Felicity had heeded his instructions.

She had not sought him out, nor had she broken into his offices or his warehouse, nor had any of his watches seen her in Covent Garden. In fact, Brixton, returned to his post outside Bumble House, had reported virtually no activity from Felicity at all since Devil had left her in her gardens.

She had not even resorted to sending him a note.

It had been three days, and Felicity had left him in peace, and Devil found he was more and more consumed with her with every passing second.

Perhaps he could have avoided it if he hadn’t answered the summons she’d sent via Brixton. Perhaps he might have been able to ignore her if he hadn’t kissed her in the gardens. If he didn’t remember the sound of her voice carried along that whispering bench. If he didn’t know she laughed when she came.

She laughed when she came.

He’d never known a woman to give herself over to pleasure like that. So fully, so completely that her pleasure poured from her in pure, unadulterated joy. For the rest of his life, he would remember the sound of her laughter in that garden, shared with him and the setting sun and the trees and nothing else.

For the rest of his life, he would dream of the taste of her pleasure and the sound of it. He was ruined by her.

He’d spent three days pretending to ignore the memory of her pleasure, of her glorious, rolling laughter, and finally, in failure, had left his offices to meet the latest ice shipment on the Thames. The sun had barely set—sending gold and purple streaks across the sky above London—and it was high tide.

Devil crossed over Fleet Street, toward the docks, checking his watch as he walked—ten past nine. He noted the quiet of the taverns frequented by London’s dockworkers, most of whom would have found work that evening, seeing ships in and out of the moorings on the river while tide was high and the boats could be controlled. Once tide ebbed, it would be twelve hours before the ships could be moved—and time in shipping was funds.

Crossing down to the river’s edge, walking stick in hand, he followed the docks for a few hundred yards to the large berth the Bastards leased on evenings when they received shipments. A massive ship loomed ink black against the grey sky, just docked, half-sunken in the high water because of its cargo—one hundred and fifty tons of ice, a good portion of it melted inside the hold.

Whit was already there, black hat low on his brow, greatcoat waving in the wind, with Nik by his side. The Norwegian was leafing through lading papers under the nervous gaze of the ship’s captain. “It’s all here, according to the papers,” she said. “But we can’t be sure until we get to it.”

“How long?” Whit asked, lifting his chin in acknowledgment of Devil’s approach.

“If we’re lucky, Wednesday night.” Two nights hence. “If we start draining the melt from the hold tonight, the moment the tide begins to ebb, it might be finished before then.”

“Two nights and no more,” Whit growled. “We can’t risk it sitting without full guard for longer.” A dozen men would be posted to protect the cargo while the water was drained from the ship’s hold, because there was no other option—it was impossible to access the hold while it was filled with ice melt—but the docks were low ground, and, while on them, the guard could protect neither the cargo nor themselves as well as the Bastards liked.

“Two nights, then. I shall have the boys prepare for wet boots.” Nik nodded to the captain, releasing him to his ship once more.

“We’ll want extra guards on the move to the warehouse, as well,” Devil said, tapping his stick against the boards of the dock. “I don’t want to see another load compromised.”

“Done.”

“Excellent work, Nik.”

The Norwegian dipped her head in a barely-there acknowledgment of the praise.

“Especially since Devil had nothing to do with this one,” Whit added.

Devil looked to him. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve spent two weeks mincing after the girl.”

“Why in hell are you tracking me?”

Whit looked away, down the dock. “As long as he is here, I’m having everyone tracked.”

Ewan. “If he wanted us, he would have come for us.”

“He wants Grace.”

“Between her cover and her guard, she’s well protected.”

Whit grunted, low and full of grit. “I’m surprised you knew we had a shipment coming in today, with all the time you’ve had with your girl.”

What a fucking bastard his brother was. “I had to convince her to trust me if we were going to use her to punish him.”

Whit grunted. “That still the plan, is it?”

“No,” Devil replied instantly, knowing that he was begging for trouble, but he rejected the idea of using Felicity as a pawn in their game so thoroughly now that he could not find the strength to pretend otherwise.

