Chapter Six

"G ood morning."

The soft female voice gently penetrated the cocoon of deep sleep engulfing him, but not enough to wake him completely.

"Devlin?"

With a grumble, he turned over. Sleep's oblivion beckoned him back, a fuzzy euphoria heightened by the warm, soft bed around him.

"Devlin!"

A hard shove to his shoulder brought both eyes wide open. Then he promptly squeezed them shut again with a groan.

"Go away, Megs," he muttered against the pillow.

But his younger sister Margaret wouldn't be deterred and gave him a good, long shake. "Wake up."

"No."

She gave an aggravated huff, and from behind his closed eyelids, Devlin could imagine her sternly crossing her arms as she'd done since she was a child whenever she didn't get her way. Which was hardly ever, considering how much he doted on her and his youngest sister Theodora.

"It's almost ten," she reported.

He groaned. Less than four hours of sleep.

Haunted by ghosts last night, he'd spent the first half of the evening being rebuked by the Earl of Northrop and apologizing profusely to Lady Catharine and the rest of it hunting down his contacts in St Giles and Seven Dials to find out anything he could about the Chandler family. But he'd learned nothing past the night of the attack. They were all dead and buried in Bayswater. He'd made a point of stopping by the graveyard himself just before dawn. Short of taking a shovel to the grave, there was no way to prove the mysterious woman who reminded him so much of Peyton Chandler wasn't her, and he hadn't had nearly enough sleep to seriously consider doing that.

He ordered in a grumble, "Go away."

"No."

The bedroom drapes flung open. Bright sunlight streamed into the room like a beacon.

He cursed and sat up so quickly that he nearly shot out of bed. With one hand covering his eyes, he gestured wildly with the other for her to close the drapes. But it was too late. A pounding ache reverberated through his skull like the strike of a hammer on iron, so painful he winced.

Margaret stood in front of the window, arms crossed and refusing to put him out of his misery by closing the curtains.

"Good God!" He squinted and turned his head away, but even half-awake and hurting, he instinctively kept his bare back from her sight. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"I am trying to wake you."

"You've succeeded." With an angry scowl, he flopped back down and threw the counterpane over his head. "Now go away and let me sleep in peace."

"No." The mattress sank as she plopped down beside him. Then she grabbed the blanket and yanked it down, exposing his eyes to the brutal sunlight. "You were out all last night."

"I was. Which is why I need rest." As soon as possible, he planned on proposing a bill in the House of Lords to make waking a man before noon a hanging offense. After all, Parliament might as well be good for something. "Go away so I can go back to sleep."

For more than a few hours, too. Because he planned on spending tonight once again tracking down that woman who reminded him so much of Peyton Chandler but who couldn't possibly be her. No, this woman was someone else. Someone who had been hired to go after him simply because she bore a passing resemblance to the dead girl whose death hung over his head.

The question was no longer who she was but who had hired her, and he would need to have his wits about him when he found her.

When he put the covers back over his head, only for her to pull them away again, he gave up, and simply squeezed his eyes shut.

"Go away," he ordered. "And close the drapes on your way out."

Silence answered that. He cracked open one eye. She was still there.

He sighed heavily. "What's the matter, Meg?"

"You were out all last night," she repeated for emphasis. "Again."

He shut his eye. "I plan on being out again all night tonight, too." And the next night, and the one after that…until he found out who was after him and why.

"You're on a cut, aren't you?"

"I am not on a drinking spree."

"Foxed to the ears."

"Not at all."

"Like a wheelbarrow."

Both eyes flew open, then narrowed suspiciously on her. "How do you know so much cant about drinking?"

She answered, deadpan, "I have Dartmoor for an older brother."

"In whose life you shouldn't be meddling."

"I should when I'm concerned about him." Her quiet words pierced him, bringing him as wide awake as the harsh sunlight. "And I'm concerned, Devlin. Mama and I both are." She paused, just long enough to bite her bottom lip in that worried way which reminded him of the little girl she'd once been instead of the twenty-four-year-old woman she'd grown up to be. "You're slipping back into your old ways."

