Page 76 of The Duke and the Darkness

But enough decoration remained for a rush of emotion to hit her. The blue wallpaper with large flowers of raised velvet, the checkerboard floor in the entry and stair halls, the plastered ceilings in the main reception rooms with their designs of grape vines and myrtle trees, the rose ceiling medallion in the morning room—even the little plaster bird tucked into the carved leaves that decorated the outside edge of the marble stairs that circled toward the first floor, the same little bird that had fascinated her so much as a girl. All of it churned a flood of memories inside her of happier times, love, and peace.

But it was all a lie.

The money to buy all those beautiful pieces of furniture and decoration, all that crystal and silver, every single book inher father’s study, every bit of plaster and marble—it all came from the illegal businesses her father financed for Dartmoor and Crewe. Charles Chandler had hidden it well, too. Oh, their house was lovely, but it wasn’t conspicuous for a man of her father’s status. He’d made certain of that by hiding most of the money in accounts and businesses on the Continent where his activities couldn’t be traced. The same accounts and businesses Peyton had used to live on in France, to take care of Wilkins and Proctor, to buy fencing lessons from Armand Marchand…to pay for her return to London and her revenge.

With numbness and anguish flashing over her in turns, she held up the lantern to light her way and slowly climbed the stairs, passing the first-floor landing en route to the old nursery under the eaves. Her earliest memories of the house and her parents came from there. If anything survived—

She stopped in the doorway to the nursery and choked back a pained sob.

The room was the same as she remembered. Nothing here had been removed, nothing stripped away. It wasexactlythe same, right down to the pink ribbon she’d tied in her hobby horse’s tail and the dolls arranged at the tiny table as if waiting for the tea party to begin.

She stepped stiffly into the room, set down the lantern, and picked up a little stuffed bunny. The furry creature with porcelain blue eyes had been one of her favorites, left behind in the nursery when she moved downstairs into her own bedroom. As she ran her fingertips over the soft fur, her throat constricted, and her eyes and nose stung.

Had even her toys been purchased with blood money? Peyton had been the same age as those children caught up in the dukes’ illegal enterprises, chained up like slaves in factories or forced to do far worse in brothels. Her father hadn’t wanted children to be involved, had balked at what they’d done whenhe’d discovered it—but how could he have not known that men like Horrender, Crewe, and Dartmoor would do anything to increase their wealth and power, even at the expense of children?

She swung her watery gaze around the room to take it all in. Her childhood had been absolutely ideal, so perfect…

Until the night it wasn’t.

She set the bunny down, picked up the lantern, and left the nursery. She would have to do something with all these toys before she sold the house, ended her stay in London, and returned to France where she belonged. She had friends in Lyon and Marseilles and contacts she’d made through Armand and his acquaintances in the military. Here, she had only ghosts.

She halted as she turned onto the first-floor landing. A shadow moved at the bottom of the stairs below. “Devlin?”

When no answer came, the little hairs on her arms stood on end. No, not Devlin.

“Who’s there?” she called out, lifting the small lantern, even though its light wasn’t strong enough to reach past the bottom step and into the hall below.

She held her breath. Her blood pounded so hard in her ears that the roar of it was deafening, her arms and legs numb as fear flashed up her spine. Armand had taught her well when it came to fighting, as the knife strapped to her thigh attested.

But he hadn’t prepared her for acting as bait.

That old familiar taste of helplessness rose sickeningly on her tongue, a horrible metallic taste that sheneverwanted to experience again. Helpless… Everything she’d done since the night of the attack had been to prevent that, only for it to return now with full force.

“Tell me who you are.” Anger rose on the heels of her fear, and she demanded, “Now.”

The man stepped into the dim circle of lantern light and looked up at her. “Welcome home, Peyton.”

Her breath left her in a relieved rush. “Wilkins.”

With a faint smile, her shoulders easing down, she descended to the ground floor. She’d never been so happy to see her friend in her life! But he wasn’t supposed to be here. According to the plan, the only man who should have been in the house with her tonight was Horrender.

She set the lantern onto the stairs behind her. “You should be at the inn.”

“After your announcement tonight at the party, telling everyone you were coming back here? You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, not anymore.” The old guilt tightened her chest at the thought of all he’d sacrificed for her over the years, only for her to exclude him now from their plans. But she had no choice. Chase, Crewe, and Devlin had insisted she tell no one, not even Wilkins. “That’s what tonight was about—breaking clean with the past. That’s why I had to reveal my identity.”

“You didn’t share any of your plans with me. Tonight’s accusations, your new friendship with Dartmoor, your visit to Seven Dials—” Exasperation laced his voice. “Don’t you trust me anymore?”

“Of course I do.” She always would. But in stopping Horrender, she had to trust the three dukes more. “You and Proctor dedicated your lives to me.” Her throat tightened—Proctor had most likely even given her life for Peyton. “I had you when I had no one else. I will always be grateful for that.”

“Now you think you have Dartmoor on your side?”

Something about the way he said that twisted uneasily down her spine. “Yes.”

“Then you’re an even bigger fool than Betty and I thought.”

His unexpected words struck her like a blow.“Pardon?”