Devil was already spoiling for a fight the next night when he stepped through the well-guarded door to the Bastards’ warehouse—so much so that the sound of the lock turning in the great slab of steel did not comfort him the way it should have.

He’d spent much of the day attempting to focus on his ledgers, telling himself that it was more important than everything else—that he had plenty of time to seek out Felicity Faircloth and discover precisely what had happened between her and Ewan.

In fact, he knew what had happened. His watch had seen her home only two hours after he left her—along with her mother, deposited there by her brother—after which, no one had left Bumble House, not through any of the ground-level egresses, nor down the trellis beyond Felicity’s bedchamber. This morning, the ladies of the house had spent the morning in Hyde Park with the marchioness’s dogs and returned for luncheon and tea and note writing or whatever it was that ladies did in the afternoons.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had come to pass.

Except Felicity had met Ewan. Devil had watched from the shadows as they’d spoken, resisting the instinct to go to her and stop their conversation. And then Ewan had kissed her—on her gloved hand, but kissed her nonetheless—and Devil had gone stone-still and somehow turned his back on the scene rather than giving into his second, baser instinct, which was to destroy the duke, carry Felicity off to Covent Garden, lay her down, and finish the kiss they’d started the last time she was there.

But she wasn’t for him. Not yet.

Not until it was time to thieve her away from his brother and remind him of how easily he could be raised up only to be dropped, hard and fast, to the ground, ensuring Ewan never again considered flying too fast or too far.

That was why Devil had been so kind to her. So complimentary. Because Felicity Faircloth was a means to a very specific end. Not because he actually thought she was beautiful. Not because he actually cared if she was wearing pink undergarments. Not because he actually wished her to believe in her own worth.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

And so, he told himself that it was nothing more than general curiosity that sent him to the warehouse to find Whit in shirtsleeves, hook in hand, overseeing the distribution of the shipment that had been sitting in the ice hold for more than a week, waiting to move.

General curiosity in the business and not the memory of Ewan’s lips on Felicity’s knuckles. Not remotely.

After all, Devil told himself, a smuggling empire did not run itself, and there were workers to be paid and deals to be inked and a new shipment to arrive next week, laden with liquor and contraband, which they wouldn’t have room for if they didn’t get rid of the one in the hold.

General curiosity, and not a keen need to resist the urge to go to the Faircloth home this afternoon, climb the damn trellis, and talk to the girl.

He was a businessman. What mattered was the work.

Inside the warehouse, two dozen strong men moved in unison, muscles straining under the weight of the crates they passed from down the line, from the hole in the floorboards to one of five caravans ready to move the product overland: two to a score of locations in London; one west, to Bristol; one north, to York; and the last to the Scottish border, where it would be redistributed for delivery into Edinburgh and throughout the highlands.

There were any number of moments in the life of a smuggler that brought danger and uncertainty, but these were the worst, knowing that once the goods left the warehouse, the transport was in more danger than ever. No one could prove the Bareknuckle Bastards were smuggling goods inside the ice ships they worked; there was no way to check the contents of the ships as they entered the harbor, nearly sinking for all the melted ice in their holds. In this moment, however, with untaxed, undeclared goods in the hands of their loyal men, no one would be able to deny the criminal activity.

On nights when they moved product, every able body in the organization helped to get it done as quickly as possible. The longer night hung over the rookery, the safer the product, and all their futures.

Devil made for Whit and Nik, shucking his coat and waistcoat, exchanging his walking stick for a great, curving box hook. He moved to the hole, coming alongside Whit heaving crates up and passing them to another man, then another, and another, and a second row of men immediately followed him, forming a new line, doubling the pace of the work.

Nik was down in the hole, marking boxes and barrels with white chalk as they passed, calling out their destinations and marking them into the small ledger that never left her pocket. “St. James’s. Fleet Street. Edinburgh. York. Bristol.”

It wasn’t the business of smuggling that made for salacious news; crates of contraband weren’t interesting until they were opened and used. But the purchasers of those crates? The most powerful men in government, religion, and media? Suffice to say, the world would be eager for even a glance at the Bareknuckle Bastards’ client list.

Devil hooked a barrel of bourbon headed to York Cathedral, and lifted it up with a loud grunt. “Christ, those things are heavy.”

Whit didn’t hesitate in pulling up a crate, his heavy breathing the only indication that the grueling task was impacting him. “Weakling.”

Nik snorted a little laugh, but did not look away from her list. Devil reached down for the next box, ignoring the way the muscles of his shoulders strained when he pulled it up and passed it to the man at his back. He returned his attention to Nik. “I’ll have you know that I’m the intelligent brother.”

She looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Are you?” She marked a box. “Bank of London.”

Whit grunted and leaned into the hole. “And the books he insisted on reading when we were children continue to keep him warm at night.”

