Wicked and the Wallflower

by Sarah MacLean

“You’re soaked with sweat. And the cargo is on its way. The men will need you strong enough to help when it arrives.”

  Devil did not reveal his surprise at the information; if the cargo was on the move, the sun had set and darkness had fallen in truth, making it near midnight, hours since he lowered himself into the dark hold and began his work.

  “I shall be strong enough when it gets here. I’ve built the whole fucking hold, haven’t I?”

  Whit’s assessing gaze tracked the room. “You have.”

  Devil nodded, ignoring the chill that ran through him—perspiration cooling him the moment he paused in his work. “Then let me get back to it. And you worry about your own strength.”

  Whit watched him for a long moment, and then said, “Grace is gone.”

  Devil stilled, turning to his brother. “For how long?”

  “Long enough for us to get Ewan under control. He won’t like that you’ve won the girl.”

  “I haven’t won the girl.”

  “I heard she clocked him.” Whit paused. “Felicity Faircloth, name like a storybook princess, right hook like a prizefighter.”

  Devil didn’t reply. He didn’t think he’d be able to find words around the tightness in his throat at his brother’s pride in the woman he loved.

  After a long stretch of silence, Whit added, “At least put your coat back on. You know what happens in the cold, Devil; you can’t save the girl if you’re dead.”

  Devil looked to his brother, letting his fury into his gaze. “I’ve already saved the girl.”

  Whit’s brows rose in silent question.

  “You don’t see her anywhere near the Garden, do you? Now get the fuck out.”

  Whit hesitated, as though he might say something, and then turned to leave. “They’ll be here in thirty minutes. Then the real work begins.”

  And it did, right on time, a line of strong, strapping workmen heaving boxes and barrels, crates and casks—the largest shipment the Bastards had ever imported—into the hold. After that, more ice. Thousands of pounds of it, and Devil stayed, ignoring the thirst and hunger that teased around his edges, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and the burn of the work.

  He’d take all of that over what awaited him above in a world without Felicity.

  The men made quick work of their load—a valuable skill that had come with years of practice. The hold was only useful if the cargo was brought in and hidden as quickly as possible, preventing too much melt and, by extension, possible discovery.

  An hour before dawn, as the sky outside edged from black to grey, Devil came up from the hold, lantern in hand, to confirm that the delivery was complete. The work crew was clustered together upstairs—sixty men and boys in total, plus Nik and a handful of young women from the rookery who worked for her, keeping the business running smoothly.

  On the other side of the warehouse, Whit climbed up on one of the massive wooden scaffolds to address the men. A ripple went through the group; Whit was not one for grand speeches. Or any speech at all. And yet, here he was.

  “This was a good night’s work, lads”—he found the women in the crowd, looked each one in the eye—“and lasses. It stays here until we’re sure we can move it and keep you all safe. As you know, we lose money every day we keep cargo in the hold . . .” He shook his head and met as many of his men’s eyes as he could, the accent of the rookery edging into his words. “But don’t for a moment think you lot ain’t the most important fing in this buildin’. Devil and I—we know that better than any. And while we’re at it, might as well point to our darlin’ Annika, with a brain smart as ’er mouth.”

  A cheer rose up from the group, and Nik gave an elaborate, flourishing bow before straightening and cupping her hands to her mouth. “You talk too much, Beast! When can we drink?”

  Laughter followed, the corners of Whit’s eyes crinkling with satisfaction as he looked over the crowd. When he found Devil in the back, he lifted a chin in acknowledgment before saying, “Calhoun is keepin’ the Sparrow open for us, as a matter of fact. Ale is on the Bastards this morning, bruvs.”

  Another raucous cheer sounded as Whit leapt to the ground, weaving through the men, aiming for Devil, who tipped his head and said, “You’re as good as Wellington with your rousing speeches.”

  “Ending with drink helps. Come with us?”

  Devil shook his head. “No.”

