She grinned. “A girl can try, though, can’t she?”

“Our shipments are not designed as your personal pack mule.”

“Ah, but my personal items are both legal and don’t require tax payment, bruv, so it’s not the worst thing in the world for you to receive three cases of wigs.” She reached out to rub Devil’s tightly shorn head. “Perhaps you’d like one . . . you could do with more hair.”

He swatted his sister’s hand away from his head. “If we weren’t blood—”

She grinned. “We’re not blood, as a matter of fact.”

They were where it counted. “And yet, for some reason, I put up with you.”

She leaned in. “Because I make money hand over fist for you louts.” Whit grunted, and Grace laughed. “See? Beast knows.”

Whit disappeared into his rooms across the hallway, and Devil extracted a key from his pocket, inserting it into the door to his own. “Anything else?”

“You could invite your sister for a drink, you know. If I know you, you’ve sorted out a way for your bourbon to arrive on time.”

“I thought you had work to do.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Clare can take care of things until I get there.”

“I stink of the rookery and I have somewhere to be.”

Her brows shot together. “Where?”

“You needn’t make it seem as though I’ve nothing to do in the evenings.”

“Between sundown and midnight? You don’t.”

“That’s not true.” It was vaguely true. He turned the key in the lock, looking back at his sister as he opened the door. “The point is, leave me now.”

Whatever retort Grace would have made—and Lord knew Grace always had a retort—was lost on her lips when her blue gaze flickered over his shoulder and into the room beyond, then widened enough for Devil to be concerned.

He turned to follow it, somehow, impossibly, knowing exactly what he was going to find.

Whom he was going to find.

Lady Felicity Faircloth, standing at the window at the far side of the room, as though she belonged there.






Chapter Seven

There was a woman with him.

Of all the things Felicity had expected might happen when she feigned illness and snuck from her house at twilight to summon a hack to take her to the mysterious location scrawled on the back of his calling card—and there were many—she hadn’t expected a woman.

A tall, striking woman painted to perfection and with hair like a sunset, dressed in full, tiered amethyst skirts and a decorative corset in the richest aubergine Felicity had ever seen. The woman wasn’t properly beautiful, but she was proud and poised and stunningly . . . stunning.

She was the kind of woman men fell for madly. That was no question.

Exactly the kind of woman Felicity so often dreamed of being herself.

Was Devil mad for her?

Felicity had never been happier about standing in a dimly lit room than she was in that moment, her face blazing with panic and every inch of her wanting to flee. The problem was that the man who called himself Devil and his companion were blocking the only exit—unless she considered the possibility of leaping from the window.

She turned to look at the darkened panes of glass, gauging the distance to the alleyway below.

“Too far for jumping,” Devil said, as though he was in her head.

She turned back to face him, brazening through. “Are you certain?”

The woman laughed and answered. “Quite. And the last thing Dev needs is a flattened titled lady.” She paused, the familiarity of the nickname filling the space between them. “You are titled, are you not?”

Felicity blinked. “My father is, yes.”

The woman pushed past Devil as though he was not there. “Fascinating. And which title would that be?”

“He is the—”

“Don’t answer that,” Devil said, coming into the room, setting his hat down on a nearby table and turning the gas up on a lamp there, flooding the space with lush golden light. He turned to face her, and she resisted the urge to stare.

And failed.

She properly stared, taking in his heavy greatcoat—too warm for the season—and the tall boots below, caked with mud as though he’d been cavorting with hogs somewhere. He shucked the coat and sent it over a nearby chair without care, revealing more casual attire than she’d almost ever seen on a member of the opposite sex. He wore a patterned waistcoat over a linen shirt, both in shades of grey, but no cravat. Nothing at all filled the opening of the shirt—nothing but the cords of his neck and a long, deep triangle of skin, dusted with a hint of dark hair.

She’d never seen such a thing before—could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Arthur or her father without a cravat.

She’d also never seen anything so thoroughly male in her life.

She was consumed by that triangle of skin.

