Chapter Fourteen

D evlin held open Brechenhurst's door as Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, stepped into the building for the first time. He hadn't wanted Crewe to learn about the place this way—Hell, he hadn't wanted Crewe to learn about the place at all—but it couldn't be helped. The enemy had attacked, and Devlin needed to rally his forces.

"So this is where you've been hiding," Crewe said as he swept his gaze around the ground floor common room and took in the converted old warehouse. "Never figured you for the estate development—"

He froze as his eyes landed on Peyton as she stood next to the long dining table, her hands folded demurely in front of her. His face paled.

His shock was understandable. After all, he was staring at a ghost.

For a long moment, neither moved. Then Crewe blew out a hard breath and muttered, "Demme… It's true, then. You really are alive."

"So they tell me." She shrugged a slender shoulder. "I'm surprised you remember me."

"Barely," he admitted. This time, the look he gave her scoured over her from head to toe. "But then, innocent misses fresh from the schoolroom weren't exactly my concern in those days." Then Crewe added in a mumble, because it was expected from the rake he so carefully cultivated himself to be, "They still aren't."

Devlin remained by the door and watched as Crewe approached Peyton and held out his hand to her. Their gazes remained locked as she slipped her hand into his. Instead of bowing over it as he should have, Crewe folded both of his over hers and held it, as if he needed to feel her to discern for himself that she was corporeal and not just a figment of his imagination.

It was also a silent acknowledgement of all the wrongs his father had done to her family.

He released her hand with a nod and stepped back. He couldn't help but rake a second, unbelieving look over her, even as he asked Devlin over his shoulder, "She knows, then?"

"She knows everything about the criminal enterprise." His carefully phrased answer put Crewe at ease. Lucien's secrets, at least, were still his own.

"Then she can hear what I have to share with you." Crewe crossed to the long dining table where trays of leftover food still sat after the children had filed out that morning and took with them their share of sausage rolls, apples, buns—foods that could be easily put into a pocket and kept for later. He helped himself to an apple. "It's exactly what you suspected." He shined the apple on his jacket sleeve before crunching out a bite. The casual move hid his own concern over the news. "Horrender's back. He wants to reassemble the old network, and this time, he'll make certain to pick peers or officials for protection whom he can better push around than our fathers."

Devlin glanced at Peyton to see her reaction. But her face remained calm. Like him, she wasn't surprised.

"Are you certain?" Devlin pressed.

"Have I seen him in the flesh with my own eyes?" Crewe asked around chews. "No. But my contacts claim he is, and I believe them." He swallowed and gestured the apple at Devlin. "Someone with inside knowledge is attempting to put the old enterprise back together. If not him, then who? Who else would know so much about the management of their scheme?"

When Crewe's gaze slid to Peyton, Devlin bristled at the implication. "She doesn't know as much as that."

"Nor would I willingly participate in anything like that," Peyton confirmed.

Crewe's eyes assessed her coldly. Then he wordlessly took another bite of apple.

A knock sounded from the half-open door behind Devlin, and he turned to find a tall figure in the doorway. The morning sunlight from the street behind the man darkened his face and front, but Devlin would have recognized him anywhere.

Chase Maddox, Duke of Greysmere. Former mercenary with the Prussians during the War of the Fourth Coalition. One of Devlin and Lucien's oldest and dearest friends from Eton. A dedicated student who had gained more from Anthony Titus's guidance than simply learning to fight.

And the most troubled man Devlin knew.

Chase stepped into the converted warehouse and slowly moved his gaze around the room to take it in, his face inscrutable. Dressed in all black, wearing a greatcoat over a tunic and loose-fitting trousers, Chase greeted Devlin and Crewe with slaps to their backs as each man came forward.

Devlin had been best friends with Chase for nearly twenty years, yet since the accident that claimed the life of Chase's toddler son two years ago, his old friend had been completely out of contact. Immeasurable grief and anger at himself for letting the accident happen had driven him to the Continent in pursuit of Anthony Titus. He needed to study under his old mentor once more to learn how to exorcise the new demons that haunted him. Devlin had heard rumors that Chase had returned to England and sent word to Greysmere House that he was needed, but he hadn't been certain until that moment that Chase would appear.

Then his eyes fell on Peyton. Chase cast a careful look over her from head to foot. It was the same measuring glance he would have given any opponent—or any enemy on a battlefield. Since his son died, that was exactly how Chase saw the world, Devlin knew. As a battlefield filled with enemies.

Peyton tensed under Chase's scrutiny.

Devlin went to her side to put her at ease. "Chase, this is Miss Peyton Chandler, the woman I wrote to you about. Peyton, may I introduce Chase Maddox, Duke of Greysmere, and one of the best men to ever enter battle?" He squeezed her elbow. "You can trust him with your life."

