Page 72 of The Devil's Pawn

“For the sake of argument, pretend he will. Would you want to stick around and give things a proper shot?”

I twist my lips to one side, giving her question fair consideration. “I’m not sure. Maybe. Although I’ll be twenty-two soon. I’d kind of like to have sex before I die.”

Emma chuckles, then changes the subject, but my mind keeps returning to her question. If Alexander allowed me to take up a job and showed me more of his softer side, then perhaps there would be a future for us after all. Except I cannot see him doing either of those things. It can’t hurt to ask him about the job again, though, and I will. When the right time presents itself.

An hour later, the car stops outside Harrods department store. As we step onto the sidewalk, Alexander’s window rolls down.

“Be here at exactly four o’clock this afternoon. Don’t be late.”

The car pulls into the busy lanes of traffic, leaving Emma and me flanked by two bodyguards. A surge of exhilaration courses through me. I slide my arm through Emma’s. “Come on, let’s go crazy.”

We shop, get mani-pedis, and have our hair styled. As we’re leaving Harrods to grab some lunch, someone calls out to me.

“Imogen?”

I turn in the direction the shout came from.

“Vicky!” I hug her. “It’s great to see you.”

“You, too. I’m surprised Alexander’s let you out of Oakleigh. That’s where personalities go to die, you know.”

I laugh. “It’s all thanks to Emma.” I introduce my best friend to the woman I still hope will be something of an ally to me while I’m here. “We’re just going for some lunch. Would you like to join us?”

“I would, thanks. I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but she’s had to bail. How about Claridges? We’re a little early for afternoon tea, but their lunch menu is divine.”

“Will we be back by four?” I ask, unsure how far away Claridges is from Harrods. “Alexander’s due back then.”

Vicky winks. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Emma grins. “You’re my kind of girl, Vicky.”

I agree. She’s daring, mischievous, and reminds me a lot of Emma.

My bodyguards drive us to Claridges, hovering behind us as Vicky strides inside with her head high and shoulders back, as though she belongs, which I guess she does. I still feel like an interloper, despite coming from money myself. There seems to be a difference between American money and British money, whether real or imagined. My confidence takes a further dip when the maître d’ looks down his nose at us and tells Vicky that lunch is fully booked, and has been for several months.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” I say, half turning away.

Vicky grabs my hand and tugs me to her side. “Do you know who this is? Would you like me to tell Alexander De Vil that you turned his wife away?”

Her words have an immediate effect. The man flushes bright red, apologies falling from his lips as he grabs three menus and ushers us into the dining room. He makes several more apologies, snaps his fingers at a server, andannounces loudly that we are VIPs, and to ensure we are well taken care of.

“Knew it’d work like a charm,” Vicky says. “He crapped his pants when I mentioned Alexander.”

“Gotta be some benefits to being married to the Devil,” I mutter.

We dig into the tastiest salmon I’ve ever eaten, and I use the time to ask a few questions about the De Vils and Vicky’s family connection to them, explaining to Emma how Elizabeth is due to marry Nicholas soon. Turns out the Montagues and the De Vils go way back, but this is the first time they’ll be connected by marriage rather than through business interests. I watch Vicky carefully as she talks about her sister’s engagement, but if the idea of it upsets her, she hides it well. I’m sure I didn’t misread what I saw at the ball, though, so I press a little harder.

“I would have thought, as the older sister, you’d have been promised to Nicholas instead.”

There’s the slightest pause before she answers. It’s less than a second, but I pick up on it. “Good God. Can you imagine Nicholas and me together?” She laughs, a tinny hollowness to the sound. “No, Beth is a much better match for him. She doesn’t answer back, and that’s what De Vil men demand of their women.”

“I answer Alexander back.”

“Hell yeah, you do,” Emma says.

“Yes, but I bet you’re smart about it, like a hidden assassin, slipping cyanide into everyone’s drinks, and the first time they realize something is wrong is when they’re writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth. Whereas me? I’m more obvious. I’m the bullet between the eyes kind of gal, or the hunting knife between the ribs. Me and Nicholas gettinghitched would only end in bloodshed. My parents knew this, and so did Nicholas, which is why he chose Beth when given the choice. And thank goodness he did.”

Her response is a little too practiced, but if she was ready to tell me about her feelings for Nicholas, then she would have.

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