Chapter Three

T he bells of St Giles in the Fields rang three times over the city's streets and faded into the black night as Devlin made his way down the damp street. The bells were the only presence of God in this forsaken area of London, an area that made Devlin doubt if God even cared that the people who lived here existed, or if He'd simply resigned them to the damnation that was life in Seven Dials.

The thin blade of the long knife he kept shielded beneath his jacket sleeve pressed against his palm, the sensation a constant reminder to stay on guard.

Be aware of your surroundings at all times , Anthony Titus had repeated during their long hours of training, starting when Devlin had still been little more than a boy. So young, in fact, that he'd barely begun to shave.

A wild animal never goes against its instinct. It never willingly puts itself into danger. Never do the same.

He nearly laughed at that. Hadn't Devlin done the exact opposite of that, launching himself headfirst into danger after danger?

The first time was against his father, when he'd stood up to the tyrannical bastard for physically abusing his mother and his sister Margaret. Never had he taken more satisfaction in any act than when he'd backed his father against the wall with a knife and threatened to slit the bastard from balls to throat if he ever laid a hand on his mother or sister again. And never had he been so terrified—not of retribution from his father, but of himself and what he was truly capable of doing. He'd been barely eighteen, but five years of study under Titus, a former mercenary and Captain of the Guard at Windsor, had prepared him well for that confrontation, if only because he'd possessed enough control not to kill his own father.

The next time came when he left England for the Continent to put as much distance between himself and his father as possible. Fighting in the wars had nearly killed him, but he'd felt compelled to rush head-long into the fray. He'd been young and stupid, and so had his three friends—Lucien Grenier, Seamus Douglass, and Chase Maddox—who fought for the Prussians alongside him.

Yet he'd felt the danger most of all four years later when he returned to London at his mother's urging and learned what the Duke of Crewe, Charles Chandler, and his father had truly been doing all those times when the three men had secreted themselves away with their port and cigars in their studies. Instead of gossiping over drinks about horses, hounds, and Parliament, the three men had been creating a web of criminal businesses. No evil had been overlooked in their pursuit of power and money, nor did they care how many lives they ruined in the process. Including those in their own families.

Devlin had put a decisive end to all that business, closing them down one by one, by scattering the pieces to the winds, and doing it all in complete secret so no one would ever know the extent of those crimes. Now, after seven years of living as Duke of Dartmoor, of burying and reburying his father's atrocities every time a new one revealed itself, he thought he had finally put all the old ghosts to rest. That the pact he and Lucien Grenier, the current Duke of Crewe, had made to keep their mutual silence of what their fathers had done was still being enforced. He'd always believed he could trust Crewe.

Until tonight, when a beautiful siren in blue velvet had so distracted him that he was still reeling from the encounter. It was as if she knew all his weaknesses, and the only way she could have known those was if Crewe had told her.

His old friend had been playing a bad joke on him, which was just like Crewe to do, especially if the joke was to make Devlin lose at cards to a woman. Such a prank would buy him dark gossip about himself for weeks and serve as a warning to those gentlemen who wrongly thought they might wheedle their way into becoming Crewe's confidantes or cronies. After all, if Lucien was willing to play such a prank on Devlin, no one was safe.

And if it wasn't a joke, then Lucien had let slip information he shouldn't have to the prostitutes he was so fond of spending time with, who then passed it along to the woman who'd taken advantage of him tonight.

Either way, when he found Crewe, Devlin planned on hurting him. Repeatedly. Tonight's encounter, hot on the heels of dark rumors circulating through London's underworld of a new criminal enterprise rising from the ruins of what their fathers had done, wasn't at all amusing.

But it wasn't the new he feared as much as the old, and one old enemy in particular— Horrender.

Where Josiah Horrender had come from, no one knew, but as a child, he'd haunted the nighttime streets of the Almony as nothing more than a common pickpocket. He'd insinuated himself into London's criminal underbelly by the time he was in his teens, working for gin palaces and brothel owners and steadily raising himself to distinction as one of the most vicious men in St Giles. He had established his own businesses by his early twenties, with a hand in all kinds of crimes—smuggling, fencing stolen goods, extorting so-called protection from merchants and gin distillers. But his reach had been local, his crimes minor. Until he met the Duke of Crewe.

