Chapter Twelve

D evlin let out a curse and charged from the carriage after her. But she was too fast and had raced into the burning house before he could catch her.

"Send for the fire brigade!" Devlin ordered the tiger, who stood on the footpath and stared dumbstruck at the building as flames quickly engulfed it. As Devlin ran toward the house, the butler stumbled out, coughing and hacking to clear his lungs of the black smoke. "Organize buckets," he called out to the butler. "Now!"

Then he leapt up the front stairs and rushed inside.

Black smoke and heat from the growing flames eating their way forward from the rear of the house engulfed him. He pulled his cravat over his mouth, bent down to keep away from the thickening smoke overhead, and hurried on.

"Peyton!" he yelled above the noise of the flames and the creaking beams damaged from the initial explosion. If he didn't find her soon, they would both be dead in a matter of minutes.

He ran from room to room, searching for her. The dark rooms were lit by the licking flames racing through the townhouse yet further darkened by the thickening smoke, but it was enough for him to see she wasn't there.

"Peyton!" Where the hell are you?

Then he heard her—her voice calling out above the noise of the fire from the rear of the house, but not for him. She was screaming frantically at the top of her smoke-choked lungs for Wilkins and Proctor.

He ran to her and grabbed her arm to stop her just as she was about to start up the rear steps toward the floors above. The fire from the explosion had already engulfed the back of the house and was lapping at the walls and floors, and the stairs groaned beneath the weight of the flames from the cellar below. If she tried to go down them, they would have collapsed beneath her.

"Let me go!" she cried, her voice hoarse from inhaling smoke and coughing. But Devlin held fast and refused to let go of her arm. "I've got to find them—Proctor! Wilkins!" A new fit of coughing gripped her lungs. "I've got to make certain they're safe."

A window exploded from the heat. Devlin instinctively shielded her with his body and his face with his arm. The sound reverberated through the house like cannon fire and tore a soft scream from her.

"And I have to make certain you're safe," he countered.

Without asking her permission, he scooped her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, then ran back with her through the house toward the front door. She angrily swung her fists and kicked her legs, only to capitulate after just a few feet's progress through the smoke that was now as black as pitch and so thick that each hot breath seared his lungs.

Just as they reached the entry hall, the ceiling groaned angrily beneath the weight of the flames and gave way. Plaster, lath, and beams crashed down upon them in a shower of debris and bright sparks. A piece of wood hit his arm, and he stumbled, nearly dropping Peyton to the floor. But there was no time to hesitate, so he grabbed her hand and ran with her through the door and out into the street.

They paused at the bottom of the steps to fill their lungs with fresh air, with Devlin bent over nearly double as coughs racked his chest.

"You're hurt," Peyton rasped out between coughs as she reached for him. "Your arm…"

He glanced down. A long rip had torn through his left jacket sleeve and into the muscle beneath, and already bright blood had seeped into his white shirtsleeve. But he dismissed it with a gritting of his teeth and laced his fingers through hers.

"Come on," he ordered and pulled her along with him. "We can't say here."

"But—Wilkins—and Proctor—" She glanced over her shoulder at the townhouse, not strong enough to halt his steps and make him go back. "We have to save them!"

"It's too late." He hurried her through the small crowd of curiosity-seekers already gathering on the footpath. He had to take her away from here. Immediately. "If they're not already out—"

"No!" She yanked his arm and dug in her heels. "I have to help them!"

He stopped and leaned toward her, his voice low and deadly serious. "And who helps you if the person who set that explosion realizes you weren't inside when it went off?" He could afford no misunderstanding about this. "Townhouses don't explode like that unless someone wanted them to. They tried to kill you tonight, and they'll try again as soon as they realize they failed."

Her face paled even in the moving shadows cast by the flickering flames of the inferno raging behind them.

"There are enough people here to help those who might still be inside." He glanced over her shoulder at the gathering crowd, then narrowed his eyes on her. "You are my primary concern, understand?"

"Yes," she whispered, clearly unconvinced.

But he didn't have time for more persuasion. He took her elbow and pulled her along with him as his long strides hurried away from the house, down the street, and around the corner. Then around another corner. Only then did he slow his pace and let her catch her breath. Finally, they emerged onto a wide avenue. Devlin stepped to the edge of the footpath and waved an arm to signal for a hackney.

When a small carriage stopped beside them, he yanked open the door and helped her inside. "Brownlow Street in St Giles," he ordered the driver.

The jarvey pulled at the brim of his rain-dampened beaver hat, flicked the ribbons, and started the old horse forward.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he settled onto the seat across from her.

"To a refuge." He let that be enough answer for now. "You'll be safe there."

Thankfully, she didn't press him for more information. Instead, she asked, "Why didn't we take my carriage?"

