Daring and the Duke (The Bareknuckle Bastards 3)

She took a deep breath and followed their gazes down over the edge of the roof, taking in the yard below, where the afternoon sun cast long shadows into the enormous rectangular space, flanked on all sides by the massive warehouse owned by the Bareknuckle Bastards.

A web of inside corridors connected the buildings, accessible only through the main entrance at the far end of the yard, where Annika, the tall Norwegian genius who ran the Bastards’ business operation, stood framed in the great sliding doorway of the warehouse, against the pitch darkness of the interior. Nik was flanked by a quartet of men who hauled for a living, arms crossed over their broad chests, box hooks in hand. The five stood sentry, unmoving.

Watching.

As everyone else watched. The yard was packed with people, the crowd two deep—three in places—men and women, old and young. Grace recognized the Rookery’s baker on the eastern edge of the crowd, towering behind a collection of the boys she knew hauled fresh water around the neighborhood. A few of the girls who worked the streets stood in the long shadow of the western wall. Even the doctor’s wife had made an appearance.

It took Grace a moment to see what they all saw.

Lie.

She saw him the moment she looked over the edge, at the center of the yard, alone. He was in shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled to his elbows, revealing the muscles of his forearms, straining as he hefted a block of ice three-feet square, held by a length of rough rope over his shoulder.

Those muscles were the only thing about him that did not scream duke. He didn’t have to speak a word for them to know where he came from. There was nothing about him that hid it.

Grace wondered where his coat was, as it was impossible to believe that he’d come without it, or a waistcoat. Or a cravat. Or a hat. As for trousers, they molded to his thighs and were not designed for the Rookery—their color too light to hide the dirt and grime of the Garden.

His face did not hide the truth, either. It didn’t matter that his long nose had been broken when they were children—a well-placed blow on Devil’s part—or that it was streaked with dirt and perspiration. The angles of it were all wrong, sharp and aristocratic, with even the bump on his nose seeming to have a Mayfair accent.

All that, and he was still the handsomest thing she’d ever seen.

No wonder the girls had sent word about him; he didn’t belong here.

He looked every inch the duke he was.

Every inch the enemy.

And the Garden knew it.

All around the edge of the yard, they watched, reveling in his mistakes—the absence of a hook to haul the ice, the lack of a leather shoulder guard to protect his skin from the rough rub of the rope, the gloves that had been made for horses’ reins and walking sticks rather than hard work and wear.

“Truly, it is a miracle you two lived to adulthood. And found women to marry you,” she said softly. “It’s a good thing they’re brilliant, else I would dearly fear for your progeny. What sort of punishment is this? You’ve got him hauling ice? Has he seen the cargo that came packed in it? Because letting a duke near your smuggled goods is truly, madly stupid.”

“He’s not anywhere near the true cargo,” Devil said.

“No?”

“Nah. He’s just hauling the last of the ice.”

“How much is the last of it?”

Devil looked to Beast. “What, eighty?”

Beast shrugged. “One hundred?”

One hundred blocks of ice, each one easily fifty pounds. And without a hook. His hands would be blistered from the ropes. His shoulders, too. He wore none of the protection that haulers traditionally wore. Her jaw clenched. “How many has he done?”

“Ten? A dozen?”

She shook her head. He wouldn’t be able to do much more. He wasn’t a hauler. He hadn’t been born with a hook in his hand.

And still, it looked like he would never stop. Something tightened in her throat, watching him in the dirt, in this part of the city that had been his before it had belonged to any of them. “So you set a duke down in the middle of the Garden, and expect him to walk away unscathed?”

“I wouldn’t say we expect that, no,” Devil said.

“Mmm,” Beast agreed. “I think we’re rather hoping he wouldn’t.”

“I thought we agreed you didn’t touch him?”

Devil looked at her and spread his arms wide. “I’m on the roof, Gracie. So far away it’s like I was never even here.”

“Still, you’re starting something, and he won’t stop till it’s finished,” she said. “You know that.”

“He started it,” Whit said.

She cut him a look. “What does that mean?”

He grunted. “He came looking to pay his debts.”

“His debts.”

“Wot, we weren’t supposed to take him up on the offer?” Devil said. “Ten thousand and some sound work in the Garden is a lot to pass up.”

Ten thousand pounds. “For the families?”

It was a fortune.

Beast turned on her, his amber eyes, usually so soft, turned hard, and his voice to match. “Five men, and it ain’t enough.” The words were clipped, tight on his tongue, and Grace felt the sting of them, like a wet lash. “He owes them, and you’d do well to remember that.”

Her face went hot with his censure, and she spoke to his profile. “You think I don’t remember?”

He did not look at her. “I think you’ve always had trouble remembering the truth of him.”

She bit back a sound of frustration, hating the way her chest tightened at the words. What did she care one way or another what happened to Ewan?

Not Ewan.

She watched him cross the yard again, his back to her. The muscles of his back were visible through his now-wet shirt. They rippled beneath the weight, and her mouth went dry.

Marwick. That was the truth of him, whether he was dressed for dukedom or not.

Grace tore her attention away from him, instead fixing on the crowd that watched in near silence. There was nothing easy about the quiet—she’d lived in Covent Garden long enough to know the difference between calm and tension. And everybody below seemed to hang in suspension, waiting for the chance to take this duke and make an example of him.

Rich, powerful, entitled.

And for no reason but birth.

Except he hadn’t had all that at birth. At birth, he’d been one of them.

But they didn’t know that. No one did. No one ever would, with the exception of the Bareknuckle Bastards. Even if someone in the Rookery did remember the blond bean of a boy, whelp of a moll on Tavistock Row, they’d never match him to the duke before them—it didn’t matter how much ice he hauled.

“They’re ready for a fight,” she said quietly. How many times had she seen them like this? On the balls of their feet, ready for a brawl.

Beast grunted his agreement.

“Of course they are. They love it,” Devil said. “A duke in the muck? It’s like watching a hound recite Shakespeare.”

“And so? You expect him to give it to them?”

“He’s smart enough to know the Garden wants its fight, and they won’t settle for less. And if he wants forgiveness—”

“He wants forgiveness?”