To Tempt the Devil Pt. 01

Prologue:

The Island, 1813

The woman stood on the shores of her homeland, gazing out to sea. In the distance, the ship was but a speck, no longer visible. The children had left, at last, as shehad always known they would have to.Their father had come to take them away. After seven years, he had finally come.

It was too soon.

She had been setting her plans for almost ten years, ten years before the duke had finally seen fit to take his children to his homeland - to her homeland. Even then, it had been almost too late, for the children had been almost grown, and would take time to adapt to the Island’s ways. She did not know how long the duke would stay. He had not mourned his wife, she knew, though he had been sad, for the children would no longer have a mother. He had come to the Island only for a brief respite from his life.

But fate had intervened, and the duke had found himself called upon to aid his country, to serve the King, and so for seven long years his children had been left on the Island, to face their legacy. To face their father’s legacy, which he had never known, having left the Island before he was of five years of age and thus unable to have fulfilled his destiny. It had been too late for him - but it was not too late for the children. No, it was not too late at all.

He had entrusted the children to her sister’s care, never knowing her true identity. The woman smiled at the thought. Foolish, foolish man. To think his destroyer had been under his nose all along...and that he had willingly delivered his children into her hands!

But the time would come, soon, when her plans would come into fruition, when, at long last, she would restore the Island’s legacy. The children would return, one day, to take their rightful place in the world that they belonged in, and then their mother would finally be able to rest. Their father had foiled her in taking them away once, fifteen years ago, and then once again, seven years ago, but never again would he do so. He did not know it, but his death was drawing near. One day, soon, his children would return, and embrace his killers as their people. Embrace the land he had spurned.

One day. Soon.

Chapter One: In Which Faith’s Pending Matrimony is Discussed

London, 1825

“Fayfee,” the man slurred, lurching drunkenly at her. “Fayfee, I luf you. I luf you, Fayfee. Why -” (he hiccuped) “Why can’t you mar- marrrrrry me?” He clutched at her gown, staring dolefully up at her with glazed eyes, and swayed slightly as he fought to keep his balance.

Faith Elizabeth Amalia Sarah Jannelle de Courte Constantinos, fifth Countess of Devenry, seventh Viscountess of Rawlston, 12th Baronness of Tusane, daughter of the late 6th Duke of Edenvale, and sister to the 7th Duke of Edenvale, rolled her eyes and resisted the extraordinarily strong urge to stamp her foot. Firmly, but gently, she removed Lord Perry’s hands from her sleeve, and set him solidly against the wall where he proceeded to begin sliding downwards. With a sigh she grabbed his arms and heaved him up again, where he stood, this time swaying, but upright.

Strains of music came tinkling in from the ballroom of the Mansfield’s elegant manor, where Faith had been a minute ago shrivelling up in boredom before being dragged quite gracelessly into one of the numerous alcoves of the hall by a drunk Lord Perry very much intent on (once again) declaring his eternal devotion. As tedious as the ball had been, she would have much preferred to stay there than to languish in Lord Perry’s drunken, although assuredly devoted, clutches. “Lord Perry,” she stated, trying to sound firm. “I have already told you why my brother turned down your suit - in fact, why he turned down all the gentlemen who have been calling on me. I am already betrothed, and therefore unavailable.” Much as she wished it otherwise, of course.

“Pah,” Perry said, managing to shower her with a rain of spittle while he was at it.

“Silll - Silverssstone don’t deserrrve you, Fayfee. He don’t deserrrve anyone. Damn - damn devil’s spawn!” He lurched again, tumbling into her and almost sending her sprawling.

“I’m rather inclined to agree,” Faith muttered dryly, looking around and hoping no one had, as yet, noticed their altercation. With a heave, she set Perry back against the wall once more and backed away hastily before he could launch himself at her again.

“Wassat?” Perry mumbled, looking at her blearily. “You agree? Really Fayfee? You do? You’ll marry me! Oh Fayfee...” he grinned sleepily. “You’ve made me so happy...”

“No!” the startled exclamation tore out of her before she had a chance to subdue it, and she was instantly rewarded with the brokenhearted expression on Perry’s face. His lower lip stuck out, and she saw it quiver suspiciously. He was harmless, really, she thought with a sigh. Too devoted perhaps, for his own good, and too free with his money, but he was a young man still, and would learn to curb his impulses.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Faith said, trying to be as gentle as possible. “But I’m afraid the right to decide my marriage lies with my brother. You’ll have to consult him.”

