Devil's Desire by Laurie McBain

for he had no intention of being challenged by Trevegne who was a deadly shot with pistols. No, he did not want him to know that he had a mortal enemy in Sir Jason Beckingham; better to let the noble Marquis think that the Joker held nothing against him. Ah, revenge would taste as sweet as honey in his mouth should he contrive some punishment for the almighty Lord Trevegne.
    A knock at the door broke into Sir Jason's thoughts as he stood gazing blindly out of the window.
    "Yes, yes, do enter!” Sir Jason commanded, turning around at the interruption.
    "If Sir Beckingham would be so kind as to come downstairs, 'is dinner be prepared and awaitin' 'im," Tibbitts announced heartily.
    "Very' well. I shall be down shortly, and by the way, has Lord Trevegne dined yet?" he asked Tibbitts in a casually bored tone.
    "No, 'e just went down," Tibbitts replied. Tibbitts gladly made his way down the narrow, rickety stairs, thinking that the brat was right, that buck had a mean look in his eye, all right. Bet he would be a nasty customer to cross. He shivered as he remembered the cold look in Sir Jason's eyes. His eyes roved over the big, rough plank table set for their dinner, and rested on his other guest standing meditatively before the big roaring fire, availing himself of its heat.
    Now there was another gentleman that he would hate to displease, Lord Trevegne, who often stopped at his inn when traveling the long distance to his estates in Cornwall. Aye, he had heard some things about His Lordship all right, and it boded nothing good to anyone who annoyed him. But then what could you expect from one of those foreigners from that inhospitable Cornish coast—a real no-man's-land from what he had heard.
    "Damned drafts," grumbled Tibbitts, as he tried to secure the windows more snugly, unsuccessfully cutting off the cool' drafts blowing in to disturb his guests.
    “ 'Ere ye are, Sir Beckingham." Tibbitts quickly pulled out a chair for Sir Jason, who had just entered the room, resplendent in a pink velvet coat and yellow breeches, orange and yellow striped vest, and white lacy cravat, stimy starched to stand high, and intricately tied in rows and rows of ruffles.
    Lord Trevegne slowly turned from his contemplation of the fire to look at the other guest as he entered, arching a dark brow as he recognized him.
    "Evening, Beckingham," Lord Trevegne drawled as he took the seat across from Sir Jason at the table. 'Am I to have the . . . pleasure of your company for this hearty repast we are about to indulge in?"
    "Lord Trevegne," Sir Jason acknowledged smoothly, conquering the panic he had felt as he had walked through the door, knowing hoe would come face to face with the Marquis. "It will be my pleasure to share your companionship, M'Lord," he said ingratiatingly, while wishing to plunge his dinner knife through Trevegne's black heart.
    He gave Lord Trevegne a curious look and asked conversationally, "You're a hell of a way from London on such a beastly night." He neatly speared a small boiled potato into his mouth, and began to cut a piece of the thick beef, rare and juicy, that filled his plate.
    "As it happens, I'm on my way to St. Fleur. But you happen to be out in it also."
    St.: Fleur, the Sainted Flower. Now that was a misnomer for the home of Lord Trevegne, Sir Jason thought in amusement. Why not name it St. Demon in honor of its master? "I'm here for the cockfights at Brown's Mill. Supposed to be some tough ones fighting—heard Rawsley had areal killer sent down from York," he explained, watching Trevegne take a thick slice of ham from the platter put down by the serving maid. Her low cut blouse revealed plump shoulders and breasts as she gave Trevegne an inviting look from her dimpled face, before collecting his empty tankard of ale to be refilled.
    "I didn't notice your coach out in the yard," Sir Jason inquired. "Surely you aren't traveling all the way to the coast on horseback in this weather?" he demanded, his face mirroring