Piqued, Repiqued and Capoted

TITLE: Piqued, Repiqued and Capoted
AUTHOR: Flyingskull
SOURCE: Heyer's "Devil's Cub" and X-Men comic books
PAIRINGS: Logan/Remy/Kurt
ARCHIVE: Do not archive, please.
RATING: NC 17
WARNING: Kinkiness inside.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own the X-Men and don't own the Heyer characters. I do this purely for fun.
NOTE 1: This first chapter is not kinky and not NC 17, but as the next chapter will be both, I have given the overall rating and warning to this story.
NOTE 2: In "Devil's Cub", not one of dear Georgette's best, there's an incredibly slashy scene between Vidal, the Devil's cub and the 'nobody' his cousin wants to marry. How could I resist? Vidal, devil's cub... Remy! The others fell into place so well they got given cameos except for Kurt who got co-opted in a peculiar valet's role. I don't know if I can call this a crossover because it's more taking the X-Men and making them act the part of Heyer's characters. I've tried to keep their X-ness and personalities intact (I even keep the mutant powers), but I beg pardon if I haven't succeeded as well as I hoped. This is a PWP and sheer crazyness, so I hope nobody will be offended.
FEEDBACK: Yes please please please! *bats lashes and makes puppy eyes*


PIQUED, REPIQUED AND CAPOTED


The man lolling in the coach traversing London at a murderous pace appeared to be fast asleep, or drunk. He sprawled, oblivious to the rattling of the modish vehicle; bla black and silver tricorne pulled down on his face.

His carriage was elegant, his body long and deceptively slender, clad in black velvet and silver lace, his beautiful white hands plunged deep in his coat pockets. The light of the passing flambeaus fired pure white from diamonds half hidden in foaming lace.

In a surprising short time, the coach left the eons ons of the city and sped through Hounslow Heath. All of a sudden a shot made the horses plunge, the coachman curse and the groom cry out in terror. The gentleman in the carriage raised his head and yawned, but did not otherwise move.

The light of the moon showed a man's head in silhouette in the coach's window and a coarse voice commanded: 'Hand over the pretties, my hearty!"

The man in the coach languidly removed the pin from the cascade of lace at his throat and made to proffer it. The diamond sparkled rosy red and in an instant the pin was embedded in the highwayman's eye and exploding.

The man barely had time to avert his head to avoid being spattered with the unfortunate bandit's brains.

'Well?' he drawled. 'What are we waiting for?' His voice was bored and indifferent, but his coachman shivered in terror.

'Nothing, my lord,' he quavered and cracked his whip. The horses resumed their gallop and the groom, hanging on for dear life, whispered in the coachman's ear: 'We're leaving, just like that?'

'You've seen that man's head. There's nothing we can do.'

The groom licked his dry lips, thinking of the dead man left to wallow in his blood. 'How old is he?' he asked.

'Four and twenty or thereabouts.'

'Four and twenty? And he kills his man as cool as you please and leaves the corpse to the scavengers?'

The coachman was intent on the road, but a death's head grin made his teeth glitter in the moonlight. 'That's the Quality for you, my boy,' he said.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lady Montacute's drum was a splendid success. All the Beau Monde had graced it with their presence, innumerable candles were reflected in diamonds, emeralds and sapphires in a kaleidoscope of elegance and beauty. Lady Mist, languidly fanning herself with a creation by the great Chasserau, was talking to her old friend Sir Henry McCoy.

She had elected to wear a Soupir d'Etuffes figured gown worn over a pale grey petticoat held by stiff panniers, which set off her blue skin to perfection. Her hair was piled up on her head in a daring Chien Couchant, and her age took nothing from her allure.

She had been known as Mistique in her somewhat reckless youth and Sir Henry, towering over her, was very happy to cast a knowledgeable eye over the twin mounds of her still very firm breasts, while vaguely attending to her chatter.

'My dear Henry I vow and declare I never go anywhere but what I hear of that abominable boy!' she was saying. 'And never anything good! People are saying is he wickedly blood-thirsty or something equally disagreeable and it's quite true, you know, but one doesn't want the whole world to say so!

