Chapter One

15 years and 6 months later.
Berkeley Square, London.

Lady Ophelia Darby’s fingers ran with swift grace over the grand pianoforte keys, playing a lively tune. Sensing a presence in the music room, she lowered her hands and twisted on the bench. The Marchioness of Shelton framed the doorway, a wide smile on her mouth. Her mother was an exquisite lady, and today she was garbed in a bright yellow gown that flattered her trim and elegant figure. Her light brown hair streaked with golden strands was no longer clasped in a tight chignon but flowed loosely past her shoulders in a riot of becoming curls.

As her blue eyes gleamed with happiness and a hint of tears, Mama looked many years younger than her actual age of five and forty. Most importantly, she no longer wore dark-colored gowns, nor did she appear wan and hopeless as she waited for her husband to die.

Aware of her own fingers trembling, Ophelia stood and fully faced her mother. “The doctors gave a good report?” she softly asked, renewed hope blooming through her heart.

“Your father…” Mama cleared her throat. “Your father has healed well. The doctors said all danger has passed, and he will eventually recover his vitality completely.”

Relief swelled through her and burst forth in laughter. Lifting the skirts of her gown, she hopped over the bench.

“Ophelia, what wildness is this!” her mother cried, as if aghast; however, her eyes shone with laughter. “And you are without shoes and stockings, too! Impudent child.”

Running from the room, Ophelia only paused briefly to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Impudent lady, Mama. I am four and twenty.”

Ophelia gripped her gown and dashed up the winding staircase, swiping away at the tears running down her cheeks. Upon reaching her father’s bedchamber, she paused, swallowing down these peculiar feelings that darted through her whenever she met with him. Only two weeks ago, he had summoned her to his bedside to speak with her. She had greatly feared it was the last time she would see her father.

Her mama, the servants, and even Ophelia had anticipated the passing of the marquess with grim visages. Mama wept and prayed daily, and Ophelia often sat by his bedside reading and telling him of her day. Her papa had believed his death imminent, and because of that, he shattered the love and trust between himself and Ophelia by revealing a secret…or better, a truth. Since then, whenever they faced each other, she had to fight for equanimity and present a serene and determinedly untroubled countenance. Ophelia could not bear for him to see that the truth he had revealed still ravaged her daily.

She knocked and politely waited for him to respond.

“Come in, Ophelia.”

She opened the door and slipped inside the large and airy bedchamber. Her father sat by the windows in a high wingback chair, a blanket covering his knees. He was wearing a purple banyan, but underneath, his shirt and neatly tied cravat were visible. He did not look like the powerful and robust marquess she’d always known, her papa who could conquer any insurmountable obstacle.

“How did you know it was me, Papa?” she asked with a smile, hurrying to his side and brushing a kiss to his cheek.

“Though I am sure you tried to practice restraint, I could feel the impatience in your knock.”

Ophelia wrinkled her nose and sat on the chaise longue opposite his chair, curling her feet onto the cushions. When she was growing up, her father had lamented many times that her energy was entirely too boundless, that she did not know how to sit still, and even suggested that her impetuous temperament was better suited to a son, to which she had always rolled her eyes in the most unladylike fashion…no doubt confirming his assessment.

Running her gaze over him critically, she was pleased to note his color had improved and he seemed stronger. Since the affliction that had struck his heart, her papa had lost an undetermined amount of weight, grooves bracketed his mouth, and his skin was pulled taut over the elegant ridge of his cheekbones. Yet there was an inherent strength in his face that his ailment had not been able to reduce. A few more silver strands dotted his temples, but her papa was a man in his prime and retained his devilish handsomeness.

“The doctors have given a really good report, Papa. Mama is very happy. You will soon be dancing at balls with her and riding in the park again.”

“That would please me,” he murmured, his rich golden-brown eyes, identical to her own, lighting up.

Since his ailment, his marchioness had not been away from his side, refusing all callers to their home and canceling all her social engagements. Ophelia had taken over household matters with grim resilience, understanding her mother was too shattered to manage that responsibility.