"Because I don't trust your coachman or tigers."

"I hired them myself." Her words were forced out between rapid breaths. "They can be trusted."

He glanced out the window at the rainy night and muttered, "I don't trust anyone around you."

He saw the cold realization finally seep over her that tonight had been an attempt on her life. "Why would anyone want to harm me? No one knows who I am."

He turned back to her. "And yet, in the few weeks you've been here, you've managed to make yourself visible to half of society at the opera, the gamblers and courtesans at Barton's, and nearly every member of Parliament who was present at Vauxhall. Quite noticeably, too."

"Only to gain your attention," she admitted quietly beneath the loud squeak of the hackney's wheels, looking small and vulnerable. Even in the darkness, he could see her hands shaking as they rested in her lap. "It didn't matter what anyone else thought as long as I was able to get close to you."

"Then disappear as secretly as you'd arrived." Not a question. "Looks like your plans have changed."

She silently turned to stare out the window, although he knew she could see nothing of the dark city except black shapes and moving shadows.

Half an hour of silence later, they arrived in St Giles, and the carriage horse let out a shudder of relief as the jarvey reined it to a stop. Devlin helped Peyton to the muddy ground and did his best not to notice that she was still trembling. He tossed up a coin for the old driver, who was most likely thrilled to be on his way out of the dangerous neighborhood and back toward the safety in the west.

"This way." Devlin led her toward a small warehouse halfway down the street. Thankfully, for once, she didn't fight him.

He rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. He frowned at Peyton who stared at the wet ground, her face lowered into the shadows. Unable to resist, he caressed her cheek with his knuckles.

She lifted her face to look at him.

"It will be all right," he assured her.

"You don't know that," she argued breathlessly. In the dim light he could see the watery glistening of her eyes. "Proctor, Wilkins…what will I do without them? They're all I have."

You have me. But he couldn't utter that aloud.

A few minutes later, the small, square-shaped inset window in the door opened, and the soft glow of candlelight lit a round face as it peered out. Wide eyes blinked with surprise and sleep. "Mr. Hunter? Is that you, sir?"

Devlin squeezed Peyton's arm in warning to say nothing. "Sorry to disturb you so late, Mrs. Martin. Can you let us in?"

"Of course!" The window snapped closed, and behind the door came the fumbling sound of dangling keys and the clank of metal in the lock.

The door flung open and revealed an older, plump woman in a flannel dressing robe cinched tightly around her wide waist and a large night cap over her graying hair. Her sleep-blurred eyes blinked rapidly, this time to clear away the fog of interrupted sleep, as she stepped aside to let them pass into the house.

She glanced into the street, taking long looks in both directions. "No children with you?"

"Not tonight. Just me and a friend." He gestured at Peyton. No other introduction would be made, certainly no explanation given for why Peyton looked so distraught. And her clothing singed at the hem.

But the older woman understood and nodded as she closed the door behind them and locked it securely against the night. After all, in the past five years that Devlin had employed her, she'd grown used to not asking questions. Beginning with his real name. Certainly she knew he wasn't Mr. Hunter.

Devlin couldn't have been blessed with a better partner in running Brechenhurst than Mrs. Martin. An experienced former housekeeper at an orphanage in Twyford, she kept an orderly house, supervised a maid of all work and a property caretaker, and took excellent care of the two dozen or so children who appeared on the property's doorstep every night, seeking shelter from the streets. But what the children needed most was simply a piece of bread, a cup of clean water, and a safe place to sleep out of the elements and away from harm. From the last midnight clang of St Giles-of-the-Fields until the bells sounded again in the morning, the front door was locked tight, the children safe inside. They were all given a bit of food to take with them for breakfast when they were turned out in the morning so the house could be cleaned and readied for another batch of small visitors come nightfall. Mrs. Martin somehow managed to squeeze them all into the beds on the floors above that had been turned into dormitories without turning any of them away, and the only complaint he ever heard from her was her frustration at not being able to provide help to even more children.

"We'll spend the night downstairs," Devlin told her. "No one is to know we're here, not even Miss Smith and Mr. Hobbes." He glanced at Peyton and frowned. I don't trust anyone around you.

"Of course, Mr. Hunter." Mrs. Martin paused. "Do you want me to bring food and drink for you?" Her eyes flicked to his wounded arm, but she knew her place and didn't comment directly, instead asking, "Or anything else?"

"No, thank you. But I will need your help delivering two messages." He held out his hand for her candle. "May I?"

When she handed it over without question, he stepped to the small desk positioned near the door from where Mrs. Martin manned the entrance from sunset until midnight every night. He took two note cards and picked up the quill, then quickly scrawled out two messages, folded, and sealed them with a drop of wax. He wrote the direction on the front of each and snatched up a second candle and holder sitting on the desk. He lit the stub and carried all of it back to Mrs. Martin.

