The Devil You Know (Rutledge Family, Book 3) - Softcover

During her frequent travels through England, Liz Carlyle always packs her pearls, her dancing slippers, and her whalebone corset, confident in the belief that eventually she will receive an invitation to a ball or a rout. Alas, none has been forthcoming. While waiting, however, she has managed to learn where all the damp, dark alleys and low public houses can be found. Liz hopes she has brought just a little of the nineteenth century alive for the reader in her popular novels, which include the trilogy of One Little Sin, Two Little Lies, and Three Little Secrets, as well as The Devil You Know, A Deal With the Devil, and The Devil to Pay. Please visit her at LizCarlyle.com, especially if you're giving a ball.

Chapter One

In which Mrs. Weyden's warnings go Unheeded.

"Tout vient à celui qui sait attendre," muttered Frederica d'Avillez. Her tone made it sound more like a curse than a proverb. It was, she supposed, just a remnant of some long-ago French lesson which now kept repeating itself over and over in her head until it became maddening, rather like that big green and yellow bird she'd once seen swinging on a wire in a Piccadilly shop window. All comes to him who knows how to wait. What a bloody stupid saying. And an egregious lie, too.

At the stable door, she stared grimly into the night for a long, uncertain moment, then forced back her shoulders and marched off in the direction of the terraced gardens. As she paced, Frederica tapped her crop impatiently against her thigh, the muted sting somehow keeping her tears at bay, much as her silly proverb had done for the last several months. The words had given her hope during a miserable come-out season in London. And they had sustained her at home here in Essex while she anxiously awaited Johnny's return from his grand tour.

Well, much good her patience had done her! She should have gone to Scotland with Zoö and the little ones. Instead, she was stuck here with Aunt Winnie and the menfolk, and she and Johnny were done for. Ruthlessly, Frederica shoved a bough of hemlock from her face and pushed on through the shimmering moonlight, her riding boots digging hard into the gravel as she hit the garden path. Here, at the bottom terrace, the gardens were allowed to grow thick and natural. High above in the distance, someone had left a lantern burning by the back door. Frederica should have found it welcoming, but she didn't.

The night was cool but not damp, the air thick with the scent of freshly turned earth. She drew in another steadying breath, and a sudden sense of despair almost overwhelmed her. It drew at her lungs and wracked her shoulders, but she fought it down and picked up her stride. Anger was a better emotion. And she was angry. Spitefully so. The fierce desire to hurt someone was almost frightening. She had come home from London for no good reason. She had been mistaken. Despite all his whispered pleas and smoldering glances, Johnny Ellows, it seemed, had not meant to marry her at all.

Abruptly, she jerked to a halt, scarcely seeing the next flight of steps which loomed up in the moonlight ahead. How could she have been so mistaken? How could she have been so stupid?

Because she was a silly little girl.

Well, the truth hurt, did it not? Things were no different here at home than they had been in London. The surroundings were just more familiar. Society, and apparently even the rural gentry, could always find cause to look down on her. Suddenly, Frederica felt as inadequate in Essex as she had in town. At that thought, something inside her snapped. As if it possessed a will of its own, Frederica's riding crop struck a whacking good blow at the next swag of evergreen, sending snippets of foliage spinning into the night. Unleashing her rage felt oddly satisfying. She was tired of being so perfect, so placid, so bloody damned...restrained. So, again and again, she thrashed at the greenery which verged on the paths and steps, all the while making her way briskly up the terraces.

"He loves me not!" she hissed, striking a blow at the juniper on her left. "Not! And not! And not!" A row of bare-branched forsythia fell victim, dry twigs splintering hither and yon. Stems of yew twirled wildly off into the darkness. The sharp tang of evergreen surrounded her, and still she pushed on, venting her wrath on whatever shrub the moonlight spilt over. The hot press of tears threatened. Oh, Johnny! She had thought...he had said...

But apparently not.

He was to wed his cousin in May. On his father's orders, he had said. He loved Frederica madly, had always loved her, but he could not risk being cut off. There would be no estate, no lovely manor house.

Frederica had reminded him of her generous dowry, but it had done no good. Perhaps his cousin had one larger? The lump in her throat had kept her from asking. So, with a sad smile, Johnny had lifted her hand to his lips and had taken his leave of her forever.

And yet Frederica had heard too well what had gone unsaid. Her blood was not blue enough -- or English enough -- for the virtuous Squire Ellows. And her cousins' titles, money, and influence notwithstanding, Frederica had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and so she was a bastard -- an orphaned foreign bastard -- the worst thing you could be in England, or so it seemed tonight.

She had almost reached the upper terrace which was rimmed with a low stone wall and flanked with a row of boxwoods. The lantern still swung from its hook by the back door, the pale yellow light spilling across the flagstones. Drawing back her whip, she gave the nearest boxwood one last thrashing.

"Jesus Christ Almighty!" exclaimed a raspy masculine voice.

