Devil's Own Bargain

Devil’s Own Bargain

by

Mary Gillgannon

Previously published as The Man She Married under the pseudonym Molly Marcort

Kensington Publishing Corp. 2000

Copyright © 2000 by Mary Gillgannon

EBook published by Mary Gillgannon at Smashwords, 2012

Copyright © Mary Gillgannon, 2012

Cover art by Rae Monet

EBook design by A Thirsty Mind

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Reader Letter

Excerpt: Earl of Scandal

Titles

Mary Gillgannon

One

London 1819

This time Papa has gone too far, Caroline Beaumont thought uneasily as she stood in the doorway of the library. The man seated across from her father was clearly beside himself with anger. His black brows were drawn together in a scowl, his handsome features distorted with hatred. His tall, broad-shouldered form radiated a violent energy into the room, the force of which was directed at Merton Beaumont.

Caroline tried to decide whether to call for a servant. Then the man turned his head and she recognized him as Devon Langston, the earl of Northrup. She relaxed a fraction. It seemed unlikely the elegant earl would lay hands on her father, no matter how distressed he became. But what in heaven’s name were they talking about? Had Northrup come to discuss business, and her father turned the conversation toward some controversial political issue?

Merton Beaumont sometimes used that sort of diversion to distract his clients from the bargain at hand. Although Caroline often felt uncomfortable with her father’s methods, they had certainly proven effective. He had built the family wool mill business into one of the largest in England and amassed a sizeable fortune.

Who do you think you are? How dare you try to buy me! Lord Northrup’s deep voice rang out and he sprang out of his chair like a hunting dog ready for the kill. Caroline took a step back and wondered once more if she should seek out a footman. But stout Merton Beaumont appeared unperturbed by the other man’s threatening posture. He made a response in a low, calm voice, one that Caroline could not hear. Northrup sat down, still glowering, and the discussion continued.

Caroline told herself she should leave, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. The tension emanating from the dimly lit library both frightened and fascinated her. The scene playing out before her was a tantalizing contrast to the elaborate politeness and studied apathy of the world she normally dwelt in.

All at once Northrup rose and advanced toward the doorway. Caroline scarcely had time to step back as he swept by her without a glance and crossed the foyer. He tore open the heavy mahogany door and stalked out. As the door swung shut behind him with a thud, Caroline stood frozen. Finally she let out the breath she’d been holding, and still stunned, walked into the library.

Her father sat in his favorite horsehair armchair, swirling a brandy snifter. Carrie, darling. He got to his feet. Where have you been, my lambkin? Shopping on Bond Street? Taking the landau for a turn in Hyde Park? Or was it the subscription room today?

I came home early. Papa, what in heaven’s name were you speaking of with Lord Northrup? He left here in a positive rage.

A self-satisfied smile touched her father’s lips. Ah, so you do know the man.

Frowning, Caroline responded, I’ve seen him at a few soirees and musicals, but we’ve never been introduced.

What do you think of him, pet? Does he not cut a striking, figure?

The question startled Caroline. Why would her father ask such a thing? Papa?

Her father’s smiled deepened. Since you walked into the middle of it, I might as well tell you. I’m on the verge of betrothing you to a peer. If everything goes as planned, my first grandson will be a lord!

Caroline wracked her brain, considering every eligible man who’d paid a moment’s attention to her in the last fortnight. When no obvious aspirant came to mind, she grew uneasy. What had her father done? Accepted an offer from someone she didn’t even know, with Northrup acting as the man’s go-between?

Don’t you see what this means, lambkin? her father enthused. A family name that has been respected in society for generations—it will be yours, and your children’s, of course. I’ve bought us a title for a mere 100,000 pounds!

One hundred thousand pounds? she repeated in shocked amazement.

Her father patted her arm, still beaming. I know it must come as a surprise, but that was part of my plan. You won’t have to endure snide comments from sour-tempered misses and wart-faced dowagers any longer. You’ll be a lady of quality now. No one would dare cut the Countess of Northrup!

Caroline stared at her father in disbelief. He had betrothed her to wed the imposing, furious man who had just stormed past her without a word of greeting. Not Northrup! she exclaimed.

Her father nodded emphatically. Don’t you see? He’s perfect. I could scarce believe my good fortune when I learned he was in London again. His family name has been respected in society for generations. It will be yours and your children’s. I’ve bought us a title!

Caroline groped her way to the brown velvet settee and sat down. But Papa, you can’t buy me a husband like you would purchase a new machine for one of your mills! Why the very idea is... is...

But, I tell you, I have done it. Oh, his lordship acts outraged now, but he’ll get over it. My offer is simply too good for him to refuse.

Recalling Northrup’s fury, Caroline shook her head. He’s an earl, Papa. He has a substantial estate, probably several. He can’t need money that badly.

He does.

