Chapter Eight

D evlin hesitated in the doorway to cast his gaze around the large bedroom that was lit only by the faint glow of banked coals in the fireplace and the dim moonlight falling through the unshuttered window. There was nothing unusual about the space…a bed, a reading chair, a writing desk, two armoires. There was even a cup of tea, still sitting on the side table by the chair, as she must have left it that evening before she dressed for Vauxhall.

Nothing unusual, except the woman it belonged to, who slowly crossed to the larger of the two armoires. She stopped in front of it and opened the doors.

Sweet Lucifer . Devlin gaped at the armoire. No, not an armoire—an armory. A wall of weapons gleamed in the dim light. Rows of knives of all shapes and sizes, pistols he was certain were loaded, swords, rapiers…for God's sake, there was even a battle axe.

With her hands still on the doors at chest height, Peyton stood unmoving in front of the armoire and stared blankly at the deadly cache.

"I've always wondered what women keep in their dressing rooms," Devlin commented dryly as he came forward. He stopped beside her and reached over her shoulder to take one of the knives. He turned it in his hand, watched the razor-sharp blade catch the red light of the banked fire, and muttered, "Now I know why women always refer to them as unmentionables."

She didn't so much as smile. "I know how to use every one of them, too." For once, she didn't rise to his teasing and throw back a barb of her own. Instead, she added in a murmur, almost as if to herself, "I will never be vulnerable again."

He didn't doubt that, remembering the hidden pistol in the carriage. He mumbled as he returned the knife to its place, "You've been busy."

"I had ten years to learn." A distracted, faraway expression clouded her face as she stood there, her hands still holding the doors halfway open. "Do you know what a ma?tre d'armes is?"

"Yes." After all, he'd once had his own master in Anthony Titus.

"I trained under Armand Marchand, who served as one of Napoleon's private guards in the early days of the Republic. But then Napoleon turned against all the ideals of the revolution and declared himself emperor, and Armand turned against Napoleon. He attempted to kill Bonaparte but failed and so fled for his life to the south of France where he found me."

"He taught you to defend yourself," he guessed.

"He taught me how to fight," she correctly. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "I didn't feel safe, not even in France, not even in the countryside, so I hired Armand to serve as my bodyguard. But he became so much more to me than that." She turned back toward the weapons, as if seeing Marchand there. "He helped me to heal, made me strong, taught me how to protect myself… Eventually, he became my lover and taught me how to protect my heart as well."

Jealousy pierced him—but not of her lover. What struck him was that Marchand had been able to protect her when Devlin had failed to do just that. That was all it was. Any other sort of jealousy would have been absurd.

But he also hadn't seen any man around her, no one he would have suspected to be a ma?tre d'armes turned bodyguard. Not any of her carriage tigers, although he was certain all of them carried weapons beneath their uniforms, and not the butler, who seemed more muscular brawn than fighting brains. And certainly not the older Englishman who had confronted them in the entry hall.

"Then you need to find yourself a new guard," he drawled and stepped back to lean his shoulder casually against the wall beside the armoire. "He's not doing a very good job if he's allowed you to be alone with me in your bedroom."

"Armand isn't in London," she murmured. "He disappeared last year and is most likely dead."

Devlin felt like a damn fool. "I'm sorry."

Her only acknowledgement of that was a faint nod. "But he taught me the most important lesson of all."

"Which is?"

"That those men didn't kill me that night. And if they didn't kill me, then…"

"Then?" he prompted.

She shoved the armoire doors open wide. She dropped her arms to her sides and stepped back to take it all in.

"Then they made a huge mistake," she finished, her voice icy cold.

Devlin pushed himself away from the wall and stared. He'd thought the weapons were stunning. But this— Good God.

On the inside panels of the two wide doors were pinned bits and pieces of writing, notes, newspaper clippings, bulletins, and pages torn from account ledgers. Each grouping was connected to the others by pieces of string, all of it forming web-like circles of information. The pin holes in the wood suggested she'd worked it over and over, moving around pieces and adding to it until the puzzle was complete.

