Demon's Bride

Chapter 3

He’s going to kiss me. They had touched lips only once, impersonally, at the conclusion of the marriage ceremony. But this was to be a real kiss. A kiss between husband and wife. She felt as though she had been waiting for this moment forever, and wanted it, hungered for it, even as she was numb with anxiety.

She closed her eyes, and the sound of her blood in her ears was a rushing gale.

At the first brush of his mouth against hers, she jolted. Their noses bumped, hard. He pulled back.

Opening her eyes, she covered her mouth with her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

He cradled his nose for a moment. “No damage done. Here.” She braced herself for another attempt at a kiss. Instead, he ran his warm, long fingers across her cheek, then down her neck. He gazed at her with perplexed interest. His breath came faster, and a flush darkened his skin.

At his touch, shivers of sensation ran over her skin and echoed deep within her. It felt wondrous. It felt awful. She wanted this, wanted him, yet she had no idea who he truly was, and it was all so strange, so terribly strange.

His gaze intent, he moved closer to her. He angled his body so that he faced her, and he filled her vision, every part of it, with the fire burning behind him.

This must be what rabbits feel when the hawk’s shadow blocks the sun.

He braced one hand beside her thigh. His nearness overwhelmed her. With his other hand, he slid her hair over her shoulder, revealing the shape of her breast beneath the delicate nightgown. Her nipple made a pale point under the silk.

Leo stared at her breast, rapt as a scholar, and she could hardly catch her breath. No man had ever looked at her in this state of undress. Focus and desire sharpened Leo’s face, and she felt pierced by it, by him, simply looking at her. At that moment nothing existed but the confines of the bed, and the truth that soon their bodies would be joined as intimately as possible.

Slowly, as if tracing a shadow, his hand moved from her shoulder. Down. The brush of his fingertips over her collarbone, the very top of her chest, and then lower. She bit back a gasp as his large, warm hand cupped her breast.

A rough sound came from deep within him, and an answering thrill shivered through her. His eyes were hot and sharp. When his thumb moved back and forth across her nipple, he watched the tightening bead with the intensity of a man searching for answers.

The rasp of silk and his thumb against her was exquisite, a gathering of terrifying sensation. She had learned, years ago, how to touch all the places on herself that gave pleasure, but it was so different having someone else touch her, a frightening drop into a dimly lit chasm.

“Anne,” he rumbled. He lowered his head.

Another kiss. Could she do this properly? She closed her eyes.

His lips met hers, and she was grateful that she didn’t jolt again. Instead, she kept herself still, willing herself to stop her mind, to simply let this happen. His lips were warm and firm, and they lightly moved back and forth over hers, coaxing response. The very tip of his tongue stroked against her mouth just as he grew bolder with his hand on her breast, his touch there deepening.

She was aware of everything: his mouth on hers, his harsh breath against her lips, the heat and size of his hand caressing her breast. Her own fear mingled with arousal in an alchemy she could not understand. It felt wondrous and odd and fearsome. She could not lift her hands from the counterpane. They seemed pinned like butterflies, her fingers spread, pushing down onto the bed. Part of her wanted to lift her hands and touch him, feel his sleek, hard body underneath the banyan. Part of her wanted to keep her hands flat, as if touching him were the final word spoken in an incantation that released an unknown magic.

The bed tilted as his long body stretched alongside hers. With one hand, he wove his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, and the hand that held her breast moved down with intent. The counterpane blocked its progress, and he shoved impatiently at the blanket until he found the curve of her waist. She gasped against his lips to feel the heat and strength of his hand on her. With her lips parted, he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tastes flooded her—tobacco, wine, the flavor of a healthy male.

Oh, God, she felt him against her thigh. The hard thickness of his arousal. It was real, he was real, and a man, and she felt a rising need building within her, and she had never experienced such fear in her life, for Leo was different from her in every way. In her imaginings of this moment, she had seen herself as serenely acquiescent, almost detached. Instead, she shivered and wanted and was afraid.

His hand continued on its progress, stroking slowly from her waist to her hip. The lower his hand moved, the greater her shaking became, until she trembled so strongly that the vibrations from her body traveled into his hand and up his arm. Mortification burned her, for she knew he felt her fear. Her own breathing was a ragged sound, tattered as a scrap of lace in a gale, and tears gathered in her eyes.

