Devil in My Arms (4 page)

You can return to us, Eleanor, at long last! We are already making plans for your London debut as my widowed cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Fairchild. As you know, it is a family name from great grandmother’s sister, so the connection will not be unknown. But there is so much to do before the season begins! Only two months to order you a new wardrobe and all those other little details that must be attended to. Come home, come home, Eleanor! Roger has sent a note for Wiley as well, instructing him to escort you back. How we have missed you!

With dearest devotion,
Harry                        

“You’re going to leave me,” Lady Anne said with regret. “I shall miss you both.”

“Right away?” Eleanor said, suddenly panicked. She’d felt safe here in Surrey, at the estate. Surrounded by the earl’s loyal servants and attendants, Wiley at her side, she’d learned to sleep with the door closed and stopped looking behind her. The prospect of starting over again in London was frightening.

Wiley tore open his letter and read it. Eleanor was amazed again at what the young man had accomplished. He’d told her that a few years ago, when Sir Hilary had taken him in off the streets, he couldn’t read or write. There was no evidence of that uneducated boy anymore. With shock, she realized that to most he was very much a man—handsome, with angelic features and dark-cinnamon hair, strong shoulders, and a devil-may-care grin. She’d seen more than one of the housemaids mooning after him.

“We’re to leave as soon as possible,” Wiley confirmed. “They’ve made arrangements. The earl is sending his private carriage.” Wiley whistled and grinned at them. “I’ve certainly moved up in the world, ladies.” He noticed Eleanor’s pallor. “Now, don’t be getting all missish on me, Mrs. Fairchild.” He emphasized her new name. “I’ll have to get used to calling you that.” He squatted in front of her and awkwardly patted her leg. “Old Wiley will get you there, no worries.”

She smiled weakly at him. “And then what?”

Lady Anne walked up and hugged her from behind. “Why then, you start your new life,” she said happily. “A new year, and a new life. Oh, Eleanor, how I envy you.”

Eleanor put her hand over Lady Anne’s on her shoulder and turned to her. “You must come, too,” she insisted.

Lady Anne shook her head. “No, not yet. I’m actually enjoying my time here in Surrey. I needed a respite from London society. Perhaps in the fall.” She smiled at Eleanor. “I can’t have a scandal attached to my name,” she explained, “or to Throckton’s. He doesn’t want to have to pawn me off on the lowest bidder, and I certainly don’t wish
it, either. One day, my prince will come, and I want to be available.” She grinned mischievously. “A little bit more time for it all to die down, and then I shall return, scrubbed clean of silly gossip.” She laughed outright. “Besides, I want to finish writing my novel so I can start the gossip all over again.” She hugged Eleanor again. “I wish you luck, my dear Eleanor. You will have a marvelous time. New clothes, new shoes, new acquaintances. I shall give you a list of establishments, although I know Harry and Julianna certainly know the best dressmakers in London, but I swear by Madame Pomfroy. Oh, it’s an affected name, I know, but still. And I do have friends from school who will welcome you into the fold with an introduction.”

Eleanor stopped listening as Lady Anne continued on about dressmakers and cobblers and stationary shops.
London
. She would be in London, with Harry at last. Finally the excitement and relief hit her and she grinned at Wiley, who grinned right back.

Chapter Three

London, February 1820

Eleanor walked around the perimeter of Harry’s drawing room, watching the people there as they mingled and laughed and sipped their champagne. How she envied them. This was her entrance into London society, her big debut. This evening she officially came back to life. Well, in a way. She’d been here for two months, getting fitted for a new wardrobe and meeting a few people in order to garner invitations to events during the season. She was posing as Harry’s widowed cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Fairchild, as Harry had suggested. In a macabre way she owed this night to Enderby. She prayed nightly for that poor lost soul he’d buried in her place, whoever it was. She wondered, not for the first time, if Enderby had actually killed someone to do it. The thought was chilling. But it had definitely changed her life. He wouldn’t come looking for her now. It would be disastrous for him if she were found to be alive. She would never be able to marry again, of course, but she’d never had the intention to do so. Her dependency on Harry and Roger was a worry, but once she’d established herself in this new identity she was determined to find a way to support herself and pay them back. She didn’t want to depend on anyone. She wanted complete and utter freedom.

