Wicked and the Wallflower

Chapter Three

The last time Devil had been inside Marwick House was the night he met his father.

He’d been ten years old, too old to remain at the orphanage where he’d spent his entire life. Devil had heard rumors of what came of boys who aged out of the orphanage. He had been preparing to run, not wanting to face the workhouse where, if the stories were to be believed, he was likely to die, and no one would find his body.

Devil had believed the stories.

Each night, knowing it was a matter of time before they came for him, he’d carefully packed his belongings—a pair of too big stockings he’d nicked from the laundry. A crust of bread or hard biscuit saved from afternoon meal. A pair of mittens worn by too many boys to count, too filled with holes to keep hands warm any longer. And the small gilded pin that had been stuck to his swaddle when he’d been found as a babe, run through with a piece of embroidery, on which was a magnificent red M. The pin had long-ago lost its paint, turning back into brass, and the cloth that had once been white had turned grey with dirt from his fingers. But it was all Devil had owned of his past, and the only source of hope he’d had for his future.

Each night, he would lie in the pitch black, listening to the sounds of the other boys’ tears, counting the steps to get from his pallet to the hallway, down the hallway to the door. Out the door, and into the night. He was an excellent climber, and he’d decided to take to the rooftops instead of the streets—they’d have been less likely to find him if they gave chase.

Though it had seemed unlikely anyone would chase him.

It had seemed unlikely anyone would want him.

He heard the footsteps ring out down the hall. They were coming for him, to take him to the workhouse. He rolled off the side of his pallet, crouching low and collecting his things, moving to stand flat at the wall beside the door.

The lock clicked and the door opened, revealing a thread of candlelight—never seen in the orphanage after dark. He made a run for it, weaving through two sets of legs, getting halfway down the hall before a strong hand landed on his shoulder and lifted him clean off the ground.

He kicked and screamed, craning to bite the offending hand.

“Good God. This one is feral,” a deep baritone voice said, and Devil went perfectly still at the sound of it. He’d never heard anyone speak such perfect, measured English. He stopped trying to bite, instead turning to look at the man who held him—tall as a tree and cleaner than anyone Devil had ever seen, with eyes the color of the floorboards of the room where they were supposed to pray.

Devil wasn’t very good at praying.

Someone lifted the candle to Devil’s face, the bright flame making him flinch away. “That’s him.” The dean.

Devil turned to face his captor once more. “I ain’t goin’ to the workhouse.”

“Of course you’re not,” the strange man had said. He reached for Devil’s pack, opening it.

“Oi! Them’s my things!”

The man ignored him, tossing the socks and biscuit to the side, lifting the pin and turning it to the light. Devil raged at the idea of this man, this stranger, touching the only thing he had of his mother. The only thing he had of his past. His small hands curled into fists, and he took a swing, connecting with the fancy man’s hip. “’At’s mine! You can’t have it!”

The man hissed in pain. “Christ. The demon can throw a punch.”

The dean minced. “He didn’t learn that from us.”

Devil scowled. Where else would he have learned it? “Give it back.”

The well-dressed man summoned him closer, waving Devil’s treasure in the air. “Your mother gave this to you.”

Devil reached out and snatched it from the man’s hand, hating the embarrassment that came at the words. Embarrassment and longing. “Yeah.”

A nod. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Hope flared, hot and almost unpleasant in Devil’s chest.

The man continued. “Do you know what a duke is?”

“No, sir.”

“You will,” he promised.

Memories were a bitch.

Devil crept down the long upper hallway of Marwick House, the strains of the orchestra whispering through the dimly lit space from the floor below. He hadn’t thought of the night his father had found him in a decade. Maybe longer.

But tonight, being in this house, which somehow still smelled the same, he remembered every bit of that first night. The bath, the warm food, the soft bed. Like he’d fallen asleep and woken up in a dream.

And that night, it had been a dream.

The nightmare had begun soon after.

Putting the memory from his mind, he arrived at the master bedchamber, setting his hand to the door handle, turning it quickly and silently, and stepping inside.

His brother stood at the window, tumbler dangling in his hand, hair gleaming blond in the candlelight. Ewan did not turn to face Devil. Instead, he said, “I wondered if you would come tonight.”

The voice was the same. Cultured and measured and deep, like their father. “You sound like the duke.”

“I am the duke.”

Devil let the door close behind him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

Devil tapped his walking stick twice on the floor. “Did we not make a pact all those years ago?”

Marwick turned to reveal the side of his face. “I’ve been looking for you for twelve years.”

Devil sank into the low armchair by the fire, extending his legs toward the place where the duke stood. “If only I’d known.”

“I think you did.”

Of course they had known. The moment they’d come of age, a stream of men had come sniffing around the rookery, asking about a trio of orphans who might have found their way to London years earlier. Two boys and a girl, with names no one in Covent Garden recognized . . . no one but the Bastards themselves.