'They call him Devil's Cub, you know? And it's no use to tell me that they of course would, with those eyes, because I know for a fact that *that* has nothing to do with it. Jean of course laughs, well she would, he's got her fiery temper, and says that mechant Remy is really thoughtless. Thoughtless!'

She closed her fan with a snap and said with some asperity: 'As for Xavier, sometimes I think he does not care at all what happens to Remy.'

Sir Henry lat his gaze wander to the tall arrogant figure adroitly flirting with two tittering damsels at the same time. 'After all,' he slowly said, 'Remy is so very like him.'

'Lud, if you intend to be mean to my poor Xavier, I shall not listen!' said Lady Mist sharply rapping her friend's blue fur with her fan. 'For all his past follies, he was never such a devil as LeBeau! My dear brother may have been reckless, but he was never callous!'

'He's just a boy, Mistique.'

'That makes it even worse!' she said. 'He think he can be forgiven everything because of his… yes, devilish charm, but he won't be. He'll pass allnds nds and kill someone important and he'll be forced to live abroad! Mark my words, that dreadful boy is riding to his own perdition!'

'And spoil your dream, is that your fear?' Sir Henry's voice was tinged with sarcasm. After all he knew his Mistique, no matter that he still lusted after her. He knew her failings and her ruthless ambition to have her daughter marry her cousin, the indecently rich and murderous Marquis of LeBeau.

~~~~~~~~~

The Marquis was endeavouring to persuade a lovely bride that cuckolding her husband was the only think she needed to get a cachet in Society, when an ungentle hand plucked forcefully at his sleeve. Mildly annoyed he turned to chastise the offender and found himself face to face with Miss Mist.

'Good God!' he said 'I've stumbled into a family gathering!'

'Don't be so disagreeable, LeBeau,' that enchanting damsel said rather pettishly. 'There is something I particularly desire to ask you.'

'You can spare your breath, Rogue,' he said. 'I never do anything for anybody.'

'Not even for me?' she said, batting her long lashes.

'No.'

'You are frightfully disobliging,' she pouted. 'It quite resolves me not to marry you.'

'I had hoped it might,' said his lordship calmly.

'Oh, don't be so afraid!' she giggled. 'I'm going to marry someone quite different.'

'Are you?' said the Marquis evincing faint signs of interest. 'Does your mother know?'

'You are wicked and most hatefully rude, Remy,' Miss Mist said, 'but at least I never have to explain things to you. Mama knows and that's why she is packing me to France.'

'Is she? Are you contemplating a misalliance?'

Miss Mist stiffened in every line of her generous figure. 'It is no such thing!' she declared. 'He may not be a brilliant match or have a title, but all the titled men are like you and you would make a horrid husband.'

'So wise for your tender years…' his lordship murmured, amused. 'I like your hair,' he said, 'you shall be all the rage in France.'

'I want you to meet him,' Miss Mist ordered, ignoring the Marquis' base try at diverting her thoughts. 'Come with me.'

She grabbed his lordship arm eliciting a protest.

'So impetuous, Rogue!' he said, while being ignominiously dragged towards a small salon. 'You must learn to mend your ways, chere. You can't go around dragging gentlemen along as if they were little more than parcels.'

'I'm dragging *you*,' Miss Mist replied tartly. 'You are my cousin, after all.'

'But surely a gentleman, for all that.' His lordship countered suavely.

A most inelegant snort greeted this sally; but, as soon as the cousins entered the small and deserted salon, Miss Mist's face softened and she let go of the Marquis' arm.

LeBeau's gaze alit on a gentleman looking out of a window. The man was short and stocky, with powerful bulging muscles imperfectly concealed by evening clothes. He had quite rightly chosen a coat of severe cut and subdued hue, he wore Lunardi lace at his throat and wrists and a black solitaire adorned his cravat. He wore a square signet ring on one finger, and he had plainly eschewed the services of a coiffeur. His unpowdered hair stood up in odd tufts here and there.