Lucien's father had strayed out of his usual King Street haunts, for once making use of a brothel in Seven Dials to which Horrender had a connection. It only took a handful of conversations for the two men to realize the potential of joining forces and how the reach of their crimes could grow to encompass most of London. But with the involvement of Devlin's father and Charles Chandler, an astute London businessman, their reach could be limitless. While Horrender and his men oversaw the hands-on aspects of the crimes, Dartmoor and Crewe used their influence as peers to protect their growing enterprise, and Chandler used his business acumen to hide their money. Their crimes exploded in scope, and smuggling became the least of it…forced child labor, the slave trade, the sex trade, extortion, bribery—

"Murder," he muttered to himself as he quickened his pace.

God only knew the size of the fortune they'd made or how far the tentacles of their criminal enterprise reached. Just recently, Devlin had uncovered evidence that their fathers had illegally purchased slaves from Africa and shipped them to the sugar plantations in the Caribbean, that they'd supplied women for sex parties for East India company officials in Calcutta and child laborers for secret factories in Ireland. They'd managed to do it all beneath a cloak of secrecy.

But on one horrific evening ten years ago, their schemes all went to hell. All thanks to Horrender.

Before that night was over, three innocent people would be dead in an assault so grisly that even the two old dukes were stunned at what they'd done. Worse, one of the men involved had been captured, and to save his neck, the brute had named Horrender as being responsible. His testimony by itself wouldn't have been enough to make Horrender swing, but the additional proof that Devlin could provide would have ensured it. Horrender fled England to save his own neck and had not been heard of since. Left in his wake, their two fathers thought they'd escaped all scrutiny.

That was when Devlin coolly explained to both men that he would personally turn them over to the authorities and watch them hang if they dared to so much as even consider restarting their enterprise. The courts might not believe the word of a common criminal, but they would certainly believe Devlin. An agreement was struck—if either duke so much as even whispered a word to anyone about what they'd done, they'd both be tossed into the flames.

It was an unholy accord that Devlin and Crewe had no choice but to continue when their fathers both died three years later. It was either that or face the destruction of both dukedoms, their families, and everything they held dear. Perhaps even imprisonment for covering up their fathers'crimes. More innocents would be harmed, more lives destroyed. Knowing that didn't ease the guilt nor wipe away the blood Devlin had gotten on his hands by his silence. But he'd begun to take solace, however small, in the fact that at least the blood was no longer fresh.

Yet he couldn't get that woman out of his head. Nor could he banish that feeling from his bones that she might be a portent of something wicked rising in the night. Beyond the money he'd lost to her, beyond the frustration of being denied the carnal pleasures she'd dangled in front of him, he couldn't move past the dark suspicion that he knew her.

He'd forgotten the very first rule Titus ever taught him, the one that four years fighting with the Prussians had branded on his soul… Know your enemy .

The lamp at the end of the street burned like a beacon against the black night—or like a torch lit from hellfire, welcoming the demons who gathered here. The light was the only signpost of the business housed within the old structure whose plain front door it illuminated. Madame Pierre's, the most popular brothel in Seven Dials. All kinds of wickedness could be unleashed within its walls, and none of it ever saw the light of day. Including her special entertainments, attended by invitation only, which included evenings of nude dancing by twelve nubile nymphs of both sexes, all of whom went up for sale, to carry on the performance in private rooms upstairs.

He walked inside without bothering to knock.

The entry hall was crowded with men and women of all ages and manner of dress and undress, and as usual, it took a moment for him to sort through those who were for purchase and those eager to spend their coin. Madame Pierre's was one of the few houses in London that catered to men and women alike without discrimination. As long as the patron could pay in advance, that is. A few special gentlemen she serviced herself in the upstairs rooms, each space individually decorated after a European city. Devlin had never partaken here himself, but he'd heard from Lucien Grenier that the gladiator equipment in the Rome Room made for an intriguing evening.

