Chapter Twenty

P eyton stood on the footpath edging the wide Mayfair avenue and stared up at the old townhouse as the bells of St George's rang the midnight hour. Four bays wide, three stories tall, made of white stone and edged by wrought iron, the windows still shuttered against the night and against the past… The Chandler townhouse.

Her home.

Only it didn't feel at all like home. Instead, she felt as if she'd fallen into one of the nightmares she used to have when she'd first fled to France, when thoughts of home and all she'd lost hit her so hard, she often woke sobbing with tears. Proctor and Wilkins did their best to comfort her, but even their love and attention couldn't give her the consolation she needed. Nothing could. Her parents and the only home she'd ever known had been ripped away from her. How she'd managed to survive…

Perhaps Devlin was right. Perhaps she was stronger than she'd realized.

Now the shell of that former existence stood before her, silent and dark…lifeless. She'd avoided coming here since she'd arrived in London. She'd told herself she'd been too focused on gaining her revenge to visit here, too cautious about making mistakes that might have revealed her true identity. Lies. She'd simply been too frightened of the ghosts haunting the place.

As she gazed at the fa?ade, she held her breath and strained her ears to listen for any sound.

Silence.

Her shoulders sagged. What else would have greeted her if not silence and stillness? She didn't really know what she'd expected to happen now that she was finally here. Even as she stared up at the house, not yet daring to venture a toe over the threshold, she half-expected specters to come drifting out of the darkness toward her.

But the only way forward was through that front door. So she stepped up the front stairs, took a deep breath to steel herself, and opened it. A slow creak welcomed her as the door swung wide and revealed the darkness beyond.

A chill ran down Peyton's spine. This was the very last place she wanted to be! But Chase and Devlin insisted she come here tonight. They could protect her here. Even now, in the darkness surrounding the house, she knew the two dukes and their hired men lingered somewhere unseen in the black shadows lining the street, watching over her but remaining hidden until necessary.

But their presence provided little comfort. Horrender would be coming for her, if not tonight then tomorrow, and she had to let herself be found.

"Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly," she murmured and with a shaking hand, lifted the small carriage lantern she carried with her to guide her way. Having no other choice, she stepped inside.

She paused in the entry hall. Goosebumps formed on her arms and legs that had nothing to do with Horrender. Apprehension knotted her belly, and she forced herself to breathe slow and steadily.

Oh, she was being silly! There was no good reason for the chill that swept over her, or the tingle at the back of her knees.

"It's only an empty house," she whispered to calm herself.

When she entered the dining room, she realized exactly how empty. Gone—everything she remembered about the room had been removed, leaving only a gaping space. No large table that could seat fourteen, no Chippendale buffet tables, no china dresser—no china. Her mother's treasured collection was gone, along with all the crystal and silver that had made their dinner parties so grand. So were the large porcelain vases with their tall ostrich feathers that had once framed both sides of the bay window overlooking the square, the rug that had come all the way from Persia, the Murano glass chandelier her father had given her mother as an anniversary present… Even the marble fireplace mantel had been pried away, leaving a massive scar on the wall in its place.

It was the same in her father's study, where empty book shelves now lined the walls, and in the garden room where her mother had loved to take in the afternoon sun and gaze out at her tiny plot of flowers. All the rooms on the ground floor had been stripped bare, most likely by creditors who feared their debts wouldn't be paid any other way, given how the estate had no heir.

But enough decoration remained for a rush of emotion to hit her. The blue wallpaper with large flowers of raised velvet, the checkerboard floor in the entry and stair halls, the plastered ceilings in the main reception rooms with their designs of grape vines and myrtle trees, the rose ceiling medallion in the morning room—even the little plaster bird tucked into the carved leaves that decorated the outside edge of the marble stairs that circled toward the first floor, the same little bird that had fascinated her so much as a girl. All of it churned a flood of memories inside her of happier times, love, and peace.

But it was all a lie.