No one but the Bastards and Ewan, the young Duke of Marwick, rich as a king and old enough to put the money to good use.

But eight years in the rookery had made Devil and Whit as powerful as they were cunning, as strong as they were forbidding, and no one talked about the Bareknuckle Bastards for fear of retribution. Especially to outsiders.

And with the trail gone cold, the men who came sniffing always dropped the scent and left.

This time, however, it was not an employee who came for them. It was Marwick himself. And with a better plan than ever.

“I assume you thought that by announcing your hunt for a wife, you’d get our attention,” Devil said.

Marwick turned. “It worked.”

“No heirs, Ewan,” Devil said, unable to use the name of the dukedom to his face. “That was the deal. Do you remember the last time you reneged on a deal with me?”

The duke’s eyes went dark. “Yes.”

That night, Devil had taken everything the duke had loved, and run. “And what makes you think I won’t do it again?”

“Because this time I am a duke,” Ewan said. “And my power extends far beyond Covent Garden, no matter how heavy your fists are these days, Devon. I will bring hell down upon you. And not just you. Our brother. Your men. Your business. You lose everything.”

It would be worth it. Devil’s gaze narrowed on his brother. “What do you want?”

“I told you I would come for her.”

Grace. The fourth of their band, the woman Whit and Devil called sister, though no blood was shared between them. The girl Ewan had loved even then, when they were children.

Grace, who three brothers had vowed to protect all those years ago, when they were young and innocent, and before betrayal had broken their bond.

Grace, who, in Ewan’s betrayal, had become the dukedom’s most dangerous secret. For it was Grace who was the truth of the dukedom. Grace, born to the former duke and his wife, the duchess. Grace, baptized their child despite being illegitimate in her own way.

But it was Ewan now, years later, who bore that baptismal name. Who held the title that belonged to none of them by rights.

And Grace, the living, breathing proof that Ewan had thieved the title, the fortune, the future—a theft which the Crown did not take lightly.

A theft which, if discovered, would see Ewan dancing at the end of a rope outside Newgate.

Devil narrowed his gaze on his brother. “You’ll never find her.”

Ewan’s eyes darkened. “I shan’t hurt her.”

“You are as mad as your precious aristocracy says if you think we’ll believe that. Do you not remember the night we left? I do, every time I look in the mirror.”

Marwick’s gaze flickered to Devil’s cheek, to the wicked scar there, the powerful reminder of how little brotherhood had meant when it came to claiming power. “I had no choice.”

“We all had a choice that night. You chose your title, your money, and your power. And we allowed you all three, despite Whit wanting to snuff you out before the rot of our sire could consume you. We let you live, despite your clear willingness to see us dead. On one condition—our father was mad for an heir, and though he might get a false one in you, he would not receive the satisfaction of a line of them—not even in death. We will always be on opposite sides in this fight, Duke. No heirs was the rule. The only rule. We left you alone all these years with your ill-gotten title because of it. But know this—if you decide to flout it, I will tear you apart, and you will never find an ounce of happiness in this life.”

“You think I am riddled with happiness now?”

Christ, Devil hoped not. He hoped that there was nothing that made the duke happy. He’d reveled in his brother’s legendary hermitage, knowing that Ewan lived in the house where they’d been pitted against each other, bastard sons in a battle for legitimacy. For name and title and fortune. Taught to dance and dine and speak with eloquence that belied the shame into which the three of them had been born.

He hoped every memory of their youth consumed his brother, and he was consumed with regret for allowing himself to play the doting son to a fucking monster.

Still, Devil lied. “I don’t care.”

“I have searched for you for more than a decade, and now I’ve found you. The Bareknuckle Bastards, rich and ruthless, running God knows what kind of crime ring in the heart of Covent Garden—the place that birthed me, I might add.”

“It spat you out the moment you betrayed it. And us,” Devil said.

“I’ve asked a hundred questions a thousand different ways.” Ewan turned away, running a wild hand through his blond hair. “No women. No wives. No sisters to speak of. Where is she?”

There was panic in the words, a vague sense that he might go mad if he did not receive an answer. Devil had lived in the darkness long enough to understand madmen and their obsessions. He shook his head, sending a word of thanks to the gods for making the people of the Garden loyal to them. “Ever beyond your reach.”

“You took her from me!” Panic edged into rage.

“We took her from the title,” Devil said. “The one that sickened your father.”

“Your father, as well.”

Devil ignored the correction. “The title that sickened you. The one that had you ready to kill her.”

The duke looked to the ceiling for a long minute. Then, “I should have killed you.”

“She would have escaped.”

“I should kill you now.”

“You’ll never find her, then.”

A familiar jaw—an echo of their father’s—clenched. Eyes went wild, then blank. “Then understand, Devil, I have no interest in keeping my end of the deal. I shall have heirs. I’m a duke. I shall have a wife and child within a year. I shall renege on our deal, unless you tell me where she is.”