"I've spent ten years collecting every bit of information I could about that night, putting it all together, making connections." Her eyes swept over it as his did, as if trying to see what he saw. But Devlin simply couldn't fathom it all. "I hired investigators—Bow Street, private detectives inside France, the occasional random thief-taker. They brought me bits and pieces of information. So did Wilkins. He knew about the funds my father had hidden overseas, how to find the properties and claim them."

Unease curled up Devlin's spine. How close had Wilkins come to learning about her father's criminal enterprise? "He was the footman, you said?"

"Yes. And footmen overhear everything, including what they're not supposed to, which is how he knew about the overseas accounts," she mumbled as she stepped forward to examine the information she'd pinned to the door. "You saw him downstairs. He's not happy about having you here."

Undoubtedly. "Because he thinks the same way you do—that I was responsible for the attack."

"Yes."

He waited for her to say she'd changed her mind about that—about him—but that absolution didn't come. Instead, she reached for a keepsake box sitting on the fireplace mantel and set it on her desk in front of him.

"What's that," he asked sardonically, "your gun powder supply?"

"My heart," she whispered and opened the lid. Random items lay inside—a piece of lace, an amethyst bracelet, a brass sealing wax stamp, a snuffbox, other pieces of jewelry—not weapons. "These belonged to my parents. It's all I have left of them." She reached into the box. "And this."

She held up an old silver button, heavily tarnished until it was almost black. But his heart jolted as he recognized it. It was one of his.

"I ripped it off your waistcoat that night. It's proof you were there." Her eyes glistened with pain even as she lifted her chin into the air. "Tell me what happened that night. All of it. I've been trying to put it together for so long…"

She turned back to the armoire and ran her fingers down the left panel's trail of information.

"We were at Dartmoor House for your mother's musicale." She tapped her finger on a drawing of the townhouse. "Everything was normal and fine, except that you surprised everyone by being there."

"I'd recently returned from fighting on the Continent," he explained. "And my mother still had hopes I'd find my way into proper society."

"The performance had finished," she continued, "and guests were having refreshments in the drawing room. Others lingered in the music room. My father, yours, and the late Duke of Crewe had gone into your father's study, which they often did after dinners and other soirees. I was with my mother in the drawing room, while you had slipped away upstairs with the opera singer. I saw you leave with her." Her voice lowered into a disapproving grumble. "Not very clandestine of you."

He fought back a grimace.

She murmured thoughtfully, "About half an hour later, the men in the study ended up in a fierce argument…raised voices, angry threats, pounding fists."

His eyes narrowed on her. "How do you know that?"

She slid him a chastising glance. "Servants know everything that goes on inside a house. Your father should have paid your footman more to keep his loyalty." She turned back to the door panel as she added, "Or at least not to spy on him from the servants' passage behind the bookcase."

Damnation. Devlin would block that passageway himself tonight.

"What did they fight about?" Devlin knew. But did she?

She shook her head. "The footman heard the fighting but couldn't make out the words." She tapped a finger on a blank block of paper pinned to the townhouse drawing. "But when my father returned to the drawing room, he was shaken and upset. He told Mama we had to leave and hurried us outside into the carriage. Your mother gave us her goodbyes because your father and Crewe remained in the study, and you were still upstairs with the opera singer."

He was too preoccupied by her map of events to let that barb register. He plucked at a piece of string that ran from his name to a black edged sheet of paper in the center of the door that represented the attack on the carriage. "What's this twine?"

"Your path that night. You ended up at the attack."

"I did," he mumbled. "I came back downstairs a few minutes after your carriage left and headed to the study. Dartmoor kept his best cognac there, and I wanted a drink before returning to the party." Dark memories swirled back to him. He'd never forget what happened that night, ever as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. "Dartmoor and Crewe were still there, still furious at your father, who had decided to end his business relationship with them." Charles Chandler had threatened far more than that, but Devlin wouldn't share that information with her unless he had to. What good was there in hurting her even more? "But your father knew too much about their affairs, so they'd sent men after him to deliver a warning to keep his silence." He paused before admitting quietly, "That warning got out of hand."

She stared at him, blinking rapidly as the reason for the attack sank through her. "They went to such lengths," she whispered, barely louder than a breath, "just to protect their business interests?"

