Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(10)

“You shouldn’t even be here,” she said softly as they made their way through the dark space. “You know I don’t like you near the customers.”

“And you know as well as I do that your fine ladies want nothing more than a look at a Covent Garden king. They just don’t like that I’ve a queen now.”

She scoffed at the words. “That part, at least, is true,” she said, ignoring the way her heart pounded, knowing as well as Devil that the conversation was to be forgotten the moment they were inside her quarters. “Where is my sister-in-law?” She’d do anything to have Felicity there now, with her good sense, distracting from Devil’s purpose.

“At Whit’s, watching over his lady,” he said, as they reached the door to her quarters.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her hand stilling on the door handle. “And Whit is not watching over the lady himself because he is . . .”

He lifted his chin, indicating the room beyond.

“Dammit, Dev.”

He shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? Tell him he couldn’t come? You’re lucky I convinced him to wait here while I found you. He wanted to ransack the whole place.”

Grace pressed her lips into a thin line and opened the door to reveal the man inside, already crossing the room toward her, enormous and barely hinged.

Once they were inside, Grace closed the door and pressed her back to it, pretending not to be unsettled by her brother’s obvious fury. In the twenty years she’d known him, since they’d escaped their shared past and rebuilt themselves as the Bareknuckle Bastards, she’d never known Whit to rage. She’d only known him to punish, cold and deadly, and only after reaching the end of a fuse as long as the Thames.

But that was before he’d fallen in love.

“Where the fuck is he?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Downstairs.”

Whit growled, low in his throat—acknowledgment barely audible inside the threatening sound—like a wild animal ready to spring. Known to all of Covent Garden as Beast, he was strung tight that night—had been for the week since the explosion on the docks—Ewan’s handiwork—had nearly killed Hattie. “Where?”

“Locked away.”

He looked to Devil. “Is that true?”

Devil shrugged. “Dunno.”

Lord deliver her from obnoxious brothers.

Whit looked to her. “Is it true?”

“No,” she drawled. “He’s downstairs, turning a jig.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “You should have told us he was here.”

“Why, so you could kill him?”

“Exactly.”

She met his anger head-on, refusing to cower. “You can’t kill him.”

“I don’t care that he’s a duke,” he said, every inch the Beast the rest of London called him. “I’ll tear him apart for what he did to Hattie.”

“And hang for it,” she said. “What good will that do your lady, who loves you?”

He roared his frustration, turning for the massive desk that stood in the corner, piled high with the club’s business—current member dossiers, gossip rags, invoices, and correspondence. She advanced as he swiped a hand through a tower of new member requests, sending paper flying through the room. “Oy! That’s my work, you lout.”

Beast thrust his hands into his hair and turned on her, ignoring her protest. “What do you plan for ’im, then? ’E nearly killed her. She could have . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to speak the words. “And that was after leavin’ Devil to freeze to death. After nearly killing you, all those years ago. Christ, you all could have . . .”

Grace’s chest grew tight. Whit had always been their protector. Desperate to keep them safe even when he was too small and too battered to do the job. She nodded. “I know. But we are all here. And your lady mends.”

He let out a harsh, relieved breath. “That’s the only reason why my blade isn’t in his gut.”

She nodded. He deserved vengeance. They all did. And she intended for them to get it. But not like this.

Devil spoke then, from his place by the door, where he leaned against the wall, deceptively loose, one long leg crossed over the other, “And you somehow remain calm, Grace. Somehow, willing to let him live.”

Knowing where he was going, she narrowed her gaze on him. “Women aren’t allowed the luxury of anger.”

“They say you’ve been mooning over him.”

Anger came then, to be sure, and her fingers tangled in the red scarf at her waist. “Who says that?” When Whit did not answer, she turned to Devil. “Who says that?”

Devil slowly tapped his walking stick on the floor twice. “You have to admit, it’s odd you’ve mended him. Zeva said you did it yourself. Collected him from death’s door. Refused to call a doctor.” He cast a pointed look to her desk, in disarray. “And the work of the club piling up as you nursemaid.”

It was Grace’s turn to scowl. “First, Zeva talks too much.” When they did not reply, she added, “Second, my desk always looks like that and you know it. And third, the more people who know he’s here, the less likelihood he gets his punishment.”

That was it. That was why she’d cleaned his wounds. Why she’d set her fingers to his brow, waiting for fever. Why she’d stood in the darkness, listening to the even rise and fall of his breath.