Page 29 of To Dare the Devil

He looked up as Barnaby spoke again, relieved to be distracted from such disturbing thoughts. “You understand, though, Louis,” Barnaby said, his expression grave, “I can’t guarantee you’ll see her, or even hear news of her. I’ll try my best, but—”

“I understand,” Louis said, though the knowledge sat in his chest like a lead weight. “I do not expect miracles, and I would never hold you responsible if this is all for naught. I’d rather take this journey ten times over than be miles away from her in London, wondering if I’ve lost her for good. Do you think me ridiculous? I should not blame you.”

Barnaby shook his head. “No, I don’t think that. It’s romantic, ain’t it? To try everything. To grab at every chance for happiness. I’m no good with poetry or pretty words, as you well know, but it feels like doing something important. You and that young woman ought to be together, if I know anything. Perhaps she don’t see it yet, but I reckon she will. Blimey, half the world seems to be in love with you. Dashed fond of you myself. Surely she’ll fall too, in the end.”

Louis snorted and shook his head. “The world does not know me. Not really. They see only a pretty face and don’t bother with the rest. Even Evie doesn’t know me as she ought, not well enough to make such a momentous decision. If she did, she’d probably run a mile. Even so, she knows me better than most anyone, outside of two men I count as family, and you, now, Barnaby,” he added with a smile. “I rather hope she does not discover the rest before I can persuade her to marry me, and I know that is a wicked thing to say.”

“What would she discover that’s so dreadful?” Barnaby asked cautiously.

Louis lay his head back against the squabs with a sigh. “I sometimes feel I have lived a hundred lives. And each time I move on, I try to shed the old skin and all that went with it, but it does not work that way. We carry the past with us.” He turned back to Barnaby, holding his gaze. “You cannot imagine the life I have lived. I truly wish I could not either. I ask you, what kind of aristocrat has a tattoo like that across his back? Do you think it will horrify her?”

Barnaby shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Honestly, it’s rather beautiful, though I cannot imagine how or why you got it, but I reckon there was a good reason at the time and… and if she loves you, she won’t care about such things, past wanting to know why too, I imagine.”

“If she loves me,” Louis repeated, turning to stare out of the window but not really seeing the passing scenery. He nodded, his stomach twisting with anxiety. “If she loves me.”

3rd June 1842, The Countess St Clair’s Spring Ball, St James’s, London.

Max tugged at his waistcoat, trying not to feel too conspicuous. He would have avoided this kind of event like the plague in times past. Polite society, polite conversation, and a lot of marriage hungry young women out to snare a husband. Back then, he’d have far rather been indulging in more decadent pleasures at the notorious Orchid House or gambling in one of the infamous hells to be found in the city. He and Kilbane had cut a swathe through London, pandering to their baser desires, each egging the other on. Partners in crime. They had seen each other at their worst, and he knew that was why he did not want the man around. Kilbane was a reminder of his past and his darker self.

Max turned his gold signet ring around and around on his finger. It had become a nervous habit, ever since Humphrey Price had returned it to him. He’d not known the young man well, but he’d been drinking in The Crown that fateful night, too. He’d seen Max leave, following about twenty minutes later. It had been Price who’d found his signet ring in a pool of blood and raised the alarm, not that Max had known it.

Burt and Pike had, though they’d held their tongues, both to the police and to Max himself. Burt later explained he’d figured it best for him to keep out of sight if someone wanted him dead. Let them think they’d done the job thoroughly. Until he was well again, at least. Burt had been of a mind that it was better for his memory to return without being forced, too. Max suspected that was not entirely true. He believed Burt had heard who he was, heard the kind of man he’d been, and wanted the chance to help Max remake himself before his old life caught up with him again. He’d done it, too. For that alone, Max would be eternally grateful.

He sighed, wishing Barnaby and Louis had not taken themselves off to Scotland on whatever family call of duty they had forced Barnaby to take. Though why Louis was accompanying him, he couldn’t fathom. Except that the two of them seemed fast friends these days. Max smothered an unwelcome niggle of jealousy and told himself he was being ridiculous. Friends took time, that was all. He’d see them both when they returned, but for now he ought to make new friends among those people around him. The idea was remarkably daunting. He’d never troubled himself to make friends before, he realised, and he wasn’t certain how to go about it. Drinking cronies and men who indulged in the same vices as he’d enjoyed were easy. Friends, decent men and women with more on their minds than the next pleasure to be had were another matter entirely.

Such concerns fled, however, as he glimpsed a familiar face in the crowd and a thrill of excitement fizzed in his blood.

Max hurried closer, muttering abject apologies as he bumped into an elderly dowager in his haste and received an arctic glare in return. Wincing, he returned his attention to his quarry. God, but she was lovely. Dressed in a gown of pale blue, Miss de Beauvoir looked like an ice queen from a fairy story, her cool expression distant and rather daunting. Frowning, he realised she was alone and, beneath the formidable expression, she seemed as awkward as he’d been feeling. It occurred to him to wonder what an event must be like for her. He knew she’d been adopted from a foundling home and could only guess at the treatment she must receive from the judgemental ton. He hoped she had friends here, for he knew how cruel society could be and he doubted they’d been kind to her.

“Miss de Beauvoir.”

She gave a little start of surprise and stared up at him, her grey eyes wide and startled. “Oh! I beg your pardon, Lord Vane. I’m afraid I was wool gathering. How do you do?”

“Very well, thank you. I did not expect to see you here. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes, of course, thank you,” she said automatically.

Max quirked an eyebrow at her and she sighed.

“No, actually. If you must know, I’m bored stiff.”

Max returned a sympathetic smile. “But you have friends here, surely?”

“I do,” she admitted. “And they’re very kind. That’s Lady Rosamund over there, dancing with Mr Anson. She would have sat out to keep me company, but I told her not to. My friends are most attentive, my lord. They are always rallying around and making certain I have dance partners among their brothers and their other friends. It’s never the same when someone is dancing with you out of kindness, though, is it?” she added with a sigh.

Max frowned, shaking his head. “I cannot believe the men here are so foolish as not to ask you to dance.”

“Not all of them, but I’ve become cautious who I accept, which doesn’t help.” She looked away from him, and Max wondered what she meant.

“You don’t mean to say…. Has anyone insulted you?” he asked, taken aback by the surge of rage he felt.

Her colour rose, but she turned back and held his gaze. “Oh, come now. Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” she said, laughing a little. “You know as well as I that I’m unlikely to marry anyone here, not when my blood is an unknown quantity. My actual mother might have been a prostitute, my father a criminal. It’s hardly astonishing some men think I’d accept a carte blanche, is it?”

Her words were hard and candid, and yet he heard the vulnerability beneath her bravado, and he wanted to hit something.

“Who?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Who dared ask you such a thing?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Don’t fret about it so, my lord. I assure you, I know my own worth. And be honest, might you not have made the same offer not so long ago? I do not think it fair to ask you to play knight in shining armour in the circumstances.”