"Yes." But Horrender had wanted far more than that. He had wanted the attack to be a warning to anyone who thought about crossing him and his criminal ring, and he'd sent that message by killing not just Chandler but also his wife and daughter.

His eyes swept over the doors, yet he saw no mention of Horrender. Did she not know about him? Or worse—did she think that evil bastard was on her side?

"I chased after you, but I arrived too late." He didn't dare glance at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the door. "When I came upon the carriage, your parents had already been murdered, and you had been dragged out onto the cobblestones. You were trying to crawl away, but one of the attackers had gone after you."

She said nothing for a long while, and when her voice finally came, the desolation and unbearable anguish he heard in it cut him to the quick. "The last thing I remember is someone throwing me to the ground. I tried to get away, fought against him—" The pain in her eyes strangled the breath in his throat. "I punched and kicked—I clawed his neck." She looked down at her hands, as if still able to see the blood beneath her nails. "I drew blood, going deep enough to scar his flesh. I heard him yell, felt him hit me and crawl on top of me… Then I saw your face. I knew it was you—Dear God, I knew it was you!"

Without warning, she shoved him against the wall. She yanked his coat and jacket out of her way, then halfway ripped off his cravat as she pulled it aside and tore at his shirt to bare his neck to her eyes.

Her gaze burned into his flesh as she searched for any trace of scars, any mark she'd put there ten years ago. But there was none, and her fingers trembled as she ran her hands over his unblemished skin.

Then the truth struck her, so fiercely she flinched. A terrible sound rose from her lips, a howling mix of pain, grief, and relief so intense, it left her shuddering. Good God. He'd never before seen a woman simply… shatter . The sight of it nearly broke him.

Her arms dropped to her sides as she stepped away from him. "It wasn't you," she whispered, so softly the words were barely audible. "For so long, I thought…" She swallowed hard. "What…what do I believe now?"

Her words stabbed into his heart like daggers.

Defeated, her slender shoulders slumping, she stared at the doors. Her eyes glistened brightly with thick tears, and an expression of complete incomprehension marred her beautiful face.

"Everything I thought I knew…" Desolate tears of anguish slipped down her cheeks. She no longer had the strength—or the will—to hold them back.

Devlin pulled her into his arms. She didn't fight him.

"I have nothing left," she breathed out, grasping at his waistcoat with her hands and burying her face in his shoulder. "Nothing…"

He tightened his arms around her as ten years of pent-up grief and agony poured from her. "You have everything." He nuzzled his cheek against her hair and promised, "You still have the chance for a future, for the happy life your parents wanted for you. They took your parents from you. Don't let them take your future, too."

She sagged against him, her body boneless in his arms, as the last of her strength left her. She didn't reply, and her silence felt almost as damning as her earlier accusations.

But she tilted her face toward him, parted her lips…

With a groan, Devlin lowered his mouth to hers. He felt the soft hitch of her breath beneath his lips, yet she remained pliable in his arms as she welcomed the kiss he desperately needed to give her, one he desperately needed to claim in return. This wasn't a kiss of lust, not even one of shared grief or healing. What she sought in him was forgiveness.

He cupped her face between his palms to temper the growing need he felt in her as he continued to give her gentle, impossibly tender kisses. Yet she pressed harder against him, her breath growing quick and shallow, until an unbidden whimper of need escaped her.

The soft sound undid him, and he tore his mouth away from hers, then rested his forehead against hers, keeping her face between his hands. If she continued to kiss him like that, to beg with her body for him to quell the aching inside her—

God help him.

"You're never going to find the answers you're looking for," he rasped out, his eyes squeezed shut against the soul-steeling temptation of her and the bitter truth of what he was telling her. Even now, he wanted to protect her and his family from Horrender—and from himself. "No matter how many connections you attempt to make, how long you search, you will never be able to punish the men who hurt you and your family. Let it go, Peyton." He tilted his head to place one last kiss to her lips. "Let go of the dead and find a way to live."

She tensed, then slowly straightened away from him. Her face slipped out of his grasp, and his hands fell to his sides.