“You will be taking walks with Mama soon, Papa.”

“I daresay I shall, poppet. How I long to just hold your mother’s hand between mine and walk about the gardens, listening to the chirping birds and the rushing waters in the fountains.”

Her father smiled at her bare toes peeking from beneath her dress and her unbound hair resting against her hips. All the propriety she practiced outdoors in the company of others vanished once she rested under her papa’s roof, and he had never forced her to conform to others’ expectations. “Papa…”

Their eyes met, and it happened then. Ophelia’s throat closed, and she simply stared at him, hating the burning sensation in her eyes.

“Why do you cry?” he gruffly demanded.

“I am not crying,” she said with a stubborn lift of her chin, keeping those dratted tears from spilling over.

His hand that rested on the carved arms of his chair stilled. He sensed it, too, this uncomfortable strain between them.

“Will you tell me about her?” she asked hoarsely.

“No.”

“Papa—”

“You do not need to know about her, ever.”

Ophelia felt as if her whole solid world had evaporated in one breath. “Papa, what do you mean?”

His face was dark with emotion and wariness. “The marchioness has been a wonderful mother to you, and you have led a contented and happy life. Let us be enough!”

His command shocked her speechless. On his supposed deathbed, he had told her a truth that had destroyed her, and now Ophelia realized he never intended to reveal the rest to her. How naive she had been, waiting for the moment when he would share more.

“Tell me, Papa,” she breathed. “Was she an awful woman? One who was unkind and selfish in her nature? One so terrible it is in my best interest I never know anything about her?”

“No. You are so very much like her,” her father said, a faraway look entering his eyes, as if he disappeared into a memory. “Your voice is just as beautiful as hers…maybe even more. She too sang and played the pianoforte with incredible skill and passion.”

Something inside Ophelia crumpled. “Then tell me about her, please, Papa! At least tell me her name.”

Her father’s eyes filled with tears. His throat worked, but no sound emerged. He turned his regard away, staring through the windows of the parlor for unending minutes. “Miss Sally Martin.”

Her birth mother’s name was Sally Martin.

“Papa—”

“No! What’s done is done,” he commanded hoarsely. “If not…if not…” His lips pinched, the words clearly heavy on his tongue and seeming unbearable to speak.

A sharp swelling pain rose up in her. “If not that you believed you were dying, you would not have told me,” Ophelia said, a hot ache burning in her throat, such unknown emotions sweeping through her it took an enormity of willpower not to cry.

“You only told me to relieve the guilt on your heart. You wanted to go on to your rewards with a conscience no longer burdened by secrets and guilt. You would have departed this world at peace, but you would have left behind a daughter bewildered, hurt, and shocked, for the papa she loved and doted on had revealed a character that was flawed. You would have left me alone with such doubts and pain, such confusion I would have nowhere to turn. But you did not die, Papa. You lived, and I have so many questions. Please, I beg of you to answer them.”

He closed his eyes, lines of pain and regret bracketing his mouth. “We will never speak about this again.”

His tone was implacable, his eyes hard and shadowed, and it was the powerful marquess who stared back at her, not her doting papa. She met his gaze with seething frustration. “Papa—”

“Your mother…” Papa cleared his throat and gruffly commanded, “Your mother must not be troubled with this. We will not speak of it again, ever.”

Ophelia understood then that whatever her father thought he protected—his wife’s sensibilities, losing his daughter’s love, having to face his own lack of honor—mattered more to him than the lingering confusion and doubts in his daughter’s heart.

She stood, dipped into a polite curtsy, and rushed through the door. Once it had closed, she leaned against it, letting the hot spill of tears course down her cheeks. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. Since her father’s confession, Ophelia had taken all the doubts and bewilderment, wrapped them in a tight ball, and pressed them deep down inside until they no longer tormented her. She had prayed daily with her mother that he would recover, for she loved him with her whole heart, and she was not ready to lose him.

Somehow, Ophelia had truly believed that once he rallied, her father would have expanded on his brief confession and told her more.

“Your…the marchioness did not give birth to you. Forgive me for keeping it so long.”

