Page 9 of The Duke and the Darkness

Wilkins had been unable to see any of the attackers’ faces in the foggy darkness that night, being too confused and frightened by the unfolding chaos to do anything more than run for the night guard. She, herself, had fallen unconscious without seeing her attacker’s face in the darkness, able only to claw at his neck and tear loose a button from his waistcoat while she struggled against him as he pinned her to the ground from behind. Everything else was darkness.

Wilkins drawled, “But the new investigators have determined there was a two-hour time gap between when he left Dartmoor House and when anyone remembered seeing him enter the hell.”

Her fingers froze.Two hours.More than enough time for Devlin to oversee the assault in person and then hurry to the hell to create an alibi.

Her eyes darted to Wilkins. “Are they certain?”

“They have sworn statements from witnesses.”

Straightening her back to steady herself, she removed the last of the pins and shook out her hair, thankful to hide the trembling of her hands by running her fingers through her locks.

Devlin had been at the attack; all the evidence now placed him there with enough time to spare.But why?Why would he commit such evil? That question nagged at her more than she wanted to admit, especially after seeing him again tonight.

But everyone told her that Devlin had been part of it—the detectives, Wilkins, Betty, even the bits of evidence she’d managed to find on her own—and she had no reason to doubt them. Except…why?Why would Devlin take part in his father’s murderous plans, and why would a rake like him, who had been invited into the beds of the most beautiful London ladies, want to rape a scrawny girl like her?

After spending time with Devlin tonight, that question demanded an answer more than ever. Yet it was an answer she simply didn’t have. Nor most likely ever would.

Wilkins watched her silently. Neither of them thought anything of her taking her hair down in front of him, so long had they known each other and so closely had they lived together in France. Although he was a decade older than Peyton and had come from a completely different background in London’s east end, he had cared for her during the dark days immediately following the attack with an attention born from deep remorse for being unable to stop it. He’d seen her at her worst then, beaten and bruised and barely clinging to life, and he was still with her now as she sought revenge.

Only the kindness and care that Wilkins and Betty Proctor had given her allowed her to survive. She owed them everything and trusted both with her life.

“And you believe the investigators?” she pressed. “You’re certain Dartmoor was there that night?”

“Absolutely.”

Her shoulders sagged with a disturbing mixture of relief and regret, and she nodded slowly as she accepted that last piece of missing information. Despite the whispers of lingering doubts from the corners of her mind, all the evidence pointed irrefutably to Devlin.

“Do you have new instructions for me?” Wilkins asked quietly.

She shook her head faintly as she reached for the wooden keepsake box siting on the fireplace mantel and made her decision. “We stay the course.” She placed the sapphires inside. Then her gaze fixed on the silver button tucked into the corner of the box. “That will be all for tonight, Wilkins. And thank you…for everything.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. His face blurred beneath her unshed tears before she looked away. “Would you please ask my maid to attend me?”

“Of course.” Yet he remained where he was for a long while, as if wanting to say something more, before murmuring instead, “Good night.”

Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Alone in her room, Peyton sucked in a ragged breath and reached into the box for the button. She held it up to the firelight.

She’d kept this button for a decade, long enough that the silver had tarnished black. It was a brutal reminder of that night.

Everyone thought she’d died shortly after the attack, including Dartmoor. Truly, Peyton Chandlerdiddie, only to rise from the ashes as someone else. She had been able to keep livingby taking one breath after another, one step at a time. Each breath slowly turned into uneasy hours, then entire days and months, and eventually into years, just as each step eventually turned into miles. Through it all, the only thing that had kept her going was her determination to make Dartmoor pay for what he’d done.

How had she gotten away that night? She still had no idea. The last thing she remembered was tasting the acid of panic and terror on her tongue, her hands and knees scraped raw against the cobblestones as she’d tried to crawl away, the sinking of her nails into her attacker’s neck as he grabbed for her, the ripping of her skirts and bodice as her dress tore away, the weight of the man pressing down upon her from behind as his leg shoved hers apart—

She woke two days later with this button clenched in her fist in a death grip.

She’d been delivered, half-dead, by an unknown stranger to a surgeon. At some point during the night, Wilkins and Proctor had come for her. Fearing another attempt on her life, that the men who had killed her parents would come after her again if they thought she might be able to identify them, the two had secreted her away from London to a small cottage in Richmond. Then, they’d told everyone she’d died. When word spread of the vicious assault, no one questioned a third coffin joining those of her parents’ in the churchyard.

As soon as she was well enough to travel, she fled to France with Wilkins and Proctor, where they started new lives.

There, in the warmth and anonymity of the southern French countryside, she was able to grieve. Proctor looked after her as if she were her own daughter, and with Wilkins’s help in tracking down old business contacts, Peyton was able to regain a large portion of her father’s fortune, which he had invested into accounts and business ventures across Europe. Eventually,Armand had come to join them, to train her to fight and help her heal, and they had all lived together on the small farm like a real family.

Through it all, though, she was haunted by the attack. She had hired investigators, the best money could buy, who began to piece together what had happened. Through their help, she learned who had directed the attackers, how the assault had been carried out…

All the evidence pointed to the Duke of Dartmoor and his son, Devlin Raines.

The old duke had avoided punishment by dying seven years ago, but she wouldn’t let his son escape so easily. As the sixth Duke of Dartmoor, Devlin was untouchable in the criminal courts; such a high-ranking peer would never be found guilty, not even for murder. But there was more than one way to ruin him, and Peyton planned to do exactly that—ruin him butnotkill him. After all, he deserved to suffer for his crimes, just as she’d suffered. He deserved to have everyone and everything he held most dear stripped away from him, until he was left with nothing. Just as she’d been. Until he wished he was dead.

Before she took her last breath, she would rain fire and brimstone upon Dartmoor’s head, until the flames of hell consumed him and swallowed him whole.