"I've an ominous feeling it might be crucial, but every time I try to catch hold of it, it slips back into the mist."
"Stop trying so hard." Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "Go talk to Honoria Prudence-distract yourself some more." He grinned. "Your vital clue will probably come to mind in the most unlikely situation."
Stifling the impulse to inform his brother that it was Honoria Prudence he needed distracting from, Devil nodded. They parted, Richard heading for his lodgings, Devil striding along the pavements toward Grosvenor Square. In his present condition, the walk wouldn't hurt.
The wind had risen by the time Devil reached his front door in the small hours of the morning. After leaving Richard, he'd returned home only to dress for the evening. Like most of his recent evenings, the past night had been devoted to what, borrowing Honoria's description, he now mentally dubbed "Lucifer's discreditable rumor." It was not something he or his cousins could investigate directly-their views were too widely known. No one would talk openly in their presence for fear of repercussions. Which meant he'd had to find a pawn to do their investigating for them-he'd finally settled on one Viscount Bromley. His lordship was bored, dissipated, a hardened gamester, always on the lookout for distraction.
A renowned cardplayer himself, Devil had found no difficulty in dangling the right lure before his lordship's nose. As of tonight, the viscount was well on the way to losing his shirt. After which, his lordship was going to prove exceedingly helpful. And after that, he'd probably never play piquet again.
Grinning grimly, Devil paused, latchkey in hand; eyes narrowing, he scanned the night sky. It was dark, but not so dark he couldn't see the thunderheads rolling in, lowering blackly over the housetops.
He quickly let himself in. He hoped Webster had remembered his instructions.
The storm broke with an almighty crash.
It flung Honoria straight into hell. Only this time, it was a different hell, with a different scene of carnage.
>
From above, she looked down on the wreck of a carriage, all splintered wood and crushed leather seats. The horses, tangled and torn, were screaming. Beside the carriage lay the figure of a man, sprawled, long limbs flung in impossible angles. Black locks covered his eyes; his face was pale as death.
He lay unmoving, with the absolute stillness of one gone from this world.
The black misery that welled from Honoria's heart was stronger than ever before. It caught her, effortlessly whirled her, then dragged her down into a vortex of desolation, the vale of unending tears.
He was gone-and she couldn't breathe, couldn't find voice to protest, could find no strength to call him back. With a choking sob, hands outstretched, beseeching the gods, she stepped forward.
Her fingers met solid flesh. Warm flesh.
"Hush."
The nightmare shattered; despair howled, then slid away, slinking back into the darkness, relinquishing its hold. Honoria woke.
She was not in her bed but standing before the window, her feet cold on the boards. Outside, the wind shrieked; she flinched as rain stung the pane. Her cheeks were wet with tears she couldn't recall shedding; her fine lawn nightgown was no match for the room's chill. She shivered.
Warm arms surrounded her, steadied her. Wonderingly, she looked up-for one instant, she wasn't sure which was reality and which the dream-then the heat reaching through his fine shut registered. With a sob, she flung herself against him.
"It's all right." Devil closed his arms about her; with one hand, he stroked her hair. She was quivering; her fists, tight balls, clutched his shirt. Slipping his hand beneath the heavy fall of her hair, he stroked her nape, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. "It's all right."
She shook her head furiously. "It's not all right." Her voice was choked, muffled in his chest. Devil felt her tears, hot against his skin. Gripping his shirt, she tried, ineffectually, to shake him. "You were killed! Dead."
Devil blinked. He'd assumed her nightmare concerned her parents' and siblings' deaths. "I'm not dead." He knew that for certain; she was wearing nothing bar a single layer of fine lawn, a fact his rakish senses had immediately noted. Luckily, he'd come prepared. Reaching out, he snagged the blanket he'd left on the window seat. "Come-sit by the fire." She was tense, cold and shivering; she wouldn't sleep until she was relaxed and warm.
"There's no fire-one of the footmen put it out. There's something wrong with the chimney." Honoria imparted the information without lifting her head. She had no idea what was going on; her heart was thumping wildly, sheer panic walked her nerves.
Devil turned her to the door. "In the sitting room."
He tried to set her from him; when she wouldn't let go, he heaved a sigh and draped the blanket about her back and shoulders, tucking it about her as best he could.
Honoria accepted his ministrations meekly-just as long as she didn't have to let go.
She felt him hesitate; he muttered something incomprehensible, then stooped and swung her into his arms. The movement broke her hold; she clutched two fresh handfuls of his shirt and pressed her cheek to his chest, relieved beyond measure when his arms tightened about her. The turbulence inside her was frightening.
As if she was a child, he carried her into the sitting room and sat in a large armchair facing the blazing fire. He settled her in his lap; she immediately curled close, pressing tightly into his hard body. Both chair and fire had changed since she'd retired, a fact she noted, but that was the most minor aspect of the confusion clouding her mind.
Her heart was still racing, high in her throat; her lips were dry. There was a metallic taste in her mouth; her skin felt coldly clammy. Her mind was awhirl, thoughts and fears, present and past, jostling for prominence, demanding responses. Reality and fearful fancy merged, then separated, then merged again, partners in a giddy dance.
She couldn't think, couldn't talk-she didn't even know what she felt.