To Tempt the Devil Pt. 01

* * *

Shortly after Sylvester and Faith returned from their unusually short drive in the park, a young man in his very early twenties knocked on the door of Silverstone House. Cottsloe, the butler, opened the door with alacrity, and stood staring in mute astonishment at the man on the doorstep. Justin, Lord St James smiled and said easily, “How are you, Cottsloe?”

The butler beamed. “My lord,” Cottsloe said happily. “May I be the first to congratualate you on your son. Welcome home, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, a hint of pride evident in his voice. “I trust your wife is well?”

“Oh, she’s bloomin’, m’lord. I think his lordship is in bed at the moment, if you’d like to see him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind paying the old chap a call,” Justin said casually, and walked in.

* * *

There was light. Too much light. Light, and noise. Not a good combination for his head.

Voices, too. Cottsloe’s, and someone elses. Very familiar, but his brain was too muddled to remember properly. Then there were no more voices, but footstesp, curiously familiar footsteps approaching his bed. He buried his face into his pillow and grunted a muffled, “Get out.”

“Surely now,” came those familiar tones again. “That’s no way to treat me. I came all the way from America with my wife and child to see you, and you tell me to get out?”

Who the devil was it? He was tempted to find out, but could not summon the energy to lift his eyelids.

He heard the rattle and clang of objects hitting together, and his head began to pound. Light. Oh god, more light. It was flooding the room. With a groan - no, noise. Noise was not good, he opened his eyes, saw nothing but darkness, and lifted his head from the pillow. A flash of headboard greeted him, then blackness as his head throbbed and stars seemed to flash before his eyes. He resisted the urge to groan again, knowing it would only bring more pain, and slowly, painfully, turned onto his back, falling back onto the pillows with a soft sigh. His eyes closed again.

“Back to your old habits, I see,” came Justin’s voice.

Justin. Oh, god no. It was Justin.

The sinner was going to be reprimanded by the saint. The devil was going to be lectured by god. Good was about to defeat evil.

Oh lord. Death would be a welcome distraction to the pain he was in now.

Yes. Death. Death was good. He just wished that Justin would leave him to die in peace.

“Come on, Vardon old chap,” Justin. So he wasn’t gone yet? Vardon supposed he was still alive then. The thought was not comforting. “Get up. I’ve news for you.”

Vardon surrendered. He gave up. He let the inevitable happen.

He opened his eyes.

Blearily he peered up at Justin’s bright, blond, sunny countenance.

“What?” he rasped.

“Ah, here now,” Justin scolded. “I won’t tell you when you’re glowering up at me still half drunk like that. I’ll just go get your valet - what’s his name again?”

“Henley.”

“Yes, that’s right. Good old Henley. How long have you had him for?”

“A month.”

“Hmm. If I was a betting man, I’d wager that Cottsloe’s not too happy about that.”

“Cottsloe was my valet. He is now my butler, a position that, I assure you, is vastly superiour to that of valet. How I run my household is, by the way, none of your business,” Vardon informed his brother as frostily as he was able to in his groggy state. “Now tell me your damn news, or get out.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t have you in such a state. I’m off to get Henley.” And before the Marquess could say a word, he was off.

Vardon groaned and sank back into his pillows, closing his eyes. Why now? Off all the times of the day for Justin to pick, why did the ass have to choose now? But then Justin had never stood for London hours, Vardon remembered. While the rest of the town was about gallivanting, Justin had always been already tucked into bed like a good little boy, and while the rest of the town lolled in bed the boy was already up and about his business. He had always been a steady, pious child, and it had always been an unspoken sentiment with their father that he regretted the younger of the brothers had not stood to inherit. It was the general consensus that Justin would always have made a much better Marquess than Vardon did.

He frowned, his eyes still closed. It was rather quiet. Perhaps he’d dreamed it all? he thought hopefully. Perhaps it had all been a rather vivid nightmare and he had simply dreamed up Justin’s presence.

Henley chose that moment to step into the room, armed with the customary change of clothes, the concoction of odious liquid that he constantly held to be essential to his lordship’s health, and the steady of train of footmen who lumbered into the room, clutching buckets of water.

Justin popped his head back into the room. Damn. He hadn’t dreamed it, then. “Have your bath, old chap,” he advised. “I’ll be in the breakfast parlour when you come down. Don’t take too long.” With the same cheerful grin that he seemed to perpetually wear, he took off.

Vardon groaned.

* * *

Some time later (well, a great deal of time later) his lordship came down (freshly bathed, shaved, and dressed) to the breakfast parlour, fully expecting his brother to have taken off after two hours. His hopes, however, were crushed when he stepped in to find Justin sitting peacefully at the table, perusing a copy of the Times.

