Page 66 of A Deal with the Devil

“Miss Caldecott,” she supplied. “And of course he is.” The place was too busy and opening night loomed too near for him to be anywhere else, doing anything else.

The butler blinked at her before smiling. He still looked capable of breaking a man’s spine with his bare hands, but now he was at least cheerful about it. “Miss Caldecott, of course. What a pleasure—do come in.” He frowned over her shoulder. “You did not come alone, surely?”

“Wulf followed me very discreetly the entire way here,” she said drily. Godric remained at the shop, fending off vicars and cross ladies and soft fruit hurled from carriages. She must remember to bring him a piece of cake. She knew exactly how tiresome that particular work was.

The foyer was easily the size of a house built for a family of ten. It was a spectacle of epic proportions. Kitty had never seen anything like it. Every inch of every wall had been painted with murals in rich jewel-tone colors. Angels soared overheard; dark forests stood sentinel on either side of the hall. Lucifer fell, his wings glowing and scattering embers. Nymphs peeked from behind stones dotting a pastoral hillside.

And mirrors hung from floor to ceiling, amplifying the light of chandeliers and the oil lamps. It was dazzling.

Beyond, doorways over which hung gilded signs painted “Envy” and “Gluttony” opened to even larger spaces. Envy was a ballroom appropriately painted in green, with a dais for an orchestra and a balcony for an opera singer. Gluttony was on its way to becoming a banquet hall, with red tapestries and carpenters putting the final touches on a long table with lion heads. As Kitty stared wide eyed, a young lad who could only be a boot boy, judging by his age, stared at her. “Ladies aren’t supposed to call on the Devil. They wait for him to call.”

“Pierre,” the butler snapped. “Hush.”

Kitty smiled. “The fine ladies of Mayfair may have the time to sit about waiting for the Devil, but I do not.”

“Oh, I like her.”

A young man approached from the main ballroom, his hair pomaded just so, the gold buttons on his waistcoat gleaming. He was the very picture of a fashionable man about town, if not for the purpling bruise around his eye. “You!” Kitty cried, recognizing him instantly.

She was not concerned about being overly familiar. Once you had been at war with the enemy on the steps of the Golden Griffin, you were family. Those bonds were forged in blood and rotten eggs. And, in this case, gold paint.

“And you!” he returned, a wide smile splitting his handsome face.

“You know each other?” The boot boy was agog. He was clearly the first to get the gossip to bring down to the servant hall. It would give him currency for the rest of the day. Possibly the week.

“We’re old friends, Miss Caldecott and I.”

“We are.” Kitty grinned. “Although I don’t actually know your name.”

“Good point.” He bowed. “Thomas Rochester. You can call me Tom.”

She stared at him. “You’re related to Lord Birmingham?”

“He’s my brother. Try not to hold it against me.” He glanced at the boot boy, who was twitching with excitement. “Go on, little man, what are you even doing up here?”

“The earl’s valet wants me to add champagne to the bootblack for the members.” His eyes were wide as plates. “Frightfully posh, don’t you think?”

“Very elegant,” Kitty agreed solemnly. “Not to mention a little bit ridiculous,” she added in an exaggerated whisper.

“You think so too?”

“I do,” Kitty confessed, just before the butler shooed him away.

“I apologize for everyone here,” the butler muttered.

“Shelby despairs of us.” Tom’s eyes twinkled. “He’s usually at the house, but I confess we are not any better behaved over there. I hear you’re going to be my sister.”

“Oh. Um.”

He winked. “Don’t fret. I don’t expect you to reform him.”

“That’s a relief.” Kitty did not know what else to say. She smiled weakly. Did he know it was a sham betrothal? What exactly had Devil told him? “He must have a study here?”

“Just down that way.”

She peered down the hall. “I don’t want to give him fair warning. He might climb out the window.”

“That, I highly doubt. Third door on the right. Past the atrocious statue of Pan I gave him last Christmas. It was meant to go in his bedroom.”

Tom was quite correct, as it turned out. The statue was vaguely terrifying, but mostly because it stood out so starkly. Pan was all goat legs and horns and a happy, mischievous grin. The sheep at his feet…was not.

Statues of lambs should not be life-sized in the hallway. Nor should their eyes follow you around.

“His name is Oatcake,” Tom called out helpfully.

“No, thank you,” she called back. If she said his name, he might wake up. It seemed entirely possible.

She knocked on Devil’s door, because though she was uncouth enough to barrel ahead before the butler could introduce her, she was not entirely without manners. Aunt Priscilla’s opinion not withstanding. It was only that they were going to be late. And it was the first lead she had found in days. And she’d felt dreadful all day, and suddenly she did not feel dreadful.

“Come,” Devil ordered.

She tucked her tongue firmly into her cheek and decided not to answer with the first, most shocking thing that leapt to her mind at such a command. She entered the study, expecting bookshelves and leather chairs and brandy decanters.

She was not expecting a stunningly beautiful woman in her early forties with lustrous silver-shot black hair and the sultry elegance of Aphrodite come to life.

Kitty did not expect it because Kitty was an idiot.