Frederica leapt back, her hand flying to her mouth.

A broad, dark shape emerged from behind the boxwood, his hands working furiously at the close of his trousers. "Bloody hell, Freddie!" barked the man around the stub of a glowing cheroot. "Give a chap an apoplexy, why don't you?"

Heart in her throat, Frederica leaned forward to peer into the shadows. And then, as he buttoned his trousers, she saw a familiar gold signet ring winking at her in the moonlight. "Oh, good Lord!" she groaned. "Bentley Rutledge, is that you? What, pray, are you about?"

Rutledge gave a bark of laughter and hitched up his last trouser button. "What's it look like, Freddie love?" He unclamped the cheroot between his teeth and cocked one hip against the stone wall. "Try to give a little warning next time."

"For pity's sake, Rutledge! Didn't Tess put a slop pot under your bed?"

But her initial shock having faded, Frederica was not especially embarrassed. She had known Rutledge forever, it seemed. He was her cousin Gus's best friend and a favorite at Chatham Lodge, a house which was usually filled cheek-by-jowl with visitors. And although Aunt Winnie could often be overheard exclaiming that Rutledge was an unconscionable rake, her eyes were always twinkling when she said it. Frederica looked Rutledge up and down. Winnie had said some other things, too. Things unmarried young ladies probably weren't supposed to overhear.

But Frederica had overheard them, and she did not doubt for one moment that they were true. Rutledge was a tall, handsome devil with melting brown eyes, a wicked grin, and thick, dark hair which was always too long. In fact, now that she thought on it, he seemed to get handsomer with every passing year. And bigger. And broader. He was strong, too. On Boxing Day, he had caught her beneath the mistletoe. She remembered how he had set his big hands about her waist so that his thumbs almost touched. And then he had lifted her effortlessly into the air, twirling her round as he kissed her -- full on the mouth, too.

But it meant absolutely nothing. Every year around Christmastime, Rutledge would catch and kiss all the ladies -- Aunt Winnie, Cousin Evie, and even Zoö, whom no one else dared to kiss, because even though she was illegitimate, her father was the great Lord Rannoch. But this year, Rutledge had snatched Frederica up when no one else was about. He had given her the usual swift, smacking kiss. And then, strangely, he had seemed to falter. He almost forgot the twirling part, then the kiss softened somehow, as if their mouths had parted slightly. Then he had lowered her very

slowly, their bodies brushing, his eyes never leaving hers. When her toes again touched the floor, Frederica had felt all hot and strange. But Rutledge had turned away at once. And that had been the last time he'd kissed her -- or anyone -- beneath the mistletoe.

How strange that she should remember that tonight. Good Lord, she had a tragedy on her hands. Her grief over Johnny flooded back. "I'm sorry to have startled you, Rutledge," she said, fumbling awkwardly with her riding crop. "But it is a bit past midnight. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Oh, I should?" In the moonlight, she could see his very large, very white teeth as he grinned. Rutledge was always grinning at her. "And what of yourself, sweet? Slipping back from the stables so late? Who's the lucky fellow?"

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. "None of your business," she finally snapped.

At that, Rutledge slid away from the stone wall and stood a bit unsteadily. "Why, Freddie!" he whispered, grinding his cheroot beneath his boot heel. "It's young Ellows, isn't it? Ah, those Cambridge men have all the luck!"

The jest was like a knife in her heart, stabbing swift and deep. Frederica placed a steadying hand on the stone newel post. "Why must you always tease me, Rutledge?" she demanded, fighting her tears with scorn. "And why is it that you never turn up here unless you're avoiding some scandal? Or her husband? And speaking of scandal, why are you wandering the gardens alone? Can you find no better company than me?"

In the lamplight, Rutledge crooked one eyebrow and moved toward her with his easy, loose-limbed grace. "I was just finishing a smoke, Freddie," he said more gently. "Your cousins and I got back late from the Wrotham Arms, that's all. Gus thought we'd best walk Trent up and down the terrace for a bit. He and Theo just hauled him up to bed. The poor lad will pay for his sins on the morrow, I'll wager."

Frederica swished her skirts past Rutledge and started up the last three steps. "His sins?" she echoed, her back already turned to him. "And the rest of you are pure as the driven snow, I'm sure."

"Pax, Freddie!" Rutledge laughed, seizing her

lightly by the shoulder and turning her face back toward his. "What the devil's got into you?"

And then he saw. Frederica realized it when the sparkle slowly melted from his eyes. "Aw, Freddie, what's all this?" he murmured, his hand heavy through the wool of her habit. He lifted the other hand to cup her jaw and slid the ball of his thumb beneath her eye. "Crying? Why? Who? Give me a name, love. I swear to God, he'll be dead by dawn."

At that, Frederica erupted into something which was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. Killing Johnny -- or at least maiming him -- was just the sort of thing Rutledge might do, too, if she asked. But her tears were flooding forth now.

