“Because you are too important.”

And he was gone, into the darkness.






Chapter Twenty

Felicity had heeded his instructions.

She had not sought him out, nor had she broken into his offices or his warehouse, nor had any of his watches seen her in Covent Garden. In fact, Brixton, returned to his post outside Bumble House, had reported virtually no activity from Felicity at all since Devil had left her in her gardens.

She had not even resorted to sending him a note.

It had been three days, and Felicity had left him in peace, and Devil found he was more and more consumed with her with every passing second.

Perhaps he could have avoided it if he hadn’t answered the summons she’d sent via Brixton. Perhaps he might have been able to ignore her if he hadn’t kissed her in the gardens. If he didn’t remember the sound of her voice carried along that whispering bench. If he didn’t know she laughed when she came.

She laughed when she came.

He’d never known a woman to give herself over to pleasure like that. So fully, so completely that her pleasure poured from her in pure, unadulterated joy. For the rest of his life, he would remember the sound of her laughter in that garden, shared with him and the setting sun and the trees and nothing else.

For the rest of his life, he would dream of the taste of her pleasure and the sound of it. He was ruined by her.

He’d spent three days pretending to ignore the memory of her pleasure, of her glorious, rolling laughter, and finally, in failure, had left his offices to meet the latest ice shipment on the Thames. The sun had barely set—sending gold and purple streaks across the sky above London—and it was high tide.

Devil crossed over Fleet Street, toward the docks, checking his watch as he walked—ten past nine. He noted the quiet of the taverns frequented by London’s dockworkers, most of whom would have found work that evening, seeing ships in and out of the moorings on the river while tide was high and the boats could be controlled. Once tide ebbed, it would be twelve hours before the ships could be moved—and time in shipping was funds.

Crossing down to the river’s edge, walking stick in hand, he followed the docks for a few hundred yards to the large berth the Bastards leased on evenings when they received shipments. A massive ship loomed ink black against the grey sky, just docked, half-sunken in the high water because of its cargo—one hundred and fifty tons of ice, a good portion of it melted inside the hold.

Whit was already there, black hat low on his brow, greatcoat waving in the wind, with Nik by his side. The Norwegian was leafing through lading papers under the nervous gaze of the ship’s captain. “It’s all here, according to the papers,” she said. “But we can’t be sure until we get to it.”

“How long?” Whit asked, lifting his chin in acknowledgment of Devil’s approach.

“If we’re lucky, Wednesday night.” Two nights hence. “If we start draining the melt from the hold tonight, the moment the tide begins to ebb, it might be finished before then.”

“Two nights and no more,” Whit growled. “We can’t risk it sitting without full guard for longer.” A dozen men would be posted to protect the cargo while the water was drained from the ship’s hold, because there was no other option—it was impossible to access the hold while it was filled with ice melt—but the docks were low ground, and, while on them, the guard could protect neither the cargo nor themselves as well as the Bastards liked.

“Two nights, then. I shall have the boys prepare for wet boots.” Nik nodded to the captain, releasing him to his ship once more.

“We’ll want extra guards on the move to the warehouse, as well,” Devil said, tapping his stick against the boards of the dock. “I don’t want to see another load compromised.”

“Done.”

“Excellent work, Nik.”

The Norwegian dipped her head in a barely-there acknowledgment of the praise.

“Especially since Devil had nothing to do with this one,” Whit added.

Devil looked to him. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve spent two weeks mincing after the girl.”

“Why in hell are you tracking me?”

Whit looked away, down the dock. “As long as he is here, I’m having everyone tracked.”

Ewan. “If he wanted us, he would have come for us.”

“He wants Grace.”

“Between her cover and her guard, she’s well protected.”

Whit grunted, low and full of grit. “I’m surprised you knew we had a shipment coming in today, with all the time you’ve had with your girl.”

What a fucking bastard his brother was. “I had to convince her to trust me if we were going to use her to punish him.”

Whit grunted. “That still the plan, is it?”

