.