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Whit nodded. “Not even heirs.”
“Never heirs.”
Then, “There’s always the original plan. We rough the duke up. Send him home.”
“It won’t stop the marriage. Not now. Not when he thinks he’s close to finding Grace.”
Whit flexed one hand, the black leather of his glove creaking with the movement. “It would be glorious fun, though.” They walked in silence for several minutes, before Whit added, “Poor girl, she couldn’t have predicted how her innocent lie would land her in bed with you.”
It was a figure of speech, of course. But the vision came nonetheless—and Devil couldn’t resist it, Felicity Faircloth, dark hair and pink skirts spread wide before him. Clever and beautiful and with a mouth like sin.
The girl’s ruination would be a pleasure.
He ignored the thin thread of guilt that teased through him. There was no room for guilt here. “She shan’t be the first girl ruined. I’ll throw the father money. The brother, too. They’ll get down on their knees and weep with gratitude for their salvation.”
“Kind of you,” Whit said, dryly. “But what of the girl’s salvation? It’s impossible. She won’t be ruined. She’ll be exiled.”
I want them to want me back.
All Felicity Faircloth wanted was back into that world. And she’d never get it. Not even after he promised it to her. “She’s free to choose her next husband.”
“Do aristocratic men line up for aging ruined spinsters?”
Something unpleasant coursed through him. “So she settles for someone not aristocratic.”
A beat. And then, “Someone like you?”
Christ. No. Men like him were so far beneath Felicity Faircloth the idea was laughable.
When he did not reply, Whit grunted again. “Grace can never know.”
“Of course she can’t,” Devil replied. “And she won’t.”
“She won’t be able to stay out of it.”
Devil had never been so happy to see the door to their offices. Approaching it, he reached for a key, but before he could unlock the door, a small window slid open, then closed. The door opened and they stepped inside.
“It’s about damn time.”
Devil’s gaze shot to the tall, red-haired woman who closed the door behind them, leaning back against the door, one hand on her hip, as though she’d been waiting for years. He immediately looked to Whit, stone-faced. Whit’s dark eyes met his calmly.
Grace can never know.
“What’s happened?” their sister said, looking from one to the other.
“What’s happened with what?” Devil asked, removing his hat.
“You look like you did when we were children and you decided to start fighting without telling me.”
“It was a good idea.”
“It was a shite idea, and you know it. You’re lucky you weren’t killed your first night out, you were so small. You’re both lucky I got in the ring.” She rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms over her chest. “Now what’s happened?”
Devil ignored the question. “You came back from your first night with a broken nose.”
She grinned. “I like to think the bump gives me character.”
“It gives you something, most definitely.”
Grace harrumphed and moved on. “I have three things to say, and then I have actual work to do, gentlemen. I cannot be left lazing about here, waiting for the two of you to return.”
“No one asked you to wait for us,” Devil said, pushing past his arrogant sister toward the dark, cavernous hallways beyond, and up the back stairs to their apartments.
She followed, nonetheless. “First is for you,” she told Whit, passing him a sheet of paper. “There are three fights set for tonight, each at a different place on the hour and half; two will be fair, the third, filthy. Addresses are here, and the boys are already out taking bets.”
Whit grunted his approval and Grace pressed on. “Second, Calhoun wants to know where his bourbon is. Says if we’re having too much trouble getting it in, he’ll find one of his countrymen to do the job—really, is there anyone more arrogant than an American?”
“Tell him it’s here, but not moving yet, so he can wait like the rest of us, or feel free to wait the two months it will take to get a new order to the States and back.”
She nodded. “I assume the same is true for the Fallen Angel’s delivery?”
“And everything else we’re set to deliver from this shipment.”
Grace’s gaze narrowed on him. “We’re being watched?”
“Nik thinks it’s possible.”
His sister pursed her lips for a moment, then said, “If Nik thinks it, it’s likely true. Which brings me to third: Did my wigs arrive?”
“Along with more face powder than you can ever use.”
She grinned. “A girl can try, though, can’t she?”
“Our shipments are not designed as your personal pack mule.”
“Ah, but my personal items are both legal and don’t require tax payment, bruv, so it’s not the worst thing in the world for you to receive three cases of wigs.” She reached out to rub Devil’s tightly shorn head. “Perhaps you’d like one . . . you could do with more hair.”
He swatted his sister’s hand away from his head. “If we weren’t blood—”
She grinned. “We’re not blood, as a matter of fact.”
They were where it counted. “And yet, for some reason, I put up with you.”
She leaned in. “Because I make money hand over fist for you louts.” Whit grunted, and Grace laughed. “See? Beast knows.”
Whit disappeared into his rooms across the hallway, and Devil extracted a key from his pocket, inserting it into the door to his own. “Anything else?”
“You could invite your sister for a drink, you know. If I know you, you’ve sorted out a way for your bourbon to arrive on time.”
“I thought you had work to do.”
She lifted a shoulder. “Clare can take care of things until I get there.”
“I stink of the rookery and I have somewhere to be.”
Her brows shot together. “Where?”
“You needn’t make it seem as though I’ve nothing to do in the evenings.”
“Between sundown and midnight? You don’t.”
“That’s not true.” It was vaguely true. He turned the key in the lock, looking back at his sister as he opened the door. “The point is, leave me now.”
Whatever retort Grace would have made—and Lord knew Grace always had a retort—was lost on her lips when her blue gaze flickered over his shoulder and into the room beyond, then widened enough for Devil to be concerned.
He turned to follow it, somehow, impossibly, knowing exactly what he was going to find.
Whom he was going to find.
Lady Felicity Faircloth, standing at the window at the far side of the room, as though she belonged there.
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Chapter Seven
There was a woman with him.
Of all the things Felicity had expected might happen when she feigned illness and snuck from her house at twilight to summon a hack to take her to the mysterious location scrawled on the back of his calling card—and there were many—she hadn’t expected a woman.
A tall, striking woman painted to perfection and with hair like a sunset, dressed in full, tiered amethyst skirts and a decorative corset in the richest aubergine Felicity had ever seen. The woman wasn’t properly beautiful, but she was proud and poised and stunningly . . . stunning.
She was the kind of woman men fell for madly. That was no question.
Exactly the kind of woman Felicity so often dreamed of being herself.
Was Devil mad for her?
Felicity had never been happier about standing in a dimly lit room than she was in that moment, her face blazing with panic and every inch of her wanting to flee. The problem was that the man who called himself Devil and his companion were blocking the only exit—unless she considered the possibility of leaping from the window.
She turned to look at the darkened panes of glass, gauging the distance to the alleyway below.
“Too far for jumping,” Devil said, as though he was in her head.
She turned back to face him, brazening through. “Are you certain?”
The woman laughed and answered. “Quite. And the last thing Dev needs is a flattened titled lady.” She paused, the familiarity of the nickname filling the space between them. “You are titled, are you not?”
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.
