To Tempt the Devil Pt. 01

“I see,” Sylvester said, concealing his amusement behind a cough. Faith eyed him suspiciously, and he hastily asked, “How did he do it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He poisoned her,” she said flatly.

“Ah,” he said. “I suppose it would be safe to say you really don’t want to marry him?”

“I really don’t want to marry anyone,” Faith corrected, and he rolled his eyes. This was an age old argument and he had no wish to start it again.

“Faith -” he began.

She cut him off. “But more specifically, I most definitely don’t want to marry him,” she continued. For a moment, she looked distant. “If I didn’t know suicide was a sin I’d even attempt that, to get out of this.” Her brother looked at her with alarm, and she hastily reassured him. “Don’t worry Sylvester. I have every intention of living, if only to make his life a lving hell. I just wished I didn’t have to feel compelled to.”

“But you won’t break your word.”

“No. Its going to be a monstrosity of a marriage, but I can’t break off the engagement.”

Simultaneously, brother and sister looked at eachother. “Wait - ” Sylvester began.

“Oh,” Faith said curiously. “But -”

“He can,” Sylvester finished. “Hmm.”

With a growing smile, Faith looked at him. “What are you planning, brother dear?”

He returned her look. “What are you?”

“Me?” her eyes widened innocently. “Plan? I do not plan. I am a mere female, after all. I shall leave it in your capable hands, Sylvester.” She swept up her skirts and stood. “I wish you good night, brother dear.” Still smiling, she retired to her rooms.

It was simple, really. She suspected that the only thing that would make Silverstone break the engagement was if either he or she were to die, or if she was deemed so unmarriageable that he was forced to break the engagement. She had heard, over the course of her life, people often talking about young women who had rendered themselves so, purely by the act of being seen unaccompanied with a man. Ridiculously easy to do. She would get out of the engagement, without breaking her word to her father, and in the meantime, she would rid herself of all future husbands as well.

She would ruin herself.

Faith had never considered the life of a spinster to be at all disagreeable. In fact, if her parent’s marriage had been anything to go by, spinsterhood was far preferable to the state of matrimony. Living as she was, governed by no one but her brother, was hardly unpleasant. Sylvester was a reasonable man - he did not curtail or restrict her freedom beyond that which he felt would not benefit her health. She had seen what marriage did to people from firsthand experience - her parents had been prime examples. There was, as far as she was concerned, nothing whatsoever to recommend the state of matrimony.

It seemed to her that all marriage would do would be to restrict her freedom, take away her rights, and place her under the direct power of another man, a man who would no doubt not be as reasonable as her brother was. Furthermore, she would be expected to sit at home and produce heirs, remaining in a more or less constant state of pregnancy, before her husband could be satisfied and go off to seek his pleasure elsewhere. Even that was disagreeable - no matter how heinous her husband was, she was not of a mind to let him keep a mistress either - it simply went against her pride too much. In all counts, marriage held no advantages for her, only disadvantages. Faith was rather disposed towards taking the option where she would have the advantages. There was no reason whatsoever for her to get married.

She did not need a protector, or money, or anyone to guide her, an argument that Society mamas were often disposed towards making in favour of matrimony. Besides the not inconsiderable inheritences that her parents had left her, she was, in her own right, a wealthy woman. And in the unlikelihood that something ever happened to that substantial fortune, she still had her dowry, which was really enough to support her and several other families besides. Not to mention that Sylvester would hardly let her starve.

No, there was no reason for her to get married at all, and an infinite number of reasons why she shouldn’t.

If she were ruined, Silverstone would have to break off the engagement, and Faith would not be breaking her word to her father. It had to be something of great enough import of course for him to do it, because the understanding, and the betrothal, was of long standing, had been in existance, in fact, since she were born. Her father and the old Marquess had been old friends, which was why her father had so desired the match. Assumably, the case was the same on Silverstone’s side, or she was certain that he would have backed out of it before now. Nothing but the most dire of consequences would prompt him to break the betrothal, if his father had been anything like hers. Ruination, in fact, was the perfect solution.

Faith frowned at her reflection in the mirror as she reached up and unpinned the dark brown tresses from their coils. She had sent her maid, Harriet, to bed early.

