Chapter Seven

T he bells in the Chinese pavilion at the center of Vauxhall Gardens struck midnight, and a wave of excitement passed over the park. In the rear of the gardens, where close paths wound darkly through the small wilderness, lanterns were quickly extinguished, plunging the area into darkness and signaling the start of the amorous activities the pleasure gardens had become known for.

Closer to the main gates, the lamps and lanterns strung along the alleys between buildings continued to blaze in dazzling colors, while beneath their light, a plethora of performers danced, played, tumbled, and more—anything to entertain the wealthy aristocrats in their private supper boxes where their parties would continue for hours. The activities there among the lights and crowd were far less scandalous than those in the wilderness but just as playfully surreptitious, thanks to the masks and costumes worn by the attendees.

Peyton checked that her own mask was still securely in place as she slipped down the crowded alley. The entire row of boxes had been rented out by Lord Liverpool for tonight's party, with a goodly portion of the alley roped off to keep out the riffraff.

Or was it to keep the MPs in? After all, most of parliament was in attendance, along with their wives and assorted mistresses, which made it easier than Peyton expected to slip into the party with her stolen invitation.

It wasn't much of a masquerade, if she was honest. Despite the fancy dress, she was able to recognize nearly everyone behind their tiny masks that barely covered their eyes and almost nothing of their faces. Some of the women carried masks on long sticks and didn't even bother concealing their faces, instead using the masks to flirt and hide their gossip, the same way they would have used fans at a ball.

But no one recognized Peyton. After all, no one thought she could possibly be among them. Except for Devlin. He alone would be able to spot her in the crowd. So she slowly circled the avenue in her hunt for him.

She needed to speak with him. Her doubts from last night had only grown stronger in the hours since she'd left the opera. Nothing had been able to ease them. Not spending the rest of the night once more pouring over the evidence she'd spent years collecting. Not even talking to Wilkins and Proctor, both of whom still insisted she was correct in pursuing her revenge.

Yet the more time she spent puzzling over it, the less the pieces fit together, even those she had been so certain about before. Now, instead of the cohesive map that pointed to his guilt, she saw gaps, uncertainties, weak assumptions…none of which had been there before.

Most likely because she hadn't been looking for them. But now…

Before she went on with her plans to destroy Devlin, she had to know the role he'd played that night for certain. The only way to do that was to confront him, and to draw him out, she used herself as bait. But she'd been here for nearly two hours and had yet to find him.

With rising frustration, she approached the attendant at the door of the box who was serving as Master of Ceremonies for Lord Liverpool's party.

"The Duke of Dartmoor," she said bluntly. "Has he arrived?"

The man searched the list of names he held in his hand, the same list he'd been checking off one by one as the guests arrived. The same list that claimed she was Martha Besson. As the mistress of Viscount Houghton, Besson had been easy to track down to her townhouse, where Peyton had purchased the woman's invitation directly from her maid, once again proving that most people didn't hire the correct sort of people for their household staff, nor did they pay them enough to ensure their loyalty. But Besson's oversight was Peyton's opportunity. As the viscount's mistress, the real Martha Besson could never ask for a replacement invitation, nor would anyone here approach Peyton to discover the truth of who she was. Not with Lady Houghton also in attendance.

"No, ma'am." He lowered the list. "His Grace isn't attending."

"He's not?" Desperate disappointment pierced her. She'd been so certain of the information her butler had given her. The duke had been invited and issued his acceptance. His own valet had confirmed it.

"He begged off at the last minute."

"Thank you," she mumbled and turned away.

She walked toward the main gate. She should have stayed and carried out the part of her plan that she'd originally intended when she'd first stolen the invitation—to destroy Dartmoor politically. Only a few well-placed comments and questions would be necessary to have other members of parliament doubting his loyalty and ethics, and a few nights of planting such doubts would have him removed from his Parliamentary committees, one by one, until he had no power left in the Lords except to cast meaningless votes.

But she couldn't do that now, not without indisputable proof of his role in her parents' murders. Apparently, the attack and secret life she'd led since hadn't stripped her completely of her soul. Yet.

The same question swirled relentlessly through her mind. How could Devlin be the same person who had arranged her parents' murders and attempted to rape her? How? At the theatre, when he'd kissed her so tenderly, when she'd looked up at him through a cloud of fear and confusion, an icy cold realization had slithered down her spine, and in its blistering wake came a brutal truth—

Because he wasn't the same man.

Devlin had been at the attack, she knew that. But he wasn't the man who had tried to rape her. He couldn't have been, she knew that now. His body felt wrong and didn't match the memory of that night that had branded itself onto her mind. He was too tall, too broad-shouldered and slender-waisted, his hands too large to match those of the man who had shoved her to the ground, climbed on top of her from behind, ripped off her dress—

God help her, she wasn't certain anymore. And if she were wrong about his role in that, what else might she be wrong about?

