Page 13 of The Duke and the Darkness

“One of these days, someone’s going to discover that you’re not actually using the women here for your own pleasures,” Devlin muttered. “And then what will you do?”

“What I always do.” He took a gasping swallow of the cheap whiskey and rasped out, “Lie.”

Devlin had been friends with Crewe for two decades, and he was one of only a handful of men who knew the truth about him. That Crewe’s entire life was a lie.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this social call, mind you, but the tea here is terrible.” Crewe refilled his glass and turned to Devlin, suddenly serious. “So why are you here?”

He frowned. “Because I met a mysterious woman tonight.”

“Nowthe conversation’s becoming interesting.” He eyed Devlin over his glass as he raised it to his lips. “Tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, Devlin told his old friend about the mysterious woman he’d met at Barton’s, sparing few details. He, Lucien, Seamus Douglass, and Chase Maddox had become brothers-in-arms while training under Anthony Titus when they’d been at Eton together. Each had been there for different reasons, but in the end, they’d become brothers in every way but blood, never turning their backs on each other when in need and even following each other into the wars. He could trust all of them with his life—and with Crewe, he did just that every day with the secret of what their fathers had done.

He just couldn’t trust Crewe not to involve him unknowingly in one of his latest jokes.

Crewe was always playing some sort of game he could brag about in the clubs to solidify his place as one of London’s worst blackguards, to make everyone believe he held no feelings whatsoever in his black heart. It was only a matter of time until he involved Devlin in one of them, and tonight seemed to be it.

Crewe leaned back against the ceramic winged lion and folded his arms casually over his chest as he listened. In his shirtsleeves without a cravat, his bared neck revealed even more by his unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat, he was exactly as half-dressed as the two girls had been. After all, if anyone else had come across him tonight while he was teaching them to read, he needed to appear as if he were the rakehell everyone assumed him to be.

“I had nothing to do with any of that,” Crewe promised, crossing an X over his heart the way the four friends had done since Eton.

Devlin raked his hand through his hair and blew out a hard breath, believing him. Lucien might have been able to fool the world about who he was, but Devlin knew him better than anyone. And now, Devlin didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more worried.

“She didn’t give you her name?”

Devlin grimaced. “Lady Payne.”

“Well, that’s a damned lie.”

Devlin finished off his whiskey. He didn’t need a reminder of how blinded he’d been by her tonight.

“Nothing at all to identify her by?” Crewe frowned. “No idiosyncrasies about the way she played cards or spoke? Nothing about her clothes that would identify her dressmaker or indicate how long she’s been in London?”

“No.” He’d replayed every moment with her in his mind at least half a dozen times. Nothing stood out. He’d even questioned Patton about the name on the deed she’d used toback her marker—Elizabeth Wentworth—but that name meant nothing to him.

Yet heknewher, damn it. He would have bet his fortune on it.

“Be honest with me.” He locked eyes with Crewe. “Have you told anyone about what our fathers did?”

“Never. Not even Shay or Chase.” Crewe didn’t try to conceal his bitterness at being doubted, as he added, “Our agreement still stands. I haven’t betrayed your trust, Devlin.” Crewe returned his glass to the café table. “Besides, it would be suicide. If one of us breaks the vow, both of us are destroyed. You know that.”

“You more than me.”

“Not much more.” He fixed a grave stare on Devlin from across the room and asked pointedly, “How are your mother and sisters these days?”

Point made.The quiet question was a stark reminder of all they both had to lose. Even now, both men could be thrown into prison for hiding their fathers’ crimes, and neither dukedom would be able to save them or their families.

“You can trust me, Devlin,” Crewe assured him. His face was drawn. “I would never do anything to dredge up the past.”

Devlin nodded faintly. Still, unease hung heavily over him. He slowly swirled his whiskey and frowned as he watched the golden liquid sheet down the sides of the glass. “I’ve been hearing rumors…” He didn’t want to finish the sentence and put voice to his fears. “Do you think Horrender might have finally returned?”

Crewe stiffened instantly. “If he’s back, I’ve not heard of it,” he said quietly, as if he, too, was afraid to speak the devil’s name for fear the devil would appear. “And my contacts in Seven Dials and St Giles are even better than yours.”

Devlin prayed he was right. “Are you certain?”

“Horrender has not returned,” Crewe insisted irritably, running his hand through his already disheveled hair.

Devlin recognized that sign of aggravation in his old friend, that old frustration at being unable to strike out at the unfairness of his world. Titus had worked with Crewe to channel physical exertion into release, to keep his hot frustrations tamped down, but they had come back once he’d stopped training. He got himself expelled from university during his first term, then headed to France to become a mercenary because his father prevented him from buying an honorable commission. Men across three countries had paid the price for Crewe’s frustration during those years, and even now, Crewe only found solace by engaging in illegal bouts of fisticuffs waged in dockside warehouses where he could beat his opponents to a pulp. But all the fights in all the world would never fix what his father had done, just as they could never ease the hell Crewe had gone through during the wars. More than any of the four friends, it was Crewe who’d witnessed the worst of the fighting and suffered the most for it—wasstillsuffering for it.