Wicked and the Wallflower (The Bareknuckle Bastards 1)

There was a beat, followed by Whit’s quiet, “Fucking hell.”

Or perhaps it was Devil who said it. He wasn’t certain, as he was distracted by the wash of fury that came over him at the words.

He was gone in an instant, disappearing into the darkness without farewell, long legs eating up the ground until he became unsatisfied with his speed and began to run.

Grace and Whit stood on the docks, watching their brother disappear into the darkness before she turned to him and said, “Well. This is all unexpected.”

Whit nodded once. “You realize that Ewan won’t like it when Devil wins.”

“I do.”

He looked to her. “You’ve got to get gone for a bit, Gracie.”

She nodded. “I know.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Felicity was fairly certain that 72 Shelton Street was a bordello.

When she had knocked at the entrance an hour earlier, a small inlaid door had slid open, revealing a set of beautifully kohl-lined eyes. And when she’d told those eyes that Dahlia had invited her, the small door had given way to the larger one, and she’d been welcomed inside.

A tall, raven-haired beauty in deep sapphire had met her in a lovely receiving room, explained that Dahlia was not in at the moment, and invited Felicity to wait. As Felicity’s curiosity was impossible to deny, she had, of course, agreed.

At that point, she’d been provided with a mask and escorted to a larger room, oval in shape, wrapped in silk and satin and appointed with a dozen or so settees, armchairs, and tufted cushions. Refreshments had been offered.

And then the men had arrived.

Or, rather, they’d begun to arrive.

The room boasted a half-dozen doors, all closed, except to herald the entry of what must have been some of the handsomest men in Britain. And they’d kept coming, these charming men, offering more wine, more cheese, candied sweets, and sweet plums. They sat close and regaled her with stories of their strength, telling her delightful, diverting jokes, and generally making her feel as though she were the only woman in the world.

Making her forget, almost, the reason she had come in the first place.

What was remarkable was this—the charming assembly of men made her feel the center of their world despite the presence of any number of other women, all of whom entered wearing masks, whose comings and goings appeared to be for the purpose of pairing off with one (and in some cases, more than one) of these gentlemen.

No doubt for lovemaking.

It occurred to Felicity that there was a time when she might have felt uncomfortable with the goings-on inside 72 Shelton Street, but now she was more than thrilled with her decision to accept Dahlia’s invitation, because if anyone could teach her how to woo a man such as Devil, it was these men, who were so impressively charming.

A tall, handsome man was entertaining her; he’d introduced himself as Nelson—like the hero, but better-looking—with a smile in gentle eyes that had lovely wrinkles at their corners, and made him seem the kind of man with whom one might like to spend a lifetime, not just an evening.

After showering her in compliments, Nelson began to regale her with the story of a cat he’d once known—one who had a penchant for attending regular church services, and not simply attending them: “She was particularly fond of climbing the pulpit and spreading herself across the Book of Common Prayer. Needless to say, the vicar did not care for it, and routinely had to put the cat out to get on with his sermon.”

Felicity laughed at the image as Nelson added, dark eyes twinkling, “I always thought it cruel treatment. The sweet pussy only wished for a pet.”

The double meaning in the words did not escape Felicity, and her eyes went wide at the flirt. Was it considered a flirt if it was so overt?

Before she could suss out the answer, two raps sounded, and she felt the vibration in the floorboards as Nelson’s gaze flickered to a spot behind her, up, up until his eyes were also wide, and he was scrambling to his feet.

Felicity knew before she turned what she would find there.

Or, rather, whom she would find.

It did not change the way her heart began to pound when she discovered Devil in his tall darkness, clad all in black, walking stick in hand, storm clouds in his eyes. Her breath caught as he searched her face, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly, making her want to reach up and touch it. Soothe it.

No. There would be none of that.

Instead, she straightened her spine and said, “What are you doing here?”

“This place is not for you.”

She immediately resisted the words. “I cannot fathom how you are in any position to say so.”

