The Devil to Pay Read Online Free PDF Page A

But I need not know the Angel’s identity or whom she helps. Frankly, I wish her well.”
    Sidonie lifted her gaze to his and allowed a hint of a challenge to light her eyes. “Very well, then,” she said. “I wish you to discover something else. Something of particular interest to me. It should not prove difficult for a man of your talents.”
    “By all means, dear girl,” George agreed. “What is it you wish to know?”
    “I wish to know who owns the house almost directly across the street from mine.”
    Her brother drew back and looked at her. “I keep up with gossip and crime, Sid, not the Bloomsbury real estate records.”
    “But this is all of a piece,” she said. “A gentleman—a nobleman, I’m told—keeps the house for his mistresses.”
    “Ah!” said Maurice and George at once.
    “The poor women come and go faster than the seasons,” Sidonie complained. “And I should simply like to know his name, that is all.”
    “What is the number?” asked George.
    “Seventeen.”
    Maurice frowned. “And the woman, is she a blonde? A brunette?”
    Sidonie shook her head. “A redhead—and, according to the crossing sweep, an actress,” she answered. “She moved out just this afternoon, obviously distraught. But there was a blonde this winter. Pale blond, with a mincing walk and a very sharp chin. And before that, an Italian dancer. Her name, I believe, was Maria. She left in tears. Indeed, I think he must be very cruel.”
    George looked suddenly ill at ease. “I believe the gentleman in question is Lord Devellyn,” he said quietly.
    He and Maurice exchanged odd glances. “Hmm,” said Maurice. “Tell us, Sidonie, is he quite a large man?”
    Sidonie shrugged. “I have never seen him,” she said. “He comes and goes in a carriage or a hackney.”
    George swirled the port in his glass and stared at the ceiling. “A marked carriage?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Describe his crest.”
    “Yes, of course.” Sidonie closed her eyes and did so.
    “It is he,” said George again. “There is no doubt.”
    “None,” agreed Maurice. “I fitted him for a pair of new waistcoats just last week. I saw the coach draw up.”
    Sidonie laid down her napkin. “Excellent!” she said. “Lord Devellyn. Do either of you know his club?”
    George lifted one brow suspiciously. “The Beefsteak, the Yacht Club, and the MCC,” he rattled off. “And White’s, when they will let him in. Why do you ask?”
    “Eating, sailing, and cricket!” she murmured, ignoring her brother’s question. “Lord, what a well-rounded individual. I suppose he gambles, too?”
    “Like there’s no tomorrow,” said Maurice. “At Crockford’s, usually.”
    Sidonie’s eyes widened. “A perilous place.”
    “And at any low tavern or squalid hell that will have him,” George snipped. “Devellyn drinks like a parched pig, and has no standards whatsoever.”
    “That’s not entirely true, George,” said Maurice, pressing his fingertips to his chest. “He bought waistcoats from me.”
    “Well, you know what they say about swine,” sniffed George. “Even a blind hog occasionally roots out a truffle. Besides, you told me his valet chose the fabrics.”
    “And where, pray tell, does this Renaissance man reside?” asked Sidonie.
    “Oh, good Lord, Sidonie!” George was growing irritated. “He’s the man they call the Devil of Duke Street. Figure it out. Now, may we please dispense with the topic of Devellyn? I find him tedious in the extreme.”

Chapter Three

The Sublime Society of Beef Steaks
    The Beefsteak Club was, simply put, a organization of unruly bacchanalians who liked to sing bawdy songs, gnaw slabs of bloody meat, and swill vast quantities of port before going on to their equally unruly gaming hells. The phrase in the gout did not exist in their vocabulary, because Beefsteakers were expected to turn up their toes in a far more dashing fashion long before that dread disease could set in.
    The club convened on