That put an end to any more sleep. It was as good as a dunking in cold water.

He rolled out of bed and faced her. It was his turn to cross his arms and give a chastising look. "I'm not slipping back into my old ways."

She arched a disbelieving brow and raked her gaze over him, noting his wrinkled trousers. In his fatigue when he'd stumbled home at dawn, he'd been too tired to remove his clothes and had fallen into bed still half-dressed.

Her expression was damning.

"It isn't what you think," he defended himself.

"Then what is it?"

He couldn't tell her. Their father had already hurt her enough, and she still bore the scars. Just as he did. She didn't need to be punished further by dredging up dark memories.

"Just a night out," he dodged, although not technically a lie.

He snatched up the dressing robe his valet had left for him across the foot of the bed and pulled it on to cover his back. Some scars were more visible than others.

"Like all the nights you spent away from home before Father died?"

Father. Margaret was the only society daughter Devlin knew who didn't refer to her father as Papa. But then, Papa was an endearment, wasn't it? And their father had never been endearing to any of them.

"It wasn't like that," he assured her before he crossed the room to the wash basin, knowing she was deaf in her left ear and might not be able to hear him once he'd moved away.

"Then what exactly was it that compelled you to tup a woman in a private box the same night you'd invited your fiancée and all her family to the theatre?"

He froze. Christ. The story was spreading already? The London gossip mill was churning at top speed if she'd found out about that when it wasn't yet noon. Taking a deep breath, he poured the pitcher of water into the basin and reached his hands into the bowl to splash the cold water on his face, when what he wanted to do was dunk his entire head.

She followed after him and sank into the chair beside the washstand. A grim solemnity darkened her face as she waited, unmoving, for an explanation.

"I didn't tup anyone, at the opera or anywhere else." He splashed more cold water against his face in an attempt to chase away the lingering lightheadedness from lack of sleep. Why on earth was he having this conversation with his sister? "And Lady Catherine is not my intended."

"Not anymore."

"Not anymore," he muttered, then gave up all pretense of control and submerged his entire face into the basin. But there wasn't enough cold water in the world to shake the feeling of dread that consumed him.

When he couldn't hold his breath any longer, he flung back his head and let a spray of water fall across the floor behind him. Water dripped over his shoulders and off his chin and ran in rivulets down his chest, bare beneath the open banyan.

She held out a towel. "If you didn't tup that woman, then why does all of Mayfair think you did?"

"Because it's complicated." He took the towel and wiped it over his head, then gave her his best no-nonsense paternal glare. "And where did you learn such language?"

She arched a brow. "From my older brother."

He winced. That was most likely true.

"What happened, Devlin?" She leaned back in the chair, obviously with no plans to leave until she'd thoroughly interrogated him.

"Very bad timing." He peered at himself in the mirror. Good God. The sight was worse than he'd suspected. "I saw someone I'd met at Barton's." There. That was vague enough. "We had a private conversation."

"A woman?"

A ghost. "Yes."

"And when you emerged from the box, you were both half-dressed, suspiciously rumpled, and had lost track of time enough to be stunned to see that the rest of the audience had emerged for intermission."

"Something like that," he grumbled. Something exactly like that. So much so that his assurances to Northrop that the situation wasn't at all as it appeared wasn't enough to convince the earl. All hope of marriage to Lady Catherine was gone.

Oddly, though, except for guilt over the pain he'd inadvertently caused her, he didn't care much that it was.

"Why do I think you did more with that woman than simply converse?"

He slid a sideways glance at Meg. "You're not too old to be sent to boarding school, you know."

"Yes, I am." She grinned at that empty threat, only for her smile to fade. "You haven't been yourself lately, Devlin."

No, he was being exactly like himself. More than she would ever know. "I'm fine."

Avoiding the concern in her eyes, he turned back to his reflection and caught his breath at the sight. No wonder she was worried. Lack of sleep and the weight of all the secrets he carried on his shoulders made him appear ten years older than he truly was, complete with dark circles around both eyes, lines edging his mouth, and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He raked his fingers through his hair to futilely brush it into a semblance of order.

"We're all worried about you."

