London, England

June 1812

Rowan Delconti, the Duke of Harwich, preferred to remain standing as he scrutinized the woman seated behind the delicate, spindle-legged desk surrounded by garish lamps, baubles, and furniture in varying shades of red and gold. Any man would question his purpose in such a feminine domain, but Rowan had no time to question his motives for standing before the purported proprietress of Craven House.

Though his motives ran deeper than the Thames, and its current had brought him here, even though the pull to retire to the country to mourn the loss of his father—and console his mother—was strong.

What he did have time to ponder was how the petite woman with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the clearest blue sky could be so confident and poised when faced with his habitual glower.

One delicate, fair brow rose, and she nodded curtly at the chair before him. “Are you certain you do not wish to have a seat, Your Grace?”

Why did the woman’s subtle confidence irk him in such a way when at the same time it drew him nearer to her?

With a certain measure of shock, he realized he wanted to take the seat she offered him. However, that was an invitation Rowan could not accept.

Rowan, the only son of Julian Delconti, had been raised to take over his father’s dukedom. Although his father had neglected Rowan’s education in facing such a confident, self-possessed adversary, he still managed to don the mask of an arrogant lord when the need arose.

If the blond woman before him thought it possible to crack his resolve, she was gravely mistaken. He’d waited nearly a decade for this precise moment…and he would have his due.

Retribution, though a long time coming, would repair him, make him whole once more, freeing him from the ties of his past. He’d look only to what his future held.

“As I stated, quite clearly, I am here to see Sasha Davenport,” Rowan reiterated for the second time. When the blonde only laced her fingers together on the desk and stared at something over his left shoulder, he continued, “I am certain you are not the woman I seek.”

No, the businesswoman Rowan sought was at least two decades older, though he knew her hair and eye color were similar to the woman’s before him. It had been several years since he laid eyes on Sasha Davenport, and even then, a gathering of children clamoring for her attention had hampered his view. However, he was confident that the woman behind the desk was not she, the famed proprietress of the elusive Craven House.

The woman he was faced with presently sat a bit straighter in her seat, and her stare flitted to the door at his left before she answered. “You are correct.”

Rowan ignored the way she flinched each time he spoke the name Sasha Davenport.

Time was a valuable commodity for men such as he. There were meetings to schedule, business ventures to discuss, and any number of estate matters to be handled. But first, he needed to complete the unsavory task he’d set about when he arrived at Craven House. “Where may I find her?”

“I am her daughter, Your Grace,” the woman replied, tilting her chin up a notch and sweeping her long curls over her shoulder to cascade down her back. He supposed it would be a rather alluring and captivating sight had the circumstances not been what they were.

She seemed proud to call herself the daughter of a famed London brothel madame, as if that were on the same level as Rowan’s status as a duke.

“Congratulations.” He was half tempted to offer a celebratory clap. He’d heard tales from his University chums about the wonders of Madame Sasha—the extravagant masquerade balls she held yearly, and the many scandalous male appetites her home catered to. Rowan thought it peculiar that the woman was so quick to claim her heritage as if it would earn her added favor in his eyes. “Yet, that does not answer my question.”

A shadow crossed the woman’s face, though not from the way his tall frame blocked the light of the fire at his back. Nor was it the shimmering red, hazy glow from the desk lamp, muted by the sheer length of gold fabric draped haphazardly over the shade. No, the shadow spoke of something within—hurt, anguish, and remorse.

Pain—a deep-seated pain Rowan knew all too well.

The hint of vulnerability disappeared in the blink of an eye, as did Rowan’s pity for the woman.

“My mother saw her end over two years ago, Your Grace.” The hard edge in her tone belied her gentle, innocent appearance. “I am Miss Marce Davenport, her eldest daughter, and current owner of Craven House. How may I be of assistance?”

How could she be of service to him?

Rowan longed to laugh, though he feared the chuckle would quickly turn to a growl. Tightening his grip on the envelope he held behind his back, Rowan eyed the young woman—certainly younger than he at the advanced age of twenty-one, yet dressed in garb befitting a woman twice her age, complete with a high neckline that cut right under her chin, the tight bodice hiding any hint of her bosom from view. Most of society’s young ladies were wed before their nineteenth birthdays or risked being labeled a spinster. However, he was well aware that he was not in the presence of a lady, and the woman’s chosen profession excluded her from society’s rigid rules.

Which was a pity, for Rowan would have likely asked for a dance had they mingled in the same societal circles.

His visit was not one of a social nature, and they were not in a crowded ballroom. No, this was more of a long-overdue business obligation. If she were the purported owner of Craven House, though her muted, simple garb suggested something altogether different, his business was with her. Could it be he’d missed something during his investigations regarding the establishment? The dealings within these walls were as hushed and secretive as those that transpired within his gentlemen’s club, White’s.

“I am here to inform you that my father—I’m certain you are familiar with him, Julian Delconti?” When she nodded, he continued, “He has died, and I, as his only son, have inherited the dukedom.”