Those had been his thin, whispery words, and how she had stared at him in utter bewilderment. “But you are my papa?”

“Yes.”

Her sudden, breathtaking anguish had wrestled with her shock. Not my mother…

She had tried to force her confused thoughts to order, for her parents had celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary recently. They had been married before she was born, so how could someone other than the marchioness have been her mother at birth? Those questions had spilled from her as she clasped his hands, and his only other response had been that she was the child of his mistress.

“She did not want me?” Ophelia had whispered, feeling little emotion because the absurdity of his story simply could not be true. It was the ramblings of a man in pain and confused by the tincture of laudanum.

Perhaps he had been muddled from the drug, but her father had murmured, “I did not give her a choice. I took you even though she cried and begged me not to.”

Then with a relieved sigh, as if a great burden had been lifted from his heart, her father had fallen into a deep slumber.

I took you even though she cried and begged me not to.

Everything she thought she knew about her father’s honor, her mother’s kindness, the love and happiness their family had been blessed with, shattered that day.

Ophelia had enjoyed her life and the bounteous fortune of being a marquess’s daughter. She was doted on, given her heart’s desires by her mother and father. But it had all been at the cost of someone else’s torment, someone her father had used and left crumbled in the ashes of her pain.

She could not imagine having a child who was simply snatched away by the father, never to be seen again. Why had he done it? Ophelia struggled to reconcile that they had stolen her from her mother’s arms when she was a squalling infant, without any consequences. But who would that lady be compared to her father? He was powerful. To be a mistress meant her Sally Martin would have little or no connections to the ton or wealth. She’d have no standing to resist or complain about a wealthy marquess.

Ophelia was haunted by so many questions.

Was Sally Martin still alive? How had she coped with having her babe ripped from her arms by her protector? Had she mourned and eventually picked up the pieces? Had she found another protector? Had she died from a broken heart? Who was she? Did she still smile…and also sing? Or had her song died when the marquess broke her heart so irrefutably? Did she still play the pianoforte with the same zest and passion Ophelia did?

With shaking fingers, she wiped the tears from her face and silently asked herself questions she had been afraid to ponder.

Are we alike in any other ways?

Her heart wrenched underneath her breastbone. Ophelia recalled a time in her young life her mother had found her presence unbearable. The marchioness had never hugged or played or read to her as Papa did, though how Ophelia had craved her mama’s affections. Ophelia remembered how she would hide and watch her mother in her boudoir, wishing she could go to her and bask in her warmth and perfume.

Her mother had hated whenever she sang and danced in the long hallways of their country home, and the pain of knowing her mother rejected her had almost killed something inside of her. Her papa had tried to comfort Ophelia by telling her that she and her mama were simply different creatures. That one day her mama would start to hug and kiss her, too. She had not believed it, but then it had all changed when she had been found after several days missing.

“I understand it now, Mama,” she whispered as she padded down the hallway to her bedchamber. “I was not yours, and a daily reminder of your husband’s infidelity.” But it does not matter, because you love me now.

That reassurance did not diffuse the wild grief and sense of loss that had settled upon her heart. Entering her room, she flung herself onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. A wry chuckle escaped her. Only last month, she had teasingly said to her mother that they had nothing in common. Her mother was so delicate and proper, while her parents often remarked that Ophelia owned an uninhibited temperament that must be carefully disguised.

The marchioness had laughed along with her teasing, but there had been a touch of sadness in her eyes Ophelia had not then understood. But she had always felt herself different than her mother, who was charming, gentle, and wise beyond her years. Ophelia hardly thought herself much different than other ladies of the ton, even though Ophelia admitted she had little appreciation for inane chatter and malicious gossips, uncaring to make her existence be about the next ball or the latest on dit.

That was the reason it had been so easy and refreshing to be friends with several ladies who stood on the fringes of polite society and were mockingly called wallflowers—ladies who, despite being well-bred, were generally considered oddities. Even in that regard, she was not a perfect fit for their coterie. Ophelia was aware that as the Marquess of Shelton’s daughter, she was never given a snub and was invited to all the society events that her friends were not. She was a wallflower by association, and no one in society dared refer to her thusly even as she embraced being one of the sinful wallflowers.

