Chapter Two

F rom the darkness of her unmarked carriage, Peyton Chandler slipped a gun and knife out from beside the seat cushion. She peered through the window at Barton's.

Dartmoor.

He'd run out of the club in pursuit of her, just as she knew he would. He stood on the narrow footpath and looked up and down the street, searching for her. But there were too many people coming and going, too many carriages of all sorts in the midnight street, for him to figure out where she'd gone. He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair in aggravation with what she was certain was a harsh curse. He was angry, embarrassed, undoubtedly frustrated…and now decidedly poorer.

Good. The bastard deserved all that and more.

And she would be the one to rain it all down upon his head.

She pounded the hilt of the knife against the ceiling. The driver snapped his whip, and the team started forward slowly so as not to draw any attention. Exactly as she'd instructed earlier. She watched just long enough to be certain Dartmoor wasn't following her, then leaned back against the leather squabs.

A long sigh seeped from her lips, and she closed her eyes.

The evening had gone exactly as she'd hoped. Better, in fact, because she'd been able to add the humiliation of losing to a woman to Dartmoor's losses. It had been so easy! Armand Marchand, the former Imperial Guard member and ma?tre d'armes whom she had hired to teach her to protect herself, had been right about cards and this particular game. As long as the dealer didn't shuffle the deck between hands, she could easily keep track of which cards had been played, noting them in her head as each one was laid down. Then she'd used her beauty against Dartmoor by letting him believe the game was turning into foreplay. Whenever he'd started to win, she'd simply distracted him with a well-timed innuendo or flirtation.

She laughed darkly—tasting the brandy from her fingertips had been a stroke of genius. For a moment, she'd thought he might just start panting!

He had been so caught up in the idea of tupping her tonight that he never stopped to think she might be tricking him. She had warned him outright that she planned on winning, but he'd underestimated her anyway.

Why did men always think there was never anything of substance behind a pretty face? Inexplicably, she'd expected more from Dartmoor.

She'd managed to take his money without him recognizing her—although why would he? He hadn't seen her in ten years, not since she was sixteen, fresh from the schoolroom and still in braids. Even then, he had never truly seen her. Not the Marquess of Truro, whom he had been before inheriting, the dashing young twenty-two-year-old who had freshly returned from the wars. He'd paid her no more mind that spring than a piece of furniture. Yet in less than a handful of meetings, when he'd said nothing more to her than empty pleasantries before turning his attention to the glamorous society women surrounding him, Peyton had fallen completely in love. She'd thought him nothing short of perfect.

In truth, he'd been nothing but a self-absorbed young man who cared so little about his country and family that he'd hired himself out as a mercenary during the wars. Then, four years later, when army life had become too difficult, he returned to London to take up where he'd left off as a rakehell in the making. He had cared only for what the Raines' family name and fortune could do for him, what doors would open to him as heir to a dukedom. Especially bedroom doors of beautiful young widows, unfaithful wives…

"Opera singers," she muttered into the darkness, remembering that night from so long ago when Truro had vanished from his parents' party with the Italian soprano his mother had hired for entertainment.

No, not remembering because that night never left her. It was always at the forefront of her mind, in everything she did, in every breath she took. She would never be able to forget how her parents' carriage had been attacked on their way home from the party at Dartmoor House, how Papa and Mama had been pulled from the carriage and murdered, how she had nearly been killed herself. The only reason she was still alive was that her attacker had attempted to rape her before slitting her throat, and in that moment's pause, she'd somehow managed to escape. She didn't know how, having fallen unconscious in the struggle, and she might never discover how—but she had survived, and being haunted every day by the memory of that night was now what kept her going.

Half an hour later, her carriage stopped in front of the townhouse she was renting at the edge of Marylebone. It was located close enough to Mayfair to keep an eye on Dartmoor, yet far enough away that she wouldn't be recognized by anyone who might have known her from before, although that wouldn't happen.

After all, she'd changed so much she barely recognized herself.

When the tiger opened the door, she hesitated before stepping outside as a silent warning slithered down her spine. It was the same feeling she'd had since the moment she'd disembarked from the ship six weeks ago: she was being watched.