Then ... His touch disappeared. He angled away from her. For several moments, nothing happened. Anne waited and waited, until she felt ready to shatter. Finally, she opened her eyes.

He lay on his back, his breath coming in hard, quick exhalations. His hands lay on his thighs. As her gaze moved lower, she saw the banyan tented over his erection, and she quickly brought her gaze back up to his face.

A frown formed a deep line between his brows. The tightness in his jaw revealed an inner struggle.

Was he angry? With her? Why had he stopped? Too uncertain, Anne could say nothing. She felt awkward and gauche, lying beside him, her hands still splayed on the counterpane as she balanced precariously, midway between desire and terror.

At last, he broke the silence. “My parents married for love.”

Of all the things for him to say, this was least expected. She struggled to align her thoughts, for they’d scattered in every direction like pins, and her body only now began to calm in its frantic trembling.

It took a moment for her to find her voice. “I didn’t know.”

Still staring at the canopy, he shook his head. “No reason why you would. She was a dairymaid, and she flirted with him when she passed the saddlery every day. He said she spilled so much milk from her pails—all her pretty curtsies—that every cat in the neighborhood sat on his roof. The cattery, he called his shop.”

It seemed sweet and charming, far more so than the ways in which brides were contracted for amongst the gentry, with calculated discussions of marriage portions and family connections.

“There’s an advantage to being part of the lower orders.” He turned his head and gave her a wry smile that did not fully warm his eyes. “Some apprentices marry their masters’ daughters, but for the most part, we marry on the basis of what our hearts tell us. We have the privilege of time. Of nurturing the seedling of affection into something lush and verdant.”

“That sounds ... lovely.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and a strange ache set up in her heart.

“It is. Or,” he amended, “it would be. I am not a saddle maker and you are not a dairymaid.”

“An impoverished baron’s daughter and a self-made man.” And they were already married.

Leo sighed, ran a hand over his jaw, then stood. The thick upright shape of his erection had begun to diminish. He walked to the clothespress and removed a long nightshirt. He eyed the garment with reluctance, then took it with him into the closet. A moment later, he emerged from the closet wearing the nightshirt, his banyan draped over his arm. The nightshirt was thinner than the banyan, and she watched the long, solid shapes of his limbs as they moved beneath the fabric. She saw the mass and shape of his manhood—that most fascinating and terrifying part of him—though his arousal had faded.

Slowly, he moved through the chamber, dousing the candles. She could not stop herself from staring at the taut forms of his buttocks as he crouched before the fire to bank the flames. When shadows shrouded the room, he padded over to the bed.

Anne quickly slid over when he got into bed. He filled it with his large, solid body, and she held herself rigid, trying not to roll toward him. She wanted to feel his body beside hers again, yet dreaded it, too. When he snuffed the bedside candle, the chamber went almost entirely dark, save for the lambent glow of the fire.

Perhaps they were going to take up where they’d left off a few moments ago. She wondered if she was supposed to do something. Disrobe, perhaps? Yet when she reached for the hem of her nightgown, his hand stopped her.

“Go to sleep, Anne.” His voice was gruff in the darkness.

Did that mean they weren’t going to ... “I have displeased you.”

“No. You please me fine.” He let out a sound partway between a sigh and a growl. “But I’ve decided I can’t behave as the gentry does, not when it comes to marriage. We barely know each other, and if I were to take your maidenhead on only truly a few hours’ worth of acquaintance, then that makes me as cold and heartless as them.”

She was gentry, but was far too stunned by his declaration to take umbrage. “Are we to have a chaste marriage?”

His laugh was rueful. “God, no. But I think it’s for the best if we wait a little. Get to know each other more.”

“Oh.” Relief poured through her. Relief and ... disappointment. Mainly, however, she felt a great burden lift.

He settled deeper under the covers, and it felt very odd, sharing a bed with a man—the size of him, his weight upon the mattress. Several inches separated their bodies, but she felt his ambient heat. Caught the traces of his skin’s own scent.

