Devil rolled, rolling her under him; on his elbows, he brushed her hair from her face. "She certainly fascinated my father." Honoria felt his eyes on her face, then his head dipped. His lips brushed hers. "Just as my duchess fascinates me."

They were the last logical words said that night.

She needed to have a long, serious talk with her husband. Clad in a translucent ivory peignoir trimmed with feathers, Honoria paced the ducal bedchamber and waited for him to appear.

They'd met at breakfast and again at dinner, but she could hardly interrogate him in front of the servants. He was presently at White's, meeting with Viscount Bromley. That much she knew, that much he'd told her. What he hadn't told her was what he thought, who he suspected.

As Richard was illegitimate, he couldn't inherit, not with so many legitimate males in the family. After learning how Scandal had come by his name, she hadn't needed to ask who Devil's heir was. In the weeks before their marriage, she'd questioned Horatia about Devil's father-in passing, Horatia had mentioned that George, her husband, Vane's father, was a bare year younger than Devil's father. Which meant that, with Richard ineligible, George was Devil's heir, with Vane next in line.

Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine George as the villain of the piece. Devil treated him as a surrogate father, an affection George openly returned. And Vane's devotion to Devil was beyond question. So the killer wasn't Devil's heir, but as soon as she'd drawn Vane's attention to the point, he'd seen a blinding light.

With a frustrated growl, Honoria kicked her feathered hem aside. "So what is it about the heir that makes all obvious?"

Devil knew; Vane was sure he'd followed the same reasoning and come up with an answer. Presumably, as it wasn't the heir, some process of elimination illuminated the true killer. Who was…

Honoria glared at the clock. And tried not to think of the other reason she was pacing, eager to set eyes on her husband again. Someone was trying to kill him. This house was a safe haven; he was safe here. But outside…?

She wanted him here, safe in her arms.

Honoria shivered; she wrapped her arms about her and, frowning, looked at the clock again. Lips setting, she made for the door. Opening it, she listened; as the clock on the mantel had correctly foretold, the clock on the stairs whirred, then chimed. Twelve deep booms resonated through the house. Midnight-and Devil was still not back.

She was closing the door when the front knocker sounded-a curt, peremptory summons. Honoria paused, her frown deepening. Who would come calling at midnight? Devil had a latchkey, so…

The blood drained from her face. Her heart stuttered, then started to race. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she'd moved. Then she picked up her skirts and flew.

She raced through the gallery to the top of the stairs. Breathless, she clutched the wide banister and looked down. Webster swung the door wide, revealing a shadowy figure. The figure stepped forward; the light from the hall lamps burnished Vane's chestnut locks.

He handed his cane to Webster. "Where's Devil?"

Accepting the cane, Webster shut the door. "His Grace has not yet returned, sir."

"He hasn't?"

Even from the top of the stairs, Honoria heard Vane's surprise.

"I believe he went to White's, sir."

"Yes, I know." Vane sounded vague. "I left before him-I had to call at a friend's, but he intended leaving on my heels. I would have thought he'd be here by now."

Her heart thumping, Honoria watched the men stare at each other-the black specter she'd held at bay all day suddenly swirled closer. She leaned over the banister. "Vane?"

He looked up, then blinked. Surprise leached from his face, leaving it curiously blank. Webster glanced up, too, but immediately lowered his gaze.

Vane cleared his throat, and tried not to focus. "Yes, Honoria?"

"Go and look for him. Please?" The last word was heavy with latent fear.

Vane tried an unfocused frown. "He probably fell in with some friends and was delayed."

Honoria shook her head violently; inside, a familiar panic was rising. "No-something's happened. I know it." Her fingers tightened on the banister; her knuckles showed white. "Please-go now!"

Vane was reaching for his cane before her last words had died-the emotion investing her "please" was compelling. Infected by her concern, her fear overriding the logical excuses his mind freely concocted, he turned to the door.

Webster, reacting with similar speed, opened it. Swiftly, Vane descended the steps. His stride lengthening, he mentally retraced Devil's habitual route home from his favorite club. Ten yards from the steps, Vane remembered the alleyway between Berkeley Square and Hays Mews. Cursing, he broke into a run.

Back inside St. Ives House, Honoria clutched the banister and fought down her panic.