The money to buy all those beautiful pieces of furniture and decoration, all that crystal and silver, every single book in her father's study, every bit of plaster and marble—it all came from the illegal businesses her father financed for Dartmoor and Crewe. Charles Chandler had hidden it well, too. Oh, their house was lovely, but it wasn't conspicuous for a man of her father's status. He'd made certain of that by hiding most of the money in accounts and businesses on the Continent where his activities couldn't be traced. The same accounts and businesses Peyton had used to live on in France, to take care of Wilkins and Proctor, to buy fencing lessons from Armand Marchand…to pay for her return to London and her revenge.

With numbness and anguish flashing over her in turns, she held up the lantern to light her way and slowly climbed the stairs, passing the first-floor landing en route to the old nursery under the eaves. Her earliest memories of the house and her parents came from there. If anything survived—

She stopped in the doorway to the nursery and choked back a pained sob.

The room was the same as she remembered. Nothing here had been removed, nothing stripped away. It was exactly the same, right down to the pink ribbon she'd tied in her hobby horse's tail and the dolls arranged at the tiny table as if waiting for the tea party to begin.

She stepped stiffly into the room, set down the lantern, and picked up a little stuffed bunny. The furry creature with porcelain blue eyes had been one of her favorites, left behind in the nursery when she moved downstairs into her own bedroom. As she ran her fingertips over the soft fur, her throat constricted, and her eyes and nose stung.

Had even her toys been purchased with blood money? Peyton had been the same age as those children caught up in the dukes' illegal enterprises, chained up like slaves in factories or forced to do far worse in brothels. Her father hadn't wanted children to be involved, had balked at what they'd done when he'd discovered it—but how could he have not known that men like Horrender, Crewe, and Dartmoor would do anything to increase their wealth and power, even at the expense of children?

She swung her watery gaze around the room to take it all in. Her childhood had been absolutely ideal, so perfect…

Until the night it wasn't.

She set the bunny down, picked up the lantern, and left the nursery. She would have to do something with all these toys before she sold the house, ended her stay in London, and returned to France where she belonged. She had friends in Lyon and Marseilles and contacts she'd made through Armand and his acquaintances in the military. Here, she had only ghosts.

She halted as she turned onto the first-floor landing. A shadow moved at the bottom of the stairs below. "Devlin?"

When no answer came, the little hairs on her arms stood on end. No, not Devlin.

"Who's there?" she called out, lifting the small lantern, even though its light wasn't strong enough to reach past the bottom step and into the hall below.

She held her breath. Her blood pounded so hard in her ears that the roar of it was deafening, her arms and legs numb as fear flashed up her spine. Armand had taught her well when it came to fighting, as the knife strapped to her thigh attested.

But he hadn't prepared her for acting as bait.

That old familiar taste of helplessness rose sickeningly on her tongue, a horrible metallic taste that she never wanted to experience again. Helpless… Everything she'd done since the night of the attack had been to prevent that, only for it to return now with full force.

"Tell me who you are." Anger rose on the heels of her fear, and she demanded, "Now."

The man stepped into the dim circle of lantern light and looked up at her. "Welcome home, Peyton."

Her breath left her in a relieved rush. "Wilkins."

With a faint smile, her shoulders easing down, she descended to the ground floor. She'd never been so happy to see her friend in her life! But he wasn't supposed to be here. According to the plan, the only man who should have been in the house with her tonight was Horrender.

She set the lantern onto the stairs behind her. "You should be at the inn."

"After your announcement tonight at the party, telling everyone you were coming back here? You shouldn't have done that."

"You don't need to worry about me, not anymore." The old guilt tightened her chest at the thought of all he'd sacrificed for her over the years, only for her to exclude him now from their plans. But she had no choice. Chase, Crewe, and Devlin had insisted she tell no one, not even Wilkins. "That's what tonight was about—breaking clean with the past. That's why I had to reveal my identity."

"You didn't share any of your plans with me. Tonight's accusations, your new friendship with Dartmoor, your visit to Seven Dials—" Exasperation laced his voice. "Don't you trust me anymore?"

"Of course I do." She always would. But in stopping Horrender, she had to trust the three dukes more. "You and Proctor dedicated your lives to me." Her throat tightened—Proctor had most likely even given her life for Peyton. "I had you when I had no one else. I will always be grateful for that."

"Now you think you have Dartmoor on your side?"

Something about the way he said that twisted uneasily down her spine. "Yes."

