The events of the afternoon, orchestrated by Devil and the Dowager, aided and abetted by Devil’s demon horse, had conveyed a clear message—that she was to be Devil’s bride.
The evening passed swiftly; dinner, attended by everyone, was a somber meal. No one was inclined to entertainment;
most retired early. A brooding, melancholy silence de- scended over the house, as if it mourned, too.
In her chamber, cocooned in down, Honoria thumped her pillow and ordered herself to fall asleep. Five minutes of restless rustling later, she turned onto her back, and glared at the canopy.
It was all Devil’s fault, his and his mother’s. She’d tried to avoid acting as his duchess-to-be, unfortunately unsuc- cessfully. Worse, as Devil had stated, on a superficial level, she was perfect for the position, a fact apparently obvious to any who considered the matter. She was starting to feel like she was fighting fate.
Honoria shuffled onto her side. She, Honoria PrudenceAn- struther-Wetherby, was not going to be pressured into any- thing. It was patently obvious both Devil and the Dowager would do everything possible to tempt her, to convince her to accept his proposal—the proposal he hadn’t made. That last was not a fact she was likely to forget—he’d simply taken it for granted that she would marry him.
She’d known from the first he was impossible, even when she’d thought him a mere country squire; as a duke, he was doubly—triply—so. Aside from anything else—his chest, for example—he was a first-class tyrant. Sane women did not marry tyrants.
She clung to that eminently sound declaration, drawing strength from its unarguable logic. Keeping Devil’s image in mind helped enormously—one glance at his face, at the rest of him, was all it took to reinforce her conclusion.
Unfortunately, that image, while helpful on the one hand, brought the source of her deeper unease into stronger focus.
No matter how she tried, she couldn’t escape the conclusion that for all his vaunted strength of character, for all his ap- parent family feeling, even despite his Cousin Clara’s belief, Devil was turning his back on his dead cousin. Sweeping his death under the proverbial rug, presumably so it wouldn’t
interfere with his hedonistic pursuit of pleasure.
She didn’t want to believe it, but she’d heard him herself.
He’d stated that Tolly had been killed by a highwayman or a poacher. Everyone believed him, the magistrate included.
He was the head of the family, one stepremoved from a despot; to them and theton, what Devil Cynster, duke of St.
Ives, stated, was.
The only one inclined to question him was herself. Tolly hadn’t been shot by a highwayman, nor a poacher.
Why would a highwayman kill an unarmed young man?
Highwaymen ordered their victims to stand and deliver;
Tolly had carried a heavy purse—she’d felt it in his pocket.
Had Tolly been armed and, with the impetuosity of youth, attempted to defend himself? She’d seen no gun; it seemed unlikely he could have flung it far from him while falling from the saddle. A highwayman did not seem at all likely.
As for a poacher, her devilish host had narrowed the field there. Not a shotgun, he had said, but a pistol. Poachers did not use pistols.
Tolly had been murdered.
She wasn’t sure when she had reached that conclusion; it was now as inescapable as the dawn.
Honoria sat up and thumped her pillow, then fell back and stared into the night. Why was she so incensed by it—why did she feel so involved? She felt as if a responsibility had been laid upon her—upon her soul—to see justice done.
But that wasn’t the cause of her sleeplessness.
She’d heard Tolly’s voice in the cottage, heard the relief he’d felt when he’d realized he’d reached Devil. He’d thought he’d reached safety—someone who would protect him. In the cottage, she would have sworn Devil cared—
cared deeply. But his behavior in ignoring the evidence of Tolly’s murder said otherwise.
If he truly cared, wouldn’t he be searching for the mur- derer, doing all he could to catch him? Or was his ‘‘caring’’
merely an attitude, only skin-deep? Beneath that facade of strength, was he truly weak and shallow?
She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it.
Honoria closed her eyes. And tried to sleep.
70
Chapter 6
nm
I
t was an illusion—all an illusion—a typically arrogant sleight of hand. The scales fell from Honoria’s eyes late the next morning, right in the middle of Tolly’s funeral.The crowd attending was considerable. A short service had been held in the church in the grounds, a stone building ringed by ancient trees shading monuments to Cynsters long gone.
Then the pallbearers—Devil and his cousins—had carried the coffin to the grave, set in a small clearing beyond the first circle of trees. Contrary to her intention to merge with the crowd, Honoria had been partnered first by Vane, who had given her his arm, thus including her in the family pro- cession to the church, then later claimed by Amanda and Amelia, who had steered her to the grave, admitting they were acting on Devil’s orders. A funeral was no place to make a stand. Resigned, Honoria had capitulated, accepting a position behind the twins at the graveside.
It was then the truth struck her.
The males of the family lined the other side of the grave.
Directly opposite stood Tolly’s brothers, Charles, with Simon beside him. Devil stood next to Simon; as Honoria watched, he placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder. The boy looked up;
Honoria witnessed their shared glance, that silent commu- nication at which Devil excelled.
Vane stood next to Devil; behind and around them stood a solid phalanx of male Cynsters. There was no doubt of their connection—their faces, seen all together, held the same
unyielding planes, their features the same autocratic cast.
They numbered six, not counting Simon and Charles, both set apart, one by age, the other by character. Between the six, hair color varied, from Devil’s black to light chestnut;
eye color, too, differed. Nothing else did.
There was enormous strength in the groupfacing her—
powerful, masculine, it emanated from them. Devil was their leader yet they were a groupof individuals, each contributing to the whole. Elsewhere about the grave, grief was amor- phous. The grief of Tolly’s male cousins held purpose, meld- ing into a cohesive force, directed, focused.
Focused on Tolly’s grave.
Honoria narrowed her eyes. People were still shifting, finding places in the crowd; both Amelia and Amanda were tense. Honoria leaned forward and whispered: ‘‘Tell me the names of your older male cousins.’’
The twins glanced at her, then across the grave. Amelia spoke first. ‘‘Vane’s next to Devil, but you know him.’’
‘‘That can’t be his real name.’’
‘‘His real name’s Spencer,’’ Amanda whispered. ‘‘But don’tevercall him that.’’
‘‘The one behind Devil is Richard—he’s called Scandal.
He’s Devil’s brother.’’
‘‘And the one behind Vane is his younger brother, Harry.
They call him Demon.’’
‘‘Demon Harry?’’
‘‘That’s right.’’ Amanda nodded. ‘‘The one next to Vane is Gabriel.’’
‘‘His real name’s Rupert—he’s Uncle Martin’s eldest son.’’
‘‘And I suppose the one behind Gabriel is Lucifer?’’ Hon- oria asked. ‘‘His brother?’’
‘‘That’s right—he’s really Alasdair.’’
Straightening, Honoria spent one minute wondering how they’d come by their pseudonyms—one question she was not about to ask the twins. She looked across the grave at those six male faces, and saw them clearly. No force on earth would stopthem bringing Tolly’s murderer to justice.
Being Cynsters, they could be counted on to avenge Tolly’s death. Also being Cynsters, they would ensure their