Page 111 of A Deal with the Devil

Tom glanced at the menu prepared by Mrs. Winter. “That looks perfect, Mrs. W,” he said. “Perhaps we could substitute the pigeon with pheasant. My brother will want it known that he spares no expense for his bride-to-be.”

Kitty goggled at him. “Do you know how many Minerva Press novels I could buy for one pheasant? And they are six shillings apiece!”

Mrs. Winter patted her arm. “It’s robbery, plain and simple, but you’ll never convince them.”

“Certainly not. We’ll use the Coalport dishes, the cobalt-blue ones. And the crystal goblets, naturally. Gilded.”

Kitty groaned. Tom flicked her a glance. “Take a deep breath.” While she did that, he made half a dozen more decisions with the flare and insouciance of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. “And tell Shelby I’ve a list of whom he is to turn away at the door. It’s the only reason they were invited.” Power plays within power plays.

“Of course,” Mrs. Winter replied.

Kitty’s hands had stopped sweating. “You’re very good at that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve had more practice. But yes, actually, I am very good.”

“But you’re not supposed to be?”

“I’m supposed to care about horses and shooting pistols and drinking port. Or fashion, if I were a dandy.” He tossed his hat onto a chair. “To be clear, I am very good at all of those things, too. But I am also good at this. And the pianoforte for some reason.”

“Which is why you run Pride at the Sins.”

“Yes. I’m a second son, and it beats the hell out of the army or the church. Not that Devil would let me get within a hundred miles of the army.”

“I imagine not.”

“Even though I am a better shot than him.”

“I will remember that. Thank you, by the way.”

“You don’t have to worry about that sort of thing, you know. Devil doesn’t. And Mrs. Winter and I have been making those decisions for ages. It’s not a bother.”

“I don’t want to embarrass him,” she admitted. Even if their betrothal would come to an end soon enough and it would not matter who chose between pigeons and pheasants.

Tom grinned, lounging back in the settee and propping his boots on the carved mahogany table in front of him. Kitty squeaked. The furniture in this small family parlor alone could easily grace the palace.

“I am the embarrassment in this family, thank you very much,” he said. “You’ll have to get your own title.”

On Thursday evening, Devil stood in the drawing room, impeccably dressed as always. Sophisticated, elegant, but not fussy. As if he knew the names of a hundred different wines, at least half of which he had personally smuggled from France, and also had a dagger in his boot and a pistol inside his coat. A woman waiting in each bedchamber upstairs and one in the unmarked carriage down the lane.

That last woman was Kitty, wearing her simplest, grayest dress and a cap pinned over her hair.

Not remotely right for a celebration dinner at Rochester House, of the marble columns and gold candlesticks. But exceedingly perfect for prowling around Lord Portsmouth’s house while pretending to be a housemaid. Just as soon as Devil was finished charming the guests, pouring large quantities of wine, and remarking that ladies had a right to make an entrance and it was their honor to wait.

Devil’s hint that invitations to the opening of the Sins might well be handed out as party favors at the end of the evening would be enough to entice Portsmouth to stay, for a little while at least. It was precisely the sort of thing he could not resist: preferential treatment, something to brag about that he would consider his due. Devil had welcomed him personally before sneaking out one of the many hidden doors.

Also, as Portsmouth was still advertising to all and sundry that he was marrying Kitty’s sister, it would have been odd indeed had he not attended.

It was probably best that Kitty was waiting in the carriage, as the temptation to poison Portsmouth’s soup would have proven too much to resist. But she could not very well welcome guests in a dress better suited to a housemaid.

That was reserved for breaking into Portsmouth’s house. Which was minutes away once Devil slipped into the carriage.

Only a few minutes more and they were standing outside another grand Mayfair house. The household staff inside would be taking advantage of a long-awaited rest. The housekeeper would know Kitty was not under her domain, but Kitty did not expect her to be upstairs. The only one who might cause trouble was the valet, but Devil had explained that Portsmouth often traveled with his valet in order to keep the earl’s coat looking just right.

The peerage really were an absurd lot.

“Stop grumbling about the peerage,” Devil said mildly. “And let’s get this done before I change my mind.”

“Too late.” Kitty tossed him a cheeky grin over her shoulder and darted through the servants’ entrance before he could stop her. She would not put it past him to simply haul her over his shoulder.