“Oi!” Devil said, hooking another barrel. “Without those books, I’d never have learned about the Trojan horse, and then where would we be?”

Whit didn’t hesitate. “I imagine we would have had to devise for ourselves that we could smuggle one thing inside another thing. However would we have done that?” he asked with a little grunt as he pulled up a cask of brandy. “Thank goodness for your primitive knowledge of the Greeks.”

Devil took advantage of his empty hook and offered a rude gesture to his brother, who turned to the men assembled with a wide, white grin and said, “You see? Proof I am right.” Whit looked back to Devil and added, “Though not at all a sign of intelligence, one might point out.”

“What happened to you being the brother who does not talk?”

“I’m feeling out of sorts today.” Whit heaved up a heavy crate. “What brings you out, bruv?”

“I thought I’d check on the shipment.”

“I’d’ve thought you had other things to check on tonight.”

Devil gritted his teeth and reached down for a crate of playing cards. “What’s that to mean?”

Whit didn’t reply.

Devil straightened. “Well?”

Whit shrugged a shoulder beneath his sweat-dampened shirt. “Only that you’ve your master plan to see to, no?”

“What master plan?” the ever-curious Nik asked from below. “If you lot are planning something without me . . .”

“We’re not planning anything.” Whit reached back into the hole. “It’s just Dev.”

Nik’s keen blue gaze moved from one brother to the next. “Is it a good plan?”

“It’s a shit plan, actually,” Whit said.

Unease threaded through Devil, and his retort stuck in his throat. It was a good plan. It was the kind of plan that punished Ewan.

And Felicity.

There was only one way to respond. Another rude gesture.

Whit and Nik laughed, before she interjected from her place below, “Well, as much as I am loath to end this fascinating conversation, that’s the last of it.”

Devil turned to watch the men on the line tuck the last of the product into the large steel wagons as Whit nodded down and said, “All right then. Tell the lads to send up the ice.”

Passing his hook down to Nik, Devil received another, cold as the product it held—the first of the six-stone blocks of ice. Turning, he passed the hook and its capture to the next man in line, who handed him an empty hook, which Devil passed down to catch its frozen prey. The second block was passed up, and Devil passed down another empty hook, and so it went, rhythmic and backbreaking, until the backs of the steel caravans were filled to the roof with blocks of ice.

There was a pleasure in the grueling work, in the line of men working in unison, toward a common, achievable goal. Most goals were not so easily reached and, too often, those who aspired to them found themselves disappointed in the reaching. Not this. There was nothing so satisfying as turning to discover the work finished well, and the time ripe for an ale.

But there was no satisfaction to be had that day.

He was reaching down into the hole when John shouted out for him; turning, he found the big man crossing from the back entrance to the warehouse, a boy trailing behind him. Devil’s gaze narrowed in recognition. Brixton was one of Felicity’s watch.

He dropped the hook to the dusty floor, unable to keep himself from moving toward them. “What’s happened to her?”

The boy lifted his chin, strong and proud. “Nuffin’!”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nuffin’, Devil,” Brixton replied. “Lady’s right as rain.”

“Then why are you off your watch?”

“I weren’t, until this stroker pulled me off it.”

John cut the boy a warning glance at the insult, and Devil turned to the head of the warehouse’s security. “What were you doing in Mayfair?”

John shook his head. “I wasn’t in Mayfair. I’ve been on guard outside.” They were moving a shipment tonight, so the roads leaving the rookery were monitored by a team of men in their employ. No one came in or out without the Bastards’ approval.

Devil shook his head. He couldn’t have understood. It wasn’t possible. He narrowed his gaze on the boy. “Where is she?”

“At the door!”

His heart began to pound. “Whose door?”

“Yours,” John said, finally allowing the smile that had been threatening to break through. “Your lady’s tryin’ to pick the lock.”

Devil scowled. “She’s not my lady. And she sure as hell shouldn’t be in the rookery.”

“And yet, here we are.” This, from Whit, who had appeared behind Devil. “Are you going to get the girl, Dev? Or are you going to leave her out there like a lamb to the slaughter?”

Goddammit.

Devil was already heading for the back door. A low rumble of laughter behind him that could not have been his brother’s, as Whit surely did not want murdering.

He found her crouched low at the door to the warehouse, a sea of barely visible pale skirts billowing around her, and the flood of relief at discovering her unharmed quickly dissolved into irritation and then unwelcome interest. He pulled up short just around the corner of the building, not wanting to alert her to his presence.

Giving her a wide berth, he approached her from behind. Her head was bowed toward the lock, but not to see it—it was the dead of night and even if it hadn’t been cloudy, the moonlight wouldn’t have been enough for her to see her workspace.

Lady Felicity was talking to herself again.

Or, rather, she was talking to the lock, presumably without knowing that it was unpickable—designed not only to guard, but to punish those who thought themselves better than it.