Devil’s own rage flared, his grip tightening on the silver head of his walking stick. He should kill his brother now. Leave him bleeding out on the fucking floor, and finally give the Marwick line its due.

He tapped the end of his stick on the toe of his black boot. “You would do well to remember that with the information I have about you, Duke. A word of it would have you hanged.”

“Why not use it?” The question was not combative, as Devil would have expected it. It was something like pained, as though Ewan would greet death. As though he would summon it.

Devil ignored the realization. “Because toying with you is more diverting.”

It was a lie. Devil would have happily destroyed this man, his once brother. But all those years ago, when he and Whit had escaped the Marwick estate and made for London and its terrifying future, vowing to keep Grace safe, they’d made another vow, this one to Grace herself.

They would not kill Ewan.

“Yes, I think I shall play your silly game,” Devil said, standing and tapping his walking stick on the floor twice. “You underestimate the power of the bastard son, brother. Ladies love a man willing to take them for a walk in the darkness. I’ll happily ruin your future brides. One after another, until the end of time. Without hesitation. You never get an heir.” He approached his brother, coming eye to eye with him. “I took Grace right out from under you,” he whispered. “You think I cannot take all the others?”

Ewan’s jaw went heavy with passionate rage. “You will regret keeping her from me.”

“No one keeps Grace from anything. She chose to be rid of you. She chose to run. She didn’t trust you to keep her safe. Not when she was proof of your darkest secret.” He paused. “Robert Matthew Carrick.”

The duke’s gaze blurred at the name, and Devil wondered if perhaps the rumors were true. If Ewan was, indeed, mad.

It would not be a surprise, with the past that haunted him. That haunted them all.

But Devil didn’t care, and he continued. “She chose us, Ewan. And I shall make certain that every woman you ever court does the same. I shall ruin every one of them, with pleasure. And in doing so, I shall save them from your mad desire for power.”

“You think you haven’t the same desire? You think you did not inherit it from our father? They call you the Kings of Covent Garden—power and money and sin surround you.”

Devil smirked. “Every bit of it earned, Ewan.”

“Stolen, I think you mean.”

“You would know a thing or two about stolen futures. About stolen names. Robert Matthew Carrick, Duke of Marwick. A pretty name for a boy born in a Covent Garden brothel.”

The duke’s brow lowered, his eyes turning dark with clarity. “Then let it begin, brother, as it seems I have already been gifted a fiancée. Lady Felicia Fairhaven or Fiona Farthing or some other version of a stupid name.”

Felicity Faircloth.

That’s what the horses’ asses on the balcony had called her before they’d shred her to bits, forced her hand, and inspired her to claim a ducal fiancé in a fit of outrageous cheek. Devil had watched the disaster unfold, unable to stop her from embroiling herself in his brother’s affairs. In his affairs.

“If you think to convince me you aren’t in the market for hurting women, bringing an innocent girl into this is not the way to do it.”

Ewan’s gaze found his instantly, and Devil regretted the words. What Ewan seemed to think they hinted at. “I shan’t hurt her,” Ewan said. “I’m going to marry her.”

The unpleasant pronouncement grated, but Devil did his best to ignore the sensation. Felicity Faircloth of the silly name was most definitely embroiled now. Which meant he had no choice but to engage her.

Ewan pressed on. “Her family seems quite desperate for a duke—so desperate that the lady herself simply pronounced us engaged this evening. And to my knowledge, we’ve never even met. She’s clearly a simpleton, but I don’t care. Heirs are heirs.”

She wasn’t a simpleton. She was fascinating. Smart-mouthed and curious and more comfortable in the darkness than he would have imagined. And with a smile that made a man pay attention.

It was a pity he’d have to ruin her.

“I shall find the girl’s family and offer them fortune, title, all of it. Whatever it takes. Banns shall post Sunday,” Marwick said, calmly, as though he was discussing the weather, “and they will see us married within the month. Heirs soon on the way.”

No one gets back in. Not without a match for the ages.

Felicity’s words from earlier echoed through Devil. The woman would be thrilled with this turn of events. Marriage to Marwick got her what she wanted. A heroine’s return to the aristocracy.

Except she wouldn’t return.

Because Devil would never allow it, beautiful smile or no. Though the smile might make her ruination all the better.

Devil’s brows lowered. “You get heirs on Felicity Faircloth over my rotting corpse.”

“You think she will choose Covent Garden over Mayfair?”

I want back in.

Mayfair was everything Felicity Faircloth wanted. He’d simply have to show her what else there was to see. In the meantime, he threw his sharpest knife. “I think she is not the first woman to risk with me rather than spend a lifetime with you, Ewan.”

It struck true.

The duke looked away, back out the window. “Get out.”