Grace ignored the answer. “You could marry her. Save her from ruin.”

“It wouldn’t be saving her. It would be trading one ruin for another. What’s more ruinous for a highborn lady than life as a Mrs. in the Covent Garden muck? What sort of life would she have here?”

“Please,” Grace scoffed. “You’re rich as a king, Devil. You could buy her the western edge of Berkeley Square.”

“You could buy her the whole of Berkeley Square,” Whit added.

It wouldn’t be enough. He could buy her Mayfair. A box at every theater. Dinners with the most powerful men in London. Audiences with the king. He could clothe her in the most beautiful frocks Hebert could fashion. And she’d never be accepted by them. Never be welcomed back. Because she’d be married to a criminal. One with whom they happily consorted, but a criminal nonetheless. A bastard, raised in an orphanage and bred in the rookery.

If only he’d been the one to win the dukedom, it might be different. He shook his head, hating the thought—one he hadn’t had in two decades, since he was a boy, aching with hunger and desperate for sleep somewhere other than on the streets.

Behind them, footsteps clattered, fast and furious. A girl, no more than twelve, blond and reed-thin, stopped in front of Grace’s lieutenants. “One of mine,” Grace said, raising her voice and waving her forward. “Let her come.”

The girl approached, a square of paper in hand. Dipped a knee. “Miss Condry.”

Grace extended a hand to receive the message and opened it, her attention no longer on Devil.

Thank God. He’d already said enough to sound like a love-sick fool.

Perhaps it was an important enough message for her to stop asking him about Felicity.

She dug into her pocket, delivering a coin to the messenger, who was already turning for the darkness. “Off you go. Safely.” Grace returned her attention to him. “It occurs that the lady’s ruin should be her own decision, don’t you think?”

Perhaps it was not enough, and Grace would talk about Felicity forever, like perfect torture. “She’s already made the decision. She lied about marrying a duke to return herself to society. She chose Marwick, a duke she’d never met.”

I wanted to punish them, she’d told him. And I wanted them to want me back.

“I made a mistake bringing Felicity Faircloth into this battle.”

Whit grunted.

“God knows that’s true,” Grace agreed.

“I shall get her out of it, and save her future in the balance.”

Grace nodded, returning her attention to the slip of paper she’d been delivered. “I’m not so certain you’re in control of her future anymore.”

“I’m not so certain he’s ever been in control of it,” Whit said, bracing himself against the wind.

He scowled at them. “The two of you can go to hell.”

“Tell me.” Grace did not look up. “As part of your arrangement, did the lady ask to be schooled in the art of temptation?”

Devil stilled. How would Grace know that? “She did. Yes.”

His sister looked to him. “And you were unable to provide said instruction?”

“I instructed her fine.” Whit’s brows went up at that, and Devil had the distinct impression that the wheels were coming off the cart. “But it wasn’t about tempting just anyone. It was about tempting the untemptable. It was about tempting Ewan, for Christ’s sake. To get back into society. To rise to its full height. She wants her reputation restored, along with that of her family. Have you not been listening?”

“The girl doesn’t seem to care a bit about her reputation, Devil,” Grace said. “I might go so far as to say she’s absolutely no interest whatsoever in what society thinks of her.”

“How would you know that?” he snapped. “You’ve met her one time.”

She brandished the note. “Because she’s at the club right now.”

He froze. “Which club?”

A perfectly arched red brow rose as she replied, all calm, “My club.”

There was a beat, followed by Whit’s quiet, “Fucking hell.”

Or perhaps it was Devil who said it. He wasn’t certain, as he was distracted by the wash of fury that came over him at the words.

He was gone in an instant, disappearing into the darkness without farewell, long legs eating up the ground until he became unsatisfied with his speed and began to run.

Grace and Whit stood on the docks, watching their brother disappear into the darkness before she turned to him and said, “Well. This is all unexpected.”

Whit nodded once. “You realize that Ewan won’t like it when Devil wins.”

“I do.”

