Chapter Thirteen

P eyton was barely able to keep hold of her breath as she stared at Devlin. The lines across his back and shoulders, crisscrossing unevenly at angry angles… Good Lord. She'd never seen so many scars on one man before, except for a soldier she'd met in France who had been whipped for deserting his regiment. That man had received two hundred lashes and barely survived.

Had Devlin been… whipped ?

Her heart lurched into her throat. "Devlin…?"

He shrugged as if it were nothing more troubling than a sunburn and turned his back away from her as he refilled his glass, the loose braces bumping dismissingly against his hips. "It's nothing to be concerned about."

"Truly?" She arched a brow at his indifference and returned to him, empty-handed. No cloth to clean the wound except for his cravat, no water to wet it… "Because to me, it looks like you've been beaten." She dunked the neckcloth unceremoniously into his glass of brandy. "Repeatedly."

"If you're going to answer your own questions, there's no point in asking me." Frowning at the cravat in his glass, he slowly pulled it out of the brandy and dangled the long piece of cloth in the air. His mouth twisted as he watched it drip onto the floor. "That was a waste of perfectly good cognac."

"No, it wasn't." Taking back the soaked cloth, she brought his arm toward her. She dabbed as gently as possible at the long, bloodied wound sliced into his forearm.

He sucked in a harsh breath through clenched teeth at the sting of the liquor, and his arm flexed, the muscle tightening. But to his credit, he didn't pull away. He might be keeping secrets of his own, but at least he wasn't running away from them. Or from her. She admired that.

The dried blood slowly washed away to reveal a long but clean cut. It would be painful until it healed, certainly, but he was in no danger of bleeding to death or losing his arm. She would have said he would have an ugly scar, but… Well, one surreptitious glance at what she could see of his back told her he cared little about that.

"It might need stitches." She wound the neckcloth around his forearm as a makeshift bandage and tied it off as gently as she could. It would do for now. "We should send for a surgeon."

"No need." He glanced down at his arm. "I've had worse."

"So I see." She dared to step behind him and run her fingers over the hard ridges of the old scars. His muscles quivered beneath her touch, yet he didn't walk away. Something dark and unspoken told her he needed to reveal them as much as she needed to see them. Whatever had put them there, it wasn't an accident. "Who did this to you?"

"You've been studying my family for years." He turned his head to ask her quietly over his shoulder, "Don't you recognize my father's handiwork when you see it?"

Her hand froze. "Dartmoor did this…to his own son?" Her fingertips curled into his back muscle as shock and revulsion surged through her. She whispered in little more than a breathless rasp, "I knew he was despicable, but this… Oh, dear God." She swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. "When?"

"For years, starting when I was just a boy, still in the schoolroom."

He took a slow step forward and moved just out of her reach. Her empty hand fell to her side.

"He had flares of anger he would take out on whoever—or whatever—he could." Devlin set down his empty glass and reached for the bottle itself to raise to his lips for a long drink. Although he now carefully kept his front turned toward her, he didn't meet her gaze as he quietly continued, "Horses, dogs…me, Mother, Margaret…or whatever servant was nearby."

"Not Theodora?" Please God, not Teddy!

He shook his head. "She was too young and still out of his reach in the nursery."

Relief eased down her shoulders, yet she nodded in the direction of his back. "It wasn't hands that did that."

"No. This was the work of switches, straps, an occasional riding crop." He shrugged in macabre acceptance. "At least the fireplace poker never broke the skin."

She placed her hand on her belly. Good heavens, she was going to be sick! "And your mother— she knew ?"

Despite his attempt to keep his face inscrutable, Peyton could see his pain. "There was nothing she could do to stop it. She tried, only for him to turn his anger onto her. So she protected me the only way she could by sending me away to Eton, where I learned to fight." He set down the bottle on the bedside stand and faced her, his arms crossed over his bare chest and unknowingly calling attention to the size and definition of his biceps and shoulders. "When I was eighteen and returned home from school, I was finally able to stop him."

"You did more than that, though, didn't you?" She closed the distance between them. With her eyes never leaving his, she reached a trembling hand to his cheek. Even now, so many years after the event, she felt the fury still lingering inside him.

"I told him that if he ever touched any of us again, I'd kill him. I meant it."

He turned his head to place a kiss to her palm, but there was nothing desirous about the gesture. It wasn't a kiss. It was a promise…to protect her from her father's ghost just as he'd protected his family from his father.

But he couldn't protect her from the past. That was a battle she had to win on her own.

She cupped his face between her hands and rose up on tiptoes to bring her lips to his. She blinked hard to keep the stinging tears at bay as she tenderly moved her mouth against his.

