The Devil to Pay Read Online Free PDF Page B

pirates, smugglers, thieves, and the occasional nob out on a lark. Opium, untaxed brandy, sex of any sort; all could be had at the Anchor. She knew the place, but not well. She watched them enter, waited ten minutes, then followed. The weary, unshaven innkeeper didn’t blink an eye when she snapped a guinea against his counter and asked for a room upstairs—a room at the back, away from the river.
    Upstairs, she pushed the window wide open and made a quick assessment of the inn’s exterior. Dark. Deserted. A solid-looking drainpipe and a low garden wall. All perfectly acceptable. After hanging her cloak and opening her small valise, she rouged her lips and went down again. The taproom was dark, but she could see that Devellyn and his companions had joined three other, rougher-looking fellows in a card game near the door. She swished carefully past and allowed her fingertips to trail lightly across the shoulder of the man on Devellyn’s left.
    The marquess turned, and with heavy, hooded eyes, watched her hand slide away.
    “How’ll you have it?” asked the tapster when she approached.
    The smell of cold ashes and sour ale assailed her nostrils. “Just a dram o’ satin, lovey,” she said, propping her elbow on the bar and turning to survey the room. Most of the tables were filled, and smoke hung low in the air.
    The man put down her drink and leaned nearer. “I need to tell you, miss,” he said quietly. “We’ll be having no trouble in here.”
    She shot him a bemused smile over her shoulder. “Wot? Do I look like trouble ter yew?”

    Devellyn noticed the fancy piece in the red velvet dress the moment she entered the room. One could scarcely miss the way her hand—a surprisingly clean, long-fingered hand—slid caressingly over Sir Alasdair MacLachlan’s shoulder. Alasdair, of course, did not notice. He had fifty guineas on the table and was holding a fistful of cards which were quivering with excitement. Warming the sheets with some wench was the furthest thing from his mind.
    It should have been far from Devellyn’s. But he was losing, and looking for a little distraction. He was also foxed. He watched the tart lean against the bar and order a glass of gin. Gin? Good Lord. She certainly wasn’t his type.
    She was also tall and lush, with a bosom that was about to burst from her dress, which was cut right down to the nipples. Her hair was a garish shade of red which clashed so violently with her velvet dress the vision could have stopped a mail coach. She had one elbow propped on the bar and was boldly surveying the noisy room. In short, she looked like just what she was, a dockside dolly-mop with big breasts and abysmal taste.
    But her eyes. Now there was something odd. She had quick, intelligent eyes. They did not seem to belong with the rest of her body. Devellyn kept glancing surreptitiously at them, wishing he could make out the color. Her cheeks were oddly high, giving her a bit of a tight, rabbity look about the face. The mouth, though, was not bad. She had a small mole just at one corner, and something about it tormented him. Yet the woman kept lowering her lashes and looking at Alasdair. That was beginning to annoy him.
    Once, her tongue came out and teased lightly at the corner of her mouth, almost touching the mole. Devellyn ordered another bottle of brandy and hunkered down with his hand. Then again, a man who’d drunk as much as he had probably oughtn’t be playing cards. But Alasdair had insisted. Well, of course he had. His luck was in tonight. Devellyn’s, unfortunately, was not. He tossed down his hand and admitted it.
    Again, the woman strolled through the room. Again, that hungry, sidelong look at Alasdair. Her hip brushed against his chair, but Alasdair held a handful of spades—enough to clear the table if he kept his wits, which he likely would. Alasdair was the consummate gambler. Devellyn pulled away from his friend’s shoulder and began to debate with himself over what to