Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards #3)(9)

She backed away, pressing herself to the wall on the opposite side of the hallway, far enough out of view to ensure that the man within could not see her when he looked through the keyhole. He was the one who had taught her about keyholes, when she was young enough to believe that a closed door was the end of the story.

She stared at the tiny black void beneath the door handle, consumed with the wild memory of another door. Of the bite of another handle in her palm, of cool mahogany against her forehead as she leaned close to it, a lifetime earlier, peering within.

The inky blackness inside.

The feel of the metal casing of the lock against her lips as she whispered into the room beyond. Are you there?

Two decades later, she could still feel her heart pounding as she pressed her ear to the mysterious opening, searching for sound where she could not use sight. She could still feel the fear. The panic. The desperation.

And then, from the void . . .

I’m here.

The hope. The relief. The joy as she’d repeated his words.

I’m here, as well.

Silence. And then . . .

You shouldn’t be.

What nonsense.

Where else would she go?

If you’re discovered . . .

I won’t be.

No one ever saw her.

You shouldn’t risk it.

Risk. The word that would come to be everything between them. Of course, she hadn’t known that then. Then, she’d only known that there’d been a time when she would never have risked on that massive, cold estate, miles from anywhere. The barely-there home given to her by a duke to whom she was told she should be grateful. After all, she’d been another man’s bastard, born to his duchess.

She was lucky, she was told, that he hadn’t sent her away at birth, to a family in the village. Or worse.

As though a life hidden away without friends or family or future wasn’t worse.

As though she wasn’t consumed with the ever-present knowledge that she would someday run out her time. Outlive her purpose.

As though she didn’t know that the day would come when the duke would remember she existed. And be rid of her.

And then what?

She’d learned early and well the truth that girls were expendable. And so it was best to stay out of sight, out of hearing. Survival was her purpose. And there was no room for risk.

Until he’d arrived, along with two other boys—his half brothers—all of them bastards, just as she was. No. Not just as she was.

Boys.

And because they were boys, infinitely more valuable than she.

She’d been forgotten the moment she’d been born—a girl, the bastard daughter of another man, unworthy of attention, or even a name of her own, valuable only in that she’d been born at all, a placeholder for a son.

A placeholder for him.

And still, she’d risked for him. To be near him. To be near all of them—three boys she’d come to love, each in his own way—two of them, brothers of her heart if not her blood, without whom she might never have survived. And the third . . . him. The boy without whom she might never have lived.

Don’t—

What?

Don’t leave. Stay.

She’d wanted to. She’d wanted to stay forever.

Never. I’ll never leave. Not until you can leave with me.

And she hadn’t left . . . until he’d given her no choice.

Grace shook her head at the memory.

In twenty years, she’d learned to live without him. But tonight, she had a problem, because he was here, in her club, and every moment he was conscious was a moment that threatened everything Grace Condry—consummate businesswoman, power broker, and the leader of one of the most coveted intelligence networks in London—had built.

He wasn’t just the boy she’d once whispered through keyholes with.

Now, he was the duke. The Duke of Marwick, and her prisoner. Rich, powerful, and just mad enough to bring the walls—and her world—crumbling down.

“Dahlia . . .” Zeva again, at a distance, warning in her lightly accented speech.

Grace shook her head. Hadn’t she made it clear that Zeva was not to follow?

What the fuck had she done?

“What the fuck ’ave you done?” Ah. The reason for Zeva’s warning.

Grace closed her eyes at the sound of her brother’s voice in the darkness, opening them a heartbeat later, even as she turned away from the locked door and her prisoner’s eerie quiet, and strode down the narrow hallway, raising a finger for silence. “Not here.”

She met Zeva’s gaze, dark and altogether too knowing. Ignoring that knowledge, she said, “The room needs a guard. No one goes in.”

A nod. “And if he comes out?”

“He doesn’t.”

A nod of understanding, and Grace was pushing past to meet her brother at the dark entrance to the back stairwell. “Not here,” she repeated, seeing that he was about to talk again. Devil always had something to say. “My offices.”

One of his black brows rose in irritation, punctuated by a quick tap of the walking stick he was never without. She held her breath, waiting for him to agree . . . knowing that he had no reason to. Knowing that he had every reason to push past her and face the duke himself. But he did not. Instead, he waved a hand in the direction of the stairwell, and Grace released her breath silently, leading the way to the top floor of the building, where her private rooms adjoined the office from which she managed a kingdom.