Lord Perry’s face crumpled, looking almost as if he were about to burst into tears, and she immediately felt a fresh stab of guilt. It wasn’t his fault, really, she though with a twinge of shame. She supposed she had encouraged him, when she really hadn’t had the right to. But really, all she’d done was allow him to take her on the occasional ride around the park - she’d had no idea that he would take it as a sign of some sort of deeper feeling. “There, there,” she said awkwardly, patting his arm. “I’m sure you’ll find some lovely other young woman upon whom to bestow your affections - she’ll be most lucky, you’ll see.”

“No!” Perry cried suddenly, sounding remarkably lucid for his inebrieted state. “I won’t many another! And I won’t let you, either! If I can’t have you, no one will.” With disturbing grimmess and a surprising strength for all his unsteadiness, he latched onto Faith’s arm and began dragging her towards the side door behind them, wobbling all the way.

All traces of Faith’s good intentions vanished. “Here now!” she protested, trying forcefully to yank her arm out of his grip. “Let me go at once, sirrah, or I tell you straight, I’ll ,make sure you regret it!”

Lord Perry shook his head at her. “Sorry, my love,” he said regretfully. “Can’t do that. Besides, I know you’d never hurt me. I’m off to marry you, you see, and if I let you go, there’ll be no bride there! And if there’s no bride, there’s no wedding. You see my problem?”

“Oh yes,” Faith said grimly. “I see your problem.” Before he could do more than gape at her, she swung her fist and punched him, thereby knocking him conveniently out.

“Another disappointed suitor?” the amused male tones behind her drew Faith’s attention as he dusted off her hands and straightened her skirts. She swivelled around, panic flaring in her eyes before she realised it had been her brother Sylvester, who had spoken. “Don’t you make noise?” she demanded crossly. “I thought you were Lady Jersey come to crucify me.”

“Lady Jersey would make noise,” Sebastion reassured her blithely.

“I don’t suppose she’s named ‘silence’ for nothing,” Faith muttered.

Sylvester grinned. “I notice poor old Perry hasn’t recovered from the stunning blow you dealt him yet. What shall we do with him?”

“Leave him,” Faith shrugged. “He’ll wake up at some point. You ought to have been more clear with him about his suit, you know. He doesn’t seem to have got the point that you meant no.”

Her brother raised a ducal eyebrow. “Faith, my dear sister. My exact words to him were: ‘No, you may not marry my sister. If you broach the subject to me ever again I shall cut out your tongue.’ Exactly how clear did you wish me to be? By the way, someone is bound to trip over him if we leave him here.”

“You needn’t have been so cruel,” she insisted. “It probably triggered some sort of defence mechanism in him, made him shut out all opposition.”

“Do you mean he simply chose to ignore whatever he didn’t want to hear?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “He’s really very unfortunate, you know. His father was terribly cruel to him as a child, so now whenever someone says something he doesn’t want to hear - particularly cruelly - he simply chooses to ignore it.”

“Dear lord, Fayfee, when did you start analysing other people’s behaviour?”

She glowered at his deliberate mockery of her name. “I didn’t. He told me.”

“He did?”

“Of course,” Faith replied pragmatically. “How else do you suppose I found

out?”

“Knowing you,” Sylvester muttered darkly, “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that you hired a team of investigators to learn about Perry’s childhood.” He glanced down at the figure lying prone at their feet, and nudged him slightly. “He’s going to wake up with a devil of a headache.”

“I suppose he will,” Faith said calmly, taking her brother’s arm and steering him back into the ballroom. “Escort me back to the ball, Sylvester. It wouldn’t do for me to go about alone. Not at all proper, you know.”

Sylvester snorted. “No, of course. Wouldn’t do at all.”

* * *

They returned from the ball shortly after midnight, which by London’s standards, was quite early. Most of the ton chose to stay out till nearly dawn, then sleeping in till noon, only to come out again that night and stay out till late. Neither Sylvester nor Faith had any inclination to retire, however, and so both adjoined to the drawing room, Sylvester for port, and Faith for brandy. It was not at all proper for young ladies of 18 to indulge in brandy, nor enjoy it the way she did, of course, but in the privacy of her own home there was nothing to stop her. Her brother certainly did not care to try - his sister’s carefully cultivated palate could discern the exact maturity, vintage, and lable of any particular wine. As yet she had never failed - and Sylvester was not about to divest her of the habit.