Christ, he’d made a hash of it.

“Bad plan after all, innit?” Whit said, and Devil resisted the urge to put his fist into his brother’s face.

“Bollocks off.”

Whit shared a sidelong glance with Nik, who spoke for them both. “If that isn’t the plan, then what have you been doing all this time?”

“You worry about the ship,” Devil said. “This isn’t your business.”

She shrugged and turned away.

“’S a fair question, bruv.”

It was. But that didn’t mean Devil had to answer it. “Tonight, you find your tongue?”

“Someone’s got to help you sort out your idiocy.”

“I’m handling it,” Devil said.

He was.

He would.

All he had to do was stop thinking about her goddamn laugh.

“You. Fucking. Fools.”

Devil turned toward the words. “Excellent.” He looked to Nik. “Leave while you still can.”

The Norwegian made her way up the gangway to begin her assessment of the hold as Grace neared, tall and proud and perfectly turned out in a tailored scarlet coat. She was flanked by two lieutenants—women in similarly cut black coats. All that was visible beneath the trio’s outerwear were black boots, but Devil knew they were all wearing trousers—which made for fast walking and even faster running, should they need to avail themselves of the skill. The guards stopped ten yards from them as Grace approached.

Whit’s brows rose and he looked over his shoulder at their sister for a long moment before returning his attention to the half-sunken ship in the water. “Evenin’, Dahlia.”

Grace narrowed her gaze on Whit. “What the hell has you so chatty?” Before he could answer, she turned to Devil. “The two of you together have the sense of an addlebrained hedgehog.”

“I am routinely amazed that London’s best and brightest find you charming,” Devil said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t discover it? Did you think it could happen beyond my notice? Is it possible that the two of you have suffered simultaneous blows to the head and forgotten that I am smarter than you both put together?”

Whit looked to Devil. “She seems unhappy.”

“Unhappy?” With lightning speed, Grace boxed Whit’s ear.

“Oi!” Whit danced backward, a hand at the offended body part. “Fucking hell!”

“You shouldn’t talk when you are so out of practice, Beast.” She stepped toward him, a finger raised at his nose. “You should have told me.”

“Told you what?” Whit asked in a frustrated near-whine.

She’d already turned her back on him, however, rounding on Devil, who held up his walking stick to keep her from getting too close. “And you . . . I ought to have you tossed into the river. You deserve to reek of it for days. You deserve whatever perverse creature would find its way into you from the muck.”

Devil lowered his stick, recoiling at the words. Grace had always been the best of them at verbal threats. Devil was better at making good on them. “Good God. That’s grim.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“What?”

“Do you know. What day. It is.”

“It’s Monday.” Devil grew nervous.

“It is, indeed, Monday.” She reached into her coat and extracted a newspaper. “And do you know what is printed in Monday’s newspaper?”

“Shit.”

Whit let out a low whistle.

“Ah. And so we return to my original assessment.”

“Addlebrained hedgehogs,” Whit said.

Grace spun around and raised one black-gloved finger at him. “Hedgehog. Singular. One infinitesimal brain for both of you to share.” She turned back to Devil.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” he said, brazening it through.

“Don’t you even try denying it. And don’t play the fool, though you obviously are one.” She paused and took a breath. And when she spoke, the words were softer than he expected. Full of more emotion than she expected. “Banns were posted yesterday at St. Paul’s. The announcement of the Duke of Marwick’s engagement is in today’s News.”

Devil reached for the paper. “Dahlia—”

She rapped his hand with the rolled up print, and he recoiled. “When were you going to tell me?”

“We didn’t think you would—” He looked to Whit, who offered no assistance. He returned his attention to Grace and cursed.

“What did you think I would do? Toss myself off the nearest bridge?”

Devil looked away. “No. Of course not.”

“Rend my clothes?”

He tried a small smirk. “Perhaps.”

She cut him a look. “My clothes are far too expensive for rending.”

He gave a little huff of laughter at that. “Of course they are.”

“What, then?”