If this weren’t so strange, she might enjoy sleeping beside him. Unless ... he didn’t want to share a bed at all. She began to slide out from beneath the bedclothes, but his hand stopped her once more.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To my bedchamber.”

“This is your bedchamber.”

Even in the darkness, she blinked at him. “I don’t have my own bedroom?” Her parents slept apart. If her circle of friends was to be believed, all husbands and wives did.

“The idea that a husband and wife should sleep apart is ridiculous,” he rumbled. “That’s for aristos, not peasants like me.” He tugged on her wrist, and she had no choice but to edge back beneath the covers. “Whatever our arrangement for now, know this, Anne. You are my wife. I am your husband. We will always share a bed.”

Simple words, yet her heartbeat raced when she heard them. “As you like.”

He released his grip on her, and exhaled. “Don’t like it at all. Not now. But I will ... at some point. Now sleep.”

He continued to baffle her. Yet he was her husband, and according to the law and to the Church, that made him her master. “Good night, Leo.”

“Good night, Anne.”

He rolled over heavily. Within a few minutes, his breathing slowed and deepened. He slept.

Leaving her alone and awake, staring into the dark.

It didn’t surprise Anne to wake up alone. She had slept alone her whole life, and to stretch in bed and find the space beside her empty was no different than any other morning. Except, as she stretched, her arms wide, her fingers did not meet the edge of the bed. And the sheets smelled of tobacco and spice, not lavender.

This was not her bed. She suddenly remembered: she was married now. Married, but a virgin. Leo had touched her, and it had been both wonderful and terrible, until fear had overtaken her with humiliating ferocity. He’d been kind, and stopped. They had then spent the whole of the night together, chaste as schoolfellows. Now he was gone.

Her eyes opened to images of menacing flowers and vines tipped with thorns. The bed hangings. She pushed the fabric back to reveal the room. Someone had come in during the early hours to tend the fire, but now Anne was by herself. The drawn curtains kept the chamber dark, and it seemed that shadows congealed in the corners, trying to take shape.

She shook her head at her foolishness. Merely an adjustment to life in a new house.

The gilt bronze clock on the mantel showed the time to be well after nine. Not an unusual time for her to awaken, but perhaps Leo liked to rise earlier. He probably waited for her to join him for breakfast downstairs. Though their marriage had begun in a rather ... unconventional manner, she did not want him thinking her indolent and spoiled. He was a man of business, of industry. As his wife, she should be just as industrious.

Anne slid out of bed. As she padded toward the closet to make use of the close stool, the chill of the floor seeped into her feet and up her legs. Baffling, that. The fire should have taken the cold from the room.

After tending to her needs and washing up, she emerged from the closet and found the curtains pulled back and an apron-wearing girl waiting for her.

“Good morning, madam.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. She couldn’t have been more than a year younger than Anne. “I’m Meg, your maid.”

Anne had always shared a maid with her mother, as the family could not afford the expense of two, so to have one all to herself seemed a tremendous luxury. It seemed odd, though, that Meg had appeared without being summoned. Perhaps things ran differently in a household that never went into arrears and paid their servants on time.

“Has my clothing been unpacked?” Nearly all of her garments had come straight from the mantua maker, but some were hers from before.

“Yes, madam. Is there a particular gown you want?”

Anne realized she had no idea what constituted her new trousseau. Everything had been purchased so quickly, with hardly any consultation on her part. Still, she didn’t fancy the idea of the servants knowing that she’d come to their master nearly penniless.

“I trust you, Meg,” she said.

The girl brightened and hastened to the other clothespress. Eventually, she emerged with an open gown of peach-and-green Indian cotton, as well as all necessary undergarments. Anne resisted the impulse to peer into the clothespress to see what other gowns had been purchased for her, just as she fought the urge to admire the quality and newness of the gown Meg now helped her into.

As Meg fastened the dress, Anne looked at herself in the cheval glass and felt as though she put on another woman’s skin. The thought made her shudder, thinking that a woman’s flayed body lay somewhere, its muscles and innards exposed as the corpse cooled. She had a sudden vision of an attic chamber, perhaps in this very house, where other brides’ bodies hung.

