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A thrum of excitement went through Devil at the words. Here, in the darkness, she spoke of him, and while he might not admit it to others, or even to himself, Devil liked that very much.
Even though she shouldn’t be here, finery in filth.
Here she was, nonetheless, her soft whispers in the darkness, as though she could coax the lock open, and Devil almost thought she might. “Once more, darling,” she whispered. “Please. Again.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining that whisper in his ear, cloaked in a different darkness, in his bed. Please. He imagined what she might plead for. Again. He grew hard at the possibilities. And then . . .
“Ah! Yes!” Another thing he’d like to hear her cry in different circumstances. His fingers ached to reach for her, the muscles of his arms and back no longer weary from the work inside, now more than willing to try their hand at lifting her up, against him, and laying her down somewhere soft and warm and private.
“Oh, bollocks.”
He certainly didn’t intend for anything like that disappointed utterance, however. The frustrated words pulled him from his imaginings and his brows rose.
“How did—” Felicity jiggled the lock. “What—”
It was his cue. “I’m afraid, Felicity Faircloth, that that particular lock is immune to your charms.”
He would be lying if he said he didn’t love the way her shoulders straightened and her neck elongated. She did not come up out of her crouch, however—did not release the picks in the lock.
“Though they were pretty whispers, I must confess,” he added.
She barely turned her head. “I suppose this looks rather damning.”
He was grateful for the darkness, as it hid the twitch at his lips. “That depends. It looks as though you are attempting to break and enter.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, all calm. Felicity Faircloth, ever willing to brazen it out.
“No?”
“No. Well, I mean, I certainly am attempting to enter. But I never intended to break.”
“You should stop entering my buildings uninvited.”
She was distracted by the lock again. “I thought this was what we did with each other.” She rattled the picks. “It appears I have unintentionally damaged this lock.”
“You didn’t.”
She looked to him. “I assure you, I’m quite good with locks, and I’ve done something to this one. It’s stuck.”
“That’s because it’s supposed to be, my little criminal.”
Understanding dawned. “It’s a Chubb.”
Something close to pride burst at the words, alongside something like pleasure at the reverence in her words. He didn’t like either emotion in relation to Felicity Faircloth. He redoubled his efforts to remain aloof. “It is, indeed. How is it you are never in possession of a chaperone?”
“No one in my family expects me to do anything near this,” she said, vaguely, as she returned her attention to the lock, perfectly set into the heavy steel door. “I’ve never seen a Chubb.”
“I am happy to be of service. Your family ought to know better. What on earth possessed you to enter a London rookery in the dead of night? I should call the authorities.”
Her brows rose. “The authorities?”
He inclined his head. “Thievery is a serious offense.”
She gave a little laugh. “Not so serious as whatever you’ve got going on in here, Devil.”
Too smart for her own good. “We import ice, Lady Felicity. It’s all very aboveboard.”
“Oh, yes,” she scoffed. “Aboveboard is one of the top three adjectives I would use to describe you. Immediately following proper and uninteresting.”
He smirked. “Those three words all mean the same thing.”
She gave a little, breathy laugh, and the June night went unseasonably warm. “Do you have the key to unstick the lock?”
Chubb locks were known for their perfect security. They were unable to be picked because at the first sign (or, in Felicity’s case, the umpteenth sign) of picking, they locked up, and could only be reset with a special key. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He extracted the key from his trouser pocket, and she shot to her feet, reaching for it. “May I?”
He snatched it back. “So you might learn my secrets? Why would I allow that?”
She shrugged her shoulder. “As I shall learn them anyway, I see no reason why you shouldn’t save me some time.”
Christ, he liked this girl.
No. He didn’t. He couldn’t. If he liked her, he wouldn’t be able to use her as needed.
He held the key straight up toward her, waiting for her to reach for it. When she did, he snatched it back again. “How did you find the warehouse?”
She met his gaze. “I followed you.”
What in—“How?” It was impossible. He would have noticed someone following him.
“I imagine the normal way one follows another. From behind.”
If he hadn’t been so consumed with thoughts of the ball the night before, he would have noticed. Christ. What had this girl done to him? “No one stopped you.”
She happily shook her head.
He paid men a great deal of money to ensure that he wasn’t killed on the streets of Covent Garden. You’d think one of them would think to apprise him of this woman shadowing him through the rookeries. “You could have been killed.” Worse.
She tilted her head. “I don’t think so. I think you made it more than clear that I was untouchable. Just before I was given free rein of your turf.”
“You were never given free rein of my turf.”
“How was it you put it?” Placing her hands on her hips, she lowered her voice to a register he assumed was supposed to sound like his. “No one touches her. She belongs to me.” She relaxed her arms with a smile. “It was rather primitive, that, though, I’ll admit, fairly empowering.”
Goddammit. “Why are you here?”
“I’ll tell you if you give me the Chubb key.”
He laughed at her attempted negotiation. “No, no, kitten. You haven’t the power here.”
She tilted her head. “Are you sure?”
He wasn’t, if he was honest. He pocketed the key once more. “No one has power here but me.”
Her gaze lingered on the place where the key had disappeared and for a long, terrifying moment, he thought she might come for it. Terrifying, because in that moment he wanted her to do just that.
But damn if the woman didn’t turn her back to him and crouch once more at the lock. Reaching into her coif, she extracted another hairpin. “Fine then. I shall do it myself.”
Stubborn woman. He watched as she straightened the pin and kinked it at the end. “The Chubb is unpickable, darling.”
“So far, it is, yes.”
“You intend to pick it in the dead of night?”
“I do, indeed,” she said. “What I know is that your key works in the reverse of normal keys, no? It resets the tumblers. In which case, if I can pick the sticking mechanism, I can learn how the lock works.”
He watched as she inserted her newly made pick into the lock alongside a second tool, and came around to lean against the door, crossing his boots and his arms and watching her. “Why did you follow me?”
She scraped the inside of the lock. “Because you were leaving when I arrived.”
“And why did you come see me in the first place?”
Again, a futile effort. “Because you didn’t come to see me.”
He stilled at that, at the implication that she’d wanted him to come and see her. “Did we have an appointment?”
“No,” she said, calmly, as though they were in Hyde Park in the middle of the day and not in one of London’s most dangerous neighborhoods in the dead of night. “But I would have thought that you would have checked in on me.”
He had checked in on her. He had a watch checking in on her every minute of the day. “To what end?”
“To see if
your promise was made good upon.”
“My promise?”
“The Duke of Marwick, mad for me.”
He gritted his teeth, remembering Ewan’s lips on her silk-covered knuckles. She wasn’t wearing gloves now, and Devil wanted to burn away any memory of Marwick’s touch with his own lips. On her bare skin.
“And was it?”
She didn’t reply. She was distracted by her pins in the lock.
“Felicity Faircloth,” he repeated.
“Hmm?” She paused. Then, “Ah, I see.” Another pause. “I beg your pardon, was what?”
“My promise. Was it made good upon? Did you meet your duke?”
“Oh,” she said again. “Yes. We met. He was very handsome. And possibly . . . well . . . what they say about him might be true.”
“What do they say about him?”