  “Fair enough.” Whit clapped Devil on the shoulder, and he hissed in pain. Shocked, Whit immediately released him. “You’re going to hurt in a few. You’re soaked through with sweat. It’s a miracle you’re still standing; go home and get them to pull you a hot bath.”

  Devil shook his head. “In a bit. I’ve got to finish the last of the wall and lock the hold. The men deserve the celebration.”

  “You worked all day down there. You did more work than any of us. You deserve the rest.” When Devil said nothing, he added, “I’m going to send word home. They’re going to pull you a bath in one hour. Be there for it.”

  He nodded, not wanting Whit to know the truth—that he didn’t want to go back to that building that was full of memories of how he’d hurt her. “Go. I shall finish up and find a bed.”

  “I don’t suppose it will be a bed warm with Felicity Faircloth?”

  The idea stung. “I prefer you not talking.”

  “Next time you take the girl to the roofs, Dev, call off the watch.”

  He cursed roundly. “There’ll never be a word about Felicity Faircloth from the watch.”

  “Of course not. Besides, once they hear she decked Marwick in front of the Duchess of Northumberland, they’ll love her even more.”

  “Even more?”

  Whit’s eyes darkened. “There are whispers that she makes you happy, bruv.”

  She does. God above, Felicity made him happy—happier than he’d ever been, if he was honest. He wasn’t the kind of man who was afforded the luxury of happiness, except in her arms. And in her eyes. “I don’t wish to discuss Felicity Faircloth. And I’ll sack anyone else who does. She’s not for the Garden.”

  His brother watched him for a long moment, unmoving, before he nodded once and turned away.

  The group made quick work of leaving, the first group of watchmen making their way to the roof. No one would get into the building without a bullet in him first. Not without express permission from the Bastards themselves. So Devil was alone when he lowered himself from the dark warehouse into the dark hold, where a single lantern had been left burning.

  He was alone when he took the hook to the final row of ice, lifting and moving until the blocks were even in a perfect wall, topping seven feet, this exertion, on top of the rest of the day’s, was a great deal, and his breath was harsh and labored by the end of his task. He moved slowly to the door, collecting the lantern, and let himself out of the hold, setting the lamp to the floor and closing the interior steel door behind him, eager to work the locks quickly and be rid of the darkness.

  As though he’d ever be rid of the darkness now.

  Before he’d even touched the first lock, a voice sounded from it. “Where is she?”

  Devil spun to face Ewan in the shadows. “How did you get in here?”

  His brother came closer, into the dim light of the lantern, fair-haired and tall and broad—too broad to be an aristocrat. It was a miracle no one had noticed his lack of refinement—a mark of his baseborn mother—though Devil imagined the aristocracy saw what they wished to see.

  Ewan ignored the question. Repeated his own. “Where is she?”

  “I’ll gut you if you’ve hurt another one of my men.”

  “Another one?” the duke said, all innocence.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? Thieving our shipments?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “The toff on the docks, watching our ships. The timing—thefts began just before you announced your return. And now . . . here you are. What, it is not enough that you threatened our lives? You had to come for our livel
ihood, as well?”

  Ewan leaned back against the wall of the dark tunnel. “I never came for your lives.”

  “Bollocks. Even if I didn’t remember the last night at the manor house, when you came at us with a blade sharp enough to end us, you’ve been coming for us for years. We met the spies, Ewan. We ran them off. We raised a generation in the rookery on one, single rule. No one talks about the Bastards.”

  Silver flashed, and Devil’s gaze flickered to his brother’s hand, where he held Devil’s walking stick. His heart began to pound, and he forced a laugh. “You think to silence me? You think you’re still the killer among us? I’ve twenty years in the rookeries on you, toff.”

  Ewan’s lips flattened.

  Devil pressed on. “But even if there were a chance of you taking me, you wouldn’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “For the same reason you let us escape all those years ago—because if you kill me, you’ll never know what happened to Grace.”