"Ma'am?" Misreading her hesitation, the tiger held out his hand to help her down.

"Thank you, but I'm fine." Yet she cautiously glanced around in all directions before stepping to the ground on her own.

If the footman was surprised she'd emerged from the carriage carrying a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, he didn't show it. But she hadn't expected him to. He was a former soldier, after all, hired specifically because he'd proven his bravery in battles on the Peninsula and wouldn't hesitate to kill if necessary.

It had taken her years after the attack to be comfortable riding in carriages again, and only then when she was armed and surrounded by men she'd personally hired. She couldn't give up carriages and night travel completely. They were both necessary evils. But she could stack the odds considerably in her favor and give second thoughts to anyone who dared to consider coming after her.

The butler, who had served as a captain beneath Wellington, opened the door as she hurried toward the townhouse. She nodded her thanks and slipped inside the dark house.

"You're back," John Wilkins called out from the first-floor landing above the stair hall. "How did it go?"

"Incredibly well." She handed her cape to the butler and walked up the stairs past Wilkins.

Her old friend fell into step behind her, as she knew he would. He'd most likely been pacing the townhouse as he waited anxiously for her return. She smiled to herself. At thirty-eight, if Wilkins hadn't already lost most of his hair, she was certain his worry over tonight's plan would have left him completely bald.

Ostensibly, John Wilkins was her estate manager. He oversaw all her finances, protected her interests, and made certain her household ran smoothly.

In reality, he was so much more. He ensured she was safe by helping her rent the townhouse, by hiring the household staff who were more soldiers than servants, and by serving as her primary bodyguard. Wilkins had been twenty-eight and in her father's employ as a footman when her family's carriage was attacked. He had been leading the carriage through the fog with a lantern, and he had never forgiven himself for not noticing the men waiting in the shadows, for not being able to stop the violent attack.

Since then, he'd guided Peyton as surely as if he were still holding up that lamp for her to see her way. He was her confidante, her dear friend, the man she trusted with her life—and one of only two people in the world who knew that she was still alive.

Wilkins followed her into her bedroom as he had done countless times in the past. Neither of them thought anything of that far-too-familiar intimacy.

She circled behind the Chippendale writing desk positioned next to the fire. As she set her pistol and knife onto the desk, she smiled at him. "Dartmoor is now thirty-one thousand pounds poorer."

His eyes gleamed with delight. "Exactly as you planned."

She pulled at the fingertips of her left glove to remove it and corrected, "As we planned." The long glove dropped to the desktop. Then she started on its mate. "I couldn't do any of this without you and Betty."

Betty Proctor had entered her world more than thirteen years ago as her mother's maid, but the woman had since become a second mother to her. Her own mother might have given birth to her, but Proctor had pulled her back to life.

Wilkins protested modestly, "We do it out of love for you. Betty and I consider you— all of us—to be family."

Her eyes stung with gratitude as she whispered, "As do I."

Turning her face away before Wilkins accidentally saw any stray emotions, she reached to remove her earbobs. She paused, tingling at the unbidden memory of how Dartmoor had so audaciously removed them tonight, as if he had the right to undress her.

Unlike Devlin, Armand Marchand had been given that right. A former soldier who had been forced to flee Paris after a failed assassination attempt on Napoleon, Armand had been hired to teach her to fight with knives, guns, and even her own hands so she would never feel defenseless again. Thanks to him, she had also learned how to be vulnerable and trust in men again in a way she never thought she could. Eventually, she gave her innocence to him. But Armand had always made her feel safe.

What had happened between them hadn't been love, she knew that; theirs was simply a joining of bodies. Armand would never let it become anything more. After all, he had also been protecting her heart.

But Armand had been living on borrowed time. When he disappeared last year, with signs of a scuffle left behind in his room above the barn, she was certain Napoleon's men had finally found him, taking his life for bravely attempting to stop a tyrant.

Devlin Raines was nothing like Armand.

She snatched the bob from her ear. "I want you to go to Barton's tomorrow. Patton will have the money waiting for you." Then she removed the other bob and set both on the desktop next to the knife. "He knows to expect you."

"Of course."

"Add it to the other winnings from Dartmoor."