She would not be able to tell her brother of her plan, which was the one thing that disturbed her about it. He would no doubt forbid her to go through with it - Sylvester had never understood her desire to reman unwed. She disliked having to lie to him. Nonetheless, this was her future.

Only she could decide how it would go.

She had a plan, now. All that remained to be seen was how she would go about executing it. Faith smiled slightly as she donned her nightrail and climbed into bed. She wondered what Sylvester was planning.

Chapter Two: In Which Questions are Raised as to Faith’s Respectability

Vardon St James, Marquess of Silverstone, wondered what on earth a seemingly innocent young lady, a debutante if her simple white gown was to be believed, was doing in a gaming hell at 3 am in the morning. It surely did not tie in with the rest of the debutantes behaviour. Perhaps the girl had gone insane from all the curtseying and bowing, or perhaps it was simply the warm lemonade and stale cakes from Almacks that had driven her mad. In any case, she was here, and she did not look too deranged.

She was a comely chit, he thought, idly twirling the stem of his brandy balloon in his hand from where he lounged in a comfortable chair amidst the shadows. Voloptuous and sensual looking. Her hair, a brilliantly gleaming dark rich brown, was piled elegantly atop her head, the pure simple whiteness of her gown contrasting against the unusual golden apricot hue of her skin. Her eyes were a brilliant, glittering green, her lips delicate and lusciously red.

He watched with faint interest as she looked around, evidently seeing no familiar faces, and drifted towards a whist table. She looked completely out of place, in among the opulent red velvet walls and gleaming mahogany tables of Vadistes, the air sultry with smoke, the rich aromas of liqueur and the faint scents of perfume wafting from the skin of one of the various demi reps who frequented the hell.

The gentlemen at that table looked up, evidently seeing some worthy prey, and spoke to her. They exchanged a few words - one man stood, valiantly relinquishing his position at the table as she sat. Vardon raised his eyebrows. A mad debutante who was also a gambler? What were they teaching chits in school these days? She could hardly be out of the schoolroom, herself, he noted. Eighteen, if she was a day old. An innocent, unless his eyes deceived him. Those in the demimonde were there by choice - not by birth. Eighteen was surely too young to have made that choice. What the devil was she doing at Vadistes?

Her arrival had attracted attention other than his. He observed as several slavering wolves sauntered over to stand behind her, taking every advantage of being in their own domain, over she who was obviously not. To his interest, she did not seem the least perturbed over the attention that she was receiving. He watched as she flung out a handful of chips, deftly played for one hand, then raked in a much larger pile than the one she had just betted. Three hands later, she stood, much to the consternation of the gentlemen from whom she had just won a small fortune, and much to the delight of the young blades around her. One of them spoke to her, she nodded and smiled and let herself be led away. Vardon tensed, realising that the man was Jordan, his young cousin, then cocked his head and settled back with a curious little smile to watch some more.

* * *

“La, sir,” Faith said pertly, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman who had spoken. “Such impertinence! These questions that you ask! I vow I shall tell your mother on you.” This was uttered in a most capricious tone, one which made several of her companions regard her with amusement.

“Are you acquainted with my mother, my lady?” Andrew, Lord Basset, looked alarmed.

Faith grinned at Lord Basset, who had blanched slightly. “Lady Annabelle Basset, is she not? My mother and yours are great friends.”

“And who is your mother, my lady?” Lord Benedict asked, smoothly interjecting his own question, obviously hoping to catch her off guard.

“That I shall not tell you,” she replied and with a flick of her wrist opened her fan. Several of the gentlemen cried out in mock protest. “Unfair, lady!” One of them said teasingly. “To withhold your name while luring us with your beauty - ‘tis a cruel trick, mademoiselle.”

“But I have not withheld my name,” Faith said innocently. “You know it, do you not? ‘Tis Faith!”

“And a lovely name it is, too, Lady Faith,” said one man mournfully. “But it helps us naught in knowing your identity!”

She tilted her fan flirtatiously, and raised her eyebrows at him. “Ah, you have stirred my compassion sir. I shall make a deal with you.”

Lord Jordan leaned in closer, looking intrigued. “A deal, my lady? Of what manner?” His eyes gleamed beneath the dim lights of room, and Faith could not resist a sly smile.