"Then you're an even bigger fool than Betty and I thought."

His unexpected words struck her like a blow. "Pardon?"

He ground out in a low voice, "You're ruining everything, all our plans, all those years of waiting and plotting… I won't let you do that."

"That isn't your decision to make," she corrected quietly. She owed him her loyalty for the friendship and protection he'd given her over the past decade, but she wouldn't let him stop her. Her life depended on what happened now. "You should go. We'll talk again in the morning."

"I'm not going anywhere. I've waited too long to return and worked too hard to put everything into place to let you interfere."

A chill prickled across her skin. "What do you mean?"

"Seeking revenge against Dartmoor—you thought the idea was all yours. But you believed only what I wanted you to." A strange expression lit his face— pride ? "All those investigators you had me hire to find information about that night…you had no idea I'd hired them to work for me instead. Servants always know what their employers are doing, and I knew how your father had been moving money overseas. At my behest, the detectives tracked down all of it. You were told about the land properties and businesses because I couldn't sell those without your signature on the deeds, but you never knew about all the bank accounts, or how I kept them for myself."

Her mind spun. "No—you showed me all the papers, gave me the investigators' evidence…" Then she'd oh-so carefully woven them together into the puzzle she worked inside her armoire like a spider's web, each piece of information building upon the next and illuminating what happened that night.

No, what she thought had happened that night.

"I gave you reports I created myself." His eyes gleamed. "All meant to make you believe Dartmoor was there that night, that he was the one who tried to rape you. You were more than happy to blame him." A dark laugh rose from him. "It was all so easy."

The world tilted beneath Peyton, and she reached out to place her hand on the stair banister to steady herself.

"Why?" she rasped out. " Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I needed Dartmoor out of the way. What better way to do that than to turn you loose against him?" He stepped toward her, and Peyton retreated around the banister toward the stairs. "You wouldn't have left France if I hadn't convinced you that Dartmoor was behind your parents' murders, that the time was right for you to finally exact your revenge."

He took another step, and Peyton glanced back at the stairs behind her. Every instinct inside her screamed that she had been cornered, yet she couldn't bring herself to strike out, to attack as Armand had taught her. Wilkins had meant nearly everything to her for the past decade. For God's sake, she'd trusted him with her life!

Now he was a complete stranger.

"Letting you destroy Dartmoor would have cleared the way for me to put the old business back together. My brother's business, with new peers to protect me and an accountant nearly as sly as your father to hide all the profits."

His confession reverberated through her like a shot. She couldn't believe—"Josiah Horrender…is your brother?"

"Step-brother. Was . He's dead now. Dartmoor and Crewe have been chasing a ghost." His ghoulish smile chilled her. "He fled to Ireland after the attack and got his throat slit. I was supposed to deliver you to him that first winter, then join him in restarting the enterprise." He shook his head as if disappointed. "Instead, I had to rebuild it all myself. It wasn't easy doing that from France, especially during the wars, but your money and my brother's connections made it easier. Even then, I was nearly discovered. But I put an end to him, and then you had no one to turn to for protection but me."

A horrible sickening rose into her throat. She knew who… Dear God, her grieving heart knew ! "It was you," she whispered, barely a sound on her numb lips. "You killed Armand."

A jealous tone darkened his voice. "He'd gotten too close to you."

The way he said that alarmed her, and the shouting inside her head turned to screams. Too close … He meant as her lover. Peyton swallowed hard and pressed her hand to her belly. She was going to be sick!

"And Betty Proctor," she breathed out, unable to find her voice. "You murdered her, too."

"No, not my Betty. I couldn't have killed the woman who has been my right hand all these years, who convinced you that I was right whenever you began to doubt me. She's waiting for me right now in Southwark."

Peyton's head swam. The betrayal by the two people she'd trusted most in the world was simply agonizing. "No," she whispered. "That can't be…"

"Such a pretty little fool you were." He lowered a lascivious look over her, and she shuddered. "I couldn't have hoped for a better distraction for Dartmoor than you."

Unable to run past him for the door, knowing he would catch her before she reached it, she slowly shifted back toward the stairs. Her foot brushed against the bottom step, and her hand gripped the banister. She didn't dare turn her back on him. The trust she'd placed in him over the years shattered inside her like glass.