“Well, murder wasn’t an impossibility,” Devil replied. “And the last thing we need is a dead duke.”

Whit grunted. “It’s not like we haven’t had one of those before.”

Grace ignored them both. “I’m not here because he’s to be married. I’m here for you to explain why my girls tell me his fiancée is under the protection of the Bareknuckle Bastards.”

He froze at the words.

Grace noticed, as she noticed everything, one red brow rising.

“Did I not just finish pointing out that the last thing we need is a dead aristocrat? I had to protect the girl. She wants into the Garden as much as anyone here wants out of it.”

“What is the daughter of the Marquess of Bumble doing in the Garden, Dev?” his sister asked.

Whit made things worse. “Devil likes the girl.”

Grace did not look away from him. “Does he?”

I like her too much.

“This is the plain girl I met in your offices, correct?”

“She’s not plain.”

The words garnered both Whit and Grace’s attention. Whit grunted, and Grace said, thoughtfully, “No . . . I don’t suppose she is.”

Devil felt like an idiot, but did not reply.

Grace changed tack. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that you’re trying to manipulate him?”

“Because we agreed that you would never meet again. Because we agreed that nothing about him is safe for you.” Grace was too valuable. The duke could never know where she was. Grace was proof of a past that Ewan would do anything to keep secret.

If Grace were discovered, Ewan would hang.

A long silence followed the words, and she said, “We agreed that decades ago.”

“It’s no less true now, and you know it. He’s come for you. He remembers the deal. No heirs. And he wants a trade.”

Understanding flared in Grace’s blue eyes. “A trade? Or does he want both?”

“He gets neither,” Devil replied.

She looked from one of her brothers to the other. “We’re not children any longer.” Whit shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat as she continued. “You don’t have to protect me any longer. I can go toe-to-toe with Ewan any day. Let him come for me and I shall show him the sharp end of my blade.”

It wasn’t true. Ewan was ever Grace’s weakness. Just as she was his.

And fate was a cruel bitch to make them each the demise of the other.

“Grace—” Devil began softly.

She waved off the rest. “And so, what? What game are you playing, Dev? You’re not planning on letting the girl marry him, are you?”

“No.” Christ. No.

“What, then? You planned to end the engagement and send him a message? No heirs?” She looked to Whit.

Whit spread his hands wide. “I wanted to beat him bloody and send him back to the country.”

Grace smirked. “That’s still idiotic, but less so. Christ, you two.” She grew serious. “I should have been in on the plan,” she said softly. “I should be in on it from here on out.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn’t steal my future.”

“That’s a fucking lie,” Whit said.

“He stole your future the moment he drew breath. Yours more than ours,” Devil agreed. And her past. And her heart—but they never discussed that. “You were the heir.”

Grace went still, every inch of her steeling at the words. She shook her head. “I was never heir.”

She’d been a girl. Not that it had mattered, as the Duke their father had already set his terrible plan in motion. Devil pressed on. “You were born of the Duchess, baptized the future Duke. And Ewan stole your future as keenly as our father did.”

Grace looked away, the wind from the Thames whipping the full fabric of her scarlet coat around her legs. “Your father hated me from the start,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the wind. “I expected his betrayal; I never counted for more than that with him.” She shook her head. “But Ewan . . .”

Devil hated the confusion in his sister’s voice. “He betrayed all of us. He stole future from all of us. But you are the only one from whom he stole past.”

She looked to him, her gaze tracking the scar on his cheek. “He nearly killed you.”

“He nearly killed us all,” Devil replied, the mark tight on his skin.

“He still might,” she said. “And here’s the other reason I should be in on the plan; I’m the one who knew him best.” That much was true. “And Ewan can’t be manipulated; he does the manipulating.”

“Not this time.”

“He’s no fool; he knows I’m the keeper of all his secrets,” she said. “My knowledge—my existence—sees him at the gallows. He won’t rest until he finds me. He hasn’t rested in twenty years.”

“We tell him you’re dead,” Whit said. “That was always the plan if he got close enough to scent you.”

She shook her head. “You don’t put me in the ground until I’m cold, boys. He’s too close not to find me.”