He grimaced. Worried. That was the very last thing he wanted his mother and sisters to be, what he'd worked so hard for the past ten years to avoid. No. For longer than that. Even before he knew the full extent of his father's crimes, he knew how viciously his father abused his mother, the curses and threats, the slaps and shoves. Even when he was a boy, he'd put himself between her and his father, hoping that Dartmoor would take his anger out on him instead. And he had. Brutally so.

Devlin hadn't wanted to go away to Eton, fearing what would happen to his mother in his absence. But she'd insisted. She'd assured him that Father no longer struck her, that the beatings had stopped even while the ones given to him had only intensified as he grew older. As if the old man feared Devlin would someday grow strong enough to strike back and needed to prevent it by hitting him first. So he'd gone away to school at just thirteen, selfishly glad to be away, knowing Father couldn't hit him all the way over at Eton.

What he didn't know was that his mother had lied to him. The beatings hadn't stopped. Worse—in his absence, Dartmoor had begun hitting Margaret.

She added softly, " I'm worried about you, Dev."

He hung his head. "Meg…please."

He couldn't deal with the guilt of that right now, not on top of everything else that was coming at him. She thought he wasn't being himself because he'd once used drink, gambling, and women as a way to survive being Dartmoor's son and was back to doing that again, even at the ripe old age of thirty-two. That last night was simply another drunken incident on a downward slide back toward debauchery.

The farthest thing from it! God only knew how much control it took not to truly ravish that woman in the box when she'd thrown herself at him like that, or not to toss Northrop onto his arse and charge after her.

Just as Margaret had no idea of the truth of what happened all those years ago. She didn't know how close he'd come to killing their father when Devlin came home after graduating from Eton to find the bastard had struck Margaret so hard against the side of her head that he'd ruptured her eardrum. She had been only ten years old. Just as she had no idea that Devlin had been forced to cover up their father's crimes in the years since. Protecting his family was the very reason he'd gone to speak to that woman last night at the opera…and the same reason he'd not returned home until dawn.

But Margaret would never know any of that. He would protect her from that, too, until he drew his last breath, just as he'd protected Theodora from discovering exactly what a monster their father had been. The youngest of the three Dartmoor children, Teddy had still been in the nursery and under the constant watch of her nanny when Devlin had put an end to the abuse. She, alone, had escaped the old duke's wrath.

He'd protected Teddy, but by then so much damage had been done, not only to his own family but to countless others across England, that the true extent of his father's evil was simply unfathomable. He thought he'd finally buried those days along with his father.

Apparently, the dead were refusing to stay buried.

A hand gently touched his shoulder. When he turned his head to look at Margaret, tears glistened in her eyes, and she choked out, "I couldn't bear it if something happened to you."

"Nothing is going to happen to me, except returning to bed as soon as you shuffle out of here."

"Devlin, be serious." His attempt at humor did nothing to lighten the grimness on her face. Or the knot her expression twisted in his gut.

She shouldn't be worrying about him. She should have been off enjoying her season, spending an indecent amount of money at shopping, or wasting time with all the men who were pounding down his door to court her. After all, wasn't that why he'd put himself through hell, so that his sisters and mother could have the happy, normal life they deserved?

"Last night was simply a misunderstanding." He tossed the towel over the basin and turned away from the mirror, unable to stand another glimpse of himself this morning. "I am not returning to old ways."

She frowned dubiously. "Then why is Lucien Grenier waiting downstairs in your study with noon still several hours away?"

A very good question. One with answers he had no intention of giving.

Instead, he affectionately tucked a curl behind her ear, the way he'd done since she was a child. He doubted he'd ever be able to think of her as a grown woman. The day when he had to walk her down the aisle and give her away to her husband would simply kill him.

"Meg, you know that I would never do anything to intentionally harm you, Teddy, or Mother." When she turned away, he took her chin and made her look at him. "But you have to trust me when I tell you that last night was not at all as it seemed and that I have everything under control. All right?"

She nodded, albeit grudgingly, her worry for him still visible in her eyes.

He placed a kiss to the top of her head, then strode out of his room before she could ask him any more questions he couldn't answer, or cause her more worry.