"Dartmoor." A breathy voice greeted him as Madame Pierre glided down the hallway from the back of the house. The loose flowing satin robe she wore gave proof she'd been enjoying herself tonight, so did the red puffiness of her lips and the slight flush to her cheeks. She was well into her fourth decade, yet she still possessed the unparalleled—if slightly hard-won—beauty of any society lady in her twenties, despite the silver tint of her long hair that fell freely around her shoulders. "What brings a man like you to my humble establishment?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Well, you've found someone," she corrected in a low purr as she trailed her hand down his chest. "I've been rather busy tonight being a good hostess, but I think I can accommodate you."

He was certain of it. He grabbed her wrist just as her hand reached his breeches. "Where's Crewe?"

She gave a throaty laugh. "A ménage à trois ? Why, Dartmoor, you surprise me!"

"Where is Crewe?" he repeated sternly, setting her away. He had no patience for games tonight.

She sniffed peevishly as she tightened the belt of her satin dressing gown. Unlike the rest of the women who worked here, who made do in corsets and drawers, she wore a robe and slippers. Not because their undress was particularly alluring, but because being half-naked made it more difficult for the ladies to run away before they'd paid Madame their monthly tallies for room, board, and medical examinations against the pox, by a doctor who often took his fees in the form of a night in the Paris Room.

"You know I never reveal the identities of my guests." She gestured toward the drawing room, where two middle-aged ladies were admiring a half-naked young man and where a bald gentleman was bouncing a girl on his knee. "But come inside for a drink, and we can discuss—"

Enough. "Crewe!" he bellowed and charged up the stairs. "Crewe, where the hell are you?"

With a furious glare, she raced past him and blocked him from going any further. "If you don't calm down, I will have no choice but to call for help." She waved a hand toward the downstairs hall. "The magistrate often enjoys the entertainments here."

"And I'm a goddamned duke," he growled. "He can't touch me." Pulling rank was the only thing that blasted title was good for. He shoved past her to continue his hunt for Crewe.

"I will call the captain of the night guard!" she threatened weakly as she followed him onto the first-floor landing. "He's here right now—"

"Good." He charged down the hallway to begin his search room by room. "Then I'll introduce myself when I come across him."

He flung open the first door. The prostitute inside screamed at being startled, and angry shouts came from the man between her legs. He wasn't Crewe.

"Stop this right now!"

"Then tell me where Grenier is." Leaving the door open, he stormed across the hall. "I know he's here somewhere."

"How do you know he's—"

He shot her a contemptuous look as if she were daft as a bedlamite, then yanked open a second door to reveal two women being watched by a man while they undressed each other. Only the gentleman seemed surprised that they now had a larger audience.

He moved on, shoving open a third door to find a fat old man being ridden like a horse around the room on his hands and knees by a prostitute perched on his back, completely naked except for a pair of spurs and the riding crop she slapped at his bare buttocks.

Devlin paused, stunned.

When the man looked up and realized Devlin was there, his eyes grew wide, but he was unable to shout around the bit in his mouth.

"Bishop." Devlin nodded apologetically and closed the door.

He bellowed for Crewe again and headed for the next room.

"Stop this!" Madame slid herself between him and the door, wedging her body into the frame. "You are ruining my business!"

He leaned down, bringing his face even with hers, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. She trembled. Good. He'd learned from Titus that cold control could be just as intimidating as physical threats.

"I will keep ruining it," he said quietly so she had to listen hard to hear him, spreading more fear through her than if he'd yelled, "until you tell me where I can find Crewe." When she hesitated, he leveled his first true threat. "It won't stop tonight, either. In the morning, I will go to the borough council and have your business shut down under the Disorderly Houses Act, and you and your employees will be transported to Australia. I'm a duke, remember? They'll do whatever I ask."

