“And I agreed to obey! But I am rather through with doing that, I’ll tell you, Arthur.” Devil’s brows rose. The lady was not happy. “We are either partners in life or we are not. I do not care if we are poor as church mice. I don’t care if all of London refuses us entry to their homes. I don’t care if we’re never invited to another ball as long as we live, so long as we are together in it.”
I’m not the same. I don’t care about Mayfair and balls.
“I love you,” the countess said, quietly. “I’ve loved you since we were children. I’ve loved you rich. And now I love you poor. Do you love me?”
Do you love me?
The question had been echoing through Devil since Felicity had asked it, six hours earlier. And now, spoken on another set of lips, it threatened to put him on his knees.
“Yes,” said the earl within. “Yes, of course. That’s why I have made such a hash of everything.”
Yes.
Yes, of course he loved her. He loved everything about her. She was sunlight and fresh air and hope.
Yes. He loved her wildly.
And he’d ruined that. He’d used her and lied to her and turned her against him. He’d betrayed her and her love. And he would suffer his own damnation by living his days wildly in love with her, and living without her.
Which was likely best, because love did not change the fact that Felicity would always be Mayfair, and he would always be Covent Garden. He would never be good enough to stand in her sunlight, but he could absolutely protect her from the darkness.
More than protect her. He could give her everything she’d ever dreamed.
It was time for Devil to walk into a second Faircloth bedchamber and offer its inhabitants everything they wished. And this time, he did not intend to fail.
When he was through speaking to the earl and countess, Devil returned to the warehouse, where he continued his bruising work, preparing the hold for a new shipment, grateful for the ache in his muscles—his hair shirt for sins committed against the woman he loved.
Punishment for his lies.
He worked tirelessly, alongside half a dozen other men who were rotating in shifts to avoid spending too long in the freezing temperatures. Devil embraced the cold as he did the darkness and the pain, accepting it as his punishment. Welcoming it as such. The dozen or so lanterns hung high against the ceiling were not enough to keep the darkness at bay, and he ignored the thread of panic that came every now and then when he looked the wrong way and found infinite blackness, just as he ignored the sweat soaking his clothes. Not long after he’d begun to work, he removed his coat and draped it over one of the high ice walls to allow greater freedom of movement.
Long after he’d lost the ability to recall how many shifts had rotated through the hold, Whit arrived, closing the great steel door behind him to keep the cold in. He wore a thick coat and hat, and boots to the knee—which had been helpful as he’d spent his day in the ice melt at the dock.
Whit watched Devil hook and lift several immense blocks of ice before he growled, “You need food.”
Devil shook his head.
“And water.” Whit extended a skein toward him.
Devil moved to the pile of ice at the center of the hold and picked another cube. “I’m surrounded by water.”
“You’re soaked with sweat. And the cargo is on its way. The men will need you strong enough to help when it arrives.”
Devil did not reveal his surprise at the information; if the cargo was on the move, the sun had set and darkness had fallen in truth, making it near midnight, hours since he lowered himself into the dark hold and began his work.
“I shall be strong enough when it gets here. I’ve built the whole fucking hold, haven’t I?”
Whit’s assessing gaze tracked the room. “You have.”
Devil nodded, ignoring the chill that ran through him—perspiration cooling him the moment he paused in his work. “Then let me get back to it. And you worry about your own strength.”
Whit watched him for a long moment, and then said, “Grace is gone.”
Devil stilled, turning to his brother. “For how long?”
“Long enough for us to get Ewan under control. He won’t like that you’ve won the girl.”
“I haven’t won the girl.”
“I heard she clocked him.” Whit paused. “Felicity Faircloth, name like a storybook princess, right hook like a prizefighter.”
Devil didn’t reply. He didn’t think he’d be able to find words around the tightness in his throat at his brother’s pride in the woman he loved.
After a long stretch of silence, Whit added, “At least put your coat back on. You know what happens in the cold, Devil; you can’t save the girl if you’re dead.”
Devil looked to his brother, letting his fury into his gaze. “I’ve already saved the girl.”
Whit’s brows rose in silent question.
“You don’t see her anywhere near the Garden, do you? Now get the fuck out.”
Whit hesitated, as though he might say something, and then turned to leave. “They’ll be here in thirty minutes. Then the real work begins.”
And it did, right on time, a line of strong, strapping workmen heaving boxes and barrels, crates and casks—the largest shipment the Bastards had ever imported—into the hold. After that, more ice. Thousands of pounds of it, and Devil stayed, ignoring the thirst and hunger that teased around his edges, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and the burn of the work.
He’d take all of that over what awaited him above in a world without Felicity.
The men made quick work of their load—a valuable skill that had come with years of practice. The hold was only useful if the cargo was brought in and hidden as quickly as possible, preventing too much melt and, by extension, possible discovery.
An hour before dawn, as the sky outside edged from black to grey, Devil came up from the hold, lantern in hand, to confirm that the delivery was complete. The work crew was clustered together upstairs—sixty men and boys in total, plus Nik and a handful of young women from the rookery who worked for her, keeping the business running smoothly.
On the other side of the warehouse, Whit climbed up on one of the massive wooden scaffolds to address the men. A ripple went through the group; Whit was not one for grand speeches. Or any speech at all. And yet, here he was.
“This was a good night’s work, lads”—he found the women in the crowd, looked each one in the eye—“and lasses. It stays here until we’re sure we can move it and keep you all safe. As you know, we lose money every day we keep cargo in the hold . . .” He shook his head and met as many of his men’s eyes as he could, the accent of the rookery edging into his words. “But don’t for a moment think you lot ain’t the most important fing in this buildin’. Devil and I—we know that better than any. And while we’re at it, might as well point to our darlin’ Annika, with a brain smart as ’er mouth.”
A cheer rose up from the group, and Nik gave an elaborate, flourishing bow before straightening and cupping her hands to her mouth. “You talk too much, Beast! When can we drink?”
Laughter followed, the corners of Whit’s eyes crinkling with satisfaction as he looked over the crowd. When he found Devil in the back, he lifted a chin in acknowledgment before saying, “Calhoun is keepin’ the Sparrow open for us, as a matter of fact. Ale is on the Bastards this morning, bruvs.”
Another raucous cheer sounded as Whit leapt to the ground, weaving through the men, aiming for Devil, who tipped his head and said, “You’re as good as Wellington with your rousing speeches.”