For her return to the land of the living she wore a pale-pink confection of a dress far too young for her in both color and style, and she was wearing maquillage. She felt positively decadent. She hadn’t worn a color this pretty and bright since she was a young girl. She’d kept her hair short, though Harry had brought in a little man who snipped and clipped it into fashionable submission. It was a little defiance. Enderby had been quite proud of her long, brown hair. When they’d first married, he’d watched her brush and braid it at night, like a hawk waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. She shuddered at the memory. Years later, when they hated the very sight of one another, he’d mocked it relentlessly, mocked something so sensual and alluring in one so barren. So she’d kept it
short because she knew he would hate it. It did make her more remarkable among the fashionable company here. There were a few women with shorter locks, but most wore their hair in elaborate long styles. The advantage, however, was that she would be almost unrecognizable to anyone from her past who had been used to seeing her with unusually long hair. Eleanor liked it. It was different and fun and exciting, which is what she wanted to be as Mrs. Elizabeth Fairchild. She thought she might rather enjoy this new identity.

The evening was going well. Harry was a brilliant hostess. The baby was old enough at four months to sleep contentedly with his nurse this evening, leaving Harry to entertain. She looked ravishing, as usual, in a lavender dress that made her look like a goddess. Some might expect Eleanor to be jealous of her younger sister. She was beautiful beyond anything most people had seen before, she was witty and intelligent, rich, and she’d snagged one of London’s premier bachelors, and a Devil, no less. Eleanor had heard a great deal about the Saint’s Devils from both Harry and her beloved brother-in-law, Roger, not to mention from Wiley, her constant bodyguard over the last few months.

The original Devil, Sir Hilary St. John, who had found her on Harry’s doorstep months ago, was even now keeping pace with her on the other side of the room, like a jaguar stalking his prey. He was watching her watch everyone else while he sipped his champagne and smiled enigmatically at her. She had the discomforting feeling that he wanted to expose all her secrets. Learn the very heart of who she was and show the world.

Dressed all in black, he resembled a curate, or an executioner. There was an air of barely restrained menace about him; she was amazed the other guests didn’t back away from him carefully as he passed. She’d noticed it immediately when he’d entered the drawing room tonight. But Harry’s guests apparently did not have her sense of self-preservation. They flocked to him, only to be brushed away negligently, like flies on a summer afternoon. The ladies, especially, watched him with heated gazes and undisguised longing, which he ignored.

He infuriated her with his watchful stare, and yet he fascinated her, too. He wasn’t at all like the dashing adventurer she’d imagined. The way he moved reminded her of a
wild animal pacing the confines of his cage. He was as mysterious as they had all claimed, watchful and predatory and closed off. He’d been gone for several months, doing his mysterious favor for an equally mysterious friend—Wiley had insisted it was the prince regent, now king, making a nuisance of himself again—and the few times since when he’d come to see Roger she had avoided him as much as possible, intimidated by his reputation and the stories Wiley had told her. The dichotomy between the reality of Sir Hilary and her fantasies was simply too much to bear.

He’d seemed taken aback at her transformation this evening, too. She didn’t think it was that remarkable. She’d gained a little weight, of course, with regular meals. The cool February temperatures had brought out the pink in her cheeks. But other than that, she looked very like she had that fateful night.

Not for the first time, she wondered what Sir Hilary was thinking. She didn’t like the uncertainty of him. With most people she could tell immediately what made them tick. Sir Hilary was too much of an enigma for her peace of mind. He held his thoughts close to his breast, as did she. She’d learned the hard way not to reveal more than was necessary to anyone, lest it be used against her. She’d slipped with Enderby again and again, when she was too tired and hungry and weak to watch what she said or did. He’d used Harry against her more than once. Told her lies about Harry’s death, or a visit from Harry, only to reveal the truth when it suited him.