He handed over her candle and the two messages. "Have those delivered immediately by one of the older boys staying here tonight." He gave her a coin. "Give him this for his troubles. Tell him that each man to whom he delivers the message will pay him another coin when they read it."

"I know just the boy. Albert can be trusted."

"Thank you." Devlin nodded, took Peyton's arm, and lifted the candle to guide their way. "Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Hunter. Sleep well."

He glanced at Peyton with concern. Sleep? Impossible. Yet he nodded his gratitude and escorted her across the large front room that served as dining hall, common room, and reception for the children who sought refuge here and toward the wide wooden steps in the center of the building where porters had once stomped up and down to store goods in the old warehouse.

"Mr. Hunter?" Peyton murmured, her voice as soft as shadows around them.

"You're not the only one with a false identity, Lady Payne."

"Yes, but you're a duke. I'm dead to the world." She paused for a beat before adding in her grief, "And now the world is dead to me."

"Oh no, it's not." But the firmness with which he said that did nothing to lessen her anguish.

Instead of leading her upstairs, he guided her down into the cellar. He unlocked the door barring their way at the bottom of the steps, and she stopped and stared at the room beyond when he pushed open the door.

Her hand dropped away from his arm. "What is this place?"

"It was used to store casks of wine," he explained as he closed and locked the door behind them. He paused to take a look around what could be seen of the long, narrow cellar in the dim candlelight. It was filled with fighting equipment and a separate living space at the far end where he could collapse from exhaustion after a long night of training or haunting the city streets…or from being haunted. "Now its purpose is the same as the three floors above."

Her gaze fixed on a dummy target made of burlap sack, sawdust, and reed layers that had seen too many days at the end of his sword. "Which is?"

He acknowledged quietly, "A refuge."

She arched a disbelieving brow.

He took her arm and led her through the room in the soft light of the candle so she wouldn't trip over any unseen apparatus in the dark that he had left strewn across the floor after his last visit. "I use this place to hone my fighting edge," he explained vaguely. And where he could physically take out his frustrations and lingering resentments. Here, he could let loose the pent-up anger that he hid from the rest of the world. Anthony Titus had taught him that. Control. The problem wasn't when a fighter succumbed to his emotions; that always needed to happen in the end, one way or another. No, the problem was when those emotions couldn't be controlled until they could be dealt with.

Here, he could control them.

He guided her to a separate room in the rear of the cellar. Although calling the room a bedroom was a stretch, it did hold a small bed…and nothing else except a worn leather reading chair where he usually tossed his clothes and a bedside table that held a bottle of brandy, which he often needed far more than the bed. A rickety old Franklin stove sat in the corner, its pipe sticking up thorough a hole in the foundation and emerging in the sliver of the rear yard tucked behind the building.

"We'll stay here for the night," he explained as he closed the door and set the candle on the stove. "You're safe. No one knows to look for us here." He added in a mutter as he knelt in front of the stove and began to build a small fire inside its metal belly, "Not even my family."

"And Mr. Hunter?"

He pushed the candle inside the grate to light the tinder. "He's a very private patron who owns the building and funds the services it provides."

"What exactly are those services?"

His lips curled slightly as he concentrated on the fire. She was asking questions, if quietly. That was a good sign. "We take in homeless children who have nowhere else to go for shelter and security. We ask no questions, give them a small meal and a clean bed, and provide a safe place for them to spend the night, with a locked door between them and whoever might want to harm them. From dusk to dawn, we provide a temporary reprieve from the streets."

When the flame caught, he tossed in a few lumps of coal and stirred them until a small but growing warmth emanated from the stove.

"Sometimes we're able to find work for the older ones, positions on ships or in households. A few want to go to school. Some come for several nights in a row. Others stay once and never come back." He rocked back onto his heels and flipped shut the front grill. "Mostly, though, we address the most pressing needs of food and shelter from the weather."

She nodded toward the training room. "Something tells me Mr. Hunter does far more in this place than just write cheques."

"As I said, it's a refuge." Devlin pushed himself up to his full height. "Sometimes Mr. Hunter finds children on the streets himself and sends them here."

"And sometimes he goes out looking for children to help, I would wager," she added quietly, still standing by the door but not yet entering.

"Sometimes," he admitted, carrying the candle to the bedside table. "Only children on the streets know about this place, and even then, most children who hear about it think it's a fairytale. They can't bring themselves to believe that someone might care about what happens to them."

"And why does Mr. Hunter care?"

If he had to explain that, the night would be very long. Instead, he poured a glass of brandy from the bottle sitting on the table. He took a long, calming swallow, then held it out toward her.