When he opened his eyes to look down at her, the emotion in her eyes ripped through him. He had never seen a woman look so vulnerable in his life, so… lost . Yet a fire burned deep inside those watery blue depths and gave him hope that she might eventually be all right.

"Go back to France," he urged her quietly. "Live out a very long life as Elizabeth Wentworth. Find a French lover, perhaps a husband to give you a proper home and family of your own." He paused to drive home his point. "Stop looking for answers that you will never find."

"I can't. I can't surrender…" She shook her head as the breathless confession tore from her and grabbed for a chair to steady herself.

He knew what she meant. She'd been driven by a need for justice and revenge for too long. If she gave that up, what would replace it? What would she have to keep living for? How well he understood that! And yet…

"And I can't surrender my family," he told her quietly. "I won't stop protecting them."

Confusion darkened her face, but in the dim light, he could still see the tracks of her tears on her cheeks, the glistening of her eyes, and the soft parting of her lips, still warm and moist from his kisses. "What would you need to protect them from?"

He hesitated. Speak of the devil… "Josiah Horrender."

"I told you before—I don't know who he is."

Devlin believed her. Not even a Drury Lane actress could feign a lack of recognition like that. "He's the man who carried out my father's orders to attack you," he said gently. "A criminal from London's underworld who Dartmoor and Crewe hired to handle the less polite aspects of running their enterprise."

Peyton pressed her fist against her chest, as if physically urging her heart to keep beating, her lungs to keep breathing…just as she must have done countless times over the years. "Like murder."

"Among other things." Beatings, kidnappings, blackmail, theft…rape. Horrender had hired the thugs who had attacked the carriage and killed her parents, as well as the one who'd attempted to rape her, Devlin knew that. His father had admitted as much that same night when Devlin returned to Dartmoor House and threatened him into telling the truth. "Horrender oversaw the daily operations of the various businesses—No, not businesses. A criminal ring, full of all kinds of illegal activities. My father and Crewe used their power and influence to hide their crimes, but Horrender carried them out."

"And my father was their banker." She drew herself up straight, visibly steeling herself. "That's why they argued that night. He must have discovered what they were doing and threatened to go to the authorities to stop them."

He was so much more than merely a banker. Your father knowingly provided the means to make it all happen, then hid their profits. And he was killed because he knew too much… But Devlin didn't have the heart to tell her that, not after all she'd been through tonight. Her father was dead and buried. She didn't deserve to be haunted even more by the truth of what he'd done.

So instead, he said, "Horrender fled London the night of the attack. When I stopped hearing any rumblings about him from my contacts, I was certain he'd died overseas." He rubbed at the ache behind his forehead. "But now there are whispers that he's returned." He slowly closed the distance between then, noting that her hand had tightened on the chairback so fiercely, he saw her white knuckles, even in the shadows. "It can't be a coincidence that those rumors began when you returned to London."

"It has to be, since I had no idea about him. If I had, I would have killed him myself long ago."

He fought down a dour grin. At least her fighting spirit was still strong. "I won't risk that my family might be targeted, or Crewe's." Lucien Grenier had just as much to lose as Devlin if the truth ever emerged about the secrets their fathers had hidden from the world. "Or you."

Her lips parted, stunned. "Why me?"

"For all I know, Horrender has followed you here to kill you, to make certain you can't connect him to your parents' murders." His gaze softly held hers. "So go back to France and let Elizabeth Wentworth live out a very long life, because all you're doing here is putting yours at risk."

"What good is a long life," she objected, "if it's lived doubting everything I thought I knew?"

She held his gaze, as if daring him to contradict her. But he couldn't. God knew he carried enough of his own doubts to understand that.

"It seems we both want the same thing," she ventured. "To find Horrender and put an end to him. We have the chance to finally find justice for what happened that night."

No. There would never be justice for that. But perhaps, together, they could prevent more innocents from being harmed.

"Make no mistake, Peyton." His voice brooked no misunderstanding about what he was about to agree to. "My primary concern is finding Horrender and figuring out why he's returned. Uncovering answers for you is secondary. Understand?"

Not answering, she slowly swept across the room to the armoire, closed its doors, and leaned back against it. Her eyes gleamed intensely in the shadows. "Where do we start?"