Her father’s smug smile sent a chill went down her spine. Why? Does he have gambling debts to settle?

By God, I’d never give my daughter to a gamester! I assure you, I’ve investigated Northrup thoroughly, and he doesn’t gamble to excess, nor frequent the brothels. In fact, if I’ve heard a complaint about the man, it’s that he keeps to himself overmuch.

I still don’t understand. Why would someone like Northrup be desperate for money?

Her father walked toward the fire, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Times are changin’, yes they are. Incomes from tenant farms ain’t as large as they once were, and a lot of the Quality is down on their luck. The country’s turning to factories, trade, men like me. Seems Northrup’s father put the estate pretty far in debt before he died, and the earl’s feeling the pinch. He needs blunt to keep up appearances.

Appearances. Even if he didn’t frequent the faro table, the earl might have other expensive habits. Plenty of young lords had been done up by racehorses or risky investments. A queasy feeling afflicted Caroline. How could her father do this to her?

He came and patted her shoulder. Don’t look so blue-deviled. I thought Northrup was exactly what we were aiming for. He’s young, respectable, and not a bad piece of horseflesh neither.

But if he weds me under these circumstances, Northrup will never respect me, she protested. He’ll see me as a crude little cit who married him for his title!

Bosh and nonsense, dear, he’ll think nothing of the kind. Society marriages are always made for financial reasons. Sometimes it takes the solicitors months to settle a marriage contract, what with dowries, jointures, trusts, portions and the like. I tell you, it’s the way it’s done among the beau monde. Sometimes they betroth their daughters before the little chits even leave the schoolroom. He patted her shoulder again. Cheer up, darling. Once Northrup settles down and sees what a fetching puss he’s wed, he’ll fall head over heels in love with you. No man in his right mind could fail to appreciate my lovely Carrie.

Caroline gave a helpless sigh. She should have imagined her father might try to do something like this. Ever since they’d come to London for the Season, she’d known he aimed high. A mere squire or baronet wouldn’t do. Her father would have her wed an earl or better.

She’d consoled herself with the thought that if no suitable offers were forthcoming, her father would have to lower his expectations and condone a more modest match, or allow her to retire to the country as a spinster.

After the rounds of balls, card parties and endless nights at Almack’s, the latter situation was beginning to have great appeal. She was weary of smiling politely as decrepit widowers stared at her bosom and clutched her hand in a clammy death grip, of contriving inane conversations with awkward young lords sent to London for a little town bronze. Living up to the exacting standards of the London marriage mart had become an ordeal.

Obviously, her father was also tired of waiting for an appropriate man to decide she would make a desirable wife. In typically ruthless fashion, he’d taken matters into his own hands.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Don’t you fret, my pet. I’ll arrange for Northrup to call tomorrow. You’ll see. One look at you and he’ll fall in love on the spot. Now, go upstairs and rest before dinner. I’ll have Cook prepare all your favorites. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a meal and a good night’s sleep, I know it.

Caroline rose woodenly from the settee. He only meant the best for her. So why did she feel so resentful and angry?

She climbed the stairs to the third floor of the town house and entered her spacious bedchamber. As she crossed to the chair by the fire, she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass above the dressing table. With her blond hair tumbled in a cunning froth of curls over her forehead and her fashionable apricot-and-cream striped daydress, trimmed with Belgian lace at the empire waist and coral ribbons at the hem, she looked like a fine lady of the ton.

But she wasn’t. Expensive clothes, years at the best seminary for young women in England, hours of elocution, music and drawing lessons—none of it could change the fact that she was the daughter of a Manchester cloth merchant. A cit. She’d heard the derogatory term behind her back a dozen times. It meant her family had amassed their fortune through the crass means of commerce, rather than being born into wealth and property.

A cit. The lowest rung on the London social ladder. They had money and audacity, and they were despised for it. But the beau monde couldn’t reject them altogether. As her father had pointed out, many of the noble families had recently come into hard times. Part of it was the extravagant manner of living fostered by the prince regent. And part of it was what her father had referred to—the wealth of the country shifting from land and agricultural products to factories and shipping. If Northrup did agree to marry her, he would hardly be the first impoverished lord to better his situation by wedding a merchant’s daughter.

Still, she’d never heard of a marriage arranged by the woman’s father directly offering the man money. It was demeaning, both to her and to Northrup. Obviously, the earl hadn’t taken the matter well. She’d never forget the look on his face as he left the library. Maybe he’d refuse the offer. She could always hope.

She sat at the dressing table and stared into the glass. If only her father wasn’t so very sure of Northrup. He must have some reason for his certainty that the earl would agree to wed her.

She rose restlessly. When she married, she wanted it to be to a man she respected and cared for, and to have an affectionate and tender relationship with her husband. That was what her parents had shared. She could still remember them talking together long into the night when she was very young and their bedchamber was close to hers.

