Page 1 of A Deal with the Devil

Chapter One

One month earlier…

Kitty Caldecott was not the kind of woman to be invited to a Devil’s Night.

She did not own a single silk ball gown, was not being courted by a fine gentleman in a fine hat, and she did not know how to dance a quadrille.

Also, her father was a very poor gambler.

Very, very poor.

Unfortunately, he did not accept this simple fact of nature and insisted that his long overdue Great Win was on the next hand. Or the one after that. Surely the next.

Perhaps understandably, Kitty was not particularly fond of gambling. On a hand of cards or the roll of a die, or whether or not Lord Whatshisname would topple his carriage at the next race through Hyde Park. (He would. They always did. It was a sucker’s bet. One her father would surely jump on.)

But Kitty did know books.

Especially wicked, salacious ones. Joyful ones.

And the Marquis of Eastbourne had been chosen to host this specific Devil’s Night, which was ruled over by Lord Birmingham, also known as Devil. He held the bank and the reins, but he chose an assortment of earls and dukes and marquis to host the event.

Marquises? Marquesses?

Kitty also did not know the correct grammatical forms of address.

Kitty’s own father was only a very minor baron, and so she had never really had to learn the more arcane rules of Mayfair Polite Society. To her aunt’s very loud and pointed chagrin.

To be fair, almost everything was to her aunt’s very loud and pointed chagrin.

She had never been invited either. Which was no great surprise.

But Kitty had. For the one night, dusk until dawn, to provide the best naughty novels and chapbooks to the guests, most especially the new Nightingale chapbook not yet available in shops. A most unique party favor that would also allow her to put aside some money to save her sister.

For that reason, Kitty had many complimentary thoughts about the marquis.

That was before the marquis was hauled away by several of Devil’s rather brutal-looking men. Peers fought for the privilege of hosting such a night. Even men who abducted women, apparently.

That was before a lot of things.

The evening was as decadent and debauched as expected. Guests were instructed to wear red, and the sheer volume of rubies flashing and garnets dangling off earlobes and blood-colored silks and velvets was staggering. Kitty wore her best dress, which was yellow and nowhere near stylish enough for a regular ball, never mind a Devil’s Night. But she was not a guest, rather part of the entertainment. Staff. Thankfully.

Strawberries floated in champagne; cherries oozed from tiny butter-crust pies. A sculpture of a naked demoness reclined over several gold platters, made of soft cheese dotted with pomegranate seeds. There were dozens of gaming tables, half as many billiards tables felted red instead of green, and a betting book to rival any club in London. Courtesans floated between the players offering encouragement from behind crimson, feathered masquerade masks.

Devil stood apart and aloof, watching from the balcony above like a hawk in a gilded nest. He wore black, not red, and though he did not circulate, did not even bother to greet the many patrons below, they all knew exactly who he was and where he stood for the entire evening. Heads turned in his direction between bad hands of cards and between good.

All of the guests orbited him, sending glimpses into shadows to find him: coy, angry, lustful, jealous, desperate.

He seemed bored but also violently aware of everything going on around him. His eyes had found her once: dark, direct, tracking her every movement as she unpacked a box of books currently banned in London. Also, poetry that was not fit to be read aloud in polite company. Her favorite kind. She had felt his gaze on her even with her back turned to the staircase, and when she turned to look up, something shivered inside her.

Something untoward. Alarming.

Something delicious.

She knew the stories, of course—that a wager made on Devil’s Night was subject to the Devil himself. He ensured every player made good on his or her debt, no matter the uniqueness of it or the consequences it might involve. She had heard of a duke who tried to renege and ended up losing his foot in the process. Kitty did not often put much stock in gossip. After all, gossip had her leading women in dark rites in the basement of her shop, where she may or may not also eat the hearts of men raw. There was something about orgies too.

As if there was space for that kind of thing in the basement of a London bookshop.

But in Devil’s case, the tales were too easy to believe.