Grace, who three brothers had vowed to protect all those years ago, when they were young and innocent, and before betrayal had broken their bond.
Grace, who, in Ewan’s betrayal, had become the dukedom’s most dangerous secret. For it was Grace who was the truth of the dukedom. Grace, born to the former duke and his wife, the duchess. Grace, baptized their child despite being illegitimate in her own way.
But it was Ewan now, years later, who bore that baptismal name. Who held the title that belonged to none of them by rights.
And Grace, the living, breathing proof that Ewan had thieved the title, the fortune, the future—a theft which the Crown did not take lightly.
A theft which, if discovered, would see Ewan dancing at the end of a rope outside Newgate.
Devil narrowed his gaze on his brother. “You’ll never find her.”
Ewan’s eyes darkened. “I shan’t hurt her.”
“You are as mad as your precious aristocracy says if you think we’ll believe that. Do you not remember the night we left? I do, every time I look in the mirror.”
Marwick’s gaze flickered to Devil’s cheek, to the wicked scar there, the powerful reminder of how little brotherhood had meant when it came to claiming power. “I had no choice.”
“We all had a choice that night. You chose your title, your money, and your power. And we allowed you all three, despite Whit wanting to snuff you out before the rot of our sire could consume you. We let you live, despite your clear willingness to see us dead. On one condition—our father was mad for an heir, and though he might get a false one in you, he would not receive the satisfaction of a line of them—not even in death. We will always be on opposite sides in this fight, Duke. No heirs was the rule. The only rule. We left you alone all these years with your ill-gotten title because of it. But know this—if you decide to flout it, I will tear you apart, and you will never find an ounce of happiness in this life.”
“You think I am riddled with happiness now?”
Christ, Devil hoped not. He hoped that there was nothing that made the duke happy. He’d reveled in his brother’s legendary hermitage, knowing that Ewan lived in the house where they’d been pitted against each other, bastard sons in a battle for legitimacy. For name and title and fortune. Taught to dance and dine and speak with eloquence that belied the shame into which the three of them had been born.
He hoped every memory of their youth consumed his brother, and he was consumed with regret for allowing himself to play the doting son to a fucking monster.
Still, Devil lied. “I don’t care.”
“I have searched for you for more than a decade, and now I’ve found you. The Bareknuckle Bastards, rich and ruthless, running God knows what kind of crime ring in the heart of Covent Garden—the place that birthed me, I might add.”
“It spat you out the moment you betrayed it. And us,” Devil said.
“I’ve asked a hundred questions a thousand different ways.” Ewan turned away, running a wild hand through his blond hair. “No women. No wives. No sisters to speak of. Where is she?”
There was panic in the words, a vague sense that he might go mad if he did not receive an answer. Devil had lived in the darkness long enough to understand madmen and their obsessions. He shook his head, sending a word of thanks to the gods for making the people of the Garden loyal to them. “Ever beyond your reach.”
“You took her from me!” Panic edged into rage.
“We took her from the title,” Devil said. “The one that sickened your father.”
“Your father, as well.”
Devil ignored the correction. “The title that sickened you. The one that had you ready to kill her.”
The duke looked to the ceiling for a long minute. Then, “I should have killed you.”
“She would have escaped.”
“I should kill you now.”
“You’ll never find her, then.”
A familiar jaw—an echo of their father’s—clenched. Eyes went wild, then blank. “Then understand, Devil, I have no interest in keeping my end of the deal. I shall have heirs. I’m a duke. I shall have a wife and child within a year. I shall renege on our deal, unless you tell me where she is.”
Devil’s own rage flared, his grip tightening on the silver head of his walking stick. He should kill his brother now. Leave him bleeding out on the fucking floor, and finally give the Marwick line its due.
He tapped the end of his stick on the toe of his black boot. “You would do well to remember that with the information I have about you, Duke. A word of it would have you hanged.”
“Why not use it?” The question was not combative, as Devil would have expected it. It was something like pained, as though Ewan would greet death. As though he would summon it.
Devil ignored the realization. “Because toying with you is more diverting.”
It was a lie. Devil would have happily destroyed this man, his once brother. But all those years ago, when he and Whit had escaped the Marwick estate and made for London and its terrifying future, vowing to keep Grace safe, they’d made another vow, this one to Grace herself.
They would not kill Ewan.
“Yes, I think I shall play your silly game,” Devil said, standing and tapping his walking stick on the floor twice. “You underestimate the power of the bastard son, brother. Ladies love a man willing to take them for a walk in the darkness. I’ll happily ruin your future brides. One after another, until the end of time. Without hesitation. You never get an heir.” He approached his brother, coming eye to eye with him. “I took Grace right out from under you,” he whispered. “You think I cannot take all the others?”
Ewan’s jaw went heavy with passionate rage. “You will regret keeping her from me.”
“No one keeps Grace from anything. She chose to be rid of you. She chose to run. She didn’t trust you to keep her safe. Not when she was proof of your darkest secret.” He paused. “Robert Matthew Carrick.”
The duke’s gaze blurred at the name, and Devil wondered if perhaps the rumors were true. If Ewan was, indeed, mad.
It would not be a surprise, with the past that haunted him. That haunted them all.
But Devil didn’t care, and he continued. “She chose us, Ewan. And I shall make certain that every woman you ever court does the same. I shall ruin every one of them, with pleasure. And in doing so, I shall save them from your mad desire for power.”
“You think you haven’t the same desire? You think you did not inherit it from our father? They call you the Kings of Covent Garden—power and money and sin surround you.”
Devil smirked. “Every bit of it earned, Ewan.”
“Stolen, I think you mean.”
“You would know a thing or two about stolen futures. About stolen names. Robert Matthew Carrick, Duke of Marwick. A pretty name for a boy born in a Covent Garden brothel.”
The duke’s brow lowered, his eyes turning dark with clarity. “Then let it begin, brother, as it seems I have already been gifted a fiancée. Lady Felicia Fairhaven or Fiona Farthing or some other version of a stupid name.”
Felicity Faircloth.
That’s what the horses’ asses on the balcony had called her before they’d shred her to bits, forced her hand, and inspired her to claim a ducal fiancé in a fit of outrageous cheek. Devil had watched the disaster unfold, unable to stop her from embroiling herself in his brother’s affairs. In his affairs.
“If you think to convince me you aren’t in the market for hurting women, bringing an innocent girl into this is not the way to do it.”