“You,” he scowled. “Why are you still here?”

Justin widened his eyes innocently. “I’ve still to tell you your news.”

Vardon glowered and pulled out a chair, sitting down. “So tell me. And then go away.”

“I won’t tell you when you’re scowling like that,” Justin said tranquily.

Vardon gritted his teeth and said in tones of extremely forced sweetness. “I apologise, brother dear. I was unforgiveably uncivil. Please, do regale me with your delightful news.”

Justin burst out laughing. “Oh, you haven’t changed at all, I see,” he said. “Very well. I came to tell you that my wife just had another son.”

That was it? “Congratualations. I suppose I have another heir then, now.” He paused, then eyed his brother unfavourably. “Doesn’t your wife ever get tired of it? Remaining in a constant state of pregnancy, that is?”

Justin blithely ignored this highly affrontive remark and continued. “And that I’ve seen your fiance. She was driving in the park with her brother.”

“What?”

“Your fiance. You do remember Miss - no, she’s titled, isn’t she? Lady de Courte, don’t you?”

“Lady de Courte,” Vardon mused. “The name sounds familiar.”

Justin stared at him, aghast. “Good lord, brother. You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve forgotten?”

Vardon shook his head. “No. I just couldn’t seem to remember the chit’s name. Ah well. I suppose I’ll see her soon enough.”

“Which reminds me. Have you ever met her?”

“Once, when she was still a child. It must have been more than ten years ago. She was about six or seven, as I recall. An unfortunate looking child.”

“Yes, well,” Justin grimaced. “I’m sorry to say that however unfortunate she used to look, she hasn’t changed.”

Vardon shrugged. “I always knew father would choose an ugly wife for me. Punish me for my sins, I suppose.”

Justin shook his head. “I don’t understand it. Her brother is good looking enough - whatever happened to her?”

“As I said. Unfortunate, but I will live with it. I don’t expect anything more than an heir from her.”

“Mmm. You’ve met the brother too, haven’t you? Duke of Edenvale, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He won a small fortune off me last night. Took off in a hurry too.” He smiled wolfishly. “I wonder why?”

“I can’t imagine,” Justin said placidly. “When do you intend to present yourself to Lady de Courte?”

Vardon shrugged. “As soon as I see her.”

Justin frowned. “You won’t call on her?”

“Why should I? I’ll just wait until I run into her.”

“She’s not one of the demimonde Vardon,” Justin scolded. “The only events she attends are balls and so forth. If you wait to run into her, she’ll turn into an old maid before you even set eyes on her.”

“And we couldn’t have that, could we?” Vardon said bitterly.

“Yes,” Justin said sternly. “You must do your duty by the family, Silverstone.” Silverstone grimaced. Justin only ever used his title when he was trying to make a point.

“Oh alright,” he grumbled. “I’ll go and call on the chit, as long as you go away and stop nagging me.”

Justin rose to his full height, looking down his nose at his brother. “I,” he said pompously, “Would not stoop to so low a tactic as nagging.” He grinned and suddenly. “Will I see you at Almacks on Wednesday, Vardon?” He ducked, avoiding the spoon that his brother threw at him, and laughing, escaped from the breakfast parlour intact.

* * *

“Are you still engaged to Lord Silverstone, Faith?” Amelia Fontana asked over a mouthful of cake. “It seems awfully strange that he hasn’t come to call yet.” She swallowed that previous substantial mouthful and continued with another. “And its been, what, a year and a half after after your father died? Rather lax of him, I say.”

“Yes, but what else would you expect of Silverstone?” Prudence Maclinton asked dissapprovingly. “If he were to behave in any manner approaching respectability we’d all believe the devil had come to earth.”

“Oh?” Faith asked, amused. “I was under the impression he was here already.”

Prudence finished the cake that had been occupying her and reached for another, wavering, then picking it up at last. “I really shouldn’t,” she said mournfully. “Mama says I’m getting fat.” She bit into it anyway.

“Your mama doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Prudence reassured her. “I’m of the opinion that she’s far too thin herself. I don’t believe she has enough blood - perhaps that’s why she’s constantly having the vapours.”

“Unkind, Prudence,” Faith chided. “But she is right, Amy. You have a lovely figure.”

Amy blushed to the roots of her golden curls.

“I was merely making a medical observation,” Prudence protested. “‘Tis not my fault that the lady is anemic.”

“Ane - Anem - what?” Amelia asked blankly.

