Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(101)

“Grace’s father was not ours, but her mother was the duchess, increasing alongside our mothers—or, at least, in time with them.” Hattie stayed silent, marveling at the madness that came with title and privilege. “The duke was desperate for an heir, and he knew his best chance at one was the babe in his wife’s belly, even though the child wasn’t his by blood.”

“Why not wait and get the duchess with child again? Try for a boy? One of his own?”

Whit smiled at that, wide and winning enough that Hattie was dazzled by it. “Because the duchess had made it impossible for him to sire more heirs.”

“How?” His smile was contagious.

“She shot him.”

“Dead?” It wasn’t possible.

“No. In the bollocks.”

“No!” Hattie’s eyes went wide, then narrowed with loathing. “Good.”

“Grace inherited her mother’s aim, if you are curious.”

“I am indeed, and I should like to come back to that, if we may.”

“With pleasure.” Hattie warmed at the way the reply made it feel as though they had a lifetime of conversation before them. He continued. “So. The duchess produced a babe, but it was a girl. And my bastard of a father baptized her the heir, claimed she was a boy, and shipped her and her mother off to the country.”

Hattie shook her head. “That’s illegal. It’s betraying the line.”

“It is, indeed,” Whit said. “And it’s punishable by death if a false heir is seated.”

She met his eyes. “That’s why you had to run. Because you knew. And he was worried you would tell people.”

“Clever girl,” he said softly, admiration in his eyes. “And he was right. I am telling you, am I not?”

But no one else. Not ever. “I don’t understand . . .” She hesitated. “Who did he intend for heir?”

“The duke was greedy and prideful. And he wanted an heir to mold in his imagine. To pass his legacy on. He had three sons. But what we did not know was that we had him. He’d been watching us. Devil in the orphanage, Ewan in a Covent Garden brothel, and . . .” He trailed off.

“And you,” she said. “With your mother.” A woman who loved him. A home that was safe. Reading lessons. Her chest grew tight.

“Not for long,” he replied. “He brought us to the country—to the seat of the dukedom. And he told us the plan. One of us would be his heir. That boy would inherit everything. Money, power, land, education. He would never want for anything.” A pause. And then, “And neither would his family.”

She had known the words would come. Known that, eventually, this mad, monstrous duke would threaten the only thing Whit held dear. His mother.

“How?” she asked, the word on a whisper. She didn’t want to know.

“We fought for it. A hundred ways. A thousand. It started easy. Footraces and dancing.” The waltz. He’d said his father had made him learn to waltz. “Tests on proper forms of address. Proper silverware. The location of the correct crystal. And then, as he sorted us out, it became clear he didn’t care about any of that. What he wanted was a strong son who would carry on his line and impress the wide world.”

If ever there was a man who could be those things—could do those things—it was Whit. “What did he make you do?”

“There is a reason that when we got to London, we were good fighters.”

Her eyes went wide. “He made you fight each other?”

He nodded. “Even that was easy. We might not have known each other, but we were brothers, and we were happy to scrap when necessary. We learned quickly how to throw a punch and make it look like it would hurt, but pull it at the last moment, so we never did real damage. Ewan was better at that than all of us,” he marveled. “You’d see it coming like a boulder, and it would land feather light.”

For a heartbeat, Hattie found gratitude for this man she knew would become the villain of the play. The one who would try to kill Grace, and take a blade to Devil’s cheek.

“We thought we were brilliant, working together to bring down our father. We didn’t know it was all part of the plan. He’d been making us a team so he could use us against each other. And he did. He started to toy with us. He’d threaten one of us to get the others to fight.” He looked away. “The threats were wild. If two of us didn’t fight until one was on the ground, the third would get the switch until we did.”

“You wanted to save them.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Saviour. Not just his name. His whole being.

“He’d give us treats, then take them away. Gifts. Toys. Animals. Anything we liked. He loved forcing us to beg for what we loved.” Whit looked to her. “You tease me about my lemon sweets? They’re because of him. Thank you for the raspberries.”

“Of course.” She nodded. She wished she could keep him in sweets forever. She wished she could pull him close and hold him tight, but he wouldn’t allow it, this proud, wonderful man.

“I couldn’t keep up after a while, and I started making plans to escape. I knew that if I could make it back here—back to Holborn—I could find my mother. And we could run. That was my plan. To get back here and run.”