Page 7 of The Duke and the Darkness

By the time Devlin rushed through the front doors and outside into the night after her, she had already vanished.

Chapter Two

From the darknessof her unmarked carriage, Peyton Chandler slipped a gun and knife out from beside the seat cushion. She peered through the window at Barton’s.

Dartmoor.

He’d run out of the club in pursuit of her, just as she knew he would. He stood on the narrow footpath and looked up and down the street, searching for her. But there were too many people coming and going, too many carriages of all sorts in the midnight street, for him to figure out where she’d gone. He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair in aggravation with what she was certain was a harsh curse. He was angry, embarrassed, undoubtedly frustrated…and now decidedly poorer.

Good.The bastard deserved all that and more.

And she would be the one to rain it all down upon his head.

She pounded the hilt of the knife against the ceiling. The driver snapped his whip, and the team started forward slowly so as not to draw any attention. Exactly as she’d instructed earlier. She watched just long enough to be certain Dartmoor wasn’t following her, then leaned back against the leather squabs.

A long sigh seeped from her lips, and she closed her eyes.

The evening had gone exactly as she’d hoped. Better, in fact, because she’d been able to add the humiliation of losing to a woman to Dartmoor’s losses. It had been so easy! ArmandMarchand, the former Imperial Guard member andmaître d’armeswhom she had hired to teach her to protect herself, had been right about cards and this particular game. As long as the dealer didn’t shuffle the deck between hands, she could easily keep track of which cards had been played, noting them in her head as each one was laid down. Then she’d used her beauty against Dartmoor by letting him believe the game was turning into foreplay. Whenever he’d started to win, she’d simply distracted him with a well-timed innuendo or flirtation.

She laughed darkly—tasting the brandy from her fingertips had been a stroke of genius. For a moment, she’d thought he might just start panting!

He had been so caught up in the idea of tupping her tonight that he never stopped to think she might be tricking him. She had warned him outright that she planned on winning, but he’d underestimated her anyway.

Why did men always think there was never anything of substance behind a pretty face? Inexplicably, she’d expected more from Dartmoor.

She’d managed to take his money without him recognizing her—although why would he? He hadn’t seen her in ten years, not since she was sixteen, fresh from the schoolroom and still in braids. Even then, he had never trulyseenher. Not the Marquess of Truro, whom he had been before inheriting, the dashing young twenty-two-year-old who had freshly returned from the wars. He’d paid her no more mind that spring than a piece of furniture. Yet in less than a handful of meetings, when he’d said nothing more to her than empty pleasantries before turning his attention to the glamorous society women surrounding him, Peyton had fallen completely in love. She’d thought him nothing short of perfect.

In truth, he’d been nothing but a self-absorbed young man who cared so little about his country and family that he’d hiredhimself out as a mercenary during the wars. Then, four years later, when army life had become too difficult, he returned to London to take up where he’d left off as a rakehell in the making. He had cared only for what the Raines’ family name and fortune could do for him, what doors would open to him as heir to a dukedom. Especially bedroom doors of beautiful young widows, unfaithful wives…

“Opera singers,” she muttered into the darkness, remembering that night from so long ago when Truro had vanished from his parents’ party with the Italian soprano his mother had hired for entertainment.

No, notrememberingbecause that night never left her. It was always at the forefront of her mind, in everything she did, in every breath she took. She would never be able to forget how her parents’ carriage had been attacked on their way home from the party at Dartmoor House, how Papa and Mama had been pulled from the carriage and murdered, how she had nearly been killed herself. The only reason she was still alive was that her attacker had attempted to rape her before slitting her throat, and in that moment’s pause, she’d somehow managed to escape. She didn’t know how, having fallen unconscious in the struggle, and she might never discover how—but shehadsurvived, and being haunted every day by the memory of that night was now what kept her going.

Half an hour later, her carriage stopped in front of the townhouse she was renting at the edge of Marylebone. It was located close enough to Mayfair to keep an eye on Dartmoor, yet far enough away that she wouldn’t be recognized by anyone who might have known her from before, although that wouldn’t happen.

After all, she’d changed so much she barely recognized herself.

When the tiger opened the door, she hesitated before stepping outside as a silent warning slithered down her spine. It was the same feeling she’d had since the moment she’d disembarked from the ship six weeks ago: she was being watched.

“Ma’am?” Misreading her hesitation, the tiger held out his hand to help her down.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.” Yet she cautiously glanced around in all directions before stepping to the ground on her own.

If the footman was surprised she’d emerged from the carriage carrying a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, he didn’t show it. But she hadn’t expected him to. He was a former soldier, after all, hired specifically because he’d proven his bravery in battles on the Peninsula and wouldn’t hesitate to kill if necessary.

It had taken her years after the attack to be comfortable riding in carriages again, and only then when she was armed and surrounded by men she’d personally hired. She couldn’t give up carriages and night travel completely. They were both necessary evils. But she could stack the odds considerably in her favor and give second thoughts to anyone who dared to consider coming after her.

The butler, who had served as a captain beneath Wellington, opened the door as she hurried toward the townhouse. She nodded her thanks and slipped inside the dark house.

“You’re back,” John Wilkins called out from the first-floor landing above the stair hall. “How did it go?”

“Incredibly well.” She handed her cape to the butler and walked up the stairs past Wilkins.

Her old friend fell into step behind her, as she knew he would. He’d most likely been pacing the townhouse as he waited anxiously for her return. She smiled to herself. At thirty-eight, ifWilkins hadn’t already lost most of his hair, she was certain his worry over tonight’s plan would have left him completely bald.

Ostensibly, John Wilkins was her estate manager. He oversaw all her finances, protected her interests, and made certain her household ran smoothly.

In reality, he was so much more. He ensured she was safe by helping her rent the townhouse, by hiring the household staff who were more soldiers than servants, and by serving as her primary bodyguard. Wilkins had been twenty-eight and in her father’s employ as a footman when her family’s carriage was attacked. He had been leading the carriage through the fog with a lantern, and he had never forgiven himself for not noticing the men waiting in the shadows, for not being able to stop the violent attack.