You haven’t married Bluebeard, for heaven’s sake.

As if to counter her own fears, she said aloud, “Do hurry, Meg. I want to join my husband for breakfast.”

The maid blinked up at her. “He’s gone, madam.”

Now it was Anne’s turn to look blank. “Gone?”

“I only started working here last week, making ready for you, but the master always leaves the house by seven.”

“Where does he go?”

“To Exchange Alley, I reckon.” Meg glanced at her from beneath the frill of her mob cap, perplexed by Anne’s ignorance of her own husband.

“Of course,” Anne said, far more brightly than she felt. She pasted on a smile. “I’ll just take chocolate and rolls in here, then.”

“The master had Cook fix you a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, seed cakes. It’s waiting for you downstairs.”

She couldn’t refuse, not without possibly insulting the cook. Since Anne would be responsible for consulting with the cook about meals, she must be politic and make herself eat a meal she did not truly want. “Sounds delightful.”

After Meg finished her toilette, Anne quit the bedchamber. The hallway was very quiet, almost sepulchral in its stillness, barely interrupted by the sounds of servants attending to their daily tasks elsewhere in the house. If Anne had not left Meg in the bedchamber only a moment prior, she might believe herself completely alone. Maybe even the last person alive in the entire world.

Stop this ridiculous ghoulishness! She never indulged in thoughts of the macabre—she stayed clear of the hangings at Tyburn, and even went out of her way to avoid the occasional traitor’s head piked on Temple Bar.

It was simply nervousness at her unfamiliar surroundings, and trepidation as a new wife. Last night had been very tumultuous, so there might be lingering emotions. But there was truly nothing to fear. These awkward first days would soon pass.

Yet as she made her way down the stairs, that prospect seemed dim. It felt even farther away as she entered the dining room. Without all the guests from the day before, the chamber was an empty cavern scoured by gray morning light. All signs of the wedding celebration were gone—not even a crumb or wine stain on the carpet. Almost as if it had never happened, save for the music and laughter ringing in Anne’s remembrance like broken glass.

The large table was laid for one, and as Anne moved farther into the room, a footman hurried in from a side door to pull out her chair. She smiled her thanks and sat, and helped herself to far more food than she wanted. There was nothing she could do but force food down her throat as the footman stood in attendance. Everything tasted like pasteboard.

“Please tell Cook that the meal is delicious,” she said to the footman, who bowed. “I trust we will have more exquisite dishes for supper.”

“Suppose so,” the footman said. “Seeing as how the master don’t take no meals here, I wouldn’t know.”

“No meals at all?”

“Maybe a cold collation late at night, but he’s often out.”

“Are we to expect him today?”

The footman shrugged.

Leo’s absence at the table and in the house was a silent humiliation. Had she so little to offer her husband beyond her bloodline that he willingly left their bed to attend to business? She had believed him compassionate when he’d forestalled the consummation of their marriage. Yet now, with her alone in his house, alone in every way, she wondered if it had been kindness or merely disinterest. If the scandal rags were to be believed, Leo was accustomed to wild living, indulging in every vice. Nothing checked his desires, his impulses.

Would he consider his wife another obstacle to ignore? He had said that he wanted them to wait, to learn each other before consummating their marriage. Perhaps without the inducement of his wife’s body, there was little to interest him at home.

As she picked at the congealing remains of her breakfast, she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. Disappointment—and anger—roiled within her. She had no expectations of marriage, yet even in her most hypothetical imaginings she had not anticipated being an afterthought to the man who claimed her hand. Clearly, however, that was how Leo saw her: a parenthesis.

Abruptly, she stood. The footman hurried to help her with her chair, yet she was halfway out the door.

As she climbed the stairs, resolution took shape. She would make herself essential to him. This house—its baleful silence, its icy shadows—she would find a way to transform it. He shunned his home. Yet under her care, home would become the warmth of the fire drawing him in from the cold night.

His hunting ground. Leo breathed in its aromas as a predator sniffed the air for the acidic scent of prey. The smell of coffee was the smell of money—brewing, percolating, waiting to be consumed. He barely needed the jolt of energy from the drink. All he required for strength was here, fed by the sights and sounds of Exchange Alley. And his own deeds gave him unstoppable momentum.