After a too long pause, Felicity realized she was staring, and returned her attention to the woman, whose brows were high on her forehead with knowledge of precisely what Felicity had been doing. Unable to face the other woman’s curiosity, Felicity’s gaze flew back to Devil’s—this time to his face. Another mistake. She wondered if she’d ever get used to how handsome he was.

That said, she could certainly do without him looking at her as though she were an insect he’d discovered in his porridge.

He didn’t seem like the kind of man who ate porridge.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and she’d had quite enough of that. “What do you eat for breakfast?”

“What in—” He shook his head as though to clear it. “What?”

“It’s not porridge, is it?”

“Good God. No.”

“This is fascinating,” the woman said.

“Not to you, it isn’t,” he replied.

Felicity bristled at the sharp tone. “You shouldn’t speak to her that way.”

The other woman grinned at that. “I completely agree.”

Felicity turned. “I think I shall go.”

“You should not have come,” he said.

“Oi! You certainly shouldn’t speak to her that way,” the woman said.

Devil looked to the ceiling as though asking for patience.

Felicity moved to pass him.

“Wait.” He reached out to stop her. “How did you get here to begin with?”

She stopped. “You gave me your direction.”

“And you simply marched over here from Mayfair?”

“Why does it matter how I arrived?”

The question agitated him. “Because anything could have happened to you on the journey. You could have been set upon by thieves. Kidnapped and ransomed by any number of ruffians.”

Her heart began to pound. “Nefarious sorts?”

“Precisely,” he agreed.

She feigned innocence. “The kind who might sneak into a bedchamber unannounced?”

He stilled. Then scowled.

“Oooh!” The other woman clapped her hands. “I don’t know what that means but it is delicious. This is better than anything you could see on Drury Lane.”

“Shut up, Dahlia,” he said, all exasperation.

Dahlia. It seemed the right name for her. The kind of name that Felicity could never carry.

When Dahlia did not reply, he turned back to Felicity. “How did you get here?”

“I took a hack.”

He cursed. “And how did you get here? Into my rooms?”

She stilled, keenly aware of the pins threaded into her hair. She couldn’t tell him the truth. “They were unlocked.”

He narrowed his gaze on her; he knew it was a lie. “And how did you get into the building?”

She searched for an answer that might make sense—something other than the truth. Not finding one, she decided to simply ignore him. Moving to leave once more, she said, “I apologize. I did not expect you to be here with your . . .” She searched for the word. “Friend.”

“She’s not my friend.”

“Well, that’s not very kind,” Dahlia objected. “And to think, you were once my favorite.”

“I was never your favorite.”

“Hmm. Certainly not now.” She turned to Felicity. “I am his sister.”

Sister.

A powerful wave of something she did not wish to name shot through her at the word. She tilted her head. “Sister?”

The woman smiled, bold and broad and for a moment, Felicity almost saw a resemblance. “His one and only.”

“And thank God for that.”

Ignoring Devil’s snide remark, Dahlia approached Felicity. “You should come and see me.”

Before she could answer, Devil leapt in. “She doesn’t need to see you.”

One red brow arched. “Because she’s seeing you?”

“She’s not seeing me.”

The other woman turned to face her with a knowing smile. “I think I see.”

“I don’t see, if that helps,” Felicity said, feeling as though she ought to interject to end the strange conversation.

The other woman tapped her finger to her chin, considering Felicity for a long while. “You will, eventually.”

“No one is seeing anyone! Dahlia, get out!”

“So very rude,” Dahlia said, coming forward, hands extended toward Felicity. When she set her own in them, Dahlia pulled Felicity close and kissed one cheek and then the other, lingering on the final buss to whisper, “72 Shelton Street. Tell them Dahlia welcomes you.” She looked to her brother. “Shall I stay and play the chaperone?”

“Get out.”

His sister smirked. “Farewell, brother.” And then she was gone, as though the whole scenario were perfectly ordinary. Which of course it wasn’t, as it had started out with Felicity sneaking out her back garden without a chaperone, walking three-quarters of a mile, and hiring a hack to bring her here, to the dead center of Covent Garden, where she’d never been before and for good reason—or so she imagined.