A massive shoulder lifted and dropped.
“You think it’s a bad plan.”
“I think it is a plan that will not end as you imagine.”
“The Marwick line ends with Ewan. We agreed to that.”
An affirmative grunt.
“And yet he is there, inside Bourne House, drinking tepid lemonade and eating crumpets and dancing the quadrille.”
Whit cut him a look. “Crumpets?”
“Whatever they fucking eat,” Devil growled.
“He’s waiting for us to blink.”
Devil nodded. “And we’re not blinking.”
“He hasn’t met the girl yet. Felicity Faircloth.”
“No.” Devil had had a watch on Felicity and the duke since the night of the Marwick ball, and they’d still not met. But Marwick’s silence on the subject had all London talking about the future marriage of the Duke of Marwick to a long-shelved lady.
“He has a plan, Dev,” Whit said. “He always had a plan. And I like whatever this one is even less than I like yours.”
Memory flashed—three young boys sitting side by side on one edge of a river, with matching eyes and matching puppies. He stopped it before it played through, shaking his head and letting his gaze return to the ball beyond.
“You won’t like it, either, when it comes time to use the girl proper,” Whit said.
“I don’t care about the girl.” The words didn’t feel right in his throat, but Devil ignored them.
“I heard you banished Reggie from the Garden.”
“Reggie is lucky I didn’t banish him from the fucking Earth.”
“That’s my point. Hester said the lady begged you not to, and you went soft.”
Devil shoved his hands in his pockets, ignoring the truth of the words. “I need her on our side, don’t I? Can’t keep her there if she sees me gut a man in an alleyway.”
Whit’s grunt made his thoughts clear. “Placing her under our protection?”
That bit had been unexpected. Born of his own fury at the idea that she might have been hurt on their streets, and his frustration that he couldn’t carry her to his bed and keep her there for a night. Or two. Or more. “I can’t very well have an aristocratic chit turning up dead a stone’s throw from our headquarters, can I?”
“You invited her.”
“I gave her my card. It was an error in judgment.”
“You don’t make errors in judgment. And we need an aristocratic chit under our protection like a dog needs diamonds.”
“She’s not under our protection for long.”
“No. Soon she will be your victim. Along with Ewan.”
“No heirs,” Devil said. “You remember the deal.”
Whit’s lips flattened into a straight line. “I do. I also know there are cleaner and safer ways of getting what we want than buying a wallflower a new fucking frock.”
Devil was growing irritated. “Like what?”
“Like slicing our brother’s face to match your own.”
Devil shook his head. “No. This way is better.” Whit did not reply, and Devil heard the tacit disagreement in the silence. “Fists are a threat. This way is a promise. This way, we remind Ewan that his future belongs to us. Just as ours once belonged to him.”
A pause, and then, “And the girl? What happens when you have to take her future from her?”
“I’ll pay handsomely for it. I’m not a monster.”
Whit gave a little huff of laughter.
Devil looked to him. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you’re mad if you think that paying for the girl’s ruination isn’t monstrous. She’ll not only care; she’ll come for you.”
The idea of Felicity Faircloth, plain, aging spinster, coming for a Bareknuckle Bastard was ludicrous. Devil forced a laugh of his own. “Let the kitten try to gut me, then. I shall keep my sword at the ready.”
“I heard she punched Reggie.”
Pride flared at the memory, chased away immediately by rage at the same. “She missed.”
“You should teach her to throw a punch.”
“As she’ll never be in the Garden again, it’s unnecessary.” Indeed, if the other evening in the dark streets of Covent Garden had done anything, it had convinced her to stay far away from the neighborhood.
Never mind that she’d thought those streets beautiful.
Good Lord—when she’d pointed at those gleaming cobblestones and expounded on their beauty, Devil had had half a mind to tell her they were just as likely to be soaked in rain as they were to be running with blood.
Even if she was right—they were beautiful.
Which he never would have noticed if she hadn’t said so, dammit.
Whit grunted, then, “I think you mean, as she now bears the protection of the Bastards, it’s unnecessary.”
“She’s not coming back,” Devil said. “Christ. I nearly killed a man in front of her.”
“But you didn’t.”
That man had touched her. That cretin had felt the silk of Felicity’s hair before Devil had. The hand on his cane itched to do damage. Best, because when it itched to do damage, it wasn’t itching to touch her again. It wasn’t itching to draw her close again. He wasn’t itching to kiss her again.
Lie.
He shook his head. “I should have killed him.”
Whit turned back to the ballroom windows. “But you didn’t. And that’s going to make ’em talk.”
“It’s certainly made you talk.”
Thankfully, that silenced him.
They watched in silence for long minutes, and Whit bounced on the balls of his feet lightly, the movement uncharacteristic for a man so often still and solid. Uncharacteristic, unless you knew what it meant. Devil said, “Is there a bout tonight?”
“Three.”
“Are you fighting?”
He shrugged. “If I’m tempted.”
There were two kinds of fighters—those who played by the rules and those who fought to win at all costs. Whit was the second kind, and he only ever sparred when he couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He preferred to run the bouts and train the fighters. But when he did enter the ring, he was near unbeatable.
It had only ever happened once.
Another memory flared—Whit on the ground, covered in dirt and blood, unconscious. Devil covering him with his own body, taking what felt like a dozen blows himself. A hundred. Protecting his brother.
Until they’d escaped.
“Grace has been asking about your girl.”
Devil looked to Whit. “You haven’t told her who she is.”
“No, but our sister’s no fool, and she has her own runners—every one better than ours.” Grace’s employees—save for precious few—were female, and the girls could move quickly and beneath notice through most of London.
Devil was saved from answering by a flash of golden fabric inside. Felicity. His gaze tracked her through the throngs of people, drinking her in, like sunlight. “She’s here,” he said, unable to keep the softness from his tone. “She’s wearing it.”
Whit grunted. “Then we go.”
No.
Devil swallowed the word and shook his head. “No. I have to be certain they meet.”
His brother’s gaze moved to the windows of the ballroom, and he let out a low whistle. “Ewan will lose his mind when he sees that dress.”
Devil nodded. “I want him to know I’m ahead of him. That I shall always be ahead of him.”
“I’ll say this. Lady Felicity tidies up nicely.”
“Bollocks off,” Devil said, tempted to put his fist into his brother’s face for the comment. But doing so would have required him to look away from Felicity, and he wasn’t interested in doing that. He wasn’t certain he could do it, if he was being honest.
She was impossible to ignore.