Leo strode down Lombard Street, its narrow confines bound on all sides by coffee houses that served as the financial heart of London, and thus, the world. New Jonathan’s Coffee House. Garraway’s. Lloyd’s. Dozens, maybe scores more. Lombard Street and the cramped alleys of Cornhill and Birchin Lane demarcated the boundaries of the commercial kingdom. The air was thick with talk, hundreds of men’s voices all crashing together in a din some might call discordant. To Leo, the sound rang as clear and sacred as an oratorio.

“Seven hundred shares of the coffee venture. No less.”

“The demand for cotton only increases. You’re a fool not to buy now.”

“The Quakers have me by the stones, but there’s no help for it. Our future is made of iron.”

“There’s Bailey, the Demon—if you’re looking for deep pockets, he’s your man. But mind, he asks scores of questions and is anything but a silent partner.”

This made him smile. Rich gentlemen might mutely provide funds and collect returns, content with the fiction that, if they kept their interaction with actual business to a minimum, they would be less sullied. Leo didn’t give a damn. He’d get as filthy as necessary to wring the greatest profits. He had no man of business. He did not deal with brokers or jobbers. Everything that needed doing, he did himself.

The sun had not yet topped the spires of Saint Paul’s, yet the frenzy of the ’Change was at its height, and Leo in the thick of it. Precisely where he wanted—needed—to be. Within the few hours he had been here, he’d invested in a quarry whose slate tiles would be used to roof mill towns in the north, provided capital to ship English wheat to the Caribbean, and sold his shares in a Scottish timber venture. And the day wasn’t half over. There was still so much to be done. Fortunes to be made—his.

“Oranges, Spanish oranges.” A barefoot girl with a basket full of fruit picked her way through the crowd. Her cry could barely be heard above the clamor.

“I’ll take one,” Leo said.

“Two for a penny, sir. One for yourself, one for your wife?”

God, he was married now, wasn’t he?

“Two, then,” he said, handing the coin to the girl. She passed two oranges to him, like a dirty-footed goddess creating new suns. With the transaction finished, the girl moved on, her cry of “Oranges, Spanish oranges” soon swallowed by the din.

Leo pocketed the fruit. Though surrounded on all sides by men and chaos and noise, his mind drifted back to his house in Bloomsbury, and the woman who now lived there. Anne had been sleeping when he slipped from bed. In that expanse of white linen, she had looked very small, insubstantial. Yet one of her hands had been curled into a fist, as if ready to swing should she be attacked.

Had she been protecting herself from him? The thought had troubled him, and he had summoned his valet and dressed quietly, careful to keep from waking her. She would arise later to find him gone.

Something edged and acute cut through him. It took several moments for him to recognize the feeling: regret. Or at least, he believed it to be regret, never having felt it before.

Perhaps he ought not to have left her. At the least, he might have woken her or left a note to let her know where he was. Damned strange. He’d been accountable to no one for a very long time. Even his fellow Hellraisers. To feel any sense of obligation, even to a wife, chafed. Yet he couldn’t expect to marry and have nothing alter, could he?

Last night had been ... puzzling. Disturbing. To feel her fear shuddering through her body and into his. He had expected some nerves on her part. Hell, there had been nerves on his part, as well. He’d never made love to a virgin before, and he’d wondered about the best possible means of doing so. Gentle, slow. That much he knew. Yet Anne had still been afraid.

His desire for her—that he felt even now, in this crowded, noisy alley—was unexpected, and a relief. Despite his ambition to marry a nobleman’s daughter, he never would have given his name to a woman he could not want in his bed. Anne’s quiet beauty stirred him; her intelligence and subtle humor intrigued him. As he had touched her and discovered her slim, soft body, he felt her respond. Not just with fear, but with hunger. There was promise, of what could be. He wanted to explore that, see where it led.

It was for these reasons that he had forced himself to wear a nightshirt, to hide his markings. Last night had shown him that what he had begun to learn of Anne, he discovered he actually liked. Which meant he would feel obligated to offer her an explanation for the markings—and that he was not certain he wanted to do.

What he did want was to see her again. He should go back.