"Except that you distracted him too well." A cold fury pulsated from him. "Exactly when did you first lift your skirts for him, hmm? Was it the night you bested him at Barton's, or was it in the opera box?" He cast another glance over her, this time not bothering to try to hide his jealous anger. "Did you enjoy yourself, pet? Did you pant and beg and moan for it like a well-trained little whore?" The icy gleam in his eyes frightened her. "Or did he take you by force?"

When he reached up to trace his fingertip over her cheek, she turned her head away and swallowed hard to keep from casting up her accounts. "Do not touch me."

Ignoring her, he continued, "I've heard some women grow to like their attackers. Are you one of those?"

"No," she bit out fiercely. "I am not one of those."

"Pity."

An icy warning cut through her belly. She didn't want to fight with him. He had been her friend and protector, and she didn't want to believe what he was telling her because she didn't want to lose yet another person she'd cared about.

But the way he looked at her, the harshness of his words… Could she bring herself to hurt him if she needed to?

"The fire is rising in you, isn't it? The anger. The fight." He caressed his fingers down her neck to her shoulder, where he played with the thin strap of her gown. "Marchand knew that about you, too. That's why he always fought with you before he bedded you. But then, he always did know too much," he muttered, a furrow forming between his brows. "Like the truth about my role in your parents' murders."

Peyton froze. Every muscle in her body turned to stone.

"You haven't figured it out yet, have you?" An amused smile teased at the corners of his mouth. "All that information, all those clues you mapped out so carefully…yet you still can't connect the pieces."

He leaned toward her, so close she could feel the heat of his breath fanning across her cheeks, and she cringed. Even now, she couldn't bring herself to shove him away as he deserved. She had to know, had to learn the truth about everything that happened that night…

"I was the footman who walked ahead of the carriage that night in the fog, holding up the lamp to guide it through the city." His eyes gleamed like brimstone. "I led them right to the attackers."

She darted her gaze past him into the darkness, desperate for any sign of movement in the shadows that signaled Chase's men were ready to help her. But only stillness returned her stare. They weren't there!

Her heart plummeted. Of course they weren't. They were outside where they were supposed to have been, watching and waiting. Like her, they would never have thought the enemy would have come from within.

"You were supposed to have been my prize that night. If Dartmoor hadn't interfered, I would have had you." He took a half-step back, but the relief speeding through Peyton proved short-lived when he laughed. "Better late than never."

He lunged.

Peyton sidestepped to the left and threw up her right arm to fling away his hands as they reached for her throat. She tumbled off-balance against the banister and fell. Her back hit the stairs with a hard, teeth-jarring thud and ripped the air from her lungs. But fear kept the pain from registering in her mind, kept her fighting back with all her strength. Without a weapon to use against him, she clawed at him with her fingernails, pushed her thumbs into his eyes, scratched across his face—

With a furious growl, he shoved her hands away, but not before she grabbed at his cravat, yanked his collar away, and revealed his bare neck beneath.

A sickening horror rose up inside her as she stared at his neck where old scars cut jaggedly across his skin. The same scars she had put there ten years ago. Good God … Her blood froze.

"It was you that night." Her accusation emerged as nothing more than a rasping hiss, as if straight from her nightmares. No—straight from the fires of the hell she'd been cast into once more. "It was you !"

He laughed, happy that she'd realized his true identity. More than happy…God help her, he was aroused . The face leering in front of her sparked a horrible recognition inside her head, and with it came the flood of memories, terror, and helplessness she'd suppressed since the night of the attack.

That night crashed back over her as if she were once again there on the wet and cold cobblestones beside the carriage. She remembered the impenetrable whiteness of the fog, the acrid smell of the city's coal fires…the hardness of the cobblestones beneath her hands and knees as she scrambled to crawl away, choking down the rising vomit in her throat at the sounds and movements around her. No one heard her screams. No one was coming to help! Then a hand caught her ankle and yanked her to the ground, dragging her back as her fingertips dug into the cobblestones so hard that her nails tore away. She kicked and clawed as she fought with every last bit of strength to somehow stay alive. Sticky blood trickled from the scrapes on her hands and knees, and her throat burned, raw from the relentless screams that tore from her and echoed off the empty buildings around her.