'Lord! What is the matter with you, Rogue?' expostulated the Marquis, who had begun to suspect his cousin had taken leave of her senses. The man by the window turned at the sound of his voice, and LeBeau hastily repudiated his first impression.

The man's face was strong and conveyed the impression of a savage nature barely held in check; his eyes were blue, and so intense his gaze seemed to scorch the air. For a moment, LeBeau had the disquieting impression of standing naked before that magnetic and powerful being, and this annoyed him so much, that he vouchsafed the other nothing more than a slight inclination of the head.

The man seemed to realise this and bowed with careless elegance, his rather cruel lips curled into an ironic smile. 'Logan Wolverine, at your service,' he said.

'La, Logy!' Rogue exclaimed, diverted. 'You are very punctilious tonight!' She tapped Mr. Wolverine coquettishly with her fan. 'This uncouth gentleman is my cousin, Remy Marquis of LeBeau,' she said. 'He is very disagreeable, but he will help us.'

'I understand you judge the match unequal, my lord,' Wolverine said in a mesmerising rasp, 'but I assure you I own a considerable property in Nottinghamshire and Lord Carlisle will speak for me at need.'

By this time LeBeau had recovered his poise and waved a languid hand. 'My dear sir,' he said, amused, 'I'm not Rogue's guardian, tell it to her brother. However,' he added maliciously, 'if you're really set on marrying the chit, I urge you to elope with her. Her family will never give their consent. Now, if you will excuse me…' he murmured and bowed himself out.

For a long moment Mr. Wolverine's eyes burned into the retreating man's back, then he turned his attention once more to his wilful intended.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Timothy's was a discreet-looking establishment in a street off St. James, the windows were thickly curtained, but when a funereal clad porter admitted my lord Carlisle and his protégé, Mr. Wolverine fairly blinked at the blaze of lights within the house. The black clad porter has startled him, but Carlisle explained that was a whim of LeBeau's.

'The Marquis owns a gaming hell?' said Mr Wolverine, greatly surprised.

'Oh, no! But Timothy was in his father's employ once, so he strives toase ase his former master's son. Though I must tell you,' Carlisle said, pursing his lips in disapproval, 'that it wouldn't surprise me in the least, if LeBeau chose to open a gaming hell. It's the only thing he seems not to have done. He's a peep of dawn boy, you know,' he continued. 'Frequents the Hellfire Club, or so I'm told; and if rumour has it right, he's been seen at least once in Mother Clap's Molly House!'

'Really?' Mr. Wolverine sounded more interested than scandalised at these disclosures and Lord Carlisle was forced once again to reflect on the unreadability of his protégé's face and voice.

The had reached the head of the stairway, and Lord Carlisle led the way into one of the gaming rooms. It was somewhat crowded and apparently given to pharaoh and deep basset. My lord passed through it and led Mr. Wolverine through an archway and into a second and smaller apartment. The rattle of dice sounded and Mr. Wolverine's eyes brightened.

'H'm, LeBeau's bank,' he grunted. 'I should not play if I were you.'

Mr. Wolverine perceived my lord LeBeau at the end of a table, a glass at his elbow. His cravat was loosened, and a strand of lightly powdered cinnamon hair had escaped the riband that tied it at the nape of the neck and was falling enticingly over one eye. He wore a coat of purple velvet, heavily laced and a flowered waistcoat, one or two of the buttons of which had come undone.

LeBeau looked pale in the candlelight, and rather more dissipated than usual. He glanced up, as Mr. Wolverine drew near the table, but his eyes, which seemed more than usually brilliant, betrayed no recognition.

Carlisle tugged at Mr. Wolverine's sleeve. 'Better play pharaoh,' he muttered. 'LeBeau is in a wild humour, by the look of it. See who's at the table? Oh! You wouldn't know.-fac-faced fellow in a bag-wig. Name's Creed. There's bad blood between him and the Devil's Cub. There's bound to be trouble. Best out of it.'