“To hell with the geminus,” he muttered to himself, “and the demands of Mr. Holliday.”

The ’Change could do without him for a day, a week. And in that time, he and Anne could come to learn each other, become more than acquaintances. He had decided to wait on the consummation of their marriage until they knew each other better. He needed to learn more. That couldn’t happen with him sequestered in the madness of Exchange Alley.

Though Leo’s expertise at bedsport could not begin to match Bram’s, he had a suspicion that, once her fear diminished and she was initiated into the realm of sexual pleasure, Anne would prove herself an eager student. She had a quickness of mind that revealed itself in her ready wit, in the keenness of her gaze. He’d touched and caressed her, discovering a hidden sensuality in his wife, a banked fire that needed a bit of encouragement to blaze to life.

But that fire would remain cool until he brought it forward. Which he could not do from miles away.

He’d return home now. Take Anne for a jaunt in the carriage. They’d stroll in Saint James’s Park, perhaps have a mug of fresh milk from the cows that grazed there. Then they’d go back home for supper, and talk, maybe flirt a little over their meal. He knew a bit about flirting. Admittedly, not very much. Courtesans cared less for flirtation and more for generosity, which he had both in bed and out. Flirtation, though, was newer to him. Wordplay seemed to be involved, and compliments. Beyond that ... he’d have to think of something.

Hopefully, the flirting stage would not last overlong. He was much more comfortable once the woman was already in bed. Last night had given him just a taste of Anne. Learning more about her body and what gave her pleasure ... the prospect sounded damned pleasant. He already felt the quickening of his pulse, the heated edge of emergent desire.

Just as he turned to make his way back up Lombard and thence to Cheapside, he caught sight of Stephen Norwood emerging from a coffee house.

Destroy him.

The words, spoken silently by a voice not his own, wove through his mind like a trail of smoke. Thoughts of Anne were blotted out. All Leo saw was Norwood, the cheat. A year ago, they had been partners—Leo, Norwood, and two others—in an East Indian shipping venture. Norwood had gone behind Leo’s back, urging the others to underreport the venture’s profits, all the while wearing a wide betrayer’s smile. Leo had caught wind of the scheme and extricated himself with as minimal damage as possible, never letting on that he knew of the deception.

Like a serpent, Leo had bided his time, waiting for the right moment to bring Norwood down with a flash of fang and mouth full of poison.

That time was now. Cold intent spread through Leo, originating between his shoulder blades and winding through his body, his limbs, and his mind.

Destroy him.

“Good to see you, old friend.” He strode up and shook Norwood’s hand.

The charlatan grinned. “Surprised to see you here today. Word is out that yesterday you took a wife.”

Leo decided not to mention that he had married Anne, yet as to the taking of her ... that would happen later. “A husband I may be, but the ’Change is my mistress, and I can never stray.” He glanced toward the door of the coffee house Norwood had just exited. “You and I haven’t spoken in far too long. Join me inside?”

Though he maintained his grin, Norwood’s eyes were chary. If he knew what Leo had planned, he had good cause for concern. But no one save another Hellraiser or the Devil himself could know what Leo intended.

“I have good intelligence on some new investment prospects.” This was Leo’s bait, for he was renowned, some might say notorious, for his faultless ability to select the best ventures. He’d been strong in business before gaining his gift of precognition. Now, he was unstoppable.

Wariness left Norwood’s gaze, replaced by eager greed. “No greater pleasure than to renew our friendship.”

They ducked into the coffee house and removed their tricorn hats. Inside, men of business hunched at battered wooden tables and crowded into settles. Brokers, jobbers, men seeking capital for their schemes, and those, like Leo, keen to invest in the next profitable ventures. The close air within the shop was thick with the smell of coffee and the sounds of speculation. London was an old city, a city built upon the detritus of centuries rotting into the earth. Yet here, in this coffee house, in the narrow, crowded alleys of the Exchange, men lived in the future. They dwelt in the possibility of what could be, what might be, and in that gauze-covered world of chance, they staked their fortunes.

Leo had an advantage no one else possessed. And that made him one of the most feared and respected men in the Exchange. Him. A saddler’s son, who’d never drunk tea from fresh, unboiled leaves until he was fifteen years old.