Winnings that amounted to a small fortune. For the past few weeks, she'd been setting hired men against Dartmoor at the tables, funding their stakes and paying them twenty percent of their winnings. Only one of them had disappeared with her money. The others were eagerly waiting to earn more.

That she was using one of Dartmoor's greatest pleasures against him was a delicious bonus. She'd take that pleasure away from him, too, before she was finished. Just as she planned on taking everything from him…his money, his reputation, his fiancée and family. Just as he had taken away all that had been most dear to her that night ten years ago.

"He's making you a very wealthy woman," Wilkins murmured, unaware of the dark place where her thoughts had strayed.

"I'm already a very wealthy woman," she reminded him grimly. She certainly didn't want Dartmoor's blood money mixed with hers. "As soon as it's in the bank, I want you to start donating it as planned."

He nodded, repeating her previous instructions, "No donations so large as to draw suspicion, all paid out to a dozen different charities."

"All supposedly from an anonymous yet progressively minded society matron on the verge of death who has no surviving children on whom to bestow her money."

A thin smile tugged at his lips. "And who cannot stomach the thought of giving it to the Church."

Peyton arched a sardonic brow. "Who can?"

Wilkins laughed, although a bit stiltedly. He was the one who had suggested she return to London to make Dartmoor pay for his crimes. If her revenge failed, he'd blame himself. She couldn't let that happen. Wilkins meant too much to her.

So far, though, all was going according to plan. She'd never believed that destroying a duke would prove so easy.

"You'd planned to speak with the new investigators." She reached up to unpin her hair, needing to keep her hands busy as she broached the topic she had always hated. "Did they learn anything more about the attack?"

"Raines left Dartmoor House only a few minutes after you and your parents, apparently in a flustered rush after speaking to his father."

Disappointment panged hollowly in her chest. "We knew that already." With a deep sigh, she set down a hairpin and reached to remove another. "He went to a gambling hell in Westminster."

The investigators she'd hired had discovered that the attack had not been a random act of violence but a targeted assassination, and all the evidence pointed to the late Duke of Dartmoor, Devlin's father. The timing of events was still unclear, and she had yet to uncover a motive for her parents' murder or enough evidence to prove that Devlin was at the scene of the attack.

Wilkins had been unable to see any of the attackers' faces in the foggy darkness that night, being too confused and frightened by the unfolding chaos to do anything more than run for the night guard. She, herself, had fallen unconscious without seeing her attacker's face in the darkness, able only to claw at his neck and tear loose a button from his waistcoat while she struggled against him as he pinned her to the ground from behind. Everything else was darkness.

Wilkins drawled, "But the new investigators have determined there was a two-hour time gap between when he left Dartmoor House and when anyone remembered seeing him enter the hell."

Her fingers froze. Two hours. More than enough time for Devlin to oversee the assault in person and then hurry to the hell to create an alibi.

Her eyes darted to Wilkins. "Are they certain?"

"They have sworn statements from witnesses."

Straightening her back to steady herself, she removed the last of the pins and shook out her hair, thankful to hide the trembling of her hands by running her fingers through her locks.

Devlin had been at the attack; all the evidence now placed him there with enough time to spare. But why? Why would he commit such evil? That question nagged at her more than she wanted to admit, especially after seeing him again tonight.

But everyone told her that Devlin had been part of it—the detectives, Wilkins, Betty, even the bits of evidence she'd managed to find on her own—and she had no reason to doubt them. Except… why? Why would Devlin take part in his father's murderous plans, and why would a rake like him, who had been invited into the beds of the most beautiful London ladies, want to rape a scrawny girl like her?

After spending time with Devlin tonight, that question demanded an answer more than ever. Yet it was an answer she simply didn't have. Nor most likely ever would.

Wilkins watched her silently. Neither of them thought anything of her taking her hair down in front of him, so long had they known each other and so closely had they lived together in France. Although he was a decade older than Peyton and had come from a completely different background in London's east end, he had cared for her during the dark days immediately following the attack with an attention born from deep remorse for being unable to stop it. He'd seen her at her worst then, beaten and bruised and barely clinging to life, and he was still with her now as she sought revenge.