Tonight had been her chance to find out, only for the opportunity to slip through her fingers.

As she left the pleasure gardens, she untied her mask and let it dangle from her hand as she made her way past the line of carriages waiting outside the main gates. Frustration warred with desperation inside her, all of it roiling together with mounting confusion…and with an inexplicable desire to be wrong about him.

She found her carriage, and the tiger held open the door for her as she climbed inside. "Go."

The door closed behind her. She leaned her head back against the squabs, closing her eyes as the carriage jerked to a start and slowly rolled away from the gardens toward the new bridge. The night had not gone as well as she'd—

The door flung open, and a large man swung inside. As he landed on the bench across from her and yanked closed the door, he drew a pistol.

"You need better security," he drawled. "The tigers didn't even try to stop me."

Dartmoor.

With her heart pounding fiercely, her hand slipped between the seat cushion and the carriage wall. She pulled out a loaded pocket pistol and pointed it at his chest. "Because I told them not to."

*

Devlin locked gazes with her, not daring to lower his eyes to her pistol. If she decided to kill him, her eyes would give her away first. But he knew she wouldn't. Either of them firing ensured mutual destruction, and she'd already proven herself to be anything but rash.

"I'm impressed," he drawled. "You always keep a loaded gun in the cushions?"

"I keep an entire arsenal in this carriage." Her voice didn't quaver. "You know who I am. Given my history, do you blame me?"

The brutal honesty he saw in her eyes cut him to his core, and he knew then without doubt…

"Hello, Peyton," he said quietly. There was no pretending he didn't know exactly who she was.

He hadn't wanted to believe that a dead girl had come back from the grave to haunt him, preferring to believe she was just another part of Horrender's new schemes. The alternative was less damning. But after watching her tonight, following her through the gardens because he knew she'd come looking for him again, there was no doubt left.

Slowly, he eased down the hammer of his pistol and tucked it back inside his greatcoat. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

"I'm not the only one." Following his lead, she lowered her pistol but laid it on the bench beside her, still within reach. "Where would you like to start? Because I'd like to begin with the night my parents were murdered before my eyes and I was almost raped and killed." She paused, then repeated, " Almost . I still have no idea who that man was or why he didn't succeed. But you do. You know because you were there."

"I was." He kept his face perfectly inscrutable. "He didn't succeed in harming you because I stopped him."

The soft inhalation as she caught her breath ricocheted inside the compartment as if she'd pulled the trigger after all. Her lips parted as she stared at him, yet the invisible mask she wore now was as good as the one she'd worn in the gardens for hiding whatever thoughts were swirling inside her head. But it couldn't hide the glistening in her eyes, bright even in the shadows.

Then she whispered, the confession so soft that her words were barely audible over the rumble of carriage wheels beneath them, "I used to believe it was you."

"It wasn't."

She stared at him as the bridge passed slowly beneath them, not moving, not blinking, hardly breathing…as if needing all her strength and will to simply absorb his quiet denial and not shatter like glass. "Then why were you there that night? Tell me what you did… everything ."

"If you tell me why you're back in London and pretending to be Elizabeth Wentworth."

Her eyes flared at the name. She didn't confirm his accusation, clinging to a fighting spirit even in the midst of this fresh hell, but she didn't have to. The look in her blue depths confessed everything.

"I came upon your parents' carriage after it had been attacked," he confided gently. He knew she wouldn't trust him with her secrets until he revealed some of his. "Your parents were already dead, but you…you were still alive, lying unconscious at the edge of the street where you'd crawled to get away. The other attackers ran when they saw me, but the man who went after you had his back to me. He was on the ground on top of you, one hand yanking up your skirt and the other fumbling with his fall." Devlin forced himself not to look away from the pain in her eyes. "He was too busy to notice me until I grabbed him by the throat and threw him off you."

"You killed him?"

God help him, he'd wanted to. "He got away."

"They all got away," she corrected in a breathless whisper.

"Yes. But so did you."

"How?" She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories and shook her head. "I clawed at your neck, there was blood beneath my nails—I was certain it was you!"

"It wasn't me. It must have been the man who attacked you."

"But I saw you there! I saw your face…" Her voice trailed off in confusion.

"You woke up for a moment and must have confused me with the man who attacked you." Only a moment in which she'd stared up at him, terrified, before the darkness overtook her again. "I picked you up and ran with you to the nearest surgeon. I left you with him and went to your home to tell the butler and housekeeper what had happened, to find out if there was anyone I should notify. That was the last time I saw you. The next morning, word was sent to Dartmoor House that you'd died. I attended your funeral, put flowers on your grave… You were dead." Christ. His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of it all. "Until four nights ago when you reappeared at Barton's." Like a ghost from the fog… "I didn't recognize you. Hell, how could I have?"

