Free The Devil to Pay by Liz Carlyle Page B

her lavish entertainments and elegant dinner parties. She began to enjoy her power and turn the heads of men younger and more powerful than her protector. Many of England’s most influential noblemen dined at Madame Bauchet’s table, including the Prince Regent himself. But England’s noble women, that was another thing altogether. Ladies of the ton did not “know” women like Claire, despite the fact that she and her two children lived in Mayfair’s exclusive Clarges Street, not a stone’s throw from the Duke of Clarence’s mistress and their vast brood.
    Sidonie and George hardly constituted a brood, but they had still garnered plenty of stares and whispers. She had been little more than a toddler when George had finally taken her aside and explained to her how the world worked, and why their father did not live with them. For Sidonie, it had been a true loss of innocence.
    She surely did not wish a loss of innocence on Miss Hannaday, but with a fiend like Bodley, that was just what the poor child was apt to get. Perhaps something ought to be done? Something more drastic than simply finding Miss Hannaday’s beloved clerk a job? Lost in such musings, Sidonie hastened round the corner into Bedford Place, barely watching where she was going. As usual, two or three carriages were parked along the street. Foolishly, she did not pay attention to them, not even the nearest one, which sat almost opposite her house. Indeed, she was almost at a run when she passed by it.
    Suddenly, something dark and hard slammed into her forehead. Sidonie hit the pavement like a sack of mortar, literally seeing stars. Next she knew, someone was kneeling beside her and trying to help her to her feet. “Good God, I did not see you!” the man exclaimed, sliding a hand beneath her shoulders. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”
    The stars finally winked themselves away, and gingerly, Sidonie sat up, touched her forehead, and groaned. She was slowly becoming aware of the pavement, cool and faintly damp beneath her hips, and the warm smell of cologne from above. “Wha—What happened?” she managed as the man lifted her to her feet almost effortlessly.
    “I am so sorry,” said the man. “I believe I hit you in the head with my carriage door.”
    Sidonie tried to focus on his face. “You hit me?”
    “Miss, I did not see you,” he protested. “You darted out of nowhere. Did you not see my carriage was pulling to the curb?”
    “No, I—I didn’t realize…”
    Behind her, Sidonie heard his coachman leap down. “Is the lady all right, my lord?”
    “Just a nasty bump, Wittle,” the man reassured him. “Go tell Fenton to wrap up some ice. I shall carry the lady inside.”
    Still dazed, Sidonie let the man get his arm almost beneath her knees before pushing him away. “I am fine, sir,” she said, one hand still pressed to her throbbing lump. “Really, I am.”
    “Really, you are?” he echoed skeptically. “Then tell me, miss, how many fingers am I holding up?”
    Out of sheer stubbornness, Sidonie forced her eyes to focus, and she had to look up—far, far up—to do so. And then it was certainly not his fingers which caught her eye. Instead, it felt as if something slammed unexpectedly into the backs of her knees, and she’d sagged halfway to the pavement again when Lord Devellyn caught her.
    This time, he scooped her up effortlessly and headed for his front door. “I thought as much,” he murmured, swishing her skirts gracefully through the entryway. “Honeywell, shut the door and draw the drapes. I believe she’s got a mild concussion.”
    Sidonie was settled onto a velvet divan in a dark, richly colored drawing room and tried at once to sit up. She really did not want Lord Devellyn touching her. But the man set a strong, warm hand on her shoulder. “Really, miss, I must insist,” he said, kneeling as if to better examine her. “Fenton!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Fenton! Is there a physician in this part of