He and Norwood managed to find a table, pushing aside the newspapers stacked there. As they sat, the proprietor flung two steaming mugs of coffee toward them and quickly trundled off.

“Have you change for a bob?” Leo asked Norwood. He held up a shilling.

“Only a tanner and thruppence.”

“That shall suffice.”

“Are you sure?” Norwood raised a brow, believing that the benefit would be all to him.

“Truly, it’s satisfactory.”

With a shrug, Norwood slid his coins across the table and accepted Leo’s shilling. The moment Leo touched the coins, he smiled, for though he had lost three pennies in the exchange, he now gained something far more valuable.

To Norwood, and to all the men in the room, Leo sat at a table within the same coffee house. He did not rise up from his seat. He barely even moved, except to curl his fingers around the coins. Yet with just the brush of his fingers over the money’s metallic surface, Leo’s mind became a spyglass. Time folded in on itself, collapsing inward. Dizzying. The first few times Leo attempted this, he’d found the unexpected sensation unpleasant, like drinking too much whiskey too quickly. Now, he’d learned not only to anticipate the feeling, but to welcome it, for it meant that soon the future would be his.

Leo felt the rough wooden table beneath his fingertips, heard the voices of men around him, yet his eyes beheld not the coffee house but a distant port. Palm trees and golden-skinned people in colorful wraps. Tall-masted ships bobbing at anchor. Buildings both Oriental and European—no, not just European, but the tall, narrow facades of Dutch structures, and battlements. He knew this place, never having been there, but by reputation: Batavia, in the East Indies.

The lurid light spilling over the city’s walls came not from the setting sun, but a ship burning in the harbor. Sailors tried to douse the flames. Their water buckets failed to stem the fire—it spread like a pestilence over the hull, up the masts, engulfing the sails. The sailors abandoned their task. They shoved themselves into jolly boats and dove overboard, and people on the shore could only watch as the ship became a black, shuddering skeleton, its expensive cargo turning to ash upon the water. The crew had escaped, but the pepper they shipped did not.

A disaster.

“Bailey?”

Norwood’s voice broke the scene. Leo quickly pocketed the coins and the vision of distant calamity faded. He was back in a London coffee house, amidst news sheets and talk of business, with Norwood gazing curiously at him across the table. A phantom scent of burning wood and pepper pods remained in Leo’s memory.

“Are you well, Bailey?”

“Forgive me. My mind ... went somewhere else for a moment.”

A knowing grin spread across Norwood’s face. “Back to your new bride, I imagine.”

Leo manufactured a smile. His ability to foresee financial disaster had been his particular gift from the Devil, a gift that remained a secret between Leo and the other Hellraisers. Anne would never learn of it—for many reasons.

“Are you at the ’Change today in search of new ventures?” he asked.

“There are several, all clamoring for my coin,” answered Norwood, “and the matter remains only to discern which would be the wisest investment.”

“I’ve more than a little intelligence in such matters. Tell me which have commandeered your attention.”

Norwood raised a brow. “To what end? That you might seize an opportunity and leave me out in the cold?”

Leo placed a hand on his chest. “Injurious words. My offer was extended in friendship, that I might advise you.” He glanced down at the heavy ruby he wore on his right ring finger. “And I’ve no need to cut you out of the profits, not when my own are so abundant. There is plenty to share.”

If Norwood understood that Leo threw his own crime back at him, he made no sign. Slowly, he nodded. “Everyone has said that lately your investments never fail.”

Leo always possessed good sense, but with the Devil’s gift, he had become infallible. The gold in his coffers and the country estate he had purchased for his mother’s use testified to this.

“Unburden yourself,” he urged Norwood. “Make use of my council.”

After taking a sip of his coffee, the other man proceeded. “Three ventures have applied to me for investment funds. A housing development here in London, sugar from Barbados, or a pepper shipment from Batavia.” He spread his hands. “They have all presented themselves in the best possible light, and I have done as much research into each business as feasible, yet I cannot decide which shall be the recipient of my capital. For I can invest in only one.”