"That was the point," she said quietly, turning to stare out at the passing city that was dressed in nighttime black, as if mourning. Shadows swirled inside the swaying carriage from the coach lamps and passing gas lights, the darkness alive around them. Fitting, he supposed, since they were both creatures of the night, both living out a hellish nightmare. "Being dead was the only way for me to survive. I had no idea who had murdered my parents or why, or if they thought I was a witness to be silenced. Playing dead was the only way to make certain they wouldn't try to kill me again."

"So you buried an empty coffin in Peyton Chandler's grave and became Elizabeth Wentworth."

"Yes." She absently plucked at the curtain that swayed with the rocking motion of the carriage. "It was my mother's maid who had the idea. Proctor had gone to the surgeon's that night, along with Wilkins, the footman. They'd said men had come to the house searching for me. So the two of them took me to Richmond where I would be safe. I was so distraught, so terrified, in such grief for my parents—Pretending I'd died was the only way to stay safe. I knew that even then, even in the hours following the attack." A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she made no move to brush it away. "In the days that followed, I could barely rise from bed, eat or drink anything… I could barely keep breathing." Her voice lowered until it was little more than a breath itself. "If Proctor and Wilkins hadn't been there for me, I would have truly died."

Devlin could barely believe his eyes as he stared at her, but he remembered the shape of her delicate face, her expressive blue eyes and dark chestnut hair, even if the rest of her had changed completely. Gone was the gawky, shy girl he'd met only a few weeks before his mother's musicale, to whom he'd not paid the slightest bit of attention. In her place had blossomed a woman he couldn't push from his mind.

"We moved to France as soon as I was able to travel," she continued. "My father had placed a good deal of his fortune in overseas accounts and businesses there, under the false name of Elizabeth Wentworth, and Wilkins helped me locate the funds. He also helped me hire investigators to learn everything I could about the attack. But there were always missing pieces."

"Now you're back to find them."

She nodded out the window at the night. "The wars ended, and it was safe to travel again. And I already had enough information."

"Enough for what?"

She pinned him beneath a gaze so fierce it ripped his breath away. "To find the man responsible and punish him."

Suddenly, the events of the past few days fell into place, and he realized what scheme she'd been playing at with him at Barton's, at the opera, and even tonight at Vauxhall. Her unspoken accusation burned into him. "It wasn't me."

"You were there." Her eyes blazed in the darkness, full of hatred and fury, and made even more intense by the quiet control of her voice. "Perhaps you weren't the one who attempted to rape me—"

"I was not."

"But you were there. Why would you have been there if you didn't have a part in it?"

"Because I went to stop it." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "When I learned the attack had been planned, I rode after your carriage as fast as I could, but I arrived too late. Your parents were already dead, and you were on the verge of dying yourself. I did all I could to help."

"No, you helped plan it," she forced out through clenched teeth. "That was the only way you could have known that the carriage had gone the wrong way and stopped in that dark street. That was the only way you could have known where—and when—" Her fury choked off her voice.

"I did not plan it," he said as forcefully as possible yet remaining calm. "I had missed the end of the musicale—"

"You were bedding the opera singer."

Devlin paused to keep his composure. "Yes, I was." He leaned back against the squabs and slowly shook his head. "Do you really think me such a monster that I could make love to a woman the same night I'd hired men to kill you and your family?"

Her silence answered for her. She thought him exactly that kind of monster.

He shook his head. "If I had planned to kill your family, why would I have gone to such trouble to save you?"

Her lips parted. He knew that look… Doubt . He knew she wanted to believe him, but ten years of hatred, grief, and revenge had driven her to this point. It would take more than a few simple denials to make her believe him.

"Go ask the surgeon who brought you to him that night," he challenged quietly. "We can go to him right now, in fact. Rouse him from his sleep, make him look back through his records. Perhaps you'll believe him."

Her lips began to tremble. So did her hands that she tried to calm by folding them in her lap. Even in the darkness of the carriage, he could see her grow pale.

"I am more relieved than I can ever express to know you're alive," he admitted, "because I had nothing to do with your parents' murder."

She swallowed, hard enough that he could hear it across the compartment. "If not you—" That breathless phrase cost her dearly, he knew. "Then who? Who was responsible? Tell me." She paused, and the soft begging that followed nearly undid him, " Please , Devlin…tell me."

"So you can punish him, the way you wanted to punish me?" He leaned back against the squabs. "I'm afraid you're too late." He pulled in a deep breath to confide the deepest secret of his life, the one no one else knew, except Crewe. "It was my father. And his grave isn't empty."

*

Breathe… Oh God, the pain!… Just breathe, damn it!

Peyton didn't move. Couldn't move. It took all her strength to simply sit there, returning his gaze, and remembering to breathe.

