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.
Except now she was here in this mysterious place with this mysterious man, and mysterious women were whispering mysterious directions in her ear, and Felicity could not for the life of her think of a good reason not to be there. It was all terribly exciting.
“Don’t look like that,” he said as he closed the door behind his sister.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s exciting.”
“Why not? It is exciting.”
“Whatever she told you, forget it.”
Felicity laughed. “I don’t think that is going to happen.”
“What did she tell you?”
“It occurs that if she wished you to hear what she told me, she would have said it so you were able to do so.”
He pressed his lips together in a thin line, his scar going stark white. He did not like that answer. “You stay away from Dahlia.”
“Are you afraid she shall corrupt me?”
“No,” he said sharply. “I’m afraid you shall destroy her.”
Felicity’s mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”
He looked away, toward a sideboard where a crystal decanter sat, full of deep, amber liquid. Like a dog scenting the hunt, he went for it, pouring himself a glass and drinking deep before turning back to her.
“No, thank you,” she said tartly. “I don’t drink whatever it is that you did not offer me.”