“You’ve already thrown her to the wolves, Dev,” his sister said. “There’s only one way to save her.”
He turned on her, unable to keep the cold rage from his voice. “Ewan doesn’t get heirs. And he definitely doesn’t get them from Felicity Faircloth.”
She’s mine.
A red brow rose. “Not Ewan.”
His brow furrowed. “Who? Who do we know who is good enough for her?”
Grace smiled then, full and open and uncalculated. She looked to Whit. “Who, indeed.”
“Beast?” Devil thought he might lose his mind at the idea of his brother touching Felicity.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Whit growled. “You just might have the intelligence of a hedgehog. She means you, Dev. You marry the girl.”
For a heartbeat, emotion rioted through him, the force of it sending him back. Excitement and desire and something dangerously, impossibly close to hope.
Impossibly close, and impossible.
He closed out the emotions. “No.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t want me.” Lie.
Marwick isn’t my moth. You are.
“Do you want her?”
Yes. Of course. He couldn’t imagine how any man wouldn’t want her. His grasp tightened on the silver lion’s head in his palm.
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.