"Until we can learn more about the explosion," he said, bluntly changing the conversation, "this is the best place for us to hide. I've sent word to two friends to ask for their help…Lucien Grenier and Chase Maddox." Neither man had any idea this place existed. By morning, his two old friends would learn the last of his secrets. "We can trust them with our lives."

With a silent sigh that drooped her shoulders, she came into the room and took the glass from his hand. She took a long drink, then rested the back of her hand against her lips as the liquor seeped down her slender throat.

"Thank you," she whispered between her fingers. "For…everything."

He gestured for her to turn around. "I'll undo you, if you'd like, and then we can go to bed and try for sleep." Try. Precious little would come tonight for either of them.

"In my experience," she said, forcing a thin smile, "going to bed precipitates the undoing."

He knew she was aiming for the same flirtatious sassiness she'd engaged in with him at Barton's, but the attempt fell flat. Still, she was trying, and he took hope in that. Perhaps her grief wouldn't overwhelm her after all, no matter what Lucien and Chase learned about the explosion or whose lives it had claimed.

"And in my experience," he returned, matching her attempt at playfulness, "an undoing doesn't require a bed at all."

She tossed back the rest of the brandy and held the empty glass out to him. "Then you shouldn't mind at all if I take the bed while you spend the night on the floor." She turned her back to him and warned over her shoulder as she gestured at her bodice, "Don't stretch the fabric."

With a chuckle, he set the glass aside. He slowly unfastened the short row of buttons until her bodice sagged over her breasts. His fingers brushed over her bare skin as he pushed her capped sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms, and her dress puddled at her feet, leaving her in her shift and stays. Removing her dress should have been difficult, far too much of a wanton temptation to strip her completely bare and have his way with her. But he managed to hang on to his control…until he dared to remove her hair pins and take down her hair. When he brushed his fingers through her dark tresses until they hung loose around her slender shoulders, the sweet torture of touching her nearly undid him.

He pulled in a deep and silent breath to steady his hands as he unlaced her short corset, slowly loosening it one long pull at a time. Whenever his knuckles caressed the thin shift and felt the warmth of her skin beneath, he had to fight the urge to place his mouth against her nape and lick his way down her spine, to peel away every layer of clothing until she was breathtakingly naked before his eyes, quivering with desire—

Christ. He was losing his mind.

The corset dropped away, and he stepped back to snatch up the glass and pour himself a very full drink. Of course, it didn't help that her warm curves were covered only by a thin shift and stockings. For the first time, he thanked God that the room had a dark stove instead of a fireplace that would have silhouetted her curves through the thin cotton as if she wore nothing at all.

"Your arm." Her soft voice curled around him like a ribbon. "You hurt it."

He glanced down at his torn and bloodied sleeve, then took a long swallow of liquor and welcomed the burn down his throat. "It's nothing."

"Liar." She waved her hand at him. "Take off that jacket so I can look at it."

"It's only a scratch." Yet he shrugged off the tiger's poorly fitting jacket he still wore from their visit to St Giles and dropped it to the floor. "It doesn't need nursing."

She said nothing, but determination flickered in her eyes. He was thrilled to see it instead of the grief she'd been wearing for the past hour. Yet his breath strangled in his throat when she reached to unbutton his waistcoat.

He took her wrists and stilled her hands. "What are you doing?"

"Undressing you so I can look at your arm for myself." She tsked her tongue. "Surely, Devlin Raines doesn't mind being undressed by a woman."

"Well then." He held his arms out wide and gave her his best rakish grin. "Who am I to stop you?"

She slid him a cutting look, yet she carefully removed his waistcoat and only lightly scraped his wounded arm as she slid it off his shoulders and onto the floor. Truthfully, though, the dull throbbing in his arm was nothing compared to the throbbing at his crotch.

She untied his cravat and slipped it off his neck, then turned away and crossed the room to the wash basin near the stove. "Take off your shirt."

"Yes, ma'am." He grinned to himself as he pulled down his braces to let them dangle around his hips. The shirt slipped over his head and off. With his left arm completely bare, he could see the wound now and assess it for himself. Perhaps it was more than a mere scratch. So for a better view, he turned toward the dim light of the candle burning on the bedside table next to the bottle of cognac.

"Do you think we should send for a surgeon?" She frowned into the water pitcher and set it back down. "Empty." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "I can go upstairs for water unless you…"

Her voice trailed off as she stared at him, eyes wide and stunned.

He froze. He didn't have to look over his shoulder to see what had startled her. He knew. Christ. For the first time in his life, he hadn't remembered to hide his back, too caught up in the sweet temptation of her nearness. Shame and humiliation pulsed through him.

"Dear God," she whispered, her eyes scouring over the rough scars on his back. "What on earth happened to you?"