"Thank you for coming to help," she said and held out her hand to him. He bowed over it with all the stiffness one would expect from someone who had been well out of society and living like a monk for two years.

With a sharp nod, he released her hand. "I went to your townhouse at dawn to investigate and found evidence of gunpowder in a rear cellar storage room. The explosion and fire were intentional."

Her face darkened with worry. "Who was hurt?"

"Most of the servants escaped unharmed. Your man Wilkins is recovering at a nearby inn. He wants to see you, to make certain you're safe. I told him you'd contact him later today, if you were feeling up to it. Hearing from you will put him at ease."

Devlin frowned as he watched his old friend. Chase's voice was low, deep, and controlled, as was every aspect of his presence. Now. Two years ago, the loss of his son, then his estrangement with his wife—and with her, everything he'd wanted for his future—had left him little more than a ruined shell. Titus had managed to do the impossible and bring him back to the land of the living. Partially.

Peyton nodded. "I'll send a message to him immediately." Then she pressed, "And Betty Proctor?"

Chase grimly met her gaze. "She's still unaccounted for."

"Unaccounted for," Devlin repeated to reassure her. "That doesn't mean dead."

Chase agreed. "Especially since the rest of the household seems to have escaped without harm, and no remains have yet been found in the debris. We have to assume everyone made it out safely."

She nodded stiffly, as if willing herself to believe that. "And everything else…is gone?"

Devlin knew what she was asking—did anything from her past survive the blast and fire, anything from her childhood or of her parents?

Chase understood the grief of such a loss, and empathy softened his voice as he answered, "The fire destroyed everything."

Except for a faint tremble, Peyton showed no outward sign of how devastated she must have been. Good God, the control she possessed to stand there and accept news like that, how hard-won that restraint must have been, and all she'd gone through to gain it… It broke his heart.

So Devlin turned the conversation to another concern and asked Crewe, "And Horrender?"

With that, he passed a faintly apologetic glance in Chase's direction. Their old friend had only learned that morning about what their fathers had done with Horrender's help, when Crewe had taken it upon himself to tell him with Devlin's permission. There would be feelings of betrayal at not being confided in sooner, Devlin knew, but he also knew that Chase understood the need to protect family at all costs. Even at the price of keeping secrets from old friends.

"Horrender—or someone pretending to be him—is taking credit for it," Crewe answered. "But then, he would. If he's putting back together the old enterprise, he would see it as an opportunity not just to destroy you and whatever evidence you have linking him to the attack but to also send out a warning to Dartmoor and me to leave him alone and to others not to cross him. Just as he wanted to do when he murdered the Chandlers." He tossed the rest of the unwanted apple into the stove and slapped closed the front grill. "But he didn't do it alone."

"What do you mean?" she asked and reached for Devlin to steel herself against the answer.

"He gained access to your house and was there long enough to plant several casks of gunpowder. He didn't do that by himself. Someone helped."

Her face paled. "Who would do something like that?"

Crewe shrugged. "Who else wants you dead?"

"No one. I'm already dead, remember?"

"Well, someone knows you're not but wants to keep you that way," Crewe persisted. "Permanently."

She shook her head. "No one in London knows who I am except you three. Even the Duchess of Dartmoor doesn't—" She cut herself off and turned toward Devlin, clutching at his sleeve. "That man last night in St Giles recognized that I was a Chandler. If he recognized me, then someone else could have, too."

"Only because he saw you in person," Devlin reminded her. "Unless you've been frequenting quayside taverns, no one else from that world would know you're alive."

From her dubious expression, she wasn't convinced.

"You met him last night in St Giles?" Chase interjected.

"Yes," Peyton answered. "For a few minutes around midnight."

He shook his head. "Then whoever set the explosion wasn't anyone you saw in St. Giles. They wouldn't have had time to plant the gunpowder before you arrived home."

"Then who?" She stepped away from Devlin and began to pace.

"No one else in London knows your true identity?" Crewe pressed. Then he hesitated before asking, "Not even one of your servants?"

She bristled at the implication that someone in her own household had attempted to kill her. "Only Wilkins and Proctor, but I trust them with my life." She must have seen doubt in Devlin's face because she stopped pacing and indignantly put her hands on her hips. "I've been with them for years. Why would they attempt to kill me now—here—when they could have done it in France years ago?"

Crewe shook his head. " Someone knows. If I could discern the truth about a mysterious woman named Elizabeth Wentworth and her connection to the Chandler fortune, then so could anyone. And whomever he is, someone gave him access to your house."

"But why?" Her face paled as her watery eyes rose to meet Devlin's, her voice emerging raw and raspy, "What threat am I to Horrender?"

Devlin rested his palm on her shoulder to reassure her. "We won't know for certain until we catch him," Devlin muttered.

Peyton stepped away from Devlin to pace again. "How?"

