Page 33 of The Duke and the Darkness

“I invited him.” Wilkins had always been protective of her—in some ways, overly protective—and she knew that bringing Devlin home was not at all part of their plan. But she also expected him to trust her. “He has new information about the attack.”

“Of course, he does. He knows everything about that night because he planned it.” His brow furrowed with worry.“Bringing him here—letting him know you’re still alive—that wasn’t at all what agreed to do. We agreed to work in secret.”

“He figured out who I was. There’s no point in hiding from him any longer.”

“And if he tries to harm you? If he decides to finish what he started? You’re the only witness left who can place him at the attack.” He pursed his lips with concern. “What would Proctor and I do if anything happened to you?”

“I will be fine.” She rested her hand on his arm to reassure him. “The truth will come out, and I’ll finally know what happened that night and why.”

“We already know. He murdered your parents and attempted to rape you.”

She cast a glance across the room at Devlin. “I’m not so certain of that anymore, and I need to be absolutely sure before we continue our plans.” When her words of caution didn’t mollify him, she affectionately squeezed his arm. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“As long as you don’t trusthim.” He touched her cheek affectionately. “Sometimes you lead with your heart, and this time, that might get you hurt. You need to think clearly about this man and not let him deceive you with his charms.”

“I won’t.” She slowly stepped back. “You can go to bed now. I won’t be needing you this evening.” She turned to Devlin and nodded toward the stairs. “This way.”

As she led Devlin upstairs, she caught a last glimpse of Wilkins watching the two of them. The betrayal in his expression was heartbreaking.

She turned away to hurry up the stairs. What else had she expected? Wilkins was her protector and bodyguard, a man who looked after her as closely as if she were his sister or wife. Of course, he would be concerned about her, still viewing Devlin as the enemy. Yet she’d upset him, and that simply pierced her.

But she needed to know what happened that night, why the late Duke of Dartmoor wanted her parents dead. Only Devlin could provide those answers.

Ten years of survival, of struggling to find her way through the darkness—they had all come to this. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same for her again.

Come into my parlor…

She opened the door to her room and stepped inside.

Chapter Eight

Devlin hesitated inthe doorway to cast his gaze around the large bedroom that was lit only by the faint glow of banked coals in the fireplace and the dim moonlight falling through the unshuttered window. There was nothing unusual about the space…a bed, a reading chair, a writing desk, two armoires. There was even a cup of tea, still sitting on the side table by the chair, as she must have left it that evening before she dressed for Vauxhall.

Nothing unusual, except the woman it belonged to, who slowly crossed to the larger of the two armoires. She stopped in front of it and opened the doors.

Sweet Lucifer. Devlin gaped at the armoire. No, not an armoire—an armory. A wall of weapons gleamed in the dim light. Rows of knives of all shapes and sizes, pistols he was certain were loaded, swords, rapiers…for God’s sake, there was even a battle axe.

With her hands still on the doors at chest height, Peyton stood unmoving in front of the armoire and stared blankly at the deadly cache.

“I’ve always wondered what women keep in their dressing rooms,” Devlin commented dryly as he came forward. He stopped beside her and reached over her shoulder to take one of the knives. He turned it in his hand, watched the razor-sharpblade catch the red light of the banked fire, and muttered, “Now I know why women always refer to them as unmentionables.”

She didn’t so much as smile. “I know how to use every one of them, too.” For once, she didn’t rise to his teasing and throw back a barb of her own. Instead, she added in a murmur, almost as if to herself, “I will never be vulnerable again.”

He didn’t doubt that, remembering the hidden pistol in the carriage. He mumbled as he returned the knife to its place, “You’ve been busy.”

“I had ten years to learn.” A distracted, faraway expression clouded her face as she stood there, her hands still holding the doors halfway open. “Do you know what amaître d’armesis?”

“Yes.” After all, he’d once had his own master in Anthony Titus.

“I trained under Armand Marchand, who served as one of Napoleon’s private guards in the early days of the Republic. But then Napoleon turned against all the ideals of the revolution and declared himself emperor, and Armand turned against Napoleon. He attempted to kill Bonaparte but failed and so fled for his life to the south of France where he found me.”

“He taught you to defend yourself,” he guessed.

“He taught me how to fight,” she correctly. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I didn’t feel safe, not even in France, not even in the countryside, so I hired Armand to serve as my bodyguard. But he became so much more to me than that.” She turned back toward the weapons, as if seeing Marchand there. “He helped me to heal, made me strong, taught me how to protect myself… Eventually, he became my lover and taught me how to protect my heart as well.”

Jealousy pierced him—but not of her lover. What struck him was that Marchand had been able to protect her when Devlin had failed to do just that. That was all it was. Any other sort of jealousy would have been absurd.

But he also hadn’t seen any man around her, no one he would have suspected to be amaître d’armesturned bodyguard. Not any of her carriage tigers, although he was certain all of them carried weapons beneath their uniforms, and not the butler, who seemed more muscular brawn than fighting brains. And certainly not the older Englishman who had confronted them in the entry hall.