“We’ll never give you up.”

“And when I grow tired of hiding?” Whit growled, and she turned to him. “Poor Beast. Always looking to put your fist through something.” She looked to Devil, letting the Garden into her voice. “No worries, bruvs. He won’t be the first duke we’ve fought and won.” She paused, and then said, “Stop worrying about me, and worry about the deal. No heirs.”

Whit grunted, and Grace turned to him. “What?”

“Devil’s mucked the whole thing up.”

Devil gritted his teeth. “I haven’t mucked it up. I’ve a plan.”

Grace looked to him. “What kind of plan?”

“Yeah, bruv.” Whit looked to him. “What kind of plan? We know you shan’t hurt the girl.”

He should thrash them both. “I’m getting her out of it.”

“Of the marriage?” Grace replied. When he didn’t reply, she added, “How? If he leaves her, she’s damaged. If she leaves him, she’s damaged. There is no scenario where the girl isn’t destroyed and you knew that going in.”

“She was damaged goods before he ever got near her,” Whit said.

Devil turned on his brother. “She was not.”

A pause. Then Grace said, “I heard the same. Something about being found in a bedchamber that was not her own?”

“How do you know that?”

Grace raised one red brow in his direction. “Need I remind you that I am the one with the network of decent spies? Shall I tell you what I’ve heard about you and Finished Felicity Faircloth?”

He ignored the taunt. “The point is, she’s not damaged. She’s—”

Perfect.

Well. He couldn’t say that.

“Oh, dear,” Grace said.

Whit removed his hat and rubbed a hand over his head. “You see?”

“See what?” Devil asked.

“You care for the girl.”

“I don’t.”

“Then throw her to the wolf. Get her to the edge of the altar and ruin her. Prove to Ewan that he’ll never marry as long as you live. Or, if he does, he’ll be as cheated of real heirs as his own father was. That you will eliminate the possibility of any heir he might find. Make good on your vow.”

He looked away from his sister. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she will be ruined in the balance. At my hands.”

“My girls on the ground tell me she’s ruined already, Devil. Half the Garden saw you kiss the girl on the night you told the world she was off-limits.”

He never should have touched her that night. Nor any of the nights since. But that wasn’t the kind of ruination he meant. Not the silly ruination that came with a clandestine kiss. A night of pleasure—stolen moments that meant nothing. For Devil’s plan to work, he would have had to have done it publicly. In front of all the world.

And Felicity would be exiled for it. She’d never be a jewel of the ton. She’d never return to a place of honor. Never be at the center of that world for which she longed.

Grace smirked at his lack of response. “Tell me again that you don’t care for the girl.”

“Fuck.” Of course he did. She was impossible not to care for. And he’d made a proper hash of it from the start, from the moment he saw her on the balcony. From the moment he veered from his plan to send his brother packing, and instead lingered with her . . . made promises to her he had no intention of keeping. Made promises he could not keep even if he wanted to.

“You’ve already thrown her to the wolves, Dev,” his sister said. “There’s only one way to save her.”

He turned on her, unable to keep the cold rage from his voice. “Ewan doesn’t get heirs. And he definitely doesn’t get them from Felicity Faircloth.”

She’s mine.

A red brow rose. “Not Ewan.”

His brow furrowed. “Who? Who do we know who is good enough for her?”

Grace smiled then, full and open and uncalculated. She looked to Whit. “Who, indeed.”

“Beast?” Devil thought he might lose his mind at the idea of his brother touching Felicity.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Whit growled. “You just might have the intelligence of a hedgehog. She means you, Dev. You marry the girl.”

For a heartbeat, emotion rioted through him, the force of it sending him back. Excitement and desire and something dangerously, impossibly close to hope.

Impossibly close, and impossible.

He closed out the emotions. “No.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t want me.” Lie.

Marwick isn’t my moth. You are.

“Do you want her?”

Yes. Of course. He couldn’t imagine how any man wouldn’t want her. His grasp tightened on the silver lion’s head in his palm.