Her eyes flared with defeat. She nodded toward the stairs and ground out reluctantly, "Crewe is in Venice."

"Of course, he is," Devlin muttered, heading toward the stairs and the second floor.

He didn't bother to knock before throwing open the door and striding inside.

Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, rolled off the gondola-shaped bed where he'd been lying with a half-dressed prostitute on either side of him. He backed away from Devlin, who threw him against the wall and pinned him there with a loosely held hand at his throat.

Devlin growled out through clenched teeth, "What the hell have you been up to?"

"Two whores," Crewe answered, holding up his hands in a sign of peace. The same old signal they'd used when they were lads-in-training with Titus whenever the fighting bouts grew too fierce. "You should try it yourself and stop attacking me."

Devlin had no patience for Crewe's antics tonight and demanded, "Was it you?"

Crewe scowled. "Who did what?"

"Was it you who sent that woman to Barton's after me tonight?"

His old friend stared at him blankly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The woman," Devlin repeated irritably. "The one who beat me at cards."

Crewe blinked. "You got beaten at cards by a woman?" He laughed, despite the hand at his throat. "Wish I'd been there to see that !"

Devlin pressed harder against his throat. This was no time for joking around. "Did you put her up to it?"

"No! I didn't send any woman to Barton's. I've been here all night."

"All night?"

"Since this afternoon when I returned from Ealing, where I've been for the past three days." His expression sobered, taking on an uncharacteristic haggardness. "After dealing with things there, I needed a diversion. Christ!" He gripped at Devlin's wrist to loosen the hold on his throat. "Titus was supposed to have taught you control."

"He did." Devlin released him with a shove and stepped back.

Still sitting on the bed and propped up by red satin pillows meant to resemble the seat of a gondola, the two prostitutes stared at them, stunned. One of them whispered, wide-eyed, "Lucien?"

"It's all right." Crewe blew out a hard breath. "We're done for the evening." He narrowed his eyes on Devlin and rubbed his neck. "I'm no longer in the mood."

The two women hesitated. They stared at Devlin as if they didn't trust leaving him alone with Crewe. Truth be told, at that moment, Devlin didn't trust himself.

"You can each keep a book," Crewe said, bribing the two women, then gestured at the door to hurry them along.

That was when Devlin saw the short stack of books resting on the utterly ridiculous bed. He blinked. Books in a brothel? That was the most surprising sight he'd seen tonight.

Crewe cajoled, "We'll start next time with Moll Flanders , all right?"

The two women reluctantly slipped out of bed, picked up a novel, and moved toward the door, the books held protectively in their bare arms. As they passed by the tall lamp that was made to resemble a wrought iron lantern from Piazza San Marco, Devlin got his first good look at them, and his heart stuttered. In their bare feet beneath tightly tied corsets that pushed up their full breasts, with drawers tied by pink ribbons just below their knees and wide slits in the crotch, they weren't a day over seventeen—the same age as his youngest sister.

When the two women closed the door after themselves, Crewe turned toward the tiny table in the corner that was meant to resemble one from a canal-side café, complete with a picture of the Bridge of Sighs painted on the wall behind it. He reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the tray.

Devlin asked incredulously, "You're teaching prostitutes to read Moll Flanders ?"

Crewe shot him a puzzled glance as he poured the whiskey. "Why not? She turns out all right in the end."

"Giving the girls something to shoot for, then?" Devlin asked dryly.

"Always." Crewe held out the glass as a peace offering.

Devlin accepted it and gestured at the room around them. "Must you give them lessons in this room?" Carnival masks dangled from the tall prow of the gondola bed, obviously there for bed sport. He didn't dare wonder how the long oar hanging on the wall was meant to be used. "Surely there's a better place."

"The drawing room is too noisy, and we get interrupted too often in the kitchens." Crewe lifted his glass in a toast with mock solemnity. "They take great pleasure in being educated wherever they may be." He quirked a knowing grin. "And in return, I take great pleasure in them."