Slowly, the tension faded from him, and she felt him relax, even when she slid her arms around his waist and stepped into his embrace. She buried her face against his shoulder and closed her eyes to absorb this moment within the solid circle of his arms. She needed his strength and resolve, now more than ever.

"You had your family and friends to help you," she whispered against the bare skin of his neck. "Even now you have them." Her arms tightened their hold on him as she dared to whisper the thought that now tortured her. "How will I go on without Wilkins and Proctor to help me?" Her voice was little more than a rasping breath. "If they were killed tonight…"

"You don't know yet that you've lost them. The explosion came from the rear of the cellar near the service yard. Your butler got out, so did the maids and footmen. If they all got out, Wilkins and Proctor might have, too. You have to hold on to that hope until we know more."

She nodded, her chin rubbing against his shoulder with each bob of her head. Yet she remained wholly unconvinced.

He stepped back with a tender caress of his knuckles across her cheek. "Now, you need to rest." He pulled back the covers of the bed, then held out his hand. "I can't offer you a hot bath to wash away the night, but I can provide a soft mattress and clean sheets."

She looked at the bed and shook her head. She wouldn't be able to sleep a wink, no matter how physically and emotionally drained she was.

"Why are you doing this?" She didn't mean giving up his bed.

He knew that, too, based on his somber countenance. "Because we both want the same thing—Horrender brought to justice."

Nodding slowly, the last of her energy draining away, she removed her stockings and laid them over the footboard. Then she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to help her into bed.

Her body tingled from the slide of the coverlet over her bare legs and up to her shoulders. She nearly laughed. No man had ever tucked her into bed before. That it was Devlin, a notorious rake and the man who now permeated her thoughts, made it all the more ludicrous. Deliciously, temptingly ludicrous.

When he moved away from the bed, she reached for his hand. "Where are you spending the night?"

He tossed a glance toward the battered leather reading chair. "I've done it before."

Now knowing the ghosts that haunted him, she held no doubts that he'd spent many a tortured night here, training until he wore himself into physical exhaustion, then collapsing into the chair and hoping for sweet oblivion. She'd done the same countless times herself in France.

"Stay," she cajoled. "You can sleep here with me."

He didn't move, except to stare down at her with the same expression as a child with his nose pressed against the sweets shop window—a desperate longing mixed with the grim realization that it would not be his for the taking. Not tonight.

Then, reluctantly, he nodded, and a quiet thrill darted through her. He pulled the bedding up to her neck, then blew out the candle and lay on his back on the mattress next to her, on top of the coverlet that separated them.

In the silent darkness, the small room lit only by the dim glow through the stove grill, they both stared up at the floor overhead. Neither moved, but Peyton could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, just as she could feel the weight of his large body sinking into the mattress and gravity slowly nudging her toward him.

With a grimace, she rolled on to her side, putting her back to him. There would be no more intimacies tonight. At least not physical ones.

"You said we'll know more in the morning," she whispered into the shadows, repeating his earlier words. Even with his comforting presence next to her, her worry returned with the silent shadows. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." He turned toward her and slipped his arm across her over the coverlet to hold her close. He hesitated, then his deep voice tickled the back of her neck as he murmured, "Your father was willingly part of it, Peyton. You need to accept that, or you will always be in danger."

She nodded against the pillow. He was right, she knew. But… "How could he have done something like that? He was a good man, a wonderful husband and father. How could he…"

When her voice trailed off, the deep silence once more enveloped them, until Devlin murmured, "He wasn't evil. He was simply ambitious, and to his credit, he didn't know all that Dartmoor and Crewe—and especially Horrender—had been doing. He was part of the smuggling, the brothels, the stolen goods, all of that. But he didn't know about the children who were—" When his voice broke, she knew he was suffering just as much as she was over what their fathers had done, the lies that had been told, the lives that had been destroyed. "Who were forced into slave labor and offered up to the highest bidders for…God only knows what exactly."

That bit of self-censorship was meant to protect her, but horrifying images filled her mind of terrible possibilities until she had to bite her inner cheek to keep from crying.

Sensing her anguish, he nuzzled his mouth against her hair. "Dartmoor and Crewe had funneled those profits through the fencing operations and the brothels so Chandler wouldn't know the truth. When he discovered what they'd been doing, he felt they'd gone too far. It was one thing to smuggle French goods and sell them to their friends or profit from prostitution that was already happening, but it was something else altogether to exploit children. In your father's eyes, the entire enterprise had to be shut down."

A tendril of hope rose inside her, and she clung to it, praying her memory of her father could still be redeemed.

"So Chandler gave them an ultimatum. He would inform the authorities if they didn't stop their criminal activities by year's end, changing the illegal operations to legal ones where possible, shutting down the rest completely." Devlin's arm tightened around her as he pulled her back against his front and nestled her against him. "He gave them until the night of the musicale to make their decision."

