Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

And that’s when Ewan knew the worst of it. Whit and Devil were here to tell him he was to leave the Garden alone. That he was to leave her alone.

Impossible.

“I owe you; I won’t argue with that,” he said. “But I won’t leave.”

“You misunderstand, Duke,” Devil said. “You don’t owe us. You owe them. You don’t need our forgiveness. You need the forgiveness of the Garden.”

He’d never get it. But he wanted it.

We’re going to change all that.

“You need the forgiveness of Grace,” Devil added.

He wanted that, too. More. “How.”

Whit grunted, then said, “I told you.”

Devil smiled, his scar—the scar Ewan had put there with his own blade—pulling tight on his cheek. “Come and see us.”

For the Garden? Or for Grace?

“And what, you make me a gladiator and feed me to the lions?”

“High opinion of your fighting, bruv,” Whit said, dry as sand.

Devil’s smile turned into a rich laugh. “You’ve been away from us for too long, toff.” He popped his hat on his head, pulling it down low on his brow, so all that was left was his scar and the lower half of his face. “Come and see us to make amends, or we’ll come back and take them.”

He headed for the door, Whit coming shoulder to shoulder with him. Once there, the brother the Garden called Beast turned back to face him. “You didn’t ask us.”

“Ask you what?”

“Whether Grace made us promise not to kill you.”

He didn’t have to ask. He knew she had. He lifted his chin, refusing to ask the more important question. The one that would haunt his sleep.

“You didn’t ask why she made us promise not to kill you.”

That one.

He almost kept quiet. Almost. “Why?” The question came out harsher than he expected. More urgent.

Whit looked to Devil. “I told you.”

Tap. Tap.

Whit looked back at him, and in that amber gaze he knew as well as his own, Ewan saw fury and betrayal and something else—something like sorrow. “It’s what you did to her. What you owe her.”

“What?” The word was out before he could take it back.

Devil looked at Whit, then back at him.

“Tell me, or get the fuck out,” Ewan said, desperation in his voice.

Whit answered. “You broke her heart.”

The words sent pain straight through him, sharp and ragged enough to have him raising a hand to his own chest.

Whit watched him for a moment, seeing the truth. “We don’t have to wreck you,” his quiet brother, who’d suffered so much at his hands, said. “She’ll do the wrecking. And you won’t for a minute think you don’t deserve it.”

Chapter Twelve

“They say she won’t last the year.”

Grace looked up from where she was checking the line of debits from the monthly ledger as Zeva and Veronique entered.

Today, Zeva wore an elaborate aubergine gown, shot through with silver and worth a fortune, and Grace admired the ensemble even as she shook her head at the other woman’s utter disregard for practical dress. Veronique, on the other hand, wore breeches and a crisp white shirt, crisscrossed with a holster that held a pair of pistols at easy access beneath her arms. Grace couldn’t remember a time when the head of the club security had been without her weapons, though they were not always so visible.

She waved the duo—different as chalk and cheese and somehow the perfect team—into the chairs opposite her desk. “Who won’t last the year?”

“Victoria,” Zeva said, simply.

“I assume we discuss the queen and not a member?” Grace’s weekly meeting with her lieutenants almost always began with Zeva’s read on the latest scandal sheets. More often than not, some excitement relating to members was involved.

“Good God, yes. Can you imagine Queen Victoria, a member?” Zeva laughed, then said, “It would be good for business, I suppose.”

It would be terrible for business, Grace was certain.

“Anyway,” the other woman went on. “I read it in the news—and with Dominion coming up, it seems it should be added to the betting book. No one thinks a woman can last as monarch for any legitimate length of time.”

“You mean no man believes that,” Veronique snorted, crossing one buckskin-covered leg over the other and relaxing into her chair. “Women can easily remember that Elizabeth existed.”

“And rode men into battle,” Grace pointed out.

“Sadly, did not ride men in any other way, poor virgin queen,” Zeva said. “A bit like you, Dahlia.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Veronique said slyly.

Grace snapped her attention to her lieutenant. “What was that?”

Zeva’s eyes went wide and she flashed a smile broad enough to be seen from the rooftops beyond the window. “Oh, yes, let’s investigate! What was that?”

Veronique shrugged. “The girls talk.”

“The girls shouldn’t talk,” Grace said.

“You pay them to talk.”

“Not about me!”

Zeva’s attention bounced between them as though she watched shuttlecock. “What about her?”

“She went to Marwick’s ball,” Veronique said, waving a hand through the air, as though that would be enough information for Zeva. Forgetting that no amount of information was enough for Zeva.

Grace looked back at her ledger, the numbers swimming on the page as she willed the floor to open up and drag her to another, faraway land.

“Well, we knew she was doing that,” Zeva said.

“Yes, but apparently she didn’t spend all her time in the ballroom.”

“So?” A pause. A weighty, information-filled pause. “Oh. Ohhhhh.” Another pause, and a wolfish grin. “Where did she spend her time?”

“In the gardens,” Veronique whispered, loud enough for the entire building to hear.

“Dahlia! I must say,” Zeva said, putting a hand to her breast. “I’m really quite proud of you.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

“Well, we did suggest she get herself some fantasy,” Veronique said, smartly.

“Enough!”

“How interesting.” Another pause. “This is the same duke you beat black and blue a year ago? The one who wanted to make you his duchess?”

Not just duchess.

You are a queen. Tonight, I am your throne.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory of the words. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, interesting . . .” Zeva said, noticing, of course. She paid Zeva to notice, as well.

“Tell me,” Grace said. “How is it you both are so very certain that I will not sack you?”

“For what, doing our job?”

Silence fell in the wake of the question. Veronique wasn’t amused. From the moment she joined Grace to build 72 Shelton Street, she’d managed the safety of the club’s members and staff with unwavering commitment. The only time she was not at the club was when her husband’s ship was in port—and even then, the captain joined her on the premises more often than not.