Devlin didn't laugh. He knew Crewe's boast was a lie. Lucien never touched prostitutes, preferring instead to spend his time helping them, although apparently, he had no qualms about lying half-dressed in bed with them.

"One of these days, someone's going to discover that you're not actually using the women here for your own pleasures," Devlin muttered. "And then what will you do?"

"What I always do." He took a gasping swallow of the cheap whiskey and rasped out, "Lie."

Devlin had been friends with Crewe for two decades, and he was one of only a handful of men who knew the truth about him. That Crewe's entire life was a lie.

"Not that I don't appreciate this social call, mind you, but the tea here is terrible." Crewe refilled his glass and turned to Devlin, suddenly serious. "So why are you here?"

He frowned. "Because I met a mysterious woman tonight."

" Now the conversation's becoming interesting." He eyed Devlin over his glass as he raised it to his lips. "Tell me."

Taking a deep breath, Devlin told his old friend about the mysterious woman he'd met at Barton's, sparing few details. He, Lucien, Seamus Douglass, and Chase Maddox had become brothers-in-arms while training under Anthony Titus when they'd been at Eton together. Each had been there for different reasons, but in the end, they'd become brothers in every way but blood, never turning their backs on each other when in need and even following each other into the wars. He could trust all of them with his life—and with Crewe, he did just that every day with the secret of what their fathers had done.

He just couldn't trust Crewe not to involve him unknowingly in one of his latest jokes.

Crewe was always playing some sort of game he could brag about in the clubs to solidify his place as one of London's worst blackguards, to make everyone believe he held no feelings whatsoever in his black heart. It was only a matter of time until he involved Devlin in one of them, and tonight seemed to be it.

Crewe leaned back against the ceramic winged lion and folded his arms casually over his chest as he listened. In his shirtsleeves without a cravat, his bared neck revealed even more by his unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat, he was exactly as half-dressed as the two girls had been. After all, if anyone else had come across him tonight while he was teaching them to read, he needed to appear as if he were the rakehell everyone assumed him to be.

"I had nothing to do with any of that," Crewe promised, crossing an X over his heart the way the four friends had done since Eton.

Devlin raked his hand through his hair and blew out a hard breath, believing him. Lucien might have been able to fool the world about who he was, but Devlin knew him better than anyone. And now, Devlin didn't know whether to feel relieved or even more worried.

"She didn't give you her name?"

Devlin grimaced. "Lady Payne."

"Well, that's a damned lie."

Devlin finished off his whiskey. He didn't need a reminder of how blinded he'd been by her tonight.

"Nothing at all to identify her by?" Crewe frowned. "No idiosyncrasies about the way she played cards or spoke? Nothing about her clothes that would identify her dressmaker or indicate how long she's been in London?"

"No." He'd replayed every moment with her in his mind at least half a dozen times. Nothing stood out. He'd even questioned Patton about the name on the deed she'd used to back her marker—Elizabeth Wentworth—but that name meant nothing to him.

Yet he knew her, damn it. He would have bet his fortune on it.

"Be honest with me." He locked eyes with Crewe. "Have you told anyone about what our fathers did?"

"Never. Not even Shay or Chase." Crewe didn't try to conceal his bitterness at being doubted, as he added, "Our agreement still stands. I haven't betrayed your trust, Devlin." Crewe returned his glass to the café table. "Besides, it would be suicide. If one of us breaks the vow, both of us are destroyed. You know that."

"You more than me."

"Not much more." He fixed a grave stare on Devlin from across the room and asked pointedly, "How are your mother and sisters these days?"

Point made. The quiet question was a stark reminder of all they both had to lose. Even now, both men could be thrown into prison for hiding their fathers' crimes, and neither dukedom would be able to save them or their families.

"You can trust me, Devlin," Crewe assured him. His face was drawn. "I would never do anything to dredge up the past."

Devlin nodded faintly. Still, unease hung heavily over him. He slowly swirled his whiskey and frowned as he watched the golden liquid sheet down the sides of the glass. "I've been hearing rumors…" He didn't want to finish the sentence and put voice to his fears. "Do you think Horrender might have finally returned?"