Her mind raced back through the years to that night, and she fought to bring back into focus every detail she could, no matter how small. She could hear the music flowing around her, smell the floral scent of beeswax candles, taste the bitter-sweetness of sugared orange peels and the unexpected bite of her first glass of claret. In her mind's eye, she could see the women in their fine dresses, the men in their kerseymere jackets, and all of them glittering beneath the chandeliers and floating along as if in a dream. She'd had no idea that darkness lurked among such bright rooms.

At every moment of that night, her silly girl's attention had been fixed someplace else. Somewhere not important. While her father had been dealing with matters of life and death, she'd sat in the corner and pouted because Devlin had never noticed she was even there.

"That's what they'd fought about that night," he continued quietly. "Dartmoor and Crewe refused his demands. Your father stormed out, collected you and your mother, and you all started for home."

She rolled over to face him. Even in the darkness, she could see his resigned expression. But then, he'd had a decade to process everything that had happened that night, while she was still fitting together bits and pieces into a desperate puzzle.

"But Dartmoor and Crewe panicked." Now facing each other on the bed, he brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, as if they were lovers sharing a tender moment rather than what they truly were—two people who barely trusted each other. "They were both peers and could have claimed privilege to have the charges dismissed—they hadn't yet committed murder—but the scandal would have ruined them." He tenderly traced his fingertips along her jaw to her ear, but she knew he wasn't looking at her. He was lost in that night ten years ago. Just as she was. "Charles Chandler had to be removed as a threat. He knew how all the money had been earned, where it had been hidden, and exactly how to link it back to them. If your father was silenced, no one would ever be able to prove what they'd been doing."

"So they sent Horrender after us."

"Only as a warning." He shook his head. "They didn't think Horrender would kill any of you, just threaten your father. Horrender was supposed to have stopped the carriage, dragged Chandler out and beaten him to within an inch of his life, then threatened to kill him and his family if he dared breathe a word of what he knew. But Horrender decided to issue his own kind of warning and attempted to murder all of you."

She pulled in a deep breath, afraid of the answer yet needing to know. "And you? What did you do that night, exactly?"

"I walked downstairs into the study and straight into the hornets' nest. The two dukes were arguing, and I overheard their plan." He rolled onto his back and hooked his arm beneath his head. "I rode out after your carriage to stop the attack but arrived too late. Your parents were already dead, but I stopped the man who had gone after you. You were unconscious. I picked you up and raced with you to the nearest surgeon. When I was handing you over to him, you woke up for only a moment, grabbed at my waistcoat—that must have been when you ripped off the button." He paused. "I left you there and went to your home, to inform the household of what happened. The next morning, I was told you had died. Lucien and I attended your funeral three days later."

Slowly, fighting back tears, she slid her hand across the coverlet to take his as it rested on the mattress between them and laced her fingers through his. She now knew everything he could tell her about that night. So many pieces of the puzzled snapped into place that she could barely comprehend it all, yet she also knew some bits were still missing and most likely always would be.

But she wasn't alone any longer. They were in this together now.

When his fingers reassuringly squeezed hers, a single tear slipped down her cheek and soaked into the pillow.

"Thank you, Devlin," she whispered.

He'd given her a gift tonight. Her father hadn't been completely innocent, and his behavior could never be fully absolved. But she knew now the limits of his criminality and could begin to come to terms with the man he had truly been.

She also knew exactly how much Devlin blamed himself for not stopping the events of that night, how much guilt he still carried over what their fathers had done.

"That's why you created this place, isn't it?" Her voice was no louder than a breath. "To atone for what our fathers did."

"Yes."

Peyton doubted that anything the two of them did could ever be enough to provide the kind of restitution those crimes deserved. Yet Devlin proved to her that they could try, and hope fluttered in her heart. For the first time in too many years to count, she could finally believe that the future might help right the past, that she might have a way forward.

"I will help you, Peyton, however I can, to remove you from danger and stop whoever is targeting you. I promise you that." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before resting it on his chest. His slow, strong heartbeat pulsed against her fingertips. "But what happened that night—what our fathers and Crewe's did all those years ago—none of that can ever come to light. Understand?"

Dread tightened her chest, squeezing the little bit of hope from her heart, and she slipped her hand free of his. "No, I don't. We're on the verge of stopping Horrender from harming anyone I care about ever again. If that means shouting out from the rooftop what our fathers did, then I am all for the shouting."

He rolled away from her and slipped off the bed. With his braces still dangling around his hips, he snatched up the bottle of cognac and collapsed into the leather reading chair. His gaze burned darkly into hers.

"What good would it do to reveal it all now?" he asked, contemplating the bottle.