“This is armagnac,” Faith said, frowning at the amber liquid in her glass.

“So it is,” Sylvester said mildly from where he sprawled in the comfortable armchair in front of the fire, idly shuffling a deck of cards.

“Have we run out of cognac?”

“No,” her brother replied.

She was perplexed. “Then why is this armagnac?”

He shrugged. “I suppose Filks decided it was time you had a change.”

His tone was entirely too casual. She stared, hard, at him. “What are you up to now, Sylvester?”

“I was interested,” he said mildly, “In seeing whether you could still tell the difference between armagnac and cognac. There is a wager, you see, in White’s at the moment.”

Faith sighed. “Oh Sylvester, not another one.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I could not help it. There were a few fellows who claimed that they could tell the difference between a ninety year old vintage and a ninety one year old one, you see. I was compelled to tell them that my baby sister could do better. Well, not in so many words, of course. I merely referred to you as a certain lady, merely out of the schoolroom, whom I knew. I couldn’t let your reputation suffer any smearing.” Their eyes met and they exchanged identical grins, well aware that all de Courtes ate scandal for breakfast. Besides - Faith wasn’t aware that she had any reputation to speak of, at least as yet, so there could be no harm.

“I’m not your baby sister,” she said out of habit.

“No, dearest.”

An anticipatory, purposeful glow stole over Faith’s features. She smiled, suddenly. “When’s the test to be conducted?”

Sylvester grinned. “Next Friday. Whist or faro?”

“Whist.”

“Unwise, dearest,” he reprimanded gently. “I am better than you at whist.”

“I need the practice,” she replied.

Sylvester shrugged. “Very well.” He dealt the cards. She waited until he had dealt a full hand, then picked them up. “Have you seen Silverstone yet?”

“No,” he said absently, deftly rearranging his hand. “He doesn’t frequent the ton alot, I’m told. Prefers the demimonde. Apparently he has rather vampire-like tendencies = doesn’t like daylight. But then we would have known that.”

“Have you had a chance to find out where he goes?”

“Mostly at the gaming hells,” Sylvester replied. “I suppose Vadiste’s would be the most logical place to start. I haven’t had a chance to visit any yet, though. I will inform you when I do.”

“Mmm,” Faith replied, playing a queen. The movement of her hand was imperceptible, but Sylvester caught it nonetheless. His hand shot out to grasp her wrist, revealing the errant card.

“Very good,” he said admiringly. “But not good enough. I saw you. I suppose if it had been anyone else, you would have gotten away with it, but you must not take such a chance, nonetheless. Practice, Faith.”

She sighed in exasperation. “No amount of practice will slip by your eye, Sylvester. I vow you have eyes on the back of your hands.”

“That’s the oddest misquote I’ve ever heard,” Sylvester said interestedly. “Perhaps you’d best stick with Piquet then, Faith.”

“No, I shall practice some more.”

“Very well.” He played the last card and won the game with a reasonable margin. “My hand.”

“Its always your hand,” she said irritably.

“Never fear, m’dear. Your time will come. One day you will be as talented as I.” His grin was teasing but his words were in all seriousness - with the right amount of training he knew his sisters skills as a gamester would some day surpass even his own - not that he intended to let her know that, of course. The life of a gamester was no life for her. She deserved a good marriage, and children, and a loving family. As for him...well, he still had a few years to go before he had to be married - he could afford to sow his wild oats for a while.

“Ha,” she said scornfully. “A lot of good that will do me, after I’m married to that devil Silverstone.”

Her brother regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “You don’t have to, you know,” Sylvester said finally. “I could simply say that I had forbidden the match and no one could say otherwise. All you need to do is say the word and I’ll summon him to inform him of the break of his betrothal.”

“No,” Faith said sadly. “You can’t do that, because then I would be breaking my word to father. I promised him, before he died, that I would not break my engagement to Silverstone unless I believed that it - the betrothal - could endanger my life or yours, in some way.”

She frowned as she remembered the day she had made that promise, closing her eyes briefly at the memory. Their father had led a chaotic life - and his death had been just as unusual, to say the least. Even a year later, the memories of that day disturbed her - though not enough to make her change her ways. The years of training, in that way of life were too ingrained, too much a part of her now. Even if she had wanted to, she would never have been able to forget that part of her life. It was a part of her, as it was a part of Sylvester and their training would never let them forget it.

