Page 29 of The Duke and the Darkness

“I asked.” Dryly quirking a brow, he replaced the stopper on the bottle and set it down next to the piece of paper. “I have very good contacts. A title for an estate like that is bound to leave a trail. I merely followed it.”

Devlin picked up the piece of paper and read the direction. Portland Place in Marylebone. Close enough to keep watch on him in Mayfair, yet far enough away so as not to be easily noticed.

“Elizabeth Wentworth appeared out of nowhere six weeks ago when she stepped off a ship from France.” Crewe leaned back in the chair. “I think we have proof that Horrender’s returned.”

“I might have been drinking,” Devlin muttered and tossed away the piece of paper, “but that woman is definitely not Josiah Horrender.”

“No. Most likely just the woman he’s hired to front his return.” Crewe shrugged as if the situation were obvious. “If Horrender has arrived back in London as we suspect, he’d need to buy everything to set up his household, along with hiring all new staff. No one can hide that kind of spending. Shopkeepers and merchants talk, so do their accountants. Which means he needs someone to do it all for him so he can remain inhiding. What more perfect person to do that than Elizabeth Wentworth?” When Devlin’s expression turned doubting, Crewe added, “Trust me. I know how to live a secret life, which means I also know all the ways to reveal it.”

Yes, Crewe certainly did. Yet Devlin shook his head. “That woman is connected to the Chandlers far more closely than simply being Horrender’s agent. But how?”

Peyton Chandler had no younger sister, no close cousins, and no other relatives whom Devlin had been able to find in those terrible weeks after the attack when he’d attempted to settle the Chandler estate as a way to ease his conscience. Yet he suspected his mystery woman was somehow part of the Chandler family, someone who resembled them enough that his mind made the connection. Nothing more than a distant relative.Hadto be.

Because the alternative, that the woman truly was Peyton Chandler, returned from the grave…Impossible.

“No idea,” Crewe answered, “but I’ll keep digging. Should I hire men to watch the townhouse in Marylebone?”

“No.” They’d be spotted, and the last thing he and Crewe needed was for Horrender to realize the two of them knew he had returned.

“All right, then. What do we do next?”

“I find her.” And God help her when he did.

Chapter Seven

The bells inthe Chinese pavilion at the center of Vauxhall Gardens struck midnight, and a wave of excitement passed over the park. In the rear of the gardens, where close paths wound darkly through the small wilderness, lanterns were quickly extinguished, plunging the area into darkness and signaling the start of the amorous activities the pleasure gardens had become known for.

Closer to the main gates, the lamps and lanterns strung along the alleys between buildings continued to blaze in dazzling colors, while beneath their light, a plethora of performers danced, played, tumbled, and more—anything to entertain the wealthy aristocrats in their private supper boxes where their parties would continue for hours. The activities there among the lights and crowd were far less scandalous than those in the wilderness but just as playfully surreptitious, thanks to the masks and costumes worn by the attendees.

Peyton checked that her own mask was still securely in place as she slipped down the crowded alley. The entire row of boxes had been rented out by Lord Liverpool for tonight’s party, with a goodly portion of the alley roped off to keep out the riffraff.

Or was it to keep the MPs in? After all, most of parliament was in attendance, along with their wives and assortedmistresses, which made it easier than Peyton expected to slip into the party with her stolen invitation.

It wasn’t much of a masquerade, if she was honest. Despite the fancy dress, she was able to recognize nearly everyone behind their tiny masks that barely covered their eyes and almost nothing of their faces. Some of the women carried masks on long sticks and didn’t even bother concealing their faces, instead using the masks to flirt and hide their gossip, the same way they would have used fans at a ball.

But no one recognized Peyton. After all, no one thought she could possibly be among them. Except for Devlin. He alone would be able to spot her in the crowd. So she slowly circled the avenue in her hunt for him.

She needed to speak with him. Her doubts from last night had only grown stronger in the hours since she’d left the opera. Nothing had been able to ease them. Not spending the rest of the night once more pouring over the evidence she’d spent years collecting. Not even talking to Wilkins and Proctor, both of whom still insisted she was correct in pursuing her revenge.

Yet the more time she spent puzzling over it, the less the pieces fit together, even those she had been so certain about before. Now, instead of the cohesive map that pointed to his guilt, she saw gaps, uncertainties, weak assumptions…none of which had been there before.

Most likely because she hadn’t been looking for them. But now…

Before she went on with her plans to destroy Devlin, she had to know the role he’d played that night for certain. The only way to do that was to confront him, and to draw him out, she used herself as bait. But she’d been here for nearly two hours and had yet to find him.

With rising frustration, she approached the attendant at the door of the box who was serving as Master of Ceremonies for Lord Liverpool’s party.

“The Duke of Dartmoor,” she said bluntly. “Has he arrived?”

The man searched the list of names he held in his hand, the same list he’d been checking off one by one as the guests arrived. The same list that claimed she was Martha Besson. As the mistress of Viscount Houghton, Besson had been easy to track down to her townhouse, where Peyton had purchased the woman’s invitation directly from her maid, once again proving that most people didn’t hire the correct sort of people for their household staff, nor did they pay them enough to ensure their loyalty. But Besson’s oversight was Peyton’s opportunity. As the viscount’s mistress, the real Martha Besson could never ask for a replacement invitation, nor would anyone here approach Peyton to discover the truth of who she was. Not with Lady Houghton also in attendance.

“No, ma’am.” He lowered the list. “His Grace isn’t attending.”

“He’s not?” Desperate disappointment pierced her. She’d been so certain of the information her butler had given her. The duke had been invited and issued his acceptance. His own valet had confirmed it.

“He begged off at the last minute.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled and turned away.