Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

“That he is mad.”

Ewan wasn’t mad. He was obsessed.

“He danced like a dream.”

Devil shouldn’t be irritated by that statement. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Ewan thinking he’d won Felicity? So it hurt more when Devil stole her away?

He wanted to put a fist through a wall at the idea of them dancing. He couldn’t resist scoffing. “Like a dream?”

“Mmm,” she said distractedly. “He has lovely form. Makes you feel as though you’re a cloud.”

“A cloud,” Devil said, working to keep his teeth from clenching.

“Mmm,” she said, again.

He was so irritated with the vision of cloudlike dancing that he snapped, “You don’t just come to see me, Felicity.”

“Why not? I’ve something to discuss with you.”

“It doesn’t matter. When we’ve things to discuss, I shall find you. You don’t just turn up in the rookery.”

“Is this a rookery? I’ve never been to one.”

He would have laughed if it weren’t all so laughable. Rookeries were full of stink and filth, death and destruction. They held the worst of the world—too often given to those who deserved the best of it. Of course, Lady Felicity Faircloth had never been to a rookery. She’d as likely have been to the moon.

“It’s very quiet. I would have thought it would be otherwise.”

“It’s quiet because you’re deep within the most protected part of it. But you could have easily lost your way.”

“Nonsense. I followed you.” She leaned toward the door and whispered, “That’s it, darling.”

Devil went hard as a rock. He straightened, coming off the door and shoving his hands into his pockets to keep her from noticing his untimely affliction. Clearing his throat, he said, “Giving you my direction was a grave mistake, as you seem unable to deliver a written message to my offices like any other normal human female.” He paused. “Is it possible you are unable to write? Has your brother’s poverty limited the amount of ink in your home? The quantity of paper?”

“Paper is not exactly the least expensive commodity,” she offered.

Click.

Devil’s jaw dropped. Impossible.

“Gorgeous, gorgeous girl. Well done.” Felicity Faircloth stood up and raised her arms, deftly returning her hairpins to their proper seats. “Shall we see just how aboveboard you are, then?”

Chapter Fourteen

She’d shocked him.

The unmovable Devil, all powerful and controlling, impenetrable and domineering, and she had shocked him. She knew it, because his eyes went wide and his jaw went slack, and for a heartbeat she thought he might have swallowed something too large. He looked to her, then the lock, then back again. “You did it.”

“I did,” she said, happily.

He shook his head. “How?”

She couldn’t control her proud grin. “Be careful, Devil. I shall begin to imagine you thought me without use.”

“You’re supposed to be without use!”

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Ladies are not supposed to be without use. We’re supposed to speak several languages, and play the pianoforte, and needlepoint with aplomb, and lead a house party in a rousing game of blindman’s buff.”

He looked away and took a deep breath, making her think he might be searching for calm. “All so useful. Do you do all that?”

“I speak English and imperfect French.”

“And the rest?”

She hesitated. “I’m quite good at needlepoint.” He cut her a look, and she added, “I hate it, but I’m fairly decent at it.”

“And the pianoforte?”

She tilted her head. “Less so that.”

“Blindman’s buff?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time I played.”

“So, we are left with lockpicking.”

She grinned. “I’m very good at that.”

“And is it useful?”

Not knowing where she summoned the brash courage, Felicity set her hand to the handle of the great steel door she’d just unlocked. “Let’s see, shall we?” She didn’t wait, too eager to see inside the warehouse and too afraid he’d stop her. She pulled at the door, using her whole weight to open it a half inch before he did just that.

The door slammed shut, one of his enormous hands splayed wide at her head. She fixed her gaze on that hand, its silver rings glinting in the dark, when he leaned in to her ear and said, “You should not have come.”

She swallowed, refusing to let him win. “Why not?”

“Because it is dangerous,” he said quietly, sending a shiver of belief through her. “Because the rookeries are no place for pretty girls with a breathless anticipation of adventure.”

She shook her head. “That’s not what I am.”

“No?”

“No.”

He waited for a long moment, and then said, “I think it is exactly what you are, Felicity Faircloth, in your pretty frock with your pretty hair high up on your pretty head, in your pretty world where nothing ever goes wrong.”

The words grated. “That’s not what I’m like. Things go wrong.”

He tutted. “Ah, yes. I forgot. Your brother made a bad investment. Your father, too. Your family’s poor enough to fear social exile. But here’s the rub, Felicity Faircloth—your family will never be poor enough to fear poverty. They’ll never wonder when their next meal will come. They’ll never fear for the roof over their heads.”

She turned her head then, almost looking at him, hearing the hint of truth in his words; he knew what that poverty was.

He continued before she could speak. “And you—” His voice grew lower. Darker. Thickly accented. “Silly gel . . . you come into Covent Garden like the fucking sun, thinkin’ you can take a walk wiv us and still stay safe.”

She did look at him then, cursing the shadows at his eyes, which made him a different man. A more frightening one. But she wasn’t frightened. If she were honest, the low voice and the dark profanity made her feel something very different than frightened. She squared her shoulders and replied, “I am safe.”

“You’re nothing close to safe.”

She might not know this place—she might never have known a life like the ones lived here—but she knew what it was to want beyond what she could have. And she knew that, right now, she had it in her reach—even if it was just for the night. Defiance flared and she lifted her chin. “Then we’d best get inside, don’t you think?”

For a moment, she thought he might turn her away. Stuff her into a hack and send her home, just as he’d done before. But instead, after a long stretch of silence, he reached behind her and opened the enormous door with virtually no effort, his hand coming to rest on her waist to guide her into the cavernous room beyond. It was best he did keep his hand there, as she came up short in the doorway, eyes wide and disbelieving.

She’d never seen anything like it.

What, from the outside, seemed like a large building, from the inside seemed to be the size of St. James’s Park. Around the outer edges of the single, massive room were racks of barre

ls and boxes stacked six or seven high. Inlaid in the ceiling at the outer edge of the racks were huge iron hooks, each attached to long, steel beams.

It was magnificent. She looked to Devil, who was watching her, more carefully than she should have liked. “It’s yours?”

Pride lit in his eyes, and something tightened in her chest. “It is.”

“It’s magnificent.”

“It is.”

“How long did it take you to build it?”

And like that, the pride was gone—extinguished. Replaced with something darker. “Twenty years.” She shook her head. Twenty years would make him a child. It wasn’t possible. And yet . . . she heard the truth in the words.

“How?”

He shook his head. That was all she would get from the Devil on that front.

She changed tack—moved back to safe ground. “What are the hooks for?”

He followed her gaze. “Cargo,” he said, simply.

As she watched, a man approached one of the hooks and swung a rope over it, pulling it toward the ground as two other men lifted a rope-wrapped crate up onto the hook. Once secured, they pushed it through the room with what looked like no effort at all. At the other end of the room, the crate was removed and placed inside one of the five wagons that stood closest to Felicity, each tethered to six strong horses. Surrounding them were dozens of men, some carrying bales of hay to the open ends of each wagon, others checking the hitches for the horses, and still more hurrying back and forth from the back end of the warehouse—which was too dark to see—holding great metal hooks carrying massive blocks of—

“It is ice,” she said.

“I said as much,” Devil replied.

“For what? Lemon treats? Raspberry?”

He smirked. “Do you like sweets, Felicity Faircloth?”

She blushed at the question, though she couldn’t for the life of her say why. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Mmm.”

The low murmur rumbled through her, and she cleared her throat. “Is it all ice?”