“No,” Devil replied instantly, knowing that he was begging for trouble, but he rejected the idea of using Felicity as a pawn in their game so thoroughly now that he could not find the strength to pretend otherwise.

Christ, he’d made a hash of it.

“Bad plan after all, innit?” Whit said, and Devil resisted the urge to put his fist into his brother’s face.

“Bollocks off.”

Whit shared a sidelong glance with Nik, who spoke for them both. “If that isn’t the plan, then what have you been doing all this time?”

“You worry about the ship,” Devil said. “This isn’t your business.”

She shrugged and turned away.

“’S a fair question, bruv.”

It was. But that didn’t mean Devil had to answer it. “Tonight, you find your tongue?”

“Someone’s got to help you sort out your idiocy.”

“I’m handling it,” Devil said.

He was.

He would.

All he had to do was stop thinking about her goddamn laugh.

“You. Fucking. Fools.”

Devil turned toward the words. “Excellent.” He looked to Nik. “Leave while you still can.”

The Norwegian made her way up the gangway to begin her assessment of the hold as Grace neared, tall and proud and perfectly turned out in a tailored scarlet coat. She was flanked by two lieutenants—women in similarly cut black coats. All that was visible beneath the trio’s outerwear were black boots, but Devil knew they were all wearing trousers—which made for fast walking and even faster running, should they need to avail themselves of the skill. The guards stopped ten yards from them as Grace approached.

Whit’s brows rose and he looked over his shoulder at their sister for a long moment before returning his attention to the half-sunken ship in the water. “Evenin’, Dahlia.”

Grace narrowed her gaze on Whit. “What the hell has you so chatty?” Before he could answer, she turned to Devil. “The two of you together have the sense of an addlebrained hedgehog.”

“I am routinely amazed that London’s best and brightest find you charming,” Devil said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t discover it? Did you think it could happen beyond my notice? Is it possible that the two of you have suffered simultaneous blows to the head and forgotten that I am smarter than you both put together?”

Whit looked to Devil. “She seems unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” With lightning speed, Grace boxed Whit’s ear.

“Oi!” Whit danced backward, a hand at the offended body part. “Fucking hell!”

“You shouldn’t talk when you are so out of practice, Beast.” She stepped toward him, a finger raised at his nose. “You should have told me.”

“Told you what?” Whit asked in a frustrated near-whine.

She’d already turned her back on him, however, rounding on Devil, who held up his walking stick to keep her from getting too close. “And you . . . I ought to have you tossed into the river. You deserve to reek of it for days. You deserve whatever perverse creature would find its way into you from the muck.”

Devil lowered his stick, recoiling at the words. Grace had always been the best of them at verbal threats. Devil was better at making good on them. “Good God. That’s grim.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“What?”

“Do you know. What day. It is.”

“It’s Monday.” Devil grew nervous.

“It is, indeed, Monday.” She reached into her coat and extracted a newspaper. “And do you know what is printed in Monday’s newspaper?”

“Shit.”

Whit let out a low whistle.

“Ah. And so we return to my original assessment.”

“Addlebrained hedgehogs,” Whit said.

Grace spun around and raised one black-gloved finger at him. “Hedgehog. Singular. One infinitesimal brain for both of you to share.” She turned back to Devil.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” he said, brazening it through.

“Don’t you even try denying it. And don’t play the fool, though you obviously are one.” She paused and took a breath. And when she spoke, the words were softer than he expected. Full of more emotion than she expected. “Banns were posted yesterday at St. Paul’s. The announcement of the Duke of Marwick’s engagement is in today’s News.”

Devil reached for the paper. “Dahlia—”

She rapped his hand with the rolled up print, and he recoiled. “When were you going to tell me?”

“We didn’t think you would—” He looked to Whit, who offered no assistance. He returned his attention to Grace and cursed.

“What did you think I would do? Toss myself off the nearest bridge?”

Devil looked away. “No. Of course not.”