Free The Devil to Pay by Liz Carlyle Page A

so.”
    Jean-Claude shrugged and snapped the miniature shut. “I can melt it down,” he suggested, carefully rewrapping it in the cloth. “Only the gold has value, for the leetle portrait, it is too easily identified and cannot come out without making ruin.”
    Sidonie took back the bundle. “No, I cannot do that.”
    Jean-Claude shot her a look of warning. “Eet eez very dangerous, madame, to keep such a thing.”
    Sidonie tried to smile. “I know,” she said. “Let me think on it. I shall be careful.”
    Their business concluded, Sidonie stood. “Go now, before George begins to wonder what’s become of you. I’ll have more trinkets in a fortnight or so.”
    Jean-Claude’s eyes widened. “Ah, I almost forget, no?” he said, digging into his pocket. “For last month’s shipment.” He pressed a roll of banknotes into her hand.
    “Oh, thank you, Jean-Claude.” Sidonie squeezed the money gratefully.
    He watched her in faint amusement. “What good deeds will your friend l’ange do weeth that, I wonder?”
    Sidonie smiled and tucked the banknotes into her reticule with Lord Devellyn’s baubles. “She will advance a generous sum to Lord Francis’s parlor maid,” she answered. “Whatever is left, the Angel will most likely deliver to Lady Kirton at the Nazareth Society.”
    Jean-Claude extended his hand. “Then I wish her well,” he said, pretending he did not know perfectly well who was perpetrating the thefts.
    Sidonie took his hand and squeezed it. “She sends you her gratitude.”
    Jean-Claude tightened his grip on her fingers and leaned very near. “Merci, madame, but also, I pass a leetle word of warning to her?” he whispered, his voice suddenly grave. “Her works are good, but the Marquess of Devellyn, he eez not one to be trifled with. You will tell her this, oui? She must choose her victims with more care.”
    Sidonie swallowed hard, and looked Jean-Claude straight in the eyes. “She made a mistake, perhaps,” she admitted. “I shall warn her.”
    “Oui, madame, you do that.”
    Sidonie smiled wryly. “Trust me, Jean-Claude, she will take care never to see Lord Devellyn again.”
    Then, with a wintry smile and an elegant bow, the young man kissed her knuckles and took his leave.
    Sidonie watched Jean-Claude go, a faint frisson of anxiety chasing up her spine. She forced herself to wait ten minutes, then gathered her wits and hastened out after him. Thank heaven she lived but a block away, for in ten minutes’ time, Miss Hannaday would arrive in Bedford Place for her lesson.
    Today she and Miss Hannaday were to review the order of precedence for nobility, then learn how to prepare a seating plan for a formal dinner. Such lessons were a good arrangement for both of them, since Sidonie needed the money, and poor Miss Hannaday needed to grasp all of society’s nuances if she meant to marry Lord Bodley.
    To Sidonie, such social skills had come almost as second nature. Her mother had been that most rare of creatures; a beautiful, well-bred courtesan with an impeccable lineage and a natural grace. Sidonie’s grandparents had been minor nobility cast on hard times after the French Revolution. They had raised their only daughter in genteel poverty, educated her in the convent school, and shipped her across the Channel in the hope that her charm and beauty would catch the eye of some wealthy Englishman.
    The plan had worked, so far as it went. Claire Bauchet caught the eye of the paunchy, middle-aged Duke of Gravenel, whose daughter she was tutoring in French. But Gravenel was no Prince Charming, and their relationship was no fairy tale. He impregnated his young French teacher, then stood idly by as his wife tossed her into the street. Then, and only then, did Gravenel make Claire an offer. She could be his mistress. Or she could starve. The choice was entirely hers.
    Claire was not the sort of woman who starved.
    As mistress to the wealthy Gravenel, Claire Bauchet eventually became famous for