Page 8 of To Dare the Devil

“Do you forgive me?” he rasped, his hold on her too tight. “Absolution for the devil?”

“What?” Kathy stared at him, her heart beating fast. She tried to tug her wrist free, but his grip was strong considering how weak he’d seemed. “You’re not the devil.”

He moaned and closed his eyes. “You don’t know. You don’t know. I’m going to hell. I’m burning, burning in hell.”

“It’s just the fever. That’s why you’re so hot. It’s just a fever. Someone has hurt you. You’re injured.”

He thrashed, kicking the sheet away, shaking his head. “Forgive me,” he demanded, his agitation worsening by the second. “Forgive me.”

“I don’t know what to forgive you for, but I’m sure it’s not so terrible,” Kathy told him, wanting only to ease his suffering.

He laughed at that, a desperate sound that tore at her.

“Tell me, then,” she said, laying her hand over his, where he gripped her wrist so painfully. “Tell me and I shall forgive you.”

He relaxed and did as she asked, but his confession was more than Kathy could have bargained for. He told her all the vile things he’d done, his language crude and uncompromising. With ugly words, he drew a picture of a spoiled, selfish creature, of a life of dissipation, of whoring and fighting and gambling, of adultery and the ruination of anything good in him or in others.

The fever broke not long after, as if purging himself of the poisonous words had healed his soul. But the poison seeped into Kathy, into her heart, spoiling her vision of the world, of a place where a man who looked like an angel could be the devil himself. He had made her feel stupid and weak and so very innocent of reality. She tugged her arm free of his grip and stood, her legs trembling as Hart came to fetch her.

“Kathy?” he asked, his eyes full of concern for her. “Is he…”

“He’ll live,” she said, her voice hard as she fought to keep her composure. “We can go now.”

“Thank God for that, and don’t go asking me to bring you back again, Kathy, because—”

“I shan’t,” Kathy replied, interrupting him. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing down the guilt of breaking her promise to be there when he woke. That promise had been made to another man, one she had spun from daydreams and her own ignorance of reality. She had not understood, coming from the warmth and protection of her loving home, how cruel the world could be, or how cruel a man like him could be. Coming here to the Dials had opened her eyes. He had opened her eyes. And she would never be so ignorant of the cruelties of life again.

Chapter 3

Monsieur Le Comte,

By the time this reaches you, it may be too late to do you any good, but I have noticed someone asking a few too many questions. He’s discreet, a professional for sure, but he seems a deal too interested in your past. Thought I ought to let you know.

Rouge et Noir is still the black diamond of Parisian Society. When you finally tire of all that English Roast Beef, she’ll be here waiting for you, like the best and most wicked of mistresses.

―Excerpt of a letter to Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen, from Jacques Toussaint, Manager of Rogue et Noir, Paris.

Present Day …

12th May 1842, Lower Square, Isleworth, London.

Kathy stared out at what had been an empty field a few weeks ago, but was now a hive of activity. Busy workmen thronged the place, and carts trundled back and forth, bringing endless supplies of materials. The first signs of a large building’s foundations had already appeared amid the chaos. The weather was mild today, the sky blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds that scudded overhead, trailing shadows upon the open ground as they went. A breeze fluttered Kathy’s skirts and tugged at her bonnet, and she lifted her hand to keep it in place.

This was to be the new school. Eliza’s school for boys, though Eliza refused to take credit for it, giving that honour to some mysterious benefactor she refused to unmask. Kathy chewed at her lip, considering the possibilities. Behind her, the sound of carriage wheels and the smart clip of hooves rang out, but Kathy didn’t turn, too intent on her thoughts until the carriage stopped behind her. She turned then and, too late, saw the crest upon the door.

“Blast,” she muttered under her breath, turning to leave.

She’d barely taken two steps before the carriage door swung open and the occupant leapt down. “Wait, Miss de Beauvoir!”

Kathy froze, wincing. Damn. Damn. Damn. One benefit of having an older brother was gaining a terrific ability to curse when the occasion warranted it. And this occasion definitely needed a damn, blast, and quite possibly a bloody hell.

“It is Miss de Beauvoir, I think?”

Kathy turned, glowering, already knowing what she was going to face. Maxwell Drake, the Earl of Vane. He was tall and infuriatingly handsome, his blonde hair shining gold in the spring sunshine. Eyes of cornflower blue stared at her, his gaze intent.

“It is,” she replied, her voice cold, well aware that she was being horribly rude and not caring a jot.

He swallowed, his blond brows tugging together. “I apologise for accosting you like this. I know it’s highly irregular.”