Leo kept his outward appearance calm. He crafted his expression into one of contemplation. Within, however, he felt the quick, exhilarating anticipation of a predator lying in wait. He had merely to let his prey wander farther into the kill zone, and the deed would be accomplished, his claws bright with blood.

“All three have their merits, their potential.”

“But one must be better than the others, surely?”

How long could Leo toy with him? A pleasure to draw it out, knowing that the blow would come, or strike quickly, and then watch the carnage? Both appealed.

“Housing developments are certainly intriguing,” he said. “Every day, more and more people come to London, looking for work beyond tenant farming. They all need places to live.”

“So, that should be my investment?”

Leo feigned deliberation. Finally, he said, “Choose the pepper from Batavia. The appetite for spice goes unabated, and it always finds a buyer. With the desire for French cooking growing, especially amongst the swelling ranks of the bourgeoisie, such goods can only increase in value.”

“Are you certain?” Norwood’s brow pleated.

“A better investment cannot be found.”

For a moment, Norwood simply stared at Leo, as if trying to make sense of a labyrinth. He released a breath. “You are ... generous.”

“This surprises you.”

“No. Well ... aye. You’ve something of a reputation.”

“The Demon of the Exchange.” Leo laughed at Norwood’s pained expression. “I know every name I’m called.” Including upstart, peasant, lowborn bastard. Leo had once overheard Norwood call him that. The lowborn bastard won’t know the difference in the balance sheets. A simple matter, and the profits are ours.

Abruptly, Norwood pushed back from the table and stood. He held out his hand. “My thanks to you, Bailey. You’ve done me a kindness.”

“Nothing kind about it.” Leo resisted the impulse to crush Norwood’s hand in his own, and merely shook it instead. “I have a very good feeling about your investment.”

“I wish you great happiness in your marriage.” With that, Norwood bowed before hurrying out of the coffee house.

Leo sat alone, with two cups of coffee growing cold, yet within, he was a volcano of hot, vicious joy. He took from his pocket Norwood’s coins, the thruppence and tanner, and set them on the table.

Seeing the coins, the proprietor quickly walked over and hefted a steaming pot. “More coffee, sir?”

“Consider that a gratuity.”

“All of it?”

“I’ve no use for the coin.” Not anymore. It had given him precisely what he needed, for his gift of prescience required him to touch an article of money belonging to an individual, and from that, he would have a vision of their future financial disasters. Seldom did he not encounter a disaster, for they marked everyone’s lives, and he’d gained most of his fortune since by counterinvesting. On the rare occasion when he saw no calamity, he knew the venture to be solid. Yet in the time that he’d gained this gift, he’d been witness to scores, perhaps hundreds, of catastrophes. Difficult now not to see disaster everywhere, lurking around corners and in the shadows of crumbling bridges.

The proprietor’s mouth opened in surprise. “You are very generous, sir.”

The second time in a handful of minutes Leo had been called such. But his generosity extended only to the coffee house owner. What he had offered Norwood served merely Leo’s own appetite for vengeance.

Donning his hat, Leo stood. “Point of truth,” he said to the proprietor, “I’m the most selfish bastard you’ll ever meet.”

“My wife’s brother might have you beat, sir.”

Leo’s laugh was genuine. They came so seldom, the sound astonished him. He left the coffee house, energy and urgency in his step. He needed to counterinvest in shipments of pepper from Malabar—the price would surely go up after the destruction of the Batavian cargo—and then he needed to get to the pugilism academy. He trained there daily after leaving the ’Change. A necessary outlet, for nothing exhilarated him more than good, ruthless business, and the gentlemanly sports of fencing and riding held no appeal. Peasant blood flowed in his veins, demanding the most primitive, brutal means of release. To hit, and be hit in return, and then emerge the victor, his opponent’s blood on his knuckles.

He wanted to crow about his victory, but the only people he could speak to of it were his fellow Hellraisers. Anne would never know. She could not know. The realization struck him, swift and unexpected. Only yesterday, he had believed that he would not care if she learned about his magic. Her opinion of him had not mattered, nor the need to offer explanations. Now, however ... now he actually cared what she thought of him.

The thought disturbed him. He strode off to seek the uncomplicated interaction of the boxing ring.