“I believe she suffers from a lack of red blood cells,” Prudence informed her matter of factly. “From a lack of iron, I believe. I read about it in an Italian medical journal. I don’t think anyone has quite grasped the concept as yet, but it sounds very intriguing.”

“I daresay,” Faith said dryly. “After all, who doesn’t want to learn about red blood cells and a lack of iron?”

“Precisely!” Prudence exclaimed fervently. “I really don’t understand why more people aren’t interested. Its very fascinating.”

“No doubt,” Faith murmured.

“But back to Silverstone,” Amelia put in, eager to be rid of the subject of her mother’s health. Her round baby blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “Have you met him yet?”

“No,” Faith sighed. “I don’t particularly want to, either. The longer that he puts off the marriage, the better. He’s in town, though. Sylvester’s seen him.”

“Oh?” Prudence said, a frown in her dark brown eyes. “Rather odd to have met your brother and still not come calling, isn’t it?”

Faith shrugged. “It matters not to me whether he comes or not. I’d rather he not come at all, in truth.”

“Unkind, Faith,” Amelia interjected. “You do not mean that. Why, I have heard that he is the most handsome men in London! Many would say that you are lucky to have such a betrothed.”

“Many a fools,” Prudence retorted, and Faith was inclined to agree. “I have heard that he is a perfect beast.”

“Surely he cannot be perfectly beastly?” Amelia said with a frown. “I’m sure he must have some redeeming qualities.”

“Other than his title, his wealth, and his looks, I can’t seem to see any,” Faith muttered.

“Oh, fustian,” Amelia replied. “Everyone has a good quality. I’m sure that the only reason you haven’t found it yet is that you haven’t met him.”

“Speaking of which,” Prudence said with a small grin, “That’s about to change.”

“What?” Faith jumped to her feet. “He’s here? Where? Do you see him?”

“I don’t see him,” Prudence said, looking out the window. “But I do see his coach. And its most definitely stopping in front of your house. What will you do?”

“See him of course,” Amelia said quickly.

“No! I mean - no, I don’t want to. Ah - I’m going to hide. In the closet. If Sylvester or one of the servants comes up to find me say I’m ill. Or I’ve left. Or something.” Before either girls could respond she had dived inside the armour and slid the door shut.

As she had predicted, footsteps shortly mounted the stairs, and someone knocked on the door. At Prudence’s command to enter, their butler, Yates opened the door and began, in tones of stiff courtesy, “Lady Faith, His Grace bids you to join him - “ he paused midsentence, looking bewildered. “Where is Her Ladyship?” he queried politely.

“She’s er, ill,” Amelia blurted out, the same moment that Prudence, realising the rather ridiculous nature of that excuse said that her ladyship had gone out. The girls looked at eachother in almost comical dismay and then Prudence swiftly amended, “That is to say, her ladyship felt ill, therefore, went out to get some air.”

“Er, I see,” said Yates, evidently still at a loss. “Most strange. I could have sworn I heard her voice a moment or so ago.”

“She left only just recently,” Amelia said quickly. “Look, I do believe she’s just crossed the street. If we hurry, we may be able to catch her yet. Come, Yates!” She stood, firmly took the butler’s arm and began propelling him towards the door. Prudence, glancing once at the still closed armoir, followed, careful to close the door behind her as they made their way down the stairs. They were crossing the parlour when they were stopped by His Grace, who called from the drawing room, “Yates! Where is her ladyship?” Prudence and Amelia were thus compelled to join the duke in the drawing room, where they stood most awkwardly and tried not to stare at the compelling figure who lounged in a large, comfortable chair, long limbs sprawled about carelessly. Both men immediately stood.

“Your grace,” Prudence murmured, sinking in a deep curtsey. Beside her, Amelia did the same.

Sylvester ran an appreciative eye over his sister’s friends. Prudence, the oldest of the three, tall, long limbed and redheaded, was an unusual beauty, while the pleasant, plump and pleasing Amelia with her blond curls and bright blue eyes was always amiable. They were an odd trio, he thought briefly. He had always wondered how three such different girls could have become such fast friends.

He smiled graciously at the girls, murmuring his how do you do’s, before turning to the Marquess of Silverstone. “Silverstone, may I introduce you to Miss Prudence Maclinton?”

“Honored,” Silverstone said softly, bowing over her hand.

“And Miss Amelia Fontana.”

“A pleasure.”

“Miss Maclinton, Miss Fontana, Lord St James, Marquess of Silverstone.”

The introductions over with, Sylvester proceeded to the foremost business that was occupying his mind. “But where is my sister, my ladies?”

“Er,” said Prudence.