It wasn't until all the air expelled from her lungs that she realized she was once again screaming for her life.

"That's it," Wilkins panted as he used his strength and size to pin her to the stairs beneath him. "Put up a grand fight. Make it worth my while." He grabbed her by the throat with one hand while he shoved the other between them to grasp at her skirt and yank it up past her knees, baring her legs.

With an enraged cry, she kneed him hard between his legs.

Air whooshed out of him like a burst balloon, and he sank onto his side with a plaintive cry.

She scrambled up the stairs, desperate to get away. There was no going down. She would never be able to safely crawl past him, even with him doubled over in pain. The only way to survive was up.

An animal-like growl rose from behind her as she scrambled up the stairs as quickly as she could, ignoring the loud rip of her skirts as the hem caught beneath her feet. But she didn't dare stop, didn't dare slow down even to glance back. She could hear him pounding up the stairs after her, charging right behind on her heels. He was so close that he was almost on top of her when she'd reached the third-floor landing, when her hand grabbed the banister and she propelled herself into the nursery.

She slammed the door after herself so hard that the wall shook. She reached to throw the lock—

There was no lock! No key, no bolt. With an anguished cry, she'd remembered that the nursery had never been locked. Her parents had forbidden it. For her own safety. They hadn't wanted to risk that she'd ever be accidentally locked inside.

Desperately, she grabbed one of the little chairs at her doll's tea table and jammed it under the handle.

She backed away from the door as Wilkins's footsteps reached the landing, then paused. He knew where she'd gone—for God's sake, there was only one door on this floor!—but the silence of that pause boomed over her like thunder, then slithered up her spin when it gave way to the metallic turn of the handle, the soft banging of it against the little chair that kept him from opening it so easily.

The handle fell still.

Peyton held her breath, afraid to move, even to breathe, as a thousand needles of helplessness pricked her skin. She stared at the door, and all her heightened senses strained to figure out what he was doing behind it, why he wasn't coming after her.

Then came the sound of running footsteps. Cold terror spiked in her chest as she suddenly realized—

Wilkins let out a fierce yell and rammed into the door like a bull, shoving his shoulder into it and bashing it open. The door flung back and slammed against the wall. For one moment, his lanky frame was silhouetted against the moonlight shining through the doorway as he paused.

A pause just long enough for Peyton to snatch up the doll's teapot and hurl it at his head.

It smashed against his skull and shattered with a dull thud. He staggered back from the force of the blow, only to be hit again by a barrage of cups and saucers. He threw up his arm to cover his face.

Now. Peyton ran toward him and shoved with all her might, sending him flailing backwards. She raced past him for the stairs. Only two stories, and she would be on the ground, out the door, safe—

A hand grabbed the back of her dress and yanked.

Her feet flew up from under her, and she tumbled down the stairs, each hard marble step bruising her arms and legs as she threw out her arms in a futile attempt to break her fall. She rolled to a stop on the landing. Every inch of her burned and throbbed with pain, but she barely felt it in her desperation to flee. She crawled forward on hands and knees toward the next flight of stairs.

Wilkins stepped in front of her, his black boots blocking her way. She froze, still on her hands and knees, each breath tearing from her lungs as her blood pounded in her ears.

"You think you can leave me?"

Slipping her hand down to the hidden pocket in her skirt, she squeezed her eyes shut as he bent down on his heel and leaned over her to caress his fingertips across her nape. Her hand closed around the slender piece of ivory, and slowly, she rolled onto her back beneath him.

"You think I'd ever let you go?" he taunted in a terrifyingly amused voice.

"Not without a fight!" She gritted her teeth and stabbed the knife upward. The resistance of his flesh gave way beneath the sharp blade.

Wilkins howled with pain. He shoved her away and clamped his hand over the gaping wound in his side. Blood seeped through his clothes and onto his fingers. His face twisted with hatred and fury. He pulled back his fist to punch her—

"Peyton!" The shout landed only a heartbeat before Devlin's large body charged down the hallway from the rear servants' stairs.