Perhaps Sir Hilary had been taught the same lesson once upon a time. No one knew, really. He was disturbingly mysterious. Not even Roger knew much about his friend, other than what Sir Hilary had told him, which was very little. Roger said he had arrived at school at twelve years of age as if he’d sprung from the head of Zeus fully formed. No one knew his background or family, but it was rumored he had royal connections. It was also rumored he was half American savage and that he was a descendant of Caesar, so she couldn’t really give much credence to the rumors, despite his mysterious connection to the new king.

He had escorted his aunt this evening, Mrs. Gertrude Honeychurch. She was quite nice, and as harmless as a kitten. As plump and friendly as he was thin and aloof, they made quite a pair. But she was an aunt by marriage only, not blood related, and her husband, presumably his uncle, was long dead. Eleanor wished she had the time and
resources to find out all there was to know about him, just for the fun of it. But he’d probably buried his past so deep and so well that no one would discover his secrets. They must be very juicy indeed.

She had been conversing with as many people in the room as possible, making acquaintances and playing her new role to the hilt. Mrs. Elizabeth Fairchild was delightful—animated, witty, and outgoing. It was a struggle for Eleanor, of course. She’d rarely been out in company like this over the last ten years, and much preferred keeping to herself. But she was resolved to be as different from the old Eleanor as possible, the better to hide in plain sight. Sir Hilary’s watchful eye had made the charade difficult. She’d grown weary of this game of cat and mouse. It was time to face the real Sir Hilary, whether he frightened her or not. She had never been a coward. She slowed her pace, hoping he’d catch up to her. He rewarded her by doing just that. She had no doubt it was quite deliberate on his part, as well.

“How do you do, Mrs. Fairchild?” he inquired politely as he walked up next to her and matched her slow steps, keeping them abreast. She’d been wrong. He was not all in black. There were bright blue vines embroidered on his waistcoat, the detail as startling to her as if the devil had arrived with flowers in his hair.

“Fine, Sir Hilary,” she replied calmly, though her heart beat fast. “And you?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. She almost laughed in disbelief at the inanity of their pleasantries.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Are you?” he said with evident surprise. “Why?”

Now she was the one taken aback. “Why? Because I am always glad to hear of a fellow human being who is so fine he is fine, fine.”

“You are the very soul of charity,” he commended her with an unexpected laugh.

“I would like to think so.” She sipped her champagne to cover her nervousness. She felt out of her depth and they’d hardly spoken.

“Wiley told me that you’ve spent some time at the Earl of Throckton’s estate in Surrey with Alasdair and Julianna Sharp.”

“Yes. The Earl and his sister were kind enough to include me in a rather long house party.” Which he knew perfectly well, since Wiley had been there, too, watching
her like a hawk.

“How long were you there?” he inquired innocently. “You must have made quite an impression on the earl.”

“I doubt it,” she said wryly. “He was only there for about three days of the three months I stayed.”

Sir Hilary laughed again. “Throckton never was much for parties. Or intrigue. Did Sharp instigate the invitation?”

His question bordered on rude, but she got the impression he didn’t see it that way. “He had everything to do with it, I believe, though I did not ask as it would have been impolite.”

Sir Hilary raised his brow. “Have I trespassed again?” he said, though he clearly lacked contrition. “I often do. You must forgive me these lapses. My sense of curiosity frequently overshadows my manners.”

“Then it is a good thing you are not a cat.”

She could see that she had once again startled him, and felt immense pride in the accomplishment.

“Madam, you continue to astonish me. May I inquire, since we agree I am no cat and may chance the risk, how you managed to elude my search last year?”

“You may.” She said nothing more, merely kept walking and smiling at Harry’s guests. She liked keeping him waiting. She’d certainly gotten the impression that one didn’t often have the advantage over Sir Hilary. As she looked around she could see people talking behind their hands, casting curious glances her way. No one had commented on her supposed death last year. She wasn’t exactly well-known among the London elite, so the fact they hadn’t exclaimed in shock and wonder when she was introduced was no surprise. Most likely they would never connect her to the same Eleanor Enderby declared dead by her husband a few months ago. No, the talk this evening was because of the man beside her. He was the object of their fascination, not her. She understood their feelings quite well.