The Devil to Pay - Softcover

Carlyle, Liz

 
9780743470049: The Devil to Pay
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0743470044 ISBN 13: 9780743470049
Verlag: Pocket Star, 2005

Inhaltsangabe

Liz Carlyle, bestselling author of The Devil You Know and A Deal With the Devil, continues her devilish streak with this sensual regency romance.

By day, Sidonie Saint-Godard is a quietly elegant young widow who teaches deportment to the unpolished daughters of London's nouveau riche. By night, she is someone altogether different...

The notorious Black Angel—so called for her lusciously located angel tattoo—ruthlessly takes from powerful men who exploit, and gives to those who suffer at their hands. Always in disguise, she has eluded capture and her identity remains a mystery...

The Marquess of Devellyn, one of the least noble noblemen in town, uses and discards women as he pleases. But when the Black Angel entices him into her bed, ties him up, and pilfers his most valued possession, she may have gone too far. This time, Devellyn tells her, she'll have the devil to pay. And he definitely means to collect.

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

During her frequent travels through England, Liz Carlyle always packs her pearls, her dancing slippers, and her whalebone corset, confident in the belief that eventually she will receive an invitation to a ball or a rout. Alas, none has been forthcoming. While waiting, however, she has managed to learn where all the damp, dark alleys and low public houses can be found. Liz hopes she has brought just a little of the nineteenth century alive for the reader in her popular novels, which include the trilogy of One Little Sin, Two Little Lies, and Three Little Secrets, as well as The Devil You Know, A Deal With the Devil, and The Devil to Pay. Please visit her at LizCarlyle.com, especially if you're giving a ball.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One: The Strange Goings On in Bedford Place

He was not the sort of man she usually chose. Across the roulette table she studied him. He was young; yes, younger than she preferred. One wondered if he yet shaved. The pink blush of innocence still tinged the pretty Englishman's cheeks, and his bones were as delicately carved as her own.

But he was not innocent. And if he were delicate, well, tant pis.

The croupier leaned over the table. "Mesdames and messieurs," he said in his bad French accent, "faites vos jeux, s'il vous plait!"

She waved away the smoke from a nearby cheroot and placed a corner bet, pushing three chips across the baize with a perfectly manicured fingertip. Just then, the gentleman between them rose, scraping up his winnings as he went. An exchange of backslapping and bonhomie followed. Bien. The young man was alone now. In the dim light, she partially lifted the black veil which obscured her eyes, and shot him a look of frank interest. He shoved a stack of chips onto black twenty-two, and returned the stare, one brow lightly lifting.

"No more bets," the croupier intoned. "Les jeux sont faits!" In one elegant motion, he spun the tray and flicked the ball. It leapt and clattered merrily, punctuating the drone of conversation. Then it went crack! clickity-clack! and bounced into black twenty-two.

The croupier pushed out his winnings before the wheel stopped. The Englishman collected them and moved to her end of the table.

"Bonsoir," she murmured throatily. "Black has been very good to you this night, monsieur."

His pale blue eyes ran down her black dress. "Dare I hope it is the beginning of a trend?"

She looked at him through the fine mesh and lowered her lashes. "One can always hope, sir."

The Englishman laughed, showing his tiny white teeth. "I don't think I know you, mademoiselle," he said. "You are new to Lufton's?"

She lifted one shoulder. "One gaming salon is much like another, n'est-ce pas?"

His gaze heated. The fool thought she was a Cyprian. Understandable, since she sat alone and unescorted in a den of iniquity.

"Lord Francis Tenby," he said, extending his hand. "And you are...?"

"Madame Noire," she answered, bending far forward to place her gloved fingers in his. "It must be fate, must it not?"

"Ha ha!" His gaze took in her daring décolletage. "Madame Black, indeed! Tell me, my dear, have you a given name?"

"Those with whom I'm intimate call me Cerise," she said, the word husky and suggestive.

"Cerise," echoed the Englishman. "How exotic. What brings you to London, my dear?"

Again, the lifted shoulder. The coy, sidelong glance. "Such questions!" she said. "We are taking up space at the wheel, sir, and I am quite parched."

He jerked to his feet at once. "What may I fetch you, ma'am?" he asked. "And may I show you to a quiet corner?"

"Champagne," she murmured. Then she rose, inclined her head, and went to the table he'd indicated. A corner table. Very private. Very perfect.

He returned in a trice, a servant on his heels with a tray and two glasses.