“Yes, that’s really going to happen,” Sylvester said sarcastically. “Whoever heard of an engagement endangering someone’s life?”

“Precisely,” Faith said dolefully. “The only way I’d be able to get out of it would be if he broke it, or if you really had some reason that you felt was legitimate enough to break it.”

“Your unhappiness is legitimate.”

“I’d be going against my word to father if I allowed you to do just because I told you to.”

“How on earth are you going to get him to break it?” Sylvester demanded. “There isn’t anyone in london who wouldn’t jump to marry you.”

“Oh pah,” Faith said derisively. “I’ve only had four suitors.”

“Its the start of the season, Faith dear. Your list of suitors hasn’t begun yet. There are dozens of men out there who would dearly love to have you. You are, after all, most eligible.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You make me sound like a cow.”

“Crude, my dear, but I suppose understandable if you want to put it that way. This whole Season business is rather like a market, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Faith said thoughtfully. “I can just picture the potential suitors haggling over marriage settlements like fishwives over prices while the debutantes stand by docilely like cows.”

“A most remarkable series of metaphors, my dear. You will no doubt be comparing me to a hawker next, selling my wares.”

“Oh no,” his sister said serenely. “That title I would reserve for the mamas.”

Sylvester laughed. “I can almost find it in my heart to feel sorry for Silverstone, for having to marry you. Almost, but not quite.”

“I’m more inclined to feel sorry for me.”

“Mmm...Self pity is unbecoming, my dear. I don’t think it will be so bad - surely he cannot be as terrible as they say. The ladies, at least, say he quite agreeable.”

“Are you so certain those are the opinions of ladies?” Faith retorted acidly.

“Most assuredly,” Sylvester replied without batting an eyelid. “Half of them are young married matrons of society.” This, of course, ought to have done nothing to comfort his sister, half the matrons of society being no better than most members of the demimonde, but seeing as to how she did not know that, he did not bother to enlighten her.

“I don’t care if the ladies believe he is agreeable. He probably knocked them all over the head while he was terrorising their children and turning out their poor defenceless maids onto the streets.”

Her brother stared at her in open mouthed astonishment. “Faith m’dear,” he said slowly, “Whatever gave you the idea that Silverstone goes about scaring small children and...er...turning out, ah, defenceless maids?”

“Lucinda told me,” Faith answered succinctly. “She used to work for him, and he turned her out for no reason at all when she spilt coffee over his newspaper.”

“That’s a reason dear,” Sylvester said absently. “She spilt coffee over his newspaper. You said he had none. And what about the children?”

“Mrs Biddle was the governess of a few of his nephews and neices. Apparently he likes to go storming around roaring at the children and terrifying them out of their wits.”

“My, my,” Sylvester said smoothly. “That is a grave accusation indeed. The man ought to go to trial.”

Faith, completely missing his veiled sarcasm, said exultantly, “Precisely what I think! Why, with all his crimes...”

“Sister dear,” Sylvester interrupted gently, “Do you have any proof?”

“Well, not for all his other crimes,” she admitted, “But he has plenty of vices and he acted most horribly to Lucinda and the children. And anyone who can treat women and children badly ought to be locked up.”

“Hmm,” Sylvester. “I suppose you’re right. You really believe he’s that terrible, then?”

“Yes!” she said staunchly. “He’s a monster. You haven’t heard some of things I have about him, Sylvester...he’s depraved, debauched, an utter profligate. And he is surely the cruellest man I’ve ever met.” She pressed her lips together. “Lucinda told me he once turned out an entire starving family on the street because they could not pay their rent.”

“Lucinda seems to have a remarkable lot to say,” Sylvester observed, picking up his glass of port. “Didn’t I dismiss her the other day? Seems to me that’s enough to prove that she’s not exactly trustworthy.”

“It is not just her,” Faith said grimly. “I met him once, when I was small, remember?”

“So you did,” her brother said, idly twirling the stem of his glass in his hand. “The summer before father took us off, as I recall. And you were awfully upset afterwards. You never did tell me what happened.”

Faith’s eyes lowered, and he saw her bite her lip. “You remember how Theo died?”

Sylvester grimaced. How could he not? Faith had cried over that dog for a month.

“Am I to assume that Silverstone had a hand in bringing it about?”

“He did not simply have a hand in it,” his sister said fiercely, “He had his both arms and legs in it, with the rest of him thrown in for good measure!”