If possible, the angles of his face grew sharper, his eyes darkening. “Because this place is in Covent Garden and I own Covent Garden, Felicity Faircloth.”

She smirked. “Well. Then I suggest you think very carefully before you give a fairy-tale princess free rein of your property.”

“Goddammit, Felicity,” he said, his voice low enough as to not draw attention from the others in the room. “You cannot hie out of Mayfair whenever you like.”

“It seems I can, though, can’t I?” Thank goodness for being a spinster; no one ever thought to make sure you remained in your bedchamber after you retired to bed. It made one feel quite chuffed when one did escape one’s home.

And even more so when one was able to give a proper set-down to an arrogant man who deserved it. Feeling quite proud of herself, she turned on her heel and crossed the room, opening one of the beautiful mahogany doors and walking straight through it—as though she had any idea where she was going.

She would worry about that bit once she was rid of him.

Felicity closed the door behind her on the sound of his curse. Blessedly, there was a key in the lock, which she turned and pocketed. She looked about. She was in a stairwell, dimly lit and covered in gold and scarlet satin wall coverings, narrow wooden stairs climbing up to whatever was above.

The handle to the door rattled. “Open the door.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I will.”

A pause. And then, again, “Felicity. Open the door.”

Excitement threaded through her. Excitement and a sense of freedom like she’d never felt before. “I would imagine you rather wished you had a talent with locks right now, don’t you?”

“I don’t need a talent with locks, love.”

Love. The endearment filled the small, quiet space. She shouldn’t let it warm her, but it did. She shouldn’t let him warm her. Hadn’t he hurt her? Hadn’t he sent her away? Sworn her off him?

She gave a little huff of frustration.

And still, she wanted that endearment.

And still, she wanted the man.

Felicity turned on one heel and took off, up the steps, and quickly, as she wanted to put distance between them before he found a key and came after her. Or perhaps she wanted to put distance between herself and her feelings for him. It didn’t matter anymore. She imagined she had a minute or two before the beautiful woman who had met her at the door provided him with a key.

She was three-quarters of the way up the staircase when the door flew in, ricocheting against the wall only to be caught by Devil’s strong arm as he stepped through the doorway. Her mouth fell open as she stilled on the steps. “Are you mad? I could have been standing there!”

“You weren’t,” he said, coming for her.

She backed up the steps, her heart pounding. “You broke your sister’s door.”

“My sis

ter is very rich. She will repair it.” He kept coming. “I’m not happy with you right now, Felicity Faircloth.”

She continued up the steps, one hand lifting her skirts to allow for freedom of movement. “I can see that, as you just broke down a door.”

“I would not have had to do that if you hadn’t turned up in Covent Garden.”

“This has nothing to do with you.” She retreated.

“It has everything to do with me.” He advanced.

“You told me not to seek you out again.” He was closing in on her. And she found she enjoyed the way her pulse thrummed with every measured footstep.

“So you seek out a fucking bordello?”

She paused, putting one hand to the wall to steady herself. “I had an inkling that was what this was!” Now she was rather regretting not exploring a bit more.

“An inkling?” Devil looked to the ceiling as though for patience. “What in hell else would it be? A second White’s? Special for the Covent Garden set?”

She tilted her head. “It had occurred to me that it might be a . . . you know . . . but it hadn’t quite felt so . . . bordello-esque.” He had nearly reached her. “Why are all the ladies masked?”

“Are you through storming away from me?”

She tilted her head. “For now.”

“Only because I’ve piqued your interest and you want answers.”

“Why are all the ladies masked?”

He stopped on the step below her, and the difference in height brought them eye to eye. “Because they don’t want to be recognized.”

“Isn’t that the point? Don’t the clients wish to see the women’s faces?”

“Felicity . . .” He paused, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Darling, the women are the clients.”

Her mouth went perfectly round with surprise. “Oh.”

It was a bordello—in reverse.

“Oh,” she repeated. “That would explain why Nelson was so very charming.”

“Nelson is very good at his work.”