Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(11)

That was all.

It had nothing to do with the past.

“The more people who know he’s here, the more of a danger he is to all of us,” she added.

“He’s a danger to us all as it is,” Devil said.

Frustration flared at the words, calm and quiet, as though her brother was discussing the next shipment coming into port. She knew the steady truth in the words was just that—truth. Knew, too, that keeping the Duke of Marwick prisoner on the fourth floor of 72 Shelton was not the most sensible course of action.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be able to kill him after everything he’s done. After what he did to Devil. After Hattie. After the shipments he came for. The men he had attacked. The ones who didn’t survive. Five men. The Garden is owed ’is blood.” Whit’s voice went hoarse even as surprise flooded through Grace. She hadn’t heard him speak so many words all at once in . . . well, perhaps ever.

Devil’s eyes were wide with similar surprise when she met them, but he recovered quickly. “He’s right, Grace. We deserve a crack at him.”

She shook her head. “No.”

The wicked scar down the side of Devil’s face went white as the muscle in his cheek flexed. “Then you’d best have a reason why.”

She pressed her lips together, her thoughts wild with frustration and fear and anger and a decades-long desperation for justice. And then she said, “Because he took the most from me.”

Silence fell, thick and potent, eventually punctuated by a low curse from Whit. She turned to Devil, long and lean, with his wicked scar—put there by Ewan’s hand. “Not long ago, we stood together on the docks and you said it, bruv. He took more from me than from you.”

Devil watched her for a long moment, his cane tapping against his boot. “And so? What, he gets your care? Tender mending from the woman he loves?”

“Get stuffed,” she said. “He doesn’t love me.”

Twin amber gazes leveled her.

Her heart began to pound. “He doesn’t.”

No reply.

“What he feels—it’s never been love.”

It didn’t matter that they’d called it that, when they were children, playing at a soft, kindhearted version of the emotion—young and fresh and too sweet to be real. Something they were never destined to see to adulthood.

She willed her brothers to drop it.

They did, miraculously. “What, then?” Whit asked. “He goes free? Back to Mayfair? Over my corpse does that happen, Grace. I don’t care what he took from you—we’ve been waiting for this day for years, and I’ll be damned if he gets returned to the life he stole.”

“You mistake me,” she said. Two decades earlier, when Ewan had betrayed them, they’d vowed retribution if he ever came for them. She’d promised it herself as she’d mended them. “You weren’t the only ones who promised him vengeance. I was there, too.”

Whit with his cracked ribs, Devil with his slashed face.

And Grace, with her broken heart and worse—her trust, shattered.

“And you think you’re strong enough to keep that promise, Gracie?” Whit asked, low and dark.

Grace lowered her hand to the scarf at her waist, her fingers tangling in the fabric there. “I know I am.”

A knock sounded, punctuating the vow.

“Revenge is mine.” She looked to Beast. “I shall fight you both for it, and you won’t like the outcome.”

Silence, again, as the two most feared men in London considered the words. Devil was the first to give his agreement. A tap of his stick. A quick nod.

Whit growled, low at the back of his throat. “If you don’t . . .”

“I shall,” she vowed.

The knock repeated itself, louder and quicker. “Come,” she called out, the word still in the air when the door opened to reveal another of her lieutenants, Veronique.

Where Grace kept the finances and managed the business beyond the walls of 72 Shelton and Zeva handled the inner workings and requirements of the clientele, Veronique ensured the entire operation ran safely. Now, the black woman stood sentry in the doorway, her coat hanging open to reveal a linen shirt, tight-fitting breeches, and high, over-the-knee leather boots to match those Grace wore. What did not match was the pistol strapped to one thigh, at the perfect height to be drawn without hesitation.

Still holstered.

Not that it mattered.

Dark eyes found Grace’s with urgent purpose. “Dahlia.”

Grace did not hesitate. “Where is he?”

Veronique’s gaze tracked to Devil and Whit, and then back to her.

What had she wrought?

“He ripped the door off the hinge.”

Beast cursed, already moving across the room, Devil drawn tight like a bow. “Where?” Grace asked, putting herself in her brother’s path, ignoring the riot of emotion that came with the question.

Beast looked to the other woman. “Is he gone?”

Something like affront came over Veronique’s face. “No. We took him down.” She met Grace’s eyes. “Conscious.”

Another emotion she did not care to name surged.

“I wager he loved that,” Devil said, his smirk audible.

Veronique turned a wide smile on the Bareknuckle Bastards, the Caribbean in her voice as she replied, “He didn’t go without a fight, but we were good for it.”