Because right then, he had enough worry pulsing through his veins for both of them.

Crewe rarely came to Dartmoor House, which he claimed was too respectable an address for his well-honed blackguard's reputation. When he did, he certainly never came before four in the afternoon. Something was wrong. Had to be, to bring Lucien here this early.

He feared he knew what that something was.

"Devlin!" Theodora stuck her head over the banister from the landing above, stopping him halfway to the ground floor. Her pretty face beamed hopefully. "Mama says that Crewe's waiting in your study. When you're done talking to him, can you take me out for a drive? It's too lovely a day to stay inside, don't you think?"

He knew what she wanted, and it wasn't a turn in the fresh air. "I am not teaching you to drive a phaeton, Teddy."

Instantly, her hopefulness changed to irritation, and she scowled. "Why not?"

With a tired sigh, he rattled off the usual litany of objections he gave whenever she raised this topic. Which seemed to be all the time lately. "You're too young, it isn't safe, and it isn't what respectable young ladies do."

"But Princess Charlotte drives a phaeton."

"Princess Charlotte is also going to be Queen of England. Rules of propriety don't apply to royalty."

"That is so unfair!"

"More than you realize," he muttered beneath his breath and continued down the stairs.

She leaned out over the railing to call down to him, "You treat me like I'm still in braids in the schoolroom. But I'm seventeen!"

"Still a miss too young to drive." He reached the entry hall and threw out a peace offering. "Ask me again when you're eighteen."

"When I was sixteen, you said to ask when I was seventeen!"

"I was never good at math." As he walked out of her sight, he heard her give a frustrated cry and rolled his eyes. His life would be so much easier if his youngest sister didn't know how to count. Or how to read a calendar. God help him when she finally grew old enough to have a season and be courted. On the brighter side, he still had plenty of time for Margaret to send him to an early grave before then.

Sixteen. The same age Peyton Chandler had been the night her parents were murdered. The same night she'd nearly been raped. If he'd been slower that night, if he'd arrived just a few minutes later—

Sixteen. Christ.

Devlin strode into his study to find Crewe helping himself to the cognac in the liquor cabinet. He gestured at the mantle clock. "A bit early for that, don't you think?"

Crewe shook his head and held out a second glass for Devlin as he walked past on his way to his desk. "Not once you hear what I came to tell you."

Tying his banyan closed, Devlin sank into the leather desk chair and took a swallow of cognac to calm the dread now beating through him like a drum. It was too early for that, too.

Crewe dropped into one of the leather chairs positioned in front of the desk. "I asked around about the rumblings you've been hearing." He kicked out his long legs and slumped down, his casual posture belying the tension Devlin could sense radiating from him. "Seven Dials, St Giles, Westminster, Southwark—I even went as far as Wapping in case the dockworkers or warehouse porters knew anything."

"And?" Devlin sat forward as unease stirred inside him.

"You were right. The old criminal ring is being put back together, piece by piece." Crewe stared down into his glass and slowly swirled the brandy. "Smuggling, fencing, prostitution…all of it, and all being run from a centralized location."

The earth fell away beneath Devlin, and he gripped the edge of the desk to hold himself still. "Where? It's not based in St Giles or Seven Dials like before."

With a grim twist of his lips, Crewe tossed back the rest of the brandy in a gasping swallow. "The rumor is they've gone fashionable and moved to the west side."

"St James?"

"Possibly. No one knows exactly."

"How are they doing it?"

"No idea. But that kind of enterprise takes connections at all levels, great deals of money—and ways to hide the money once they make it. Keeping all that quiet is next to impossible. We'll find out eventually."

"But it can be kept silent." After all, their fathers had done exactly that.

Devlin's eyes lifted to the painting hanging above the fireplace. It was a landscape of Wrentham Hall, the family's main country house in Oxfordshire. He'd commissioned it to replace the portrait of his father that used to hang there, until Devlin took it down and burned it right there in the fireplace.

That was the problem with ghosts. Even after exorcism by fire, they could still come back.

" Quiet , not silent," Crewe corrected as he raised his glass to his lips. "Money always leaves a trail."