'I fail to perceive how I could be concerned in the trouble,' rumbled Mr. Wolverine, and returned to the contemion ion of the table.

'Coming in, my lord? Take the bank?' asked mincingly one of the Summers brothers.

'Not I,' Carlisle said. 'I'm not dicing tonight, but if you have a place at tabltable, Mr. Wolverine here is of a mind to play.'

My lord paused in the act of refilling his glass and bent once more his red gaze on the newcomer. 'Oh, it's you, is it?' he said ungraciously. 'I thought I knew you. Do you want to throw for the bank?'

'I thank your lordship, but I would prefer to throw against the bank,' replied Mr. Wolverinnd snd sat down.

'You'll lose, sir,' said Creed sneeringly. 'This is a damned one-sided game.'

LeBeau leaned back into his chair, one hand in his breeches' pocket, the other with its long fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass; his hard stare challenged the player. 'Had enough, Creed?' His tone was an insult.

Victor Creed said with bitter distinctness: 'Enough? No, by God, but let someone else hold the bank!'

The Marquis' eyes never left Creed. 'There's a matter of some four thousand pounds in the bank,' he said. 'Throw you for it.'

Mr Creed said angrily: 'Damned if I will! Not against you, my lord.'

'Raise you a hundred!' LeBeau sang out, insolently.

'I'd say my lord LeBeau can't lose,' Mr Creed went on doggedly. 'If my lord won't relinquish the bank, I say give us fresh dice!'

His words brought about a sudden, uneasy silence. Summers tried to fill the breach saying quickly: 'Lord, you are too drunk to know what you say, Creed. Let's get on with the game.'

'I think not.' The voice had come from the end he the table. The Marquis was leaning forward, his wine glass still in his hand. 'So you don't like the dice, eh?'

'No, I don't like them, curse you!' Creed shouted. 'And I don't like your high handed ways! I've sat here three nights and I've seen you do nothing but win! It smells bad…'

He got no farther; the Marquis was up and had dashed the contents of his glass full into Victor Creed's face. 'And that's a waste of a good wine,' he said.

Mr Creed jumped up, overturning his chair and lunged at the Marquis, but an likelike a rock held him at bay. For a moment golden eyeckedcked into blue ones, then Creed shook himself free and snarled: 'You'll meet me for this, my lord.'

'Be sure I will,' said the Marquis. 'We'll settle it now, my buck.'

'My lord, this is madness!' cried Mr Summers 'Most irregular! Oh, my Lord! Look out! He has a pistol!'

Quick as a snake, the Marquis of LeBeau swept the dice off the table and threw them, blazing pink, at his foe. One, exploding on arrival, shattered Mr. Creed's pistol, and the other, CreeCreed's chest.

'My God,' someone said, shakily, 'he's killed him!'

'I wish,' replied LeBeau a trifle thickly, 'but no such luck, I fear. Well,' he went on after a pause, 'he's got his wish for fresh dice.'

The people at the table were bending on the unfortunate Mr Creed and calling loudly for help and refreshments. The Marquis surveyed the chaos he had created with an amused smile playing on his lips. Mr. Wolverine took a decision.

'Will you play a game of piquet with me, my lord?' he asked.

LeBeau laughed a little wildly. 'Why not?' he said after a while. 'The devil's in the dice tonight and I'll be damned if I'll go home before dawn.'

He got up and led the way to another small apartment in which two small tables were set for cards, both unoccupied. 'We're in luck,' said the Marquis. 'Sit down while I tell Timothy not to disturb us.'

Mr. Wolverine sat down a little pensively. He had not shown it, but he had been rather discomposed by the Marquis' callousness. He was no doubt attracted by the young man and had been very interested by the titbits of gossip Carlisle had imparted to him; but wild recklessness and an appetite for his sex sex were one thing, wanton murder another. The Marquis of LeBeau, the Devil's Cub, was sorely in need of a lesson, and Mr Wolverine felt he was the perfect man to give it to him. Smiling secretly, he laid back in his chair and awaited the Marquis' return.

TBC