Closing the door, Webster briefly glanced her way. "By your leave, ma'am, I'll notify Sligo."

Honoria nodded. "Please do." She remembered she'd ordered Devil watched-with relief, she grasped that branch and hung on. Sligo, protective, watchful Sligo, would have made sure his "Cap'n" was well guarded.

Beneath her, the baize door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Sligo rushed into the hall, flung open the front door and raced down the steps. As he disappeared, Honoria felt the slim branch she'd clutched ripped from her grasp-and found herself facing the black pit of her fears again.


*****

"Hah!" Devil didn't waste breath putting much force into the shout-the alleyway was long and narrow; there were no windows in the tall brick walls. Swinging the thin blade of his swordstick in a wide arc, he grabbed the moment as his three attackers flinched back to reach down and tug the body slumped on the alley's cobbles within his guard.

Leaving room for his feet, he straightened immediately, sword flicking back and forth, steel tip scenting blood. In his other hand, he held the empty scabbard, the rigid rod a foil against another weapon. With a feral grin, he gestured with the scabbard. "Well, gentlemen? Who'll be first?"

His challenging glance swept the faces of the men sent to kill him. They'd waited until he was in the alley, striding along, thinking of other things. Two had followed him in, the third had closed from the other end. All three were brawny, hulking brutes-sailors from their ill-fitting garments. All three carried swords-not slim blades like the one keeping them at bay but long, straight, single-sided weapons.

His gaze steady, his expression taunting, Devil mentally searched for escape. And found none. Chance-in the form of two large barrels left in the usually empty alley, and a man who'd chased the sailors into the dimly lit passage-had kept him alive this far. With a yell, the man had thrown himself at the pair, alerting him to their presence. The man's intervention had been more heroic than wise; after momentarily grappling with him, one sailor had raised his arm and, with his sword grip, struck him down.

But by then he'd had his back against the wall, unsheathed sword and scabbard in his hands, the barrels immediately to his left restricting the front he had to defend. "Come along," he taunted, waving them forward. "No need to feel reticent about dying."

Their eyes shifted one to the other, each waiting to see who'd be first. It was his only hope-to keep them hanging back in indecision. From the corners of his eyes, he kept watch on the ends of the alley, lit by the flares in the street and square beyond. If anyone passed, their shadows would be thrown in-he'd have to hold his attackers back until that happened, and he could call for help. Unfortunately, it was past midnight in an area of fashionable residences with the Season yet to start. There were few people abroad.

Feet shifted on the cobbles; the largest of the sailors, the one directly in front, tried a slashing thrust. Devil blocked, catching the blade on his scabbard, sword hissing forward to slice the man's forearm. With a curse, the man jumped back, scowling, piggy eyes considering.

Devil prayed he wouldn't consider too hard-one on one, he could win, or hold them off forever. They were all heavier, but he was taller and had a longer, more flexible reach. If they rushed him all at once, they'd have him. Indeed, he couldn't understand why they hadn't already overwhelmed him; despite his black coat, his snowy cravat and white cuffs marked him clearly. Then he saw all three exchange another wary glance; inspiration dawned. He smiled, devilishly. "Hell's not such a bad place-take my word for it. Fiendishly hot, of course, and the pain never ends, but I can guarantee you'll all be found a place."

The three exchanged another glance, then the leader tried a less-than-successful sneer. "You may look like Satan, but you ain't him. You're just a man-your blood'll run free enough. 'Tisn't us slated to die tonight." He glanced at the others. "C'arn-let's get this done."

So saying, he raised his sword.

His warning, of course, was not wise. Devil met them, front and right; the man on his left, impeded by the barrels, predictably hung back. Sparks flew as one sword met the sweetly tempered steel of the swordstick and slid away; blocking the leader's stroke with his scabbard, Devil followed up with a swift thrust that pierced flesh.

He disengaged, simultaneously blocking the leader's second blow; the sword, wielded with force, sheered along the polished wood and struck his hand, clenched around it. The cut was not serious, he'd been pulling back at the time, but the scabbard quickly turned sticky beneath his fingers. Suppressing all reaction to the wound, Devil sent his thin blade reaching for the leader. The man jumped back as the fine point pricked his chest.