Crewe stiffened instantly. "If he's back, I've not heard of it," he said quietly, as if he, too, was afraid to speak the devil's name for fear the devil would appear. "And my contacts in Seven Dials and St Giles are even better than yours."

Devlin prayed he was right. "Are you certain?"

"Horrender has not returned," Crewe insisted irritably, running his hand through his already disheveled hair.

Devlin recognized that sign of aggravation in his old friend, that old frustration at being unable to strike out at the unfairness of his world. Titus had worked with Crewe to channel physical exertion into release, to keep his hot frustrations tamped down, but they had come back once he'd stopped training. He got himself expelled from university during his first term, then headed to France to become a mercenary because his father prevented him from buying an honorable commission. Men across three countries had paid the price for Crewe's frustration during those years, and even now, Crewe only found solace by engaging in illegal bouts of fisticuffs waged in dockside warehouses where he could beat his opponents to a pulp. But all the fights in all the world would never fix what his father had done, just as they could never ease the hell Crewe had gone through during the wars. More than any of the four friends, it was Crewe who'd witnessed the worst of the fighting and suffered the most for it—was still suffering for it.

That was why Crewe spent his nights helping prostitutes, why he secretly gave thousands of pounds each year to send poor boys to school and to buy others places in the army and navy, why he anonymously gave away the greater share of grain from his estates to people living in the Almony and the Mint. Crewe desperately wanted to make reparations, but Devlin knew he'd never be able to. None of them had the power to change the past.

Crewe continued, "We've been keeping watch and would know if Horrender was back and picking up where he left off." This conversation was bothering him enough that he'd absently set to buttoning up his shirt and waistcoat. "Besides, he wouldn't dare return, not to London anyway, not with the two of us capable of making him swing." He crooked a gravedigger's grin that lacked all humor. "He'd make certain to kill us first, and I'm still breathing. That's how I know he's not back."

"Oddly enough, that doesn't make me feel better," Devlin drawled.

Crewe reached for his discarded cravat and began to knot it haphazardly around his neck. "It's been a decade without any sign of him, here or abroad. Most likely he's dead and buried in some unmarked grave in America."

Devlin wished he could be as certain of that as Crewe.

"If a new criminal ring has been established, then it's not Horrender who's running it." Crewe leveled a hard look on him. "Which makes it none of our concern."

Devlin knew better. It would always be their concern. He was still uncovering new evidence of the extent of their fathers' crimes, even though both men had been buried for years. God only knew the number of people their evil had touched, how many lives they had destroyed.

Were still destroying.

"And the woman?" Devlin pressed, unable to push her from his mind. The coincidence that he would meet a mysterious woman tonight on the heels of all the new rumors was too much to ignore.

"Demme if I know." Crewe slipped on his jacket and pulled his cuffs into place. Now fully dressed yet still mussed, he looked like any gentleman coming home from a night of debauchery. But that was Crewe. The man had always been a chameleon. "Are you certain she isn't just a mistress between protectors who planned to approach you about an arrangement but seized the moment to take your money the easy way instead?"

No. She was beautiful and refined, and any man in want of a mistress would count himself lucky to gain her for company. She wouldn't have to go hunting. Besides… "Since when does a mistress own land worth forty thousand pounds?"

Crewe tossed the copy of Moll Flanders onto the bed and muttered wryly, "Apparently, I've been teaching the wrong book."

And apparently, Devlin was right back where he started when he'd left Barton's, having no idea who she was or why she'd come after him. "You'll tell me if you hear anything?"

"Of course. Now get out so I can continue the lesson." Crewe snatched up the book and pointed at the door with it. "We've reached the part when Moll marries her son, and I need to explain to the ladies the basics of tobacco farming."

Crewe was lying. Devlin was one of the few people in the world who knew him well enough to know that. There would be no more lessons tonight, reading or otherwise. Crewe would be out questioning his contacts about Horrender before Devlin made it as far as Piccadilly. Crewe might have put on a good show about being certain that Horrender was already dead and either in hell or America—same thing, after all—but he was just as uneasy as Devlin over the possibility that he might have returned.