“Congratulations…”

Her tone mirrored Rowan’s from a few minutes before, and his pulse increased as his face reddened at the overt insult and lack of enthusiasm evident, as if his very presence bored her.

“Which means, I am also in control of his assets…” He allowed the words to hang in the air between them, noting Miss Davenport pale slightly.

“Which means?”

“Which means, this house and everything within, is the property of the Duke of Harwich. Me.” He stopped short of pointing a finger at his chest in case the woman feigned ignorance of whom he spoke.

Since his father’s sudden death a fortnight earlier, Rowan had longed for the news to be inaccurate—that he was not the new owner of Craven House, and that his father had not continued to forsake Rowan’s mother and the family for all these years. He wished to wash his hands of it all. Unfortunately, that was not to be. He suppressed the need to distance himself from his reality, allowing the pain and betrayal to once again ignite his anger as his lips pulled into a smug grin at the implications of the current conversation.

Miss Davenport slumped in her chair, and he could only hope the woman was struggling with even a small portion of the hurt and uncertainty Rowan had been dealing with since discovering his father’s infidelity.

If Rowan could not toss Sasha Davenport from his property, then her daughter would have to suffice. Craven House—the famed London brothel—belonged to the Duke of Harwich, not Miss Marce Davenport. Just as it hadn’t belonged to Sasha Davenport before her.

The image of his grieving mother had Rowan’s shoulders straightening with purpose, deepening his fury.

Allowing his anger at everyone and everything in Craven House to engulf him completely, Rowan’s control slipped. If he had his way, the entire structure would be torn down—leveled and demolished as if the offensive place had never existed. Perhaps then he could banish the images of that horrid night from his mind. The ones that seared Rowan so deeply, he relived them day in and day out. Not even sleep gave him complete solace and a rare few hours free from the sight of his father in the arms of another woman—a lady not his mother.

“I see,” she sighed, though Rowan suspected she didn’t understand the gravity of her situation at all. If she did, there was little possibility she’d keep her trepidation at bay with him present. “Though, it was my understanding the duke transferred the deed for Craven House to me upon my mother’s death. I would see what proof you have of your claim to my home.”

“You question my integrity?” he retorted.

“You can understand my hesitancy to believe a stranger, can you not?” Her brow rose, daring him to produce the document or depart.

He held up the envelope, addressed to the Duke of Harwich by his family solicitor, for Miss Davenport to see. “I can assure you, no such thing was done, nor is there any written statement to that effect. And now, with an outstanding debt of twenty thousand pounds against Craven House, this property belongs to me.”

“Twenty thousand pounds?” She stared over Rowan’s left shoulder once more, and he fought the urge to pivot and see what held her attention. What was more captivating than the possibility of losing her home and business? “You intend to collect on the note, I assume.”

Rowan was here to do more than merely collect on an overdue debt.

In fact, the money meant less than nothing to him. Thanks to his father and his sires before him, Rowan had more assets in his family coffers than he knew what to do with. It would take several lifetimes to even make the smallest dent in the Harwich fortune.

No, this woman before him—her entire family—had stolen something far more valuable than mere pounds and shillings from him.

They’d robbed Rowan of his father’s time, attention, and love.

Things Julian Delconti was not able to give Rowan.

All those years Rowan and his mother had spent alone—abandoned at the dukedom’s country estate—would be avenged. Someone must be held accountable for his father’s betrayal—and his mother’s heartbroken existence.

Rowan could not risk losing his focus by dwelling on his mother and all she’d lived through…especially the fact that the Duchess of Harwich wasn’t long for this world.

With both Julian Delconti and Sasha Davenport gone, that left only one person for Rowan to seek out for retribution.

He’d spent days wallowing, lamenting over the ruthless turn his life had taken, thus dragging his mother down despite her innocence in it all. Rowan was determined to have his due—vengeance being only a fraction of what he sought and expected from this unannounced visit to Craven House.

Although, bringing the culpable woman to task was now out of his reach, that did not mean his need for retribution had waned.

An eye for an eye.

Or, in this case, Miss Davenport’s future to make amends for his past.

His plans changing slightly, Rowan moved to the chair originally offered to him and sat, leaning back and setting ankle to knee as he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. He could have his retribution, and she, along with her family, could remain in their home.

Training his cold stare on Miss Marce Davenport, he noted the way her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white, the way the muscle under her left eye twitched with her nervousness, and how her smile, breathtaking as it was meant to be, did not quite reach her eyes.

The woman was not as poised as she’d first led Rowan to believe.

Without a doubt, this would work to his advantage.

A clock chimed somewhere in the house, and he remained silent, doing all in his power to make the moment uncomfortable for his hostess as several pairs of footsteps thundered down the hall and continued past the room they were seated in. A shriek erupted, followed by laughter as the group’s heavy tread could be heard bouncing back up the stairs to the second floor.

It was yet another spike to his damaged heart—the shouts of pure merriment and happiness that had not been found in his own home for many, many years.

“Miss Marce Davenport,” he teased, hoping his newly discovered intentions were adequately veiled to ensure her cooperation. “I have a proposition for you…”