“A deal sir. Or a wager, if you would prefer. Here are my terms: we will engage in a game of whist, sir, you and I, and if you win, I shall give you my name. My full name,” she injected quickly, before he could voice any objections.

“And if you win, Lady Faith?”

“Then I shall have a boon from you, sir, whenever I wish it.”

“Done,” Jordan said exultantly, certain of his own victory.

She smiled. Victory was, indeed at hand.

* * *

What on earth were they doing now? More to the point, what was she up to? One moment the group had been merely standing about talking companionably - a scene familiar and certainly no different to any from the ton’s ballrooms, if one could not hear the conversation - the next moment she and Jordan had adjoined to one of the vacant card tables, a good deal of the politely slavering wolves following her. Did she know what a dangerous game she was playing? Vardon wondered idly. Surely she could not be so naive...unless she was not naive at all. Could her innocence be an act? He had seen and met more accomplished coquettes than she. Experience could be disguised, hidden beneath an innocent veneer...the more he thought of it, the likelier it seemed. Why else would a seemingly innocent young lady enter the doors of Vadistes, if not to seek and conquer some unwitting pigeon? Certainly no respectable lady in her right mind would enter the hell’s doors, let alone sit down at its tables and gamble like some hoydenish fallen woman. That was all she was, what she had to be - an extremely expensive kept woman. There was no other explanation for it.

Vardon watched with some admiration as she deftly shuffled the cards, and dealt them out. The game was between her and Jordan only, he noted. She picked up her cards and shuffled them them lightly, rearranging them in a preferred order. Jordan did the same, and the game began in earnest.

For a time, Vardon found himself bored. It was merely a card game, certainly nothing unusual. The chit had a habit of flirting with her fan, moving it in a most mesmerising manner. One tended to follow its movements, from where it half concealed that intriguing face, to the small dainty hand and delicate fingers that grasped it, to the sensual swaying of her slender wrist. It was almost a dance, he thought idly...what the devil was that? He sat bolt upright. No, his eyes had not deceived him. Behind the hypnotic movements of the fan there had been something else - something quite nefarious. That flick of her wrist had concealed something. Grimly, he set down his brandy balloon, stood, and casually walked into the light towards the card table. Those that saw him emerge greeted him only with a courteous nod. He did not speak and was not spoken to. It was not until he had reached the card table that Jordan noticed his presence.

The boy stood abruptly, surprise and pleasure lighting his features. “Vardon, old chap! Didn’t expect to see you here...” he paused, rethought his words. “Well, I did, but since I didn’t see you, I didn’t know you were, so I didn’t think you were and I didn’t expect you...ah, never mind. Vardon, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Lady Faith, m’cousin, Lord Vardon. Vardon, Lady Faith. I don’t know her last name yet,” he said confidingly. “But I expect I will soon.”

Ignoring his young cousin’s blatant lack of finesse, his lordship lazily regarded the lady from under heavy lids. A slight sneer curved the fine lips, and he paused a moment, before nodding curtly at her and taking a seat. From under his lashes he watched her, noting with savage satisfaction that she seemed to squirm under his gaze. He saw with some irony that he was the only one, among the small crowd around the table, who had done so. The rest were content to stand looking down at the game - and the lady’s gown, he had no doubt.

“What are the terms of the wager?” he inquired. “I assume that it is a wager?”

“Indeed,” one of the gentlemen, a Lord Basset, told him, as the couple were intensely engrossed in the play and could not answer. “She has wagered her name against a boon that Jordan will grant her. Must say m’lord, the odds are rather against young Jordan at the moment.” Raising an eyebrow at Basset’s temerity to call Jordan young when the pup was hardly a year younger than him himself, Vardon nodded and returned his gaze to Lady Faith, who had been, he observed, having a rather questionable stroke of luck throughout the night.

She could feel her eyes on him. He had been watching her for most of the night, she knew, but she could not think why he had chosen only now to come forward. Truthfully, she would have been better off had he not appeared at all. But he had, and now she was left to wonder, nervously, why. It was not because she was playing a game with his cousin. No, he could have observed it from where he had sat before.