On a sharp sigh, Rutledge caught her hand and hauled her hard against him, sending her hat tumbling into the grass. "Oh, shush, Freddie, shush," he crooned, wrapping a strong arm about her waist. "Don't cry, love. Oh, don't cry. I'm sorry I teased you. I oughtn't have. Just don't cry."

His sympathy made it worse. Or better. She wasn't sure. But on the next awful sob, she threw her arms around his neck. Rutledge settled one big hand on her spine and began to ease it up and down. It was a strong, heavy hand, and Frederica needed someone's touch. It didn't much matter that it was Bentley Rutledge, the worst rogue in all of Christendom. One couldn't help but like him, and, for all his wicked ways, he always made her feel comfortable. He was never arrogant or formal or cold. He was just...Bentley.

He was patting her back now. "Shush, shush," he crooned.

"Oh, Bentley, I'm just so miserable!" she whimpered. And then Frederica allowed herself the rare luxury of burying her face against his lapel and sniveling pathetically. He smelled of horse, tobacco, and far too much brandy, yet his strength and his touch were inescapably masculine.

But she should be hugging Johnny.

The notion came out of nowhere, blindsiding her. Frederica drew breath again, and another sob shuddered through her. In response, Rutledge tucked her head firmly beneath his chin and drew her tight against his length. "What happened, Freddie?" he whispered, brushing his lips against her hair. "Did someone hurt you? Who? You can always tell old Bentley."

And in that instant, she knew that he was right. Bentley Rutledge was just the sort of gentleman one could confide in, because he'd doubtless seen every sort of wickedness life could offer up -- and he knew how to keep his mouth shut, too. "It-it-it's Johnny Ellows," she sobbed. "He doesn't want to m-marry me after all."

She felt his hand stop, felt his fingers dig into her spine. "The deuce!" he softly cursed. "That two-faced dog! He's been hanging out after you since you put your braids up."

"I know!" wailed Frederica into Rutledge's coat. "But now his father says he has to m-m-marry his cousin!"

"Oh, his father says!" The derision rumbled in Rutledge's broad chest. "Well, his father is a pompous prig! Ellows doesn't deserve you. Not by half. Gus and I have always said so. And now we know he's gutless in the bargain."

Frederica sniffed again. "What do you mean?"

Rutledge tucked her a little closer. "Ah, Freddie, a man would be a fool not to put up a fight for you," he murmured, patting her lightly on the head now. "I would, were I in his shoes. But -- well, I'm not. Wouldn't do at all, of course! All I'm trying to say is that if Johnny Ellows doesn't have the ballocks to -- damn! Your pardon, Freddie, but if he doesn't have 'em, then you can do better. Much better."

But Frederica could only shake her head against the rough wool of Rutledge's coat. "But no one else has ever wanted me," she managed to whisper. "And no one ever will. I know! I spent a whole season in London, and not one gentleman proposed. It's because they think I'm not good enough. Not legitimate enough. So it just seemed easier to come home and m-marry Johnny after all. But even Johnny doesn't want me! And now I'm destined to just shrivel up and die an old maid."

She felt Rutledge's body go rigid. "Hush, Freddie." It was an unmistakable reprimand. "Your cousin Gus said you were the prettiest girl in London last season. Those town fops just heard you were already spoken for. Or maybe they were intimidated by your guardian, Lord Rannoch."

"Oh, it's not Elliot!" Frederica sobbed. "It's because of m-my mother. And -- and, well, no one can be pretty enough to overcome that."

"Balderdash!" His voice was oddly choked. "You're beautiful enough to overcome any obstacle. Trust me on this, love, because I'm about as jaded as a man can get."

At that, Frederica lifted her face to his, and almost wished she hadn't. Rutledge was staring at her with a gaze that made her breath catch. His mouth was no longer smiling, and his deep brown eyes had gone curiously soft, just as they'd done on Boxing Day.

A long, strange moment held sway. Later, Frederica wasn't perfectly sure why she did it, but she lifted herself onto her tiptoes, pushing her breasts flat against Rutledge's chest. And, oddly, while she was doing it, Frederica was thinking of Johnny -- or, rather, thinking of how she had wasted herself on him. She was almost nineteen years old, and she was ready to experience life -- real life. Perhaps Rutledge was right. Perhaps Johnny did not deserve her. A mean-spirited little part of her wanted to make him sorry for what he had done and was wondering if she should just ask Bentley to break his legs after all. But most of her brain had already forgotten about Johnny and was thinking only of how Bentley's hands and mouth had felt on hers all those weeks ago.

"Bentley?" Her voice had gone all croaky somehow. "Do you remember last Christmas?"

He was very quiet for a moment. "Might do, Freddie. Why?"

"I mean, when you...you kissed me? On Boxing Day?"

He drew in a slow, deep breath. ...