Devlin lowered his shoulder and ploughed into Wilkins, sending him tumbling backwards against the banister, then falling down the stairs. A faint trail of blood dripped down the marble steps in his wake and led to his crumpled body as he lay back against the wall halfway to the first-floor landing.

Devlin started downstairs after him.

"No!" Peyton grabbed Devlin's leg to stop him. He'd have to drag her down with him before she let go. She knew—he was reliving that night from so long ago, exactly as she was, but this time, he wouldn't fail to catch her attacker. And kill him.

She couldn't let that happen. The past would not win. Not this time.

"Stay with me, Devlin," she pleaded softly. "Save me, just as you did before." She slid her hand up into his as it dangled at his side and laced her fingers through his. "Don't leave me."

He paused in indecision, his gaze flicking between Wilkins and her. Then his fingers tightened around hers, and he knelt down to sit beside her on the landing and gathered her against him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tightly, safe and protected.

Wilkins let out a snarl of fury at seeing Peyton in Devlin's arms and clenched his fists. He foolishly started back upstairs, his eyes flashing with determination even as bright blood blossomed at his hip. His boot left a red smear on the white marble as he took a step in their direction.

"She's there!" Crewe called out from the stair hall below. Chase followed only a step behind.

"It's Wilkins!" Devlin shouted down to them. "Don't let him get away!"

Chase and Crewe charged up the stairs.

Wilkins took a long look at Peyton, and beneath his gaze, she felt her skin crawl from his betrayal and depravity. Then he raced up the stairs toward them. Peyton caught her breath and braced for a fresh attack.

At the last moment, Wilkins changed direction and hurled himself through the tall window. He launched himself out into the night in a shower of shattered glass and cracked wood.

Peyton bit down a scream at the dull thud of his body hitting the ground below and shuddered violently. Over Devlin's shoulder, she watched Crewe draw a pistol from beneath his greatcoat and charge outside into the dark night.

Chase held his own pistol with one hand and gestured orders with the other as half a dozen men flooded into the house and began to search through the rooms to secure them. The once silent house now thrummed with voices and movement; lanterns blazed to life.

It was all too much, and Peyton gasped for breath to fight back the hot tears that threatened to fall.

"Peyton." Devlin tenderly took her chin in his fingers and lifted her face to exam her. Worry filled his eyes. "Are you all right?" His voice shook. "Did that bastard hurt you?"

She knew what he meant—had he physically harmed her. But the wounds Wilkins cut into her were so much worse than simply physical. She shook her head and whispered, barely louder than a breath, "I trusted him and Proctor. They were family to me." She tightened her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his, both to hide her anguish and draw from his strength. "But it was all a lie…" She choked back a sob. "How do I trust anyone now?"

"By not letting them win," he murmured. "They stole your past from you." Devlin rested his lips against her hair to provide the only comfort he could. "Don't let them steal your future, too."

She gave a jerking nod and buried her face in his chest. The emotions finally overwhelmed her, and the tears fell, soaking into his jacket. "It was Wilkins, that night of the attack," she choked out between tears. "I remember it now." Then she lifted her head to look at him through stinging eyes. "I remember everything. Including you."

Silently, Devlin brushed a lock of her hair from her face that had come loose in the fight and tucked it behind her ear.

"I'm so sorry." She tightened her arms around him and clung to him, just as she had all those years before, the first time he'd saved her from Wilkins. But this time, it wasn't from fear. "I'm so sorry I ever doubted you."

"You had every right."

She didn't believe that, but she loved him for saying so. "You saved me." She didn't mean from Wilkins, not this night nor the night of the attack.

Devlin had quite simply saved her soul.

Crewe returned with an unhurried gait and a solemn expression. He slowly holstered his pistol as he climbed the stairs to them.

"Wilkins is dead." He avoided Peyton's gaze and told Devlin quietly, "He didn't survive the fall."

Peyton let the air seep out of her lungs with a ragged, cleansing sigh. Wilkins's death felt like the lifting of a sickness, one which had been a part of her for so long that she only recognized it now by its absence. The same with the house around her, whose dark shadows had finally been exorcised of their ghosts, once and for all.

When Devlin tenderly kissed her, to soothe away the last of her grief, absolution and acceptance warmed through her. She knew then that the past would never harm her again.