His gaze unnerved her, those sleepy eyes, and that horrible, cruel sneer. It was disturbing how he sat there, still and silent, almost unblinking, watching her, and the game almost lazily, and yet with fierce intensity. She wished he would leave. She could not afford to lose this game - and for some reason, she did not feel she could risk another trick as the one she had done before. Ridiculous, of course. No one but Sylvester could catch her out these days, and she refused to believe there was a gamester more talented than her brother.

He was attractive, she realised, sneaking a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His hair was thick, and a gleaming, silky black, the sweep of long sooty eyelashes against finely chiselled cheekbones mesmerising. His eyes were the dark glittering blue of a midnight sky, his features angled planes carved from granite, his nose aquiline, and aristocracy was evident in every line of his face. He was also, she noted, in demand. Very much so, to judge from the various female eyes that followed him across the room, and yet none dared to approach him. She wondered who he was, and it struck her that he would be perfect for her plan, a much better option than his young cousin, Jordan. She had been certain that a young, impressionable young man would be best suited to her purposes, easily persuaded, but it occured to her that it would probably not be so easy to get the amiable, charming Jordan to ruin her, especially it he did not feel so inclined. She sensed that beneath the easygoing demeanour was a spine of propriety. It would suit her purposes infinitely better if she were to find a man like Lord Vardon...in fact, she suspected he himself would suit her purposes better than even she could wish. Ha, Faith thought wryly, Just being seen with him ought to be enough to ruin her.

She won the game, much to her own relief and to Jordan’s chagrin. One look at Lord Vardon’s grim expression however, and she had the oddest notion that she wished she had lost it, instead. Brilliant. Now she was losing her sanity, as well.

Well, at least the game had finished, and now she no longer had to be anywhere near that disturbing gaze. Turning a brilliant smile on Lord Jordan, she said flirtatiously, “I’m afraid you’ve lost, my lord. But do not despair - there will be other occasions to learn my name. I am afraid though sir, that I must take leave of you now - ”

“Lady Faith,” the smooth, slightly husky tones of the man beside her interrupted her.

“Do me the courtesy of escorting you on a stroll outside. It is rather stifling in here, is it not? You will benefit from the air.”

“Er -” said Faith.

“Excellent,” Lord Vardon said, taking her arm and steering her quite expertly towards the open windows on the terrace. “Kindly put one foot in front of the other, my lady. Yes, that’s it. Very good! Its called walking, these days, you know. I trust you do know how to walk? I would hate if you were to stumble and fall ungraciously on your very pretty face.”

Grinding her teeth together, she complied, then wrenched her arm out of his grip the moment they were outside. “We should not be here, you know,” she said imperiously. “People might talk.”

“Would that deter you?” Lord Vardon said, his voice filled with amusement. For a moment, she froze. How could he have known her motives? She had told no one, not even Sylvester. An angry red flush rose to her cheeks as she realised he had not meant that, but something else.

“What are you implying, sir?” she demanded. “I do hope you’ve dragged me out here for reasons other than to pester me with vague insults.”

“I do beg your pardon,” Vardon said, looking surprised. “I assure you, I do not mean them to be in any way vague. If you would like, I can clarify them for you.”

Her eyes widened with surprise and she inhaled sharply. “I will take no more of this,” she in a highly affronted tone, and turned on her heel to return to the room.

His arm shot out like and gripped her wrist in a viselike grip, before pulling her back towards him so quickly she stumbled. “Not so fast,” he murmured, so close she could feel his breath rustling her hair. He was tall, she noted faintly. She barely came to his shoulder, although perhaps that could have been attributed to her own lack of size. “We still have things to discuss, you and I.”

“What things?” she demanded. “There is nothing between us, sir. I hardly know you, nor have I any wish to!”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, looking her in the eye. “But I, for one, would like to know you.”

She stilled. “Let go of me, sir, before I make you regret ever having touched me.” Her words were dispassionate, her expression calm.

He eyed her curiously. She seemed confident of her own abilities. Perhaps he should be worried? “Oh, I don’t think that will happen,” he said, casually. “What will you do if I don’t?”

She did not bother with words, merely kicked him in the shins, and waited patiently as he gave a shout of pain, released her wrist and bent to rub his leg. She did not bother to run, knowing he would catch her if she did, and stepped back, just out of his reach to wait for his recovery. It was surprisingly quick.