Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt.

She didn’t like the idea that he might be hurt, and she’d never know.

She didn’t say it, though. Not as he flexed beneath the leather straps, welcoming them like skin. Not as he pulled his greatcoat on over them, the heavy weight of the fabric hiding them from view and somehow doing absolutely nothing to make him look less dangerous.

Fucking dangerous.

The memory of the words on his beautiful, kiss-stung lips whispered through her. He was dangerous. More dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

She wondered if the danger made him feel powerful, too.

But she didn’t ask that, either.

Not as he lifted a nearby crate—the one with the flag—with one arm, as though it were made of goose down, and pushed past her to open the door to the tavern beyond. He stood back to let her exit ahead of him, the only indication that he even remembered she was there.

The man he’d been—the one who’d devastated her with pleasure—was gone. Returned was the silent Beast.

Beast.

“I still don’t know your name,” she said softly.

He didn’t seem to hear the words. At least, she assumed he didn’t for how he herded her from the room. He barely stopped to place the crate on the bar with a nod for the American as they exited the tavern, already full of people and merriment, the noise inside making the curving street beyond cacophonously quiet.

The silence from both street and man made Hattie want to scream.

But she didn’t as he hailed a hack and opened the door, not touching her—not even to hand her up into the conveyance.

He didn’t touch her, and he didn’t speak.

That is, until the door was nearly closed. And then he said a single word, one she thought perhaps she’d misheard for the way it came on graveled disuse, as though he was saying it for the first time.

“Whit.”

Chapter Eleven

A low, surprised whistle sounded behind Whit as he stood in dark gardens of Berkeley Square, watching Warnick House, considering the bright lights pouring through the windows of the town home.

Whit reached into his pocket and extracted his watches. Half past nine. He returned them to their place as his unwelcome visitor approached.

“I heard you were here, but I had to see it to believe it.”

Whit did not reply to the dry words, but that didn’t stop his brother from continuing. “Sarita told me you were wearing formalwear—poor girl had stars in her eyes.” Devil sent his voice into a high register, mimicking one of their rooftop network. “‘You won’t believe it! Beast is wearing a cravat!’”

The already irritating accessory seemed to tighten around Whit’s neck, and he resisted the urge to tug at the elaborate folds.

Devil whistled again. “I didn’t believe it, and yet, here you are. My God. When was the last time you tied a cravat?”

Beast narrowed his gaze on the house across the street, watching as a stream of nobs made their way to the ball within. “I wore a cravat to your wedding. To a woman whom you do not deserve, I might point out.”

“God knows that’s true,” Devil replied happily, twirling his walking stick, its silver lion’s head handle gleaming in the light from the lamps around the square. “Who helped you with it? It’s so . . . elaborate.”

“No one helped me. I remember the lessons.”

It had been twenty years, and still, he remembered the lessons. Devil did, too, he imagined. Their bastard of a father had drilled them into his sons, insisting that they be prepared for entry into the aristocracy just as soon as he decided which of the three bastards—born to different women on the same day—would be the one who took up his name and assumed life as his heir. And the others?

Cravat tying hadn’t come in handy on London streets. Waltzes hadn’t put food in their bellies. Knowing the proper fork for the fish hadn’t made for straw under their heads. And still, Whit remembered the lessons.

And he remembered how much he’d wanted the life their father had dangled in front of them, forcing them to do battle for a chance at it. How much he’d wanted the control it offered. The safety and security it could have provided the people he loved.

But the contest had never been for Whit. The prize had never been for him, the smallest and quietest of the three brothers. Devil had been sharp-tongued and Ewan full of cunning and rage, and their father had liked those traits more than those of Whit, full of nothing but a desire to protect the people he loved.

He’d failed.

But he still remembered the fucking lessons.

And so he stood here in the dark, cravat tight about his neck, watching the ton exit their carriages and enter a ball where, but for a single twist of fate two decades earlier, he might have belonged, waiting.

“Do you have plans for the evening beyond standing in Berkeley Square in a perfectly tied cravat?” Devil paused. “Where did you even get a cravat?”

“Keep at the cravat, and I shall use it to strangle you.”

Devil’s grin flashed white in the darkness as he turned back to the town house. “So we wait for someone?”

“I wait for someone. I don’t know why you are here at all.”

Devil nodded, watching the house for a long moment before moving away, to a nearby linden tree. He leaned against the trunk, crossing one black boot over the other. Whit did what he could to ignore him.

Devil was not one to be ignored. “I assume we await Lady Henrietta?”

Of course they did. Whit did not reply.

“I only ask because you’ve gone full fop.”

“I have not.” Whit wore all black, from his boots to his hat, with the exception of his shirt and the cravat they were not discussing again.

“Sarita told me your topcoat is embroidered in gold.”

Whit snapped his attention to Devil, horrified. “It is not.”

Devil grinned. “But you’re wearing a topcoat, which has no place in the Garden, so—clearly we are trying to impress.”

“I should like to impress my fist upon your face.” Whit turned back to the house, where a new carriage had arrived, footman leaping down with a block to help its inhabitants to the ground. Out came an older man, who immediately donned his hat.

“Cheadle,” Devil said, as though he understood.

He didn’t. Whit barely understood why he was here in Mayfair, in formalwear, watching Hattie’s father. Not that he’d admit that. “I told you I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

“Indeed you did. Are you here for the father or the son? You know you cannot knife them in a Mayfair ballroom, don’t you?”

“Don’t see why not,” Whit responded.

Devil grinned wide and tapped his walking stick against his boot. “You should have told me you were planning a show; I would have searched out formalwear, as well.”

“Nah. Someone has to keep up appearances,” Whit said, watching as the footman handed down a dark-haired woman in a brilliant orange frock, who turned to inspect the rest of the assembly, her bold smile full of confidence and lacking caution.

“Lady Henrietta, I assume?”

Whit’s brows knitted together. “It’s not her.” He took a step toward the street. Where was she?