"So we find the trail. Where is the money coming from, and where is it going?"

Then they would find out who was responsible and shut them down. This time forever.

After all, if someone had the resources and knowledge to put the old ring back together—whether Horrender or someone else—then that person knew what their fathers had done and wouldn't hesitate to blackmail Devlin and Lucien over it. Everything they'd worked so hard to save during the past ten years would be destroyed.

Crewe shook his head and tossed back the rest of his cognac.

Devlin pushed himself out of the chair and began to pace. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "Do we know anything for certain?"

"Yes." Although Crewe didn't seem happy about it. "I have a name for you, and you're not going to like it."

He steeled himself. "Horrender?"

"Chandler."

His heart stopped. Somehow Devlin managed to rasp out, "Impossible." Then, he uttered the one bit of hope he'd been clinging to since last night, when he'd looked his mystery woman in the eyes and felt a terrible flash of recognition—"They're dead. All of them."

"Not so much." Crewe leaned forward to place a piece of paper onto the desk. "Or at least someone connected to the Chandler family isn't."

Devlin stared at the paper, but he didn't dare reach for it, as if it were a snake ready to strike. Or the devil come to take his soul. At long last.

Crewe stood and returned to the liquor cabinet. This time, he brought the crystal decanter back with him as if it were a portent of what he was about to disclose. "Elizabeth Wentworth…does the name ring a bell?"

Devlin sank down into his desk chair before his legs gave out. "The woman at Barton's." And last night at the opera. Lady Payne. "Patton said that was the name on the title she used to back her bets."

"What a coincidence, then, that an Elizabeth Wentworth has also rented a townhouse in London for the season." Crewe took the liberty of topping off Devlin's glass. "All the money she's used to set up her household, buy a wardrobe, lease carriages, and so on, came from an overseas account in Marseilles." He pushed the glass toward Devlin. "An account where Charles Chandler once kept his money and that is now in the possession of one Elizabeth Wentworth."

"How do you know that?"

"I asked." Dryly quirking a brow, he replaced the stopper on the bottle and set it down next to the piece of paper. "I have very good contacts. A title for an estate like that is bound to leave a trail. I merely followed it."

Devlin picked up the piece of paper and read the direction. Portland Place in Marylebone. Close enough to keep watch on him in Mayfair, yet far enough away so as not to be easily noticed.

"Elizabeth Wentworth appeared out of nowhere six weeks ago when she stepped off a ship from France." Crewe leaned back in the chair. "I think we have proof that Horrender's returned."

"I might have been drinking," Devlin muttered and tossed away the piece of paper, "but that woman is definitely not Josiah Horrender."

"No. Most likely just the woman he's hired to front his return." Crewe shrugged as if the situation were obvious. "If Horrender has arrived back in London as we suspect, he'd need to buy everything to set up his household, along with hiring all new staff. No one can hide that kind of spending. Shopkeepers and merchants talk, so do their accountants. Which means he needs someone to do it all for him so he can remain in hiding. What more perfect person to do that than Elizabeth Wentworth?" When Devlin's expression turned doubting, Crewe added, "Trust me. I know how to live a secret life, which means I also know all the ways to reveal it."

Yes, Crewe certainly did. Yet Devlin shook his head. "That woman is connected to the Chandlers far more closely than simply being Horrender's agent. But how?"

Peyton Chandler had no younger sister, no close cousins, and no other relatives whom Devlin had been able to find in those terrible weeks after the attack when he'd attempted to settle the Chandler estate as a way to ease his conscience. Yet he suspected his mystery woman was somehow part of the Chandler family, someone who resembled them enough that his mind made the connection. Nothing more than a distant relative. Had to be.

Because the alternative, that the woman truly was Peyton Chandler, returned from the grave… Impossible .

"No idea," Crewe answered, "but I'll keep digging. Should I hire men to watch the townhouse in Marylebone?"

"No." They'd be spotted, and the last thing he and Crewe needed was for Horrender to realize the two of them knew he had returned.

"All right, then. What do we do next?"

"I find her." And God help her when he did.