Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

He’d been so close—so close she could see the black ring around the velvet gold of his eyes, and the shadow of his beard, making her wonder how it would feel against her skin, and that scar, long and dangerous and somehow vulnerable, making her want to reach up and touch it.

She almost had, until she’d realized that he might be going to kiss her, and then that was all she wanted. But then he hadn’t had any interest in doing it. Worse, he’d told her he had no interest in doing it.

“He’d leave kissing me to a Mayfair toff,” she said to the night, her cheeks burning from embarrassment. She’d never been so proud of herself for taking the bull by the horns, so to speak, and leaving him right there, in his room, where he could ruminate on what one should and should not say to women.

She turned her face to the sky, inhaling deeply. At least coming here had not been a mistake. She didn’t think she’d ever forget his sister—a woman who knew her worth, without question. Felicity could do with more of that, herself. She made a mental note to find her way to 72 Shelton Street—whatever she would find there was sure to be fascinating.

And even now, on the streets filled with shadows, the craggy mountains of tightly packed buildings rising up around her, Felicity found herself feeling—unlocked. This place, far from Mayfair and its judgment and cutting remarks . . . she liked it. She liked the way the rain settled. The way it seemed to wash away the grime. The way it seemed to free her.

“’Elp a gel out, milady?”

The question came close enough to shock her, and Felicity spun around to find a young woman standing behind her, wet from the rain that had started—a fine London mist that seeped into skin and clothes—in a ragged dress, hair stringy and loose around her shoulders. Her arm was extended, palm up.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

The woman indicated her open palm. “Got a bob? For somefin’ to eat?”

“Oh!” Felicity looked to the woman and then to her hand. “Yes. Of course.” She reached for the pocket of her skirts, where she kept a small coin purse.

A small coin purse that was no longer there.

“Oh,” she said again. “I don’t seem to—” She stopped. “My purse is—”

The woman’s lips twisted in frustration. “Aww, the blades ’ave already got to you.”

Felicity blinked. “Got to me?”

“Yeah. Fine lady like yerself, cutpurse found you the heartbeat you landed in the Garden.”

Felicity fingered the hole that remained in her skirts. Her purse was gone. And all her money. How was she to get home?

Her heart began to pound.

The woman scowled. “E’ryone’s a thief ’round here.”

“Well,” Felicity said, “I’ve nothing left to steal, it seems.”

The girl pointed to her feet. “Them slippers are pretty.” And then to the bodice of her dress. “An’ the ribbons there, the lace at yer neck, too.” Her gaze stole to Felicity’s hair. “And hairbits. E’ryone’s after ladies’ hairbits.”

Felicity lifted a hand to her hair, “My hairpins?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like one?”

A gleam shone in the girl’s eyes, and she looked as though she’d been offered jewels. “Yeah.”

Felicity reached up and extracted one, extending it to the girl, who snatched it without hesitation.

“Got one for me, lady?”

“And me?”

Felicity spun to find two more standing behind her, one older and one no more than eight or ten. She hadn’t heard them approach. “Oh,” she said again, reaching for her hair once more. “Yes. Of course.”

“And wot ’bout me, girl?” She turned to find a man beyond, reed-thin and smiling in a wolfish, toothless grin that made her skin crawl. “Wot you got for me?”

“I . . .” She hesitated. “Nothing.”

A different gleam in a different eye. Far more dangerous. “You sure?”

Felicity backed away, toward the other women. “Someone’s taken my purse.”

“’At’s all right—you can pay me anovver way. You ain’t the prettiest fing I’ve seen, but you’ll do.”

A hand touched her hair, fingers searching. “Can I have another?”

She blocked it from taking what she had not offered. “I need them.”

“You got more at yer home, don’t you?” the little girl whined.

“I—I suppose.” She pulled another hairpin out and extended it to her.

“Fank you,” the girl said, bobbing a little curtsy, pushing the pin into her knotted mane.

“Get gone, girl,” the man said. “It’s my turn to deal wiv the lady.”

Don’t get gone, Felicity thought. Please.

Felicity looked down the dark street toward Devil’s offices, out of sight. Surely he’d realized she was gone by now, hadn’t he? Would he follow her?

“You fink a lady’s going to deal wiv you, Reggie? She won’t touch yer poxy pecker for a king’s fortune.”

Reggie’s disgusting smile dropped, replaced by a menacing scowl. “You’re askin’ for a smack in the gob, girl.” He moved toward her, arm up, and she scurried back, into the shadows. Satisfied with his exhibition of weak power, he turned back toward Felicity and came closer. She backed away, coming up against a wall as he reached out for her hair, now unpinned, falling down around her shoulders.

“That’s pretty ’air—” He touched it, softly, and she flinched. “Like silk that is.”

She edged to the side, along the wall, regret and fear warring in her gut. “Thank you.”

“Ah-ah, lady.” He closed his hand, catching a hank of hair in his fist, pulling tight. When she gasped at the pain, he said, “Come back ’ere.”

“Let me go!” she shouted, turning, shock and fear sending her into action, her hand fisted as she punched wildly toward him, skimming his bony cheek as he leaned away from the strike.

“You’ll regret that swipe, you will.” He tightened his grip, pulling her head back. She cried out.

Two taps replied from the distance, barely noticeable over the sound of her pounding heart.

“Shit,” the man holding her said. He dropped her hair like it had burned.

“Oh . . . Reggie,” the first woman cackled. “You’ve got yerself a bit o’ trouble now . . .” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper as she backed farther into the darkness. “The Devil’s found you.”

For a moment, Felicity did not understand, too riddled with fear and confusion and immense relief that Reggie had unhanded her. She scurried to the side, away from those assembled, toward the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Look at her, heading for ’im,” the woman narrated. “You’ve touched a Bastard’s lady.”

“I didn’t know!” Reggie cried, his insolent bravado having escaped him.

And then he was there, the man they called the Devil—wearing the clothes she’d seen him in moments ago, the sleek black trousers she’d heard slide over his skin. The black linen shirt. The waistcoat. And now, he was wearing boots.

He carried that walking stick in his bare hand, his rings and the silver lion’s head glinting like wicked promise in the moonlight. It was a weapon, he’d assured her the night they met. And now, she had no doubt of it.

She let out a little exhale of relief. “Thank God.”

He didn’t look at her, too focused on Reggie as he twirled that stick menacingly. “God has no place here. Does he, Reggie?”

Reggie did not reply.

The stick spun, and Felicity could not tear her gaze from his face, where cold, hard angles had turned to stone and that wicked scar shone stark white against the darkness. “God has forsaken us here in the Garden, has he not, Reggie?”

Reggie swallowed. Nodded.

He kept moving, right past her, as though she were invisible. “And without God, whose benevolence allows you to remain here?”

Reggie’s eyes went wide and he strained to look up at the other man. “Yours.”

“And who am I?”

“Devil.”

“And do you know the rules of my turf?”

Reggie nodded. “Yes.”

“And what are they?”

“No one touches women.”

“That’s right,” a woman crowed from the shadows, brave once more. Safe, once more. “Bugger off, Reggie.”

Devil ignored her. “And what else, Reggie?”

“And no one touches children.”

“Or?”

“Or they see the Devil.”