"Ma foi!" she murmured, looking about as the servant departed. "I must have left my reticule at the roulette table. Would you be so kind, my lord?"

He turned away, and she snapped open her vial. Deftly, she passed it over his glass. The tiny crystals drifted down to greet the effervescing bubbles.

He returned just as she flicked a quick glance at the watch pinned to the lining of her shawl. Timing was essential. He smiled suggestively, and she lifted her glass to his. "To a new friendship," she murmured, so quietly he had to lean nearer.

"Indeed! A new friendship." He drank deeply of the champagne, and frowned.

But he was easily distracted. For the next ten minutes, she laughed her light, tinkling laughter, and said very clever things to Lord Francis Tenby, who hadn't a brain in his beautiful head.

The usual questions followed. She told her well-practiced lies. The widowhood. The loneliness. The wealthy protector who had brought her here tonight, quarreled with her, then so cruelly abandoned her for another. But c'est la vie, she suggested with another shrug of her shoulders. There were other fish in the sea.

Of course, she proposed nothing. He did. They always did. And she accepted, flicking another glance at her watch. Twenty minutes. They stood. He lost a little of his color, shook it off, and offered his arm. Her hand on his coat sleeve, they walked out of the hell together, and into the damp, gaslit gloom of St. James. A passing hackney rolled to a stop as if it had been planned. It had.

Lord Francis gave the driver his address, almost tripping as he followed her in. By the weak light of the carriage lamp, she could see that perspiration already sheened his face. She bent forward, offering him a generous view of her cleavage. "Mon coeur," she murmured, laying her hand on his pink cheek. "You look unwell."

"I'm fine," he answered, holding himself erect now with obvious effort. "Jush fine. But I want...I want to see..." He lost his train of thought entirely.

She slithered out of her silk shawl and leaned even closer. "What, mon cher?" she whispered. "What is it you wish to see?"

He shook his head as if willing away a fog. "Your...your eyes," he finally said. "Want to shee your eyes. And face. Your ha -- ha -- hat. Veil. Off."

"Ah, that I cannot do," she whispered across the carriage, beginning to peel down her left sleeve. "But I can show you something else, Lord Francis. Tell me, would you like to see my breast?"

"Breasht?" He leered drunkenly.

Another inch of fabric eased down. "A bit of it, yes," she answered. "Look this way, Lord Francis. Yes, that's it. Focus, love. Focus. Can you see this?"

He made the fatal mistake of leaning closer.

"Tatt...tatt...tattoo?" he said, cocking his head to one side.

"Back. No, black...angel?" Suddenly, Lord Francis's eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth dropped slack, and his head thudded against the carriage door, leaving him gaping up at her like a dead carp at Billingsgate.

For his safety, she lifted his chin and pushed him back against the banquette. He flopped limply against the leather as she rifled through his pockets. Purse. Key. Snuffbox -- silver, not gold, blast it. Watch, chain, fob. A letter from his coat pocket. A lover? An enemy? Oh, Lud! She had no time for blackmail! She stuffed it back and plucked instead a sapphire pin from the snowy folds of his cravat.

Finished, she looked at him in satisfaction. "Oh, I do hope it was good for you, Lord Francis," she murmured. "It certainly was good for me."

Mouth still open, Lord Francis made a deep, snorking sound in the back of his throat.

"How gratifying to hear it," she answered. "And I daresay your pretty, pregnant, newly unemployed parlor maid shall soon be gratified, too."

With that, she dropped her loot into her reticule, thumped twice on the roof of the carriage, then pushed open the door. The cab slowed to take the curve at the corner of Brook Street. The Black Angel leapt out, and melted into the gray gloom of Mayfair. Lord Francis's head bobbled back and forth as the hackney rattled on into the night.

The Marquess of Devellyn was in a rare fine mood. So fine, he'd been singing "O God Our Help in Ages Past" all the way up Regent Street, despite not knowing the words. So fine, he had the sudden notion to have his coachman set him down near the corner of Golden Square so that he might stroll in the pleasant evening air. At his signal, the glossy black carriage rolled dutifully to a halt. The marquess leapt...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Pocket Star
Erscheinungsdatum
2005
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0743470044
ISBN 13 
9780743470049
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
384
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

Weitere beliebte Ausgaben desselben Titels

9781476787176: The Devil to Pay

Vorgestellte Ausgabe

ISBN 10:  1476787174 ISBN 13:  9781476787176
Verlag: Gallery Books, 2014
Softcover