  Nothing changed in the duke at the words, not the cadence of his breath or the straightness of his spine, but Devil did not need proof that he’d struck true. There had been a time when he’d known Ewan like he knew himself. And he still did. They were plaited together, the three of them. The four of them.

  “I found you,” Ewan said, finally.

  The words sent a chill through Devil that rivaled the ice hold. “Yes. But not her.”

  “You made a mistake, Dev.” He’d made a dozen of them, and this consequence was nothing compared to the others. “You should have been more careful with Felicity Faircloth.”

  Tell me something true.

  “I heard she hit you.”

  Ewan raised a hand to his cheek. “She wasn’t happy to discover my ulterior motives.”

  “Nor mine.”

  I would have given you a thousand nights. And all you had to do was ask.

  “I told her she should have been with us at the manor.” The country house where they’d been trained and tested, where Ewan had won his title and their father had won his heir.

  If she’d been at the manor, Devil would never have survived it. He would have been too busy protecting Felicity to protect himself. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish her anywhere near the manor. I’d take death before she witnessed a moment of what we suffered. I don’t know how you live there. I would have burned it to the ground.”

  “I consider it every day,” Ewan replied, all calm. “Perhaps, one day, I shall do it.”

  Devil watched him for a long moment. Ewan had always been like this, settled and assessing, as though he simply did not feel the emotions made for the rest of the world. As though he found them interesting in the vague way one found a cabinet of curiosities so.

  Grace had been the only person able to make Ewan feel. And even then, he’d nearly killed her. Nothing stood between Ewan and what he wanted.

  Nothing but Devil, it seemed. Always Devil.

  “I am not the one thieving your cargo,” Ewan said after a bit, the change of topic not remotely out of character. Devil believed him. After all, everything was out in the open now, and no one had reason to lie. “Earl Cheadle is thieving your cargo.”

  Devil’s brows rose. He wasn’t sure he believed the words, but Ewan had little reason to lie. “It didn’t occur to you to do something about it?”

  “We’re all criminals in some way or another, Devon,” Ewan said, simply. “And besides, your drink is not what I’m after.”

  “No. You’re after something far more valuable. The impossible.”

  “She’s all I’ve ever been after,” Ewan said. “And Felicity Faircloth served her purpose to get me here. Close enough to find her. I will say, Lady Felicity was convenient . . . even more convenient than I imagined she would be, once I realized that you cared for her.”

  The words enraged Devil. Felicity was more than convenient. She was more than a pawn. “How dare you manipulate her to get to me.”

  Ewan raised a blond brow in his direction. “Say that again. This time, more slowly.”

  Devil swore. Yes, he had used Felicity. At the beginning. For a heartbeat, before he’d realized. The moment he’d sent her into the ballroom, a message to Ewan, he’d lost all will to follow through with his plan. He’d floundered. And he’d fallen.

  “The problem is, Devon, Felicity Faircloth isn’t only convenient. She is also too smart for her own good. And she knows our secret.”

  Devil stiffened, the words and their meaning ringing clear as a rifle’s report in the darkness. He resisted the urge to wrap his hands around his brother’s throat and end this now. “And now we get to it. We should have killed you when we had a chance.”

  “You know, brother, most days I wish you had done just that. But you’re the one who always liked the deals, Devon. If there was a bargain to be had, you were the one to have it.”

  Not for her. Felicity was too important to bargain with.

  “You touch her, you die. That is the only deal that matters.”

  Ewan looked down the corridor, into the darkness. “I’m surprised you found it in you to love someone, Dev. What with how certain you once were that the emotion was a fable.” On another’s lips, the words might have been caustic. Or they might have been kind. But on Ewan’s, they were curious, as though Devil were a specimen under glass.

  Ewan continued. “Tell me, when did you realize it? When I kissed her on the balcony at the ball? In her golden dress? That was a cruel touch, by the way.”

  Devil hated the revelation that Ewan had been manipulating him, as well. “Just a reminder that you were never enough for Grace. That you never kept your promises to her.”