“There you are, darling,” she whispered softly, and Devil froze to the spot. “I shan’t be rough with you. I’m a summer breeze. I’m butterflies’ wings.”

What a lie that was. She threatened to incinerate every butterfly in Britain.

“Good girl,” she whispered. “That’s three and—” She fiddled with the picks. “Hmmm.” More fiddling. “How many have you got?” She fiddled again. “More importantly, what is so important inside this building that something as beautiful as you is protecting it . . . and its master?”

A thrum of excitement went through Devil at the words. Here, in the darkness, she spoke of him, and while he might not admit it to others, or even to himself, Devil liked that very much.

Even though she shouldn’t be here, finery in filth.

Here she was, nonetheless, her soft whispers in the darkness, as though she could coax the lock open, and Devil almost thought she might. “Once more, darling,” she whispered. “Please. Again.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining that whisper in his ear, cloaked in a different darkness, in his bed. Please. He imagined what she might plead for. Again. He grew hard at the possibilities. And then . . .

“Ah! Yes!” Another thing he’d like to hear her cry in different circumstances. His fingers ached to reach for her, the muscles of his arms and back no longer weary from the work inside, now more than willing to try their hand at lifting her up, against him, and laying her down somewhere soft and warm and private.

“Oh, bollocks.”

He certainly didn’t intend for anything like that disappointed utterance, however. The frustrated words pulled him from his imaginings and his brows rose.

“How did—” Felicity jiggled the lock. “What—”

It was his cue. “I’m afraid, Felicity Faircloth, that that particular lock is immune to your charms.”

He would be lying if he said he didn’t love the way her shoulders straightened and her neck elongated. She did not come up out of her crouch, however—did not release the picks in the lock.

“Though they were pretty whispers, I must confess,” he added.

She barely turned her head. “I suppose this looks rather damning.”

He was grateful for the darkness, as it hid the twitch at his lips. “That depends. It looks as though you are attempting to break and enter.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, all calm. Felicity Faircloth, ever willing to brazen it out.

“No?”

“No. Well, I mean, I certainly am attempting to enter. But I never intended to break.”

“You should stop entering my buildings uninvited.”

She was distracted by the lock again. “I thought this was what we did with each other.” She rattled the picks. “It appears I have unintentionally damaged this lock.”

“You didn’t.”

She looked to him. “I assure you, I’m quite good with locks, and I’ve done something to this one. It’s stuck.”

“That’s because it’s supposed to be, my little criminal.”

Understanding dawned. “It’s a Chubb.”

Something close to pride burst at the words, alongside something like pleasure at the reverence in her words. He didn’t like either emotion in relation to Felicity Faircloth. He redoubled his efforts to remain aloof. “It is, indeed. How is it you are never in possession of a chaperone?”

“No one in my family expects me to do anything near this,” she said, vaguely, as she returned her attention to the lock, perfectly set into the heavy steel door. “I’ve never seen a Chubb.”

“I am happy to be of service. Your family ought to know better. What on earth possessed you to enter a London rookery in the dead of night? I should call the authorities.”

Her brows rose. “The authorities?”

He inclined his head. “Thievery is a serious offense.”

She gave a little laugh. “Not so serious as whatever you’ve got going on in here, Devil.”

Too smart for her own good. “We import ice, Lady Felicity. It’s all very aboveboard.”

“Oh, yes,” she scoffed. “Aboveboard is one of the top three adjectives I would use to describe you. Immediately following proper and uninteresting.”

He smirked. “Those three words all mean the same thing.”

She gave a little, breathy laugh, and the June night went unseasonably warm. “Do you have the key to unstick the lock?”

Chubb locks were known for their perfect security. They were unable to be picked because at the first sign (or, in Felicity’s case, the umpteenth sign) of picking, they locked up, and could only be reset with a special key. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

He extracted the key from his trouser pocket, and she shot to her feet, reaching for it. “May I?”

He snatched it back. “So you might learn my secrets? Why would I allow that?”

She shrugged her shoulder. “As I shall learn them anyway, I see no reason why you shouldn’t save me some time.”

Christ, he liked this girl.

No. He didn’t. He couldn’t. If he liked her, he wouldn’t be able to use her as needed.

He held the key straight up toward her, waiting for her to reach for it. When she did, he snatched it back again. “How did you find the warehouse?”

She met his gaze. “I followed you.”

What in—“How?” It was impossible. He would have noticed someone following him.

“I imagine the normal way one follows another. From behind.”

If he hadn’t been so consumed with thoughts of the ball the night before, he would have noticed. Christ. What had this girl done to him? “No one stopped you.”

She happily shook her head.

He paid men a great deal of money to ensure that he wasn’t killed on the streets of Covent Garden. You’d think one of them would think to apprise him of this woman shadowing him through the rookeries. “You could have been killed.” Worse.

