Page 54 of A Deal with the Devil

Such as MacLeod, that gossip. Or Granny Brutus, who kept sending him bits of the most awful poetry in case “his girl liked poetry.”

His girl, as she put it, preferred scandalous novels that would make the most hardened rake choke on his own ill repute.

Devil tried to put her from his mind, or at the very least not appear as though he were contemplating things like poetry and the hot, silky feel of her around his fingers. In this place, he needed to be Devil: aloof, terrifying, ruthless.

Simple enough.

Especially if he let his mind wander to the fact that someone had broken into her shop. That people regularly tossed rotten vegetables in her direction. Made unseemly remarks. Insulted her.

Never again.

“Devil?” The man’s voice shook as his throat bobbed. “Never mind, you’re busy.”

Devil looked up at the sweating viscount and set his glass of port down. “Speak.”

“About that wager…”

Devil did not blink, did not say a word.

“I just need a little more time.” The viscount gulped as MacLeod made his way through the members playing cards, smoking cheroots. He shouted for more wine as he sat next to Devil. The candlelight shone off the scar that sliced halfway across his throat. He gulped again. “I’ll have it for you tomorrow. One thousand pounds. Tomorrow.”

“Good choice,” MacLeod said mildly.

“What are you doing here?” Devil asked him as a footman brought another glass of port. MacLeod shook his head and asked for coffee instead.

“What are you doing here without anyone to watch your back?”

“No one has tried to kill me in weeks.” It was an occupational hazard when collecting debt vowels was your occupation. Devil wouldn’t miss it. But he did not regret a single bit of it either. It had served its purpose.

“That you know of.” Macleod snorted. “Because I’m that good.”

“How do you get through doorways with that fat head of yours?”

“I manage.”

The hum of the crowd intensified around them as the night progressed, members falling more heavily into their cups. It made them at once bolder and more desperate when they inevitably approached Devil to beg for an invitation to the opening of the Sins, or for mercy.

Devil was not handing out either that night. He was only offering the threat of his presence.

When Portsmouth arrived, Devil’s eyes narrowed.

Macleod whistled softly. “I haven’t seen that look on your face since the war ended.”

Portsmouth greeted the other members, motioning imperiously to a footman for a drink. He snarled with scorn when it was not delivered quickly enough.

“Portsmouth, I thought you were supposed to be celebrating your impending nuptials,” someone shouted from a nearby table. “What happened, old man? Not up to it?”

His companions laughed. Portsmouth stiffened. “I’m not a butcher’s son after the nearest barmaid. I can afford to wait for the right lady,” he said.

“I’ve got a wager in the books that says you can’t.”

The tension in the air was palpable, sharp, but still not sharp enough to cut through the haze of drunkenness at three o’clock in the morning. Half the men made commiserating, sympathetic murmurs; the others mocked louder. The club betting book was passed around.

“The chit is the daughter of a minor baron. Couldn’t find another duke’s daughter, eh?”

“The chit is beautiful, at least.”

“Her sister is a disgrace. Runs that bookshop. That the family you’re keen on marrying into, old man?”

“My wife loves that shop—shut your gob.”

On and on it went, with Portsmouth ordering another drink and then another, silently seething.

“Is he going to be a problem?” Macleod asked.

“Not for long,” Devil replied.