Still, experience had taught them how to pick their fights—a skill that Lucien knew better than anyone—so Devlin let him have his pretense and headed back out into the night.

Around him, the city was alive despite the darkness and shadows of the late hour, which did nothing to put him at ease and everything to stir the short hairs on his nape. He wanted to believe Crewe was right, that his fears about the new criminal ring were unfounded, but he knew the pure evil that was Josiah Horrender.

That kind of evil never remained buried for long.

As Devlin made his way through the dark streets, he cut south toward Piccadilly. There, lulled by the false security of its gas lamps along the wide avenue, he took deep breaths of frigid air, allowing himself the short-lived release brought on by the physical activity of the walk. Two miles to home. He'd be there in less than half an hour at this pace, but he didn't dare slow down. Couldn't slow down. Because he needed the exertion tonight to burn away the pain and anger he still carried inside him from all those years ago, and most likely always would.

Prowling the streets of London at this time of night wasn't safe, but he didn't give a damn. Let the footpads and thugs come for him. Just let them try . He'd been beaten before and survived, and tonight he ached for a fight. Even now as he hurried on, he clenched and unclenched his left hand into a fist, while his right clasped a knife so tightly he felt the soft indention of the blade through his glove.

What he wouldn't give to be able to let loose, to take comfort in fighting the way he had when he'd been on the Continent. In pouring himself into every punch and kick, into every slash of the sword, he had exhausted himself to the point when he could barely move or catch his breath, when every inch of him turned numb. When peace could finally settle over him, for a little while at least.

He'd been beaten then, too, although in a different way, whenever he lost command of his emotions and let the anger blind him. For years at Eton, he'd studied beneath Titus to learn control. All those years spent striving for hard-won restraint… Were they nothing but a waste of time? After all, what good was a man's control when the men he wanted to punish were already dead?

A movement in the shadows—

He spun around. The knife handle slid expertly down into his palm with a small flick of his wrist. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he held his breath and scanned the darkness at the edge of the street. His blood roared through his ears with each thundering heartbeat; every muscle was tense and ready to spring.

But nothing happened. No attack came. Not even a curse at him to be gone.

As he stared into the shadows, a small form became visible in the darkness, one huddled in a narrow doorway set back from the avenue. A soft sob of fear broke through the pocket of silent stillness, and Devlin's heart lurched.

A little girl, no more than ten or eleven based upon the size of her, crouched in the doorway. Dear God, she was thin! She was little more than a skeleton as her skinny arms hugged her knees to her chest, but her large eyes stared at him, terrified.

When he put away the knife and squatted down next to her on the dirt-covered footpath, she cowered away.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said as gently as possible. "I was just walking past and saw you."

Those eyes—wide as the moon and filled with fear. And hatred. He easily recognized that emotion in her. God knew he'd lived with it himself for most of his childhood.

She was alone. If someone was with her, they'd have come forward by now. He knew that well from all the other children he'd come across on the nighttime streets.

"My name is Devlin. What's yours?" When she didn't answer, he added, "I have two sisters. Older than you, though. Margaret who loves to dance, and Teddy who has the same color hair as you."

Actually, he had no idea what color hair she had because of the shadows. Nor did it matter if he lied as long as he was able to draw her out. The ends always justified the means. Hadn't he learned that lesson the hard way?

"I would never hurt them," he assured her. "Just as I would never hurt you."

The brutal truth of those words was as sharp as the blade pressing against his palm. But the girl didn't believe him and so didn't move an inch.

"I want to help you," he said softly.

"Don't need no help," she whispered fiercely, like a hissing kitten cornered by dogs.

"No, you probably don't. A young miss like you can take care of herself, I bet."

"An' I can, too." When her chin raised into the air, the fear in her eyes turned to fire.

"But can you help me ?"