“She went out,” said Amelia brightly.

“Out?” Silverstone murmured. “With company over? What very bad form...”

Prudence shot him a muted glare while Sylvester chose to ignore his guest’s transgression in politeness and turned to look questioningly at said unfortunate young lady, who promptly flushed and looked at her feet.

“She was ill,” Amelia offered.

“I don’t seem to understand,” Sylvester said, scratching his head. “She went out, but you said she was ill?”

“It was because she was ill that she went out,” Amelia explained. “She had a headache, you see, and thought some fresh air would do good.”

“But she left her guests here,” Silverstone said softly. “How very curious.”

“We didn’t feel inclined to join her on her walk,” Prudence said defensively.

“Not very charitable of you m’dear,” Silverstone said with a curve of his lips. “A comrade in need and all that, you know.”

“She didn’t want us to accompany her,” Amelia said.

Silverstone merely raised an eyebrow.

“What I’d like to know,” Prudence said loudly, “Is why we’re being subjected to the fifth degree. I don’t believe there’s any call for all these questions, do you? Surely we’ve said all that’s to be said. Your sister, your grace, went out for a walk. I expect she will be back shortly. And now if you will excuse us, we will take our leave. Good day, Your Grace, Mr Silverstone.”

And with that, the two girls marched out.

“Mr Silverstone?” Vardon asked in amusement.

Sylvester shook his head. “Miss Maclinton is recently from the Americas. I don’t believe gentry exists there - she slips, sometimes, you know. It took her six months to remember to call me either Edenvale, Sylvester, or Your Grace, and not Mr Edenvale. Poor girl. Its very confusing for her, you know.”

“I can imagine,” Vardon murmured. “She has more than enough spirit to compensate for the confusion, though.”

“Mmm,” Sylvester said with a small, fond, smile. “She’s very spirited.”

Vardon gazed thoughtfully at him for a moment, then spoke. “I take it those two ladies were your sister’s close friends?”

“Yes,” Sylvester replied, coming out of his reverie. “They’ve all known eachother for well over ten years, now. Odd isn’t it. The redhead the blonde and the brunette?”

“Your sisters a brunette?” Vardon said, frowning. “I rather recalled her to have black hair - raven, I would have called it. Did she dye it?”

“No, it lightened over time. Still very dark though. Do you remember her?”

“Vaguely,” he muttered. “She was a vicious little hoyden then. I trust she has changed and...er...matured with age?”

“Oh, yes,” Sylvester said with a chuckle. “Yes, she’s changed.”

“Well,” said Vardon, stretching out his legs with a small sigh. “Since your sister isn’t here, I suppose we might as well discuss the marriage contracts? We may as well, seeing as I’m to wait for her return.” His ironic look told what he thought of that articular event happening.

“Hmm,” said Sylvester with a thoughtful look at the stairs. “I suppose we may as well. Will you take dinner with us, Silverstone?”

His lordship agreed, and they sat down to plan the marriage contracts.

* * *

Harriet Browning, Faith’s sometimes upstairs maid and sometimes downstairs maid, wondered what her mistress was doing in the closet.

“Dear lord, my lady!” she exclaimed, almost falling over in shock and dropping the pile of neatly pressed gowns she was clutching. “What are you doing in here?”

“Shh!” Faith hissed. “Are they still down there?”

“Do you mean His Grace and His Lordships?” the maid asked, wide eyed. “Yes, they’re all still down there.”

“All?” Faith asked faintly.

“Yes, his Lordship’s brother came to call and a few of His Grace’s friends as well. They told me you were out, my lady! What are you doing here in a closet?”

“Hiding,” Faith informed her grimly.

“Yes, but what the devil for?”

“I don’t want to see Silverstone.”

“Why not?” Harriet exclaimed in genuine astonishment. “A better looking man I’ve never seen! Why, I’d love to look at him all day!”

“I don’t care how good looking he is,” Faith muttered. “I don’t want to see him.” She did not explain that, if, on the off chance that he had glimpsed her at Vadistes, he would recognise her, which could be the end to all her plans. She was certain that no self respecting fiance would let his intended run wild in a gaming hell, which explained half the reason for her constant secrecy when attending Vadistes with Sylvester. Furthermore, if he should make it known that she was his intended, she was quite certain that it would greatly diminish her chances of being properly ruined. She could not risk it, not when she had risked so much already.

“Well, alright my lady,” Harriet said grudgingly. “I suppose you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to. He’s staying for dinner though, so if you intend to keep hiding do you want me to bring you up a tray of something? I daresay you’ve gotten quite hungry standing in that closet all day.”