She tilted her head. “I don’t think so. I think you made it more than clear that I was untouchable. Just before I was given free rein of your turf.”

“You were never given free rein of my turf.”

“How was it you put it?” Placing her hands on her hips, she lowered her voice to a register he assumed was supposed to sound like his. “No one touches her. She belongs to me.” She relaxed her arms with a smile. “It was rather primitive, that, though, I’ll admit, fairly empowering.”

Goddammit. “Why are you here?”

“I’ll tell you if you give me the Chubb key.”

He laughed at her attempted negotiation. “No, no, kitten. You haven’t the power here.”

She tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

He wasn’t, if he was honest. He pocketed the key once more. “No one has power here but me.”

Her gaze lingered on the place where the key had disappeared and for a long, terrifying moment, he thought she might come for it. Terrifying, because in that moment he wanted her to do just that.

But damn if the woman didn’t turn her back to him and crouch once more at the lock. Reaching into her coif, she extracted another hairpin. “Fine then. I shall do it myself.”

Stubborn woman. He watched as she straightened the pin and kinked it at the end. “The Chubb is unpickable, darling.”

“So far, it is, yes.”

“You intend to pick it in the dead of night?”

“I do, indeed,” she said. “What I know is that your key works in the reverse of normal keys, no? It resets the tumblers. In which case, if I can pick the sticking mechanism, I can learn how the lock works.”

He watched as she inserted her newly made pick into the lock alongside a second tool, and came around to lean against the door, crossing his boots and his arms and watching her. “Why did you follow me?”

She scraped the inside of the lock. “Because you were leaving when I arrived.”

“And why did you come see me in the first place?”

Again, a futile effort. “Because you didn’t come to see me.”

He stilled at that, at the implication that she’d wanted him to come and see her. “Did we have an appointment?”

“No,” she said, calmly, as though they were in Hyde Park in the middle of the day and not in one of London’s most dangerous neighborhoods in the dead of night. “But I would have thought that you would have checked in on me.”

He had checked in on her. He had a watch checking in on her every minute of the day. “To what end?”

“To see if your promise was made good upon.”

“My promise?”

“The Duke of Marwick, mad for me.”

He gritted his teeth, remembering Ewan’s lips on her silk-covered knuckles. She wasn’t wearing gloves now, and Devil wanted to burn away any memory of Marwick’s touch with his own lips. On her bare skin.

“And was it?”

She didn’t reply. She was distracted by her pins in the lock.

“Felicity Faircloth,” he repeated.

“Hmm?” She paused. Then, “Ah, I see.” Another pause. “I beg your pardon, was what?”

“My promise. Was it made good upon? Did you meet your duke?”

“Oh,” she said again. “Yes. We met. He was very handsome. And possibly . . . well . . . what they say about him might be true.”

“What do they say about him?”

“That he is mad.”

Ewan wasn’t mad. He was obsessed.

“He danced like a dream.”

Devil shouldn’t be irritated by that statement. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Ewan thinking he’d won Felicity? So it hurt more when Devil stole her away?

He wanted to put a fist through a wall at the idea of them dancing. He couldn’t resist scoffing. “Like a dream?”

“Mmm,” she said distractedly. “He has lovely form. Makes you feel as though you’re a cloud.”

“A cloud,” Devil said, working to keep his teeth from clenching.

“Mmm,” she said, again.

He was so irritated with the vision of cloudlike dancing that he snapped, “You don’t just come to see me, Felicity.”

“Why not? I’ve something to discuss with you.”

“It doesn’t matter. When we’ve things to discuss, I shall find you. You don’t just turn up in the rookery.”

“Is this a rookery? I’ve never been to one.”

He would have laughed if it weren’t all so laughable. Rookeries were full of stink and filth, death and destruction. They held the worst of the world—too often given to those who deserved the best of it. Of course, Lady Felicity Faircloth had never been to a rookery. She’d as likely have been to the moon.

“It’s very quiet. I would have thought it would be otherwise.”

“It’s quiet because you’re deep within the most protected part of it. But you could have easily lost your way.”

“Nonsense. I followed you.” She leaned toward the door and whispered, “That’s it, darling.”

Devil went hard as a rock. He straightened, coming off the door and shoving his hands into his pockets to keep her from noticing his untimely affliction. Clearing his throat, he said, “Giving you my direction was a grave mistake, as you seem unable to deliver a written message to my offices like any other normal human female.” He paused. “Is it possible you are unable to write? Has your brother’s poverty limited the amount of ink in your home? The quantity of paper?”

“Paper is not exactly the least expensive commodity,” she offered.

Click.

Devil’s jaw dropped. Impossible.

“Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. Well done.” Felicity Faircloth stood up and raised her arms, deftly returning her hairpins to their proper seats. “Shall we see just how aboveboard you are, then?”