Devlin rubbed at his nape. Damn that it was far too early to open a bottle of drink. "We use his fear against him."

"Yes. By letting him know he didn't succeed last night," Peyton murmured. "By telling the world that I'm alive and well."

An icy realization of where her thoughts were heading poured through Devlin. She was planning to offer herself up as bait.

"No." He locked eyes with her, brooking no misunderstanding about this. "I won't put you into further danger."

"We don't have a choice," she argued. "This has to stop. All of it. If revealing my identity is the only way to bring him to justice, then so be it."

"And in the process expose all our fathers' crimes?" Crewe shook his head. "I don't mean to be cruel, Peyton, but your family's gone. If we reveal the past, then both the Raines and Grenier families will also be destroyed by it." Determination sounded in his voice. "I won't let that happen."

"Then place the full blame on my father." She approached him and put her hand beseechingly on his arm. "Keep secret what the Dukes of Dartmoor and Crewe did and protect your families by letting my father take full responsibility." Her mouth twisted with irony. "As you said, the Chandlers are all dead and can't be hurt."

Guilt darkened Crewe's face. "I didn't mean to imply that you—"

"My father was neither innocent nor na?ve. He was willingly involved. Let the tarnishing of his name and reputation be his punishment." She paused to pull in a shaking yet determined breath. "Let him find some sort of absolution by stopping all this before anyone else is hurt."

Crewe cast a questioning glance at Devlin, who grudgingly nodded. Yet Devlin's chest tightened with dread. Peyton was wrong. This wouldn't end with only her father. All their sins would be dragged out into the sunlight.

Peyton turned beseechingly to Crewe and pressed, "Can you manipulate the proof you have against Horrender to mention only my father's name?"

Crewe grudgingly nodded. "Yes."

"Then we stop Horrender and blame my father for creating the enterprise," she said firmly. "We have him arrested, tried, convicted—We put an end to his criminal enterprise once and for all before anyone else is harmed." She straightened her spine, and Devlin recognized her expression. He'd seen it on the faces of countless men in the wars as they prepared for battle. "We need to come up with a plan. What can we do?"

"We set a trap," Chase said. "We offer up a bait he can't refuse, then surround him with men and capture him when he arrives."

"What would draw him out?" Crewe asked.

"Me." Peyton instantly drew all three men's attention. "That is, the real me."

Devlin didn't like the sound of that. "What are you suggesting?"

She slid a look at Crewe. "Can you disseminate a message to Horrender through your contacts in Seven Dials?"

Crewe nodded. "What do you want the message to say?"

"That I'm alive and back in London—"

"No," Devlin interrupted.

"—and that I have proof he attempted to kill me."

" Hell no. " Devlin folded his arms. "Are you trying to get yourself killed—again? We need to find a different way to lure him out." Preferably one that didn't dangle Peyton in front of him like meat before a beast.

"She has a point," Crewe countered. "If we're going to get his attention, we need to make a grand gesture."

"Not that grand." Devlin refused to back down. What she was proposing was far too dangerous.

"I will do whatever it takes to make him pay for harming the people I love." She said that so calmly that Devlin couldn't help but feel a jolt pierce him. This was the same resolute woman he met at Barton's who would have done anything to precipitate his downfall. "Including killing him myself, if necessary."

"Demme," Crewe muttered, clearly stunned by what she'd just said and the coolly dispassionate way she'd delivered it. "No wonder you beat Devlin at cards."

She said quietly to no one in particular, "It's easy when you have nothing to lose."

Devlin knew she didn't mean her gambling wagers.

"Your message won't be enough," Chase interjected.

They all turned to stare at Chase, who folded his arms over his chest and widened his stance. It was the same position he always took right before a fight.

"You need to make a public announcement, one revealing your identity to everyone of importance in London. He can't put together the old enterprise without protection from members of the aristocracy," Chase explained. "If the men he's working with think they're in danger of being exposed, they'll send him after you immediately. When he does, we'll spring our trap."

The blood drained from Peyton's face. The false identity she'd hidden behind for the past ten years would be completely stripped away. There would be no going back then, no other name to hide behind. What Chase was asking of her…Devlin wasn't certain she was up to it.

Apparently, neither was she. "I don't—I don't know if—" Her voice faltered, and she glanced warily between the three men, as if looking for any means of escape from their plan but finding none. So she jerked a nod and said, as if to convince herself as much as them, "If that's what it takes, I'll do it." She paused, then put voice to her fears. "But can we be sure it will work? If I reveal who I am, and he doesn't come after me…"

"He will," Chase assured her.

"But if we fail to capture him," Devlin added, giving her yet another bleak reason to back out of their plan, "he won't stop coming after you until you're dead. You won't be safe anywhere."

"Then let's not fail, shall we?" Despite the pallor of her face, her lips twisted in a grim smile. "I'd prefer not to die a second time."