Grace ignored the answer. “You could marry her. Save her from ruin.”

“It wouldn’t be saving her. It would be trading one ruin for another. What’s more ruinous for a highborn lady than life as a Mrs. in the Covent Garden muck? What sort of life would she have here?”

“Please,” Grace scoffed. “You’re rich as a king, Devil. You could buy her the western edge of Berkeley Square.”

“You could buy her the whole of Berkeley Square,” Whit added.

It wouldn’t be enough. He could buy her Mayfair. A box at every theater. Dinners with the most powerful men in London. Audiences with the king. He could clothe her in the most beautiful frocks Hebert could fashion. And she’d never be accepted by them. Never be welcomed back. Because she’d be married to a criminal. One with whom they happily consorted, but a criminal nonetheless. A bastard, raised in an orphanage and bred in the rookery.

If only he’d been the one to win the dukedom, it might be different. He shook his head, hating the thought—one he hadn’t had in two decades, since he was a boy, aching with hunger and desperate for sleep somewhere other than on the streets.

Behind them, footsteps clattered, fast and furious. A girl, no more than twelve, blond and reed-thin, stopped in front of Grace’s lieutenants. “One of mine,” Grace said, raising her voice and waving her forward. “Let her come.”

The girl approached, a square of paper in hand. Dipped a knee. “Miss Condry.”

Grace extended a hand to receive the message and opened it, her attention no longer on Devil.

Thank God. He’d already said enough to sound like a love-sick fool.

Perhaps it was an important enough message for her to stop asking him about Felicity.

She dug into her pocket, delivering a coin to the messenger, who was already turning for the darkness. “Off you go. Safely.” Grace returned her attention to him. “It occurs that the lady’s ruin should be her own decision, don’t you think?”

Perhaps it was not enough, and Grace would talk about Felicity forever, like perfect torture. “She’s already made the decision. She lied about marrying a duke to return herself to society. She chose Marwick, a duke she’d never met.”

I wanted to punish them, she’d told him. And I wanted them to want me back.

“I made a mistake bringing Felicity Faircloth into this battle.”

Whit grunted.

“God knows that’s true,” Grace agreed.

“I shall get her out of it, and save her future in the balance.”

Grace nodded, returning her attention to the slip of paper she’d been delivered. “I’m not so certain you’re in control of her future anymore.”

“I’m not so certain he’s ever been in control of it,” Whit said, bracing himself against the wind.

He scowled at them. “The two of you can go to hell.”

“Tell me.” Grace did not look up. “As part of your arrangement, did the lady ask to be schooled in the art of temptation?”

Devil stilled. How would Grace know that? “She did. Yes.”

His sister looked to him. “And you were unable to provide said instruction?”

“I instructed her fine.” Whit’s brows went up at that, and Devil had the distinct impression that the wheels were coming off the cart. “But it wasn’t about tempting just anyone. It was about tempting the untemptable. It was about tempting Ewan, for Christ’s sake. To get back into society. To rise to its full height. She wants her reputation restored, along with that of her family. Have you not been listening?”

“The girl doesn’t seem to care a bit about her reputation, Devil,” Grace said. “I might go so far as to say she’s absolutely no interest whatsoever in what society thinks of her.”

“How would you know that?” he snapped. “You’ve met her one time.”

She brandished the note. “Because she’s at the club right now.”

He froze. “Which club?”

A perfectly arched red brow rose as she replied, all calm, “My club.”

There was a beat, followed by Whit’s quiet, “Fucking hell.”

Or perhaps it was Devil who said it. He wasn’t certain, as he was distracted by the wash of fury that came over him at the words.

He was gone in an instant, disappearing into the darkness without farewell, long legs eating up the ground until he became unsatisfied with his speed and began to run.

Grace and Whit stood on the docks, watching their brother disappear into the darkness before she turned to him and said, “Well. This is all unexpected.”

Whit nodded once. “You realize that Ewan won’t like it when Devil wins.”

“I do.”

He looked to her. “You’ve got to get gone for a bit, Gracie.”

She nodded. “I know.”