He looked to her. “You’ve got to get gone for a bit, Gracie.”

She nodded. “I know.”






Chapter Twenty-One

Felicity was fairly certain that 72 Shelton Street was a bordello.

When she had knocked at the entrance an hour earlier, a small inlaid door had slid open, revealing a set of beautifully kohl-lined eyes. And when she’d told those eyes that Dahlia had invited her, the small door had given way to the larger one, and she’d been welcomed inside.

A tall, raven-haired beauty in deep sapphire had met her in a lovely receiving room, explained that Dahlia was not in at the moment, and invited Felicity to wait. As Felicity’s curiosity was impossible to deny, she had, of course, agreed.

At that point, she’d been provided with a mask and escorted to a larger room, oval in shape, wrapped in silk and satin and appointed with a dozen or so settees, armchairs, and tufted cushions. Refreshments had been offered.

And then the men had arrived.

Or, rather, they’d begun to arrive.

The room boasted a half-dozen doors, all closed, except to herald the entry of what must have been some of the handsomest men in Britain. And they’d kept coming, these charming men, offering more wine, more cheese, candied sweets, and sweet plums. They sat close and regaled her with stories of their strength, telling her delightful, diverting jokes, and generally making her feel as though she were the only woman in the world.

Making her forget, almost, the reason she had come in the first place.

What was remarkable was this—the charming assembly of men made her feel the center of their world despite the presence of any number of other women, all of whom entered wearing masks, whose comings and goings appeared to be for the purpose of pairing off with one (and in some cases, more than one) of these gentlemen.

No doubt for lovemaking.

It occurred to Felicity that there was a time when she might have felt uncomfortable with the goings-on inside 72 Shelton Street, but now she was more than thrilled with her decision to accept Dahlia’s invitation, because if anyone could teach her how to woo a man such as Devil, it was these men, who were so impressively charming.

A tall, handsome man was entertaining her; he’d introduced himself as Nelson—like the hero, but better-looking—with a smile in gentle eyes that had lovely wrinkles at their corners, and made him seem the kind of man with whom one might like to spend a lifetime, not just an evening.

After showering her in compliments, Nelson began to regale her with the story of a cat he’d once known—one who had a penchant for attending regular church services, and not simply attending them: “She was particularly fond of climbing the pulpit and spreading herself across the Book of Common Prayer. Needless to say, the vicar did not care for it, and routinely had to put the cat out to get on with his sermon.”

Felicity laughed at the image as Nelson added, dark eyes twinkling, “I always thought it cruel treatment. The sweet pussy only wished for a pet.”

The double meaning in the words did not escape Felicity, and her eyes went wide at the flirt. Was it considered a flirt if it was so overt?

Before she could suss out the answer, two raps sounded, and she felt the vibration in the floorboards as Nelson’s gaze flickered to a spot behind her, up, up until his eyes were also wide, and he was scrambling to his feet.

Felicity knew before she turned what she would find there.

Or, rather, whom she would find.

It did not change the way her heart began to pound when she discovered Devil in his tall darkness, clad all in black, walking stick in hand, storm clouds in his eyes. Her breath caught as he searched her face, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly, making her want to reach up and touch it. Soothe it.

No. There would be none of that.

Instead, she straightened her spine and said, “What are you doing here?”

“This place is not for you.”

She immediately resisted the words. “I cannot fathom how you are in any position to say so.”

If possible, the angles of his face grew sharper, his eyes darkening. “Because this place is in Covent Garden and I own Covent Garden, Felicity Faircloth.”

She smirked. “Well. Then I suggest you think very carefully before you give a fairy-tale princess free rein of your property.”

“Goddammit, Felicity,” he said, his voice low enough as to not draw attention from the others in the room. “You cannot hie out of Mayfair whenever you like.”

“It seems I can, though, can’t I?” Thank goodness for being a spinster; no one ever thought to make sure you remained in your bedchamber after you retired to bed. It made one feel quite chuffed when one did escape one’s home.