She hesitated. He didn't blame her. Any other man who approached her tonight would have only done so to hurt her or force himself on her. Both of which Devlin wanted to prevent.

She tilted her head curiously, studying him. "What do you need m' help for?"

He fought back the urge to smile with satisfaction at finally drawing her into conversation. "My sister Theodora's birthday is tomorrow, and I don't know what to get her for a present. What do you think she'd like? Ribbons, a doll…"

"Shoes," she whispered. "She'd like shoes. A pair with 'em fancy buckles on the toes."

"In blue?"

"Black. 'Cause then the filth won't show on 'em."

He forced a smile. "Sounds like the perfect gift to me." He repeated, "I'm Devlin. What's your name?"

"Mary."

Mary… How many Marys and Janes and Sarahs had he rescued over the years? He'd lost count. Tonight, he planned to add another to that list. "That's a pretty name."

"Yours is odd. "

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is. Theodora says so, too, all the time. She'll probably tell me that as soon as I arrive home tonight." No, she wouldn't. His youngest sister was tucked safely into bed, dreaming sweetly through the night. She'd been the only one to escape their father's wrath. "And you, Mary? Where's your family and home?"

"Don't got none," she whispered. "Just some chums."

Chums. A gang. "It's cold tonight. Would you like someplace warm to sleep? Maybe some stew and biscuits?"

Her face softened with longing, yet only for a fleeting heartbeat before hardening again. "You said you weren't goin' harm me."

"I'm not," he said solemnly. "You've heard of Brechenhurst?"

She nodded. Of course, she had. Nearly every child in this part of London had heard of the peculiar place that took in children off the streets and gave them shelter and food for the night. It had no walls and gates to lock them in. No forced Bible lessons or memorizing moral platitudes. No questions asked.

"Have you ever been there?"

A shake of her head.

"Well, I happen to know the woman who runs it, and I know for a fact that she has room for you tonight."

"But it's all the way o'er t' Seven Dials."

"It is. Too far to walk. You'll have to take a hackney." When she hesitated, he dared her, "Grownups take hackneys. Are you grown up enough to ride in one?"

She gave a fierce nod and scowled. "I'm big enough."

"Yes, you are." This one had spirit. He hoped she could be saved before that spirit was broken. "Come on then. Let's get you a hackney."

He held out his hand and waited.

A long stretch of stillness passed before she slowly put her trembling fingers into his. He pulled her gently to her feet. Only then did he see that she was wearing little more than rags. He resisted the urge to give her his jacket, not wanting to embarrass her any more than she already was.

He stepped to the curb, raised his arm, and let out a shrill whistle into the traffic, which was busy even for four o'clock in the morning. After a few moments, an old hackney cab stopped beside him.

He opened the door and put Mary inside.

"Take her to number seven Wadley Street in Seven Dials," he instructed the driver. "Wake up the woman there who runs the place—Mrs. Martin. Tell her that Mr. Hunter sent the girl to her and that she's to take her in."

The man held out his hand for payment.

Devlin fished a coin from his pocket and held it up. "Mrs. Martin will give you a sealed note that you are to deliver to Number Ten Grosvenor Square. When the footman receives the note, you will be paid well for your trouble." He stepped up onto the cab and leaned in toward the driver as he placed the coin in the man's hand. Then he warned in a low voice that was little more than a threatening rasp, "If you harm her, I will hunt you down, and I will end you."

Despite the darkness, Devlin was certain the driver paled as he nodded.

Good . No one was going to harm an innocent tonight as long as Devlin could help it.

He jumped to the ground. The driver flicked the whip and started the old horse forward. From the side of the road, Devlin watched as the carriage disappeared into the traffic and darkness, carrying the homeless child away.

Another innocent saved.

It seemed that was all he'd done for the past ten years—attempt to save innocents and keep more of them from being harmed. He and Crewe had sworn to take their fathers' secrets to their graves. With Horrender gone, they'd thought they'd succeeded.

But the devil always collected his due, and Devlin feared it was finally time to pay.