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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.”
Ewan’s gaze found his instantly, and Devil regretted the words. What Ewan seemed to think they hinted at. “I shan’t hurt her,” Ewan said. “I’m going to marry her.”
The unpleasant pronouncement grated, but Devil did his best to ignore the sensation. Felicity Faircloth of the silly name was most definitely embroiled now. Which meant he had no choice but to engage her.
Ewan pressed on. “Her family seems quite desperate for a duke—so desperate that the lady herself simply pronounced us engaged this evening. And to my knowledge, we’ve never even met. She’s clearly a simpleton, but I don’t care. Heirs are heirs.”
She wasn’t a simpleton. She was fascinating. Smart-mouthed and curious and more comfortable in the darkness than he would have imagined. And with a smile that made a man pay attention.
It was a pity he’d have to ruin her.
“I shall find the girl’s family and offer them fortune, title, all of it. Whatever it takes. Banns shall post Sunday,” Marwick said, calmly, as though he was discussing the weather, “and they will see us married within the month. Heirs soon on the way.”
No one gets back in. Not without a match for the ages.
Felicity’s words from earlier echoed through Devil. The woman would be thrilled with this turn of events. Marriage to Marwick got her what she wanted. A heroine’s return to the aristocracy.
Except she wouldn’t return.
Because Devil would never allow it, beautiful smile or no. Though the smile might make her ruination all the better.
Devil’s brows lowered. “You get heirs on Felicity Faircloth over my rotting corpse.”
“You think she will choose Covent Garden over Mayfair?”
I want back in.
Mayfair was everything Felicity Faircloth wanted. He’d simply have to show her what else there was to see. In the meantime, he threw his sharpest knife. “I think she is not the first woman to risk with me rather than spend a lifetime with you, Ewan.”
It struck true.
The duke looked away, back out the window. “Get out.”
Chapter Four
Felicity sailed through the open door of her ancestral home, ignoring the fact that her brother was at her heels. She paused to force a smile at the butler, still holding the door. “Good evening, Irving.”
“Good evening, my lady,” the butler intoned, closing the door behind Arthur and reaching for the earl’s gloves. “My lord.”
Arthur shook his head. “I’m not staying, Irving. I’m only here to have words with my sister.”
Felicity turned to meet the brown gaze identical to her own. “Now you’d like to speak? We rode home in silence.”
“I wouldn’t call it silence.”
“Oh, no?”
“No. I’d call it speechlessness.”
&nb
sp; She scoffed, yanking at her gloves, using the movement to avoid her brother’s eyes and the hot guilt that thrummed through her at the idea of discussing the disastrous evening that had unfolded.
“Good God, Felicity, I’m not sure there’s a brother in Christendom who would be able to find words in the wake of your audacity.”
“Oh, please. I told a tiny lie.” She made for the staircase, waving a hand through the air and trying to sound as though she weren’t as horrified as she was. “Plenty of people have done far more outrageous things. It’s not as though I took up work in a bordello.”
Arthur’s eyes bugged from their sockets. “A tiny lie?” Before she could reply he added, “And you shouldn’t even know the word bordello.”
She looked back, the two steps she’d already taken putting her above her twin. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I suppose you think that it isn’t proper, me knowing the word bordello.”
“I don’t think. I know. And stop saying bordello.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
Her brother narrowed his brown gaze on hers. “No, but I can see you wish to. And I don’t want you to offend Irving.”
The butler’s brows rose.