All the grief she'd suppressed, replacing it with fury and hatred and determination—all the emotions she needed to focus on maintaining in order to keep living, to keep hunting for her parents' killers, to simply keep breathing —rushed back with the ferocity of a storm. She wanted to scream!

Instead, she rasped out in a breathless whisper the question that had haunted her for a decade. "Why would your father do something like that?"

But the carriage had stopped in front of her rented townhouse, and the tiger flung open the door to let them out, unwittingly interrupting them.

Peyton couldn't tear her gaze away from Devlin, from the man who for so long had been her most hated enemy. The cold night air rushed inside the compartment like an ill-wind.

"Why?" she repeated. When Devlin didn't straighten from his casual slump against the squabs to tell her, she clenched her fists to keep from reaching for her pistol. " Why?"

He slid his gaze out the door toward the tiger. "Invite me inside."

"So you can continue to lie to me?" she bit out. Her head pounded! Everything she thought she knew about that night swirled together until she couldn't sort through it all. She felt as if she were sliding away, and her grasping hands couldn't find any purchase to stop her fall.

"So we can finish this conversation in private," he corrected gently.

Then he held out his hand.

She stared at his extended hand and shivered. An anchor. That was what he was offering. A tether to the world that was slipping away from her. She didn't move, not daring to reach out—

"Peyton," he murmured. "Please."

Her gaze flew up to his, and she inhaled a sharp gasp of air. Her breath returned, filling her lungs with deep, steady inhalations, and with each one, the dark abyss around her receded, and the swirling slowed. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, its steady drum bringing her calm, quiet…

"Trust me enough to let me inside," he cajoled, this time teasing her from the darkness by adding, "and I'll let you keep your gun."

"No need," she answered, her voice raw. "I'll make you check yours at the door."

His mouth softened into a faint smile. "Then invite me in. We've only just started."

Slowly, she slipped her hand into his and gave a jerking nod, one that matched the same rough breaths that filled and left her lungs in an unsteady rhythm. But she was breathing, and she would survive. Just as she had before.

He stepped down from the carriage and helped her to the ground. As soon as her foot touched the footpath, she pulled away her hand. The graze of his fingers across her palm left tingles in its wake.

She hurried up the front steps with Devlin on her heels and past the butler as he held the door open. She ignored the surprised look on the butler's face that she was bringing a man home so late at night, when not one other person from outside her household had crossed the threshold in the weeks since she'd rented the house.

"Elizabeth?"

She startled at the name, the one she'd taken for herself so many years ago, and stopped.

Wilkins emerged quickly from the rear of the dark house. His gait faltered in the doorway of the entry hall as his eyes landed on Devlin. She didn't have to make introductions. From the way Wilkins stiffened, he knew exactly who Devlin was.

Yet he came forward and took her arm to pull her aside. Keeping his voice low, he shot a glance over his shoulder at Devlin. "What is he doing here?"

"I invited him." Wilkins had always been protective of her—in some ways, overly protective—and she knew that bringing Devlin home was not at all part of their plan. But she also expected him to trust her. "He has new information about the attack."

"Of course, he does. He knows everything about that night because he planned it." His brow furrowed with worry. "Bringing him here—letting him know you're still alive—that wasn't at all what agreed to do. We agreed to work in secret."

"He figured out who I was. There's no point in hiding from him any longer."

"And if he tries to harm you? If he decides to finish what he started? You're the only witness left who can place him at the attack." He pursed his lips with concern. "What would Proctor and I do if anything happened to you?"

"I will be fine." She rested her hand on his arm to reassure him. "The truth will come out, and I'll finally know what happened that night and why."

"We already know. He murdered your parents and attempted to rape you."

She cast a glance across the room at Devlin. "I'm not so certain of that anymore, and I need to be absolutely sure before we continue our plans." When her words of caution didn't mollify him, she affectionately squeezed his arm. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

"As long as you don't trust him ." He touched her cheek affectionately. "Sometimes you lead with your heart, and this time, that might get you hurt. You need to think clearly about this man and not let him deceive you with his charms."

"I won't." She slowly stepped back. "You can go to bed now. I won't be needing you this evening." She turned to Devlin and nodded toward the stairs. "This way."

As she led Devlin upstairs, she caught a last glimpse of Wilkins watching the two of them. The betrayal in his expression was heartbreaking.

She turned away to hurry up the stairs. What else had she expected? Wilkins was her protector and bodyguard, a man who looked after her as closely as if she were his sister or wife. Of course, he would be concerned about her, still viewing Devlin as the enemy. Yet she'd upset him, and that simply pierced her.

But she needed to know what happened that night, why the late Duke of Dartmoor wanted her parents dead. Only Devlin could provide those answers.

Ten years of survival, of struggling to find her way through the darkness—they had all come to this. After tonight, nothing would ever be the same for her again.

Come into my parlor…

She opened the door to her room and stepped inside.