But when she voiced this thought to her father when they first came to London, he’d pointed out that her mother and he were not gentry. Among the upper classes, marriages were almost never love matches, he said. He wanted better for her than they’d had. That’s why he’d struggled to get where he was, to make certain she never lacked for anything. He’d done it so she would one day have the opportunity to be a Lady of Quality.

She sighed heavily. It was her father’s dream, not hers. But how could she tell him that? He’d never listen. And he meant well. He loved her and truly wanted her to be happy.

Although her future happiness seemed very doubtful under the circumstances—married to a man who’d been paid to take her. It was humiliating.

She began to pace, thinking furiously. There must be some way out, some way to convince Northrup to refuse. What if she offered him money to decline the match? She had the inheritance left to her by her mother. Wealth she could offer Northrup not to wed her.

Exhilaration overtook her, but it was swiftly dampened by guilt. Here she was, plotting to ruin her father’s fondest ambition. But what else could she do? There was no hope she would find marital bliss with Lord Northrup, at least under the present circumstances. And if this marriage turned out badly, her father would be full of regret. This was the only way out, for all of them.

Caroline rang for her maid, Jeanette, and then began to take down her hair in preparation for dressing for dinner.

~ ~ ~

Devon Langley leaned back against the squabs of the rented hack and told himself he’d made the only choice he could. It was the devil’s own bargain, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Darton Park was safe. And Rafe was safe.

But even as he struggled to find relief and satisfaction in his choice, he couldn’t overcome the sense that he’d made the devil’s own bargain, allowing the obscenely rich Merton Beaumont to buy him off as if he were a Convent Garden doxy. It was humiliating. Degrading.

The anger came rushing back. He fought against it, telling himself to look at the matter as a simple and very lucrative business transaction. Many marriages were made on the basis of exchange of money or property. From what he’d heard, Caroline Beaumont was a well-brought up miss who would make a model wife and mother. All he had to do was give her his name, take her to bed a few times and all his troubles would be in the past.

The hundred thousand pounds Beaumont promised to pay him tomorrow would be enough to get the estate out of debt, get the cents-per-cents men off his back and satisfy the more disreputable characters who had claims against him. If all went well, he would end up moderately well off. He’d be able to renovate Darton House, pay for proper schooling for Rafe. Perhaps then the honor of Northrup could come to mean something respectable again.

No, that was too much to hope for. His father had tainted the name irrevocably. A vague sense of guilt intruded on his thoughts. Did Beaumont realize what a sinister legacy he’d purchased for his future grandson? Probably not. The man was too focused on the glory of mingling Devon’s blue blood with his own line to probe deeply into the past.

As the hansom left Mayfair, Devon pushed the dark thoughts from his mind and planned his next few days. Beaumont had promised to take care of all the arrangements for the wedding, the announcement in The Post, the church and minister. The merchant seemed to be in a great hurry for the marriage to take place. Indeed, things were moving so fast Devon realized he was going to have to rush to pay his creditors off before he left the city. He must visit Darton Park one more time before his marriage. Besides giving instructions to the servants, he needed to make certain Rafe didn’t require anything.

The whole matter of his son was problematic. Rafe was a bastard, so he couldn’t inherit the title, but Devon intended to see the boy was raised as a gentleman and provided with a comfortable income for the rest of his life. He hadn’t mentioned Rafe to Beaumont, for fear it would complicate the arrangements. But at some point he must publicly recognize his offspring. How would his new wife respond when she discovered she had an Irish bastard for a stepson? Perhaps she’d decline to live with them and return to London to set up housekeeping on her own.

That would be ideal. He had no desire to reside with this woman. It wasn’t that he had anything against her—how could when he’d scarcely met her? The glimpse he’d had of the chit in the hallway hardly counted, although he’d seen enough to know that she was as attractive as her father had implied. But he didn’t need a female complicating his life. He’d wed her, bed, and then get on with life. It was the way most society marriages went, so she could hardly complain. Her father had bought her a title. She’d have to be satisfied with that.

~ ~ ~

La, miss, is that your husband-to-be?

Caroline joined her petite, dark-haired maid by the window and observed the muddy and slightly shabby carriage in front of the house and the tall, black-haired earl coming up the walk. Yes, that’s him, she answered. Although we don’t know that he’s accepted the arrangement yet. He might be coming to tell my father he has no plans to marry me.

Well go down and convince him otherwise! Jeanette turned to face Caroline, her brown eyes alight. You’re not like to find a better-looking gent to wed in all of England... and an earl in the bargain!

Good looks and a title don’t necessarily make a man a good husband, Caroline reminded the maid in severe tones. If he despises me because I’m a merchant’s daughter, it’s unlikely to be a happy match.

Jeanette frowned. I didn’t realize you were on the outs with your father’s plan.

Of course I’m not on the outs with Papa’s plan. I’m simply stating my concerns.