Page 41 of A Deal with the Devil

Devil scrubbed a hand over his jaw. His brother could talk in circles like no one he had ever known. And he was a man grown at twenty and four, but also an idiot. Apparently. “We talked about this.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well, that’s rude.” Tom flinched when someone started hammering just behind him. “Bloody damn hell.”

“Serves you right,” Devil said dispassionately. His brother looked the worse for wear but not in any immediate danger. “Learn to hold your drink.”

“I hold it fine,” Tom muttered. “Why are you here?”

“It’s my club. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to make sure the mirrors were hung up properly,” he said, squinting. “But they are too bright. My teeth hurt.”

Devil sighed. “Go up to Sloth and lie down. The upholstered settees came in yesterday. And don’t throw up on anything,” he added. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

“Yes, yes,” Tom mumbled.

Devil walked through the many rooms that comprised the Sins, noting what had been done and what still needed doing. The main attraction was Greed: the largest gaming hell in London, and inside a pleasure hall to boot. It took up the entire ballroom and the rest of the rooms on that level. He’d had billiards table hand carved and felted with ruby red. The roulette wheels gleamed invitingly. The card tables were arranged so it would be easy for servants to circulate with drinks and food on platters, encouraging players to stay longer, wager more. Lose more. The dice were stacked and the cards were marked.

But not all of them.

Temptation only kept a person’s attention so long as expectations were occasionally met, just enough to whet the appetite, never enough to satisfy it completely. That was the promise of the Sins: more, more, and more.

He was beginning to know the process more intimately than he cared to. Cards did not tempt him, nor dice. He did not care for gambling or pugilism. Women were lovely, of course, but did not turn his head for long.

Until Kitty Caldecott.

She was a dangerous one. Even before he realized she was a madwoman nearly pitching off the rooftop and then running through town in her bare feet. He honestly did not know whether to laugh or curse. A novelty for him.

He knew what he ought to do. Crush her. Without mercy.

Instead, he had been abruptly obsessed with getting shoes on her feet and a shawl that was made of more than red tatters around her. To warm her up. Before he stripped her down.

Sudden and unexpected desire was not so strange a thing. It would not distract him. He would not let it. She should know that nothing distracted him.

He remembered her from the Eastbourne estate, diligently working below the balcony where he oversaw Devil’s Night. He remembered the flash of her gray eyes, the clumsy tumble that had sent her crashing into him.

Not accidental, that tumble. As it happened.

It should not make him want to smile. Nothing made him want to smile.

He jerked his hand through his hair as the workmen paused to nod to him, the air thick with furniture polish and sawdust. He forwent Gluttony, the lavish banquet hall that only needed more tables with the carved lion’s heads, and Envy, the ballroom reserved for dancing, for those who wanted to be seen while pretending not to want it. Who wanted the jealousy and the attention of the other guests.

But in the end, the Sins would be the only thing holding their attention.

The pleasure hall held a purpose beyond pleasure, and Devil would not see it eclipsed. Not for duke or marquis. Not for the king himself.

Not even for a tart-tongued bookseller with golden freckles.

Wrath was in the lowest level, a boxing ring with sawdust to soak up the blood and tiered benches all around. It smelled like damp stone and sweat and wine. Just as it should.

Brutus stood in the ring, his hair shorn close to his head, leaning on his walking stick. He was easily twice the size of the fighters he was training and could still beat them into the ground, even with the knee that had never healed quite right on the Continent. He glanced over at Devil and murmured directions to his men before ducking under the ropes. They rushed to obey even though he had spoken as softly as a nursemaid to a babe. A man of his size did not need to raise his voice.

“You’re up and about early,” he said. “Is it that girl?”

“What girl?”