Only the kindness and care that Wilkins and Betty Proctor had given her allowed her to survive. She owed them everything and trusted both with her life.

"And you believe the investigators?" she pressed. "You're certain Dartmoor was there that night?"

"Absolutely."

Her shoulders sagged with a disturbing mixture of relief and regret, and she nodded slowly as she accepted that last piece of missing information. Despite the whispers of lingering doubts from the corners of her mind, all the evidence pointed irrefutably to Devlin.

"Do you have new instructions for me?" Wilkins asked quietly.

She shook her head faintly as she reached for the wooden keepsake box siting on the fireplace mantel and made her decision. "We stay the course." She placed the sapphires inside. Then her gaze fixed on the silver button tucked into the corner of the box. "That will be all for tonight, Wilkins. And thank you…for everything." She glanced over her shoulder at him. His face blurred beneath her unshed tears before she looked away. "Would you please ask my maid to attend me?"

"Of course." Yet he remained where he was for a long while, as if wanting to say something more, before murmuring instead, "Good night."

Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Alone in her room, Peyton sucked in a ragged breath and reached into the box for the button. She held it up to the firelight.

She'd kept this button for a decade, long enough that the silver had tarnished black. It was a brutal reminder of that night.

Everyone thought she'd died shortly after the attack, including Dartmoor. Truly, Peyton Chandler did die, only to rise from the ashes as someone else. She had been able to keep living by taking one breath after another, one step at a time. Each breath slowly turned into uneasy hours, then entire days and months, and eventually into years, just as each step eventually turned into miles. Through it all, the only thing that had kept her going was her determination to make Dartmoor pay for what he'd done.

How had she gotten away that night? She still had no idea. The last thing she remembered was tasting the acid of panic and terror on her tongue, her hands and knees scraped raw against the cobblestones as she'd tried to crawl away, the sinking of her nails into her attacker's neck as he grabbed for her, the ripping of her skirts and bodice as her dress tore away, the weight of the man pressing down upon her from behind as his leg shoved hers apart—

She woke two days later with this button clenched in her fist in a death grip.

She'd been delivered, half-dead, by an unknown stranger to a surgeon. At some point during the night, Wilkins and Proctor had come for her. Fearing another attempt on her life, that the men who had killed her parents would come after her again if they thought she might be able to identify them, the two had secreted her away from London to a small cottage in Richmond. Then, they'd told everyone she'd died. When word spread of the vicious assault, no one questioned a third coffin joining those of her parents' in the churchyard.

As soon as she was well enough to travel, she fled to France with Wilkins and Proctor, where they started new lives.

There, in the warmth and anonymity of the southern French countryside, she was able to grieve. Proctor looked after her as if she were her own daughter, and with Wilkins's help in tracking down old business contacts, Peyton was able to regain a large portion of her father's fortune, which he had invested into accounts and business ventures across Europe. Eventually, Armand had come to join them, to train her to fight and help her heal, and they had all lived together on the small farm like a real family.

Through it all, though, she was haunted by the attack. She had hired investigators, the best money could buy, who began to piece together what had happened. Through their help, she learned who had directed the attackers, how the assault had been carried out…

All the evidence pointed to the Duke of Dartmoor and his son, Devlin Raines.

The old duke had avoided punishment by dying seven years ago, but she wouldn't let his son escape so easily. As the sixth Duke of Dartmoor, Devlin was untouchable in the criminal courts; such a high-ranking peer would never be found guilty, not even for murder. But there was more than one way to ruin him, and Peyton planned to do exactly that—ruin him but not kill him. After all, he deserved to suffer for his crimes, just as she'd suffered. He deserved to have everyone and everything he held most dear stripped away from him, until he was left with nothing. Just as she'd been. Until he wished he was dead.

Before she took her last breath, she would rain fire and brimstone upon Dartmoor's head, until the flames of hell consumed him and swallowed him whole.

She tossed the button onto the desk. It pinged against the wood, then rolled to a stop. From several feet away, she couldn't see the tarnished design, but she knew what it was. It was engraved on her soul as surely as it was engraved in the silver…the entwined initials D-R.

Devlin Raines.

"The Devil Reigns," she murmured.

But not for much longer.