  The duke’s gaze narrowed. “Or was it when the boy in the hedge came back to report that I’d kissed Felicity in the gardens? Was that when you realized you loved her?” He paused. “She loved you by then, you know. And I think you loved her, too, what with the speed with which you came to claim her.”

  The words stung. And they were enraging, because it seemed a betrayal of the worst kind that the Duke of Marwick knew that Devil loved Felicity when she did not. When she would never know, because if he told her, he might not be able to resist what she did next, and she would never get the life she deserved.

  “If only you had decided to love her from the start instead of manipulating her to punish me, perhaps we would have avoided all this—”

  “Think very carefully before you threaten Felicity, bruv.”

  The duke’s eyes found Devil, all calm. “Why should I do that?”

  “Because I won’t hesitate to destroy you in her name.”

  “There is nothing you would not do for her, is there?”

  Devil shook his head. “Not one thing. I would happily give up everything for her happiness. I’ll see the gallows for killing a duke . . . without a second thought.”

  “The deal is simple, Devon. You tell me where I can find Grace, and I shan’t punish Felicity Faircloth for knowing what she should not know. Even better, I shan’t simply let her live; I’ll let her end our ruined engagement. I’ll settle the money on her barely-there father. On the brother, too. I’ll leave her better than I found her. Far better than she could be with you.”

  Rage rioted through Devil at the cold words. At the idea of Ewan anywhere near Felicity. Felicity, his fairy-tale princess.

  His brother pressed on. “Magnanimous of me, don’t you think?” He paused. “But if you do not give me Grace . . . I have no choice but to punish her. And you. I’ll force the marriage. I’ll take the girl to the country, somewhere you’ll never get to her. And I’ll make certain that you never see her again.”

  Devil stiffened. Forced himself to raise a brow. “You think there’s anywhere I can’t find you? I’ve spent years in the darkness, Ewan, while you’ve gone soft in the light.”

  A long silence. And then a simple, “Come for her, then. But if you get near, know I take things from her. Things she loves. Every glimpse you get of her will resul
t in her deprivation of the world she’s only recently come to revel in. Never forget that I learned your punishment from our father.”

  Memory flashed. Coming out of the dark ground, eyes red from a night of crying for the dog his father had taken from him, to find Ewan on the lawn of the manor house, playing with his own.

  Ewan, who had always chosen his future over their shared past. The perfect heir.

  “You’re a fucking monster. Just like him.”

  Ewan did not move. “Perhaps. But you brought the girl into this, didn’t you? You put her on the table as a weapon. I’m simply using her.”

  Devil had had enough. He threw himself across the dark hallway, fist already raised, the full weight of his body behind the blow, which connected with the wicked sound of bone on flesh. The duke’s head snapped back, the movement broken by the stone wall at his back. “You think you can threaten her?”

  Ewan recovered with unbearable speed, landing his own heavy blow, sending breathtaking pain radiating out from Devil’s eye. Devil was already pulling his brother off the wall to deliver a series of blows in quick succession. “You think I won’t leave you here to rot in this muck I’ve done everything to keep her from? I have given up my only chance at happiness to keep her from this. From my past. From yours, you fucking cur.”

  Ewan’s eyes opened, unmoved. “And what would you do to find her if she was lost?”

  Anything.

  Breathing heavily, Devil threw his bleeding brother to the ground and backed away from his brother’s body. At the door to the hold, he searched his pocket for his keys.

  “Where is she?” Ewan had pushed himself up to a seated position, back against the wall, face in the shadows, black blood running down his chin. “I’ve spent twelve years looking for you. And when I hear about you—about the Bastards—it’s only ever about you and Whit. No women. No wives. No sister. Where is she?”

  He could hear the anguish in his brother’s words, and for a moment—for a heartbeat—Devil considered telling him the truth. He would follow Felicity from the shadows for the rest of time. He would watch her marry and grow old. He would watch her have children—little brown-haired lockpicks who were more than they seemed. And if he couldn’t find her?