"It might stop Horrender from—"

" Might stop," he repeated her words. " If it's even Horrender who's after you now, and we don't know that." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I can't accept the risks for what will happen if people find out, including revealing your existence to the world."

Her existence… The thought terrified her, but she also knew she couldn't continue to live in a ghost world. "I'm prepared for that."

"Are you? Then get dressed." He waved at the pile of her clothes on the floor. "We'll go back to Mayfair, and you can properly introduce yourself to my mother."

Damn him. He knew she wasn't ready for that. Yet she lied in an attempt to convince herself as much as him, "If it means keeping people safe, I'll do it."

"But it won't keep anyone safe. You can't fathom the lives that will be ruined if the past comes back."

"You mean your family."

"And others."

"I don't want to hurt anyone." She pulled the coverlet up to her shoulders to cover herself, feeling suddenly bare and vulnerable. "But I can't keep living this way. I am so very tired of the uncertainty, the hatred, the fear—of losing people I love." Her shoulders slumped beneath the unbearable weight of it all, and she pressed the heal of her hand against the pain in her forehead at the thought of Wilkins and Proctor. "I've suffered enough for crimes I never committed, and so have the people around me."

"Should more people suffer for crimes they don't even know happened?"

"If it means bringing to justice the people who killed my parents, who attempted to kill me and who—" Who attempted to rape me. But she couldn't utter that last out loud. She clenched the coverlet in her hand, desperately needing something solid to cling to now that he sat on the other side of the room. "Who deserve to pay for the evils they've done. All of them. If the only way to do that is to be public about what our fathers did, then that's what we have to do."

"At what cost? The destruction of two dukedoms and all the people who depend upon them to survive, both our families, all our servants and employees, our tenants, hundreds of villagers, and everyone their lives touch in turn…all the millers, carpenters, brewers, innkeepers—my family's main estate is eighty-five thousand acres by itself and supports nearly half the county. Should cottagers who have never been more than ten miles from the village be punished if we reveal the truth about what our fathers did?"

"Innocent people are still being hurt," she whispered, barely louder than breath. "I lost Wilkins and Proctor tonight."

"We don't know that for certain."

She looked away, too overwhelmed by confusion and uncertain—and grief—to accept what he was saying. Too much had happened, so many people had been lost… How could she turn her back on all of them?

He rose from the chair and slowly walked back to the bed. When he sank onto the edge of the mattress, he gently took her chin and turned her face until she looked at him. Thankfully, there was no judgment or condemnation in his expression. Only concern.

"Until we know more," he continued, "the best plan of action is to do nothing." He held out the bottle to her, and she could just see in the dim light from the stove that one final drink remained. "Lucien and I agreed a long time ago that we would keep secret what our fathers had done. Now I ask the same of you."

She took a deep breath and tried to sort through the barrage of thoughts and emotions assaulting her from every direction. She knew so much more now about that night, but her heart also knew justice wouldn't come as long as secrets were kept.

She blinked hard to keep the hot tears at bay. Not tears of grief but frustration. She was so close to finding the men responsible, so close to making them pay— so close! "What you're asking of me…I can't say silent."

"Just for now," he conceded. "Until we find another way forward."

She repeated so he would understand, "Just for now."

From his frown, he wasn't pleased about that concession, but it was all he'd gain from her tonight. She'd come too far and fought too hard to let justice slip through her fingers now. Especially after tonight.

With watery eyes, she grimaced at the bottle. "That's a sorry attempt at a peace offering."

"Fitting, then. Because it's a sorry attempt at a peace. And brandy." His expression softened. "But it's also all I can offer."

All he could offer… She had no choice but to accept his terms. For now.

Grudgingly, she took the bottle and helped herself to the last of the cognac. It burned as it seeped down her throat, and she wiped the last drops from her lips with her fingertips as she handed back the empty bottle.

"Now come back to bed," she urged. "We both need sleep."

He set the empty bottle aside on the night stand. "I can't do that."

"Why not?"

He placed his hands on the mattress on either side of her and leaned in, bringing his dark brown eyes level with hers. "Because if I joined you in this bed—"

His mouth captured hers. Gone was any of the sultry slowness that had marked his early kisses. This time, he seized her lips with a fierce intensity that burned through her, as if he wanted to do nothing more at that moment than devour her. God help her, she wanted exactly that, and when his tongue plunged between her lips in a gesture both passionate and possessive, a low moan of surrender rose from her throat.

He shifted back just far enough to finish whispering against her lips, "It wouldn't be to sleep."

He flopped back down into the leather chair, kicked out his long legs, and lay back his head, his eyes closed. The posture of a gentleman perfectly at ease. But she knew better. Even from this far away she could see the fast rise and fall of his chest as he fought to steady the breath she'd taken from him.

She lay back in the bed and stared up into the darkness. Sleep wouldn't come tonight for either of them.