Pushing from the bed, she rushed over to the dressing table and sat before it, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “It does not matter who Sally Martin is. I am Lady Ophelia, daughter to the Marquess and Marchioness of Shelton.”

Saying the words aloud did nothing to calm the terrible aching sensations burning deep inside her chest that felt too petrifying. Leaning forward, she pressed the flat of her palm against the glass. “Nothing has changed. Nothing. I am Lady Ophelia…nothing has changed.”

To her distress, looking through the mirror, she noted the redness of her eyes and how incredibly pale her skin appeared. She closed her eyes, hating that she seemed so vulnerable and that it showed for everyone to see. Her papa had always complimented her strength, and she too had always relied on her fortitude.

Now is not the time to crumble. “And what is there to be afraid of, Ophelia?”

It was a question she could not answer, but she was most certain that she had to find Sally Martin.

Ophelia did not understand why that certainty blossomed through her, only that she would follow through. Still, she hesitated, torn by conflicting needs. Her family’s wealth and reputation had secured her position in Society, and it was up to Ophelia to maintain it by never stepping out of line and disappointing her parents’ efforts.

Her father expected her to obey his wishes, for she always did. Always. Even though she often teased them with her air of rebellion and spontaneity, Ophelia reined in her temperament when dealing with her parents’ expectations. They loved her, and she loved them. Never did she want to disappoint or hurt them, and never had there been an instance where she flagrantly disavowed their wishes.

Closing her eyes, she promised to search for Sally Martin with utmost care of their position. What she could not do was simply pretend she did not know the truth of the matter.

I’ll find you.

By any means possible.

…

Devlin Niall Byrne stared at the creature who strolled down King Street with all the leisurely grace of one who promenaded down Rotten Row in Hyde Park. Though this area was only a stone’s throw away from St. James’s Street, this side of the city was not for the likes of her. King Street was littered with undesirables—brothels, gambling dens, and cutthroats. Then there were men like him, walking the line between the fringe of polite society and the dangerous knifelike edge of the seedier underbelly of London.

A foot in each world meant Devlin belonged to none and his welcome in either territory was suspect.

That suited him, for he had learned a long time ago only to rely on his cunning and ingenuity.

The great beast beside him, his closest friend—a mastiff—rumbled low in his throat.

“Easy, Conan,” Devlin murmured, biting the tip of his cheroot to reach down and smooth his pal’s head. “Let’s watch and see what is happening.”

He took a deep drag of his tobacco, then allowed the smoke to curl around him, the twisting wisps disappearing into the night as the darkness swallowed it. Devlin and his dog watched the lady as she walked closer to the patch of darkness that securely hid their presence. Dipping into the pocket of the black cape she wore, the lady withdrew a piece of paper. Her dainty heels clacked on the cobbled stone as she walked under a fog-shrouded gas lamp, unfolded the scrap of paper, and read.

The lady was truly astonishing. Even without seeing her face and full raiment, Devlin knew her to be a lady of quality—and the finest quality at that. It was in her bearing. The set of her shoulders. The petite grace of her form, the soft sway to her rounded hips, and the elegance and shimmering sensuality of her walk.

A fine piece indeed.

And a foolhardy one. Movements twisted in the dark—men, truly creatures who should not bear the appellation, pushed off from the walls, slinked from the alley, and approached her. The lady remained oblivious, staring at the large red door on the opposite side of the road.

The Golden Tavern. What could she want with this disreputable pub?

He could not see her expression, but he felt her longing. With a wry twist of his lips at his whimsy, Devlin made to move on. Yet something inexplicably arrested his motions. One of those creatures bent on robbery—or worse—reached her while the other slinked from another direction. The hood of her caped domino was violently pulled away from behind, the veil covering her features snatched off. A shocked inhalation sliced the silence of the night, and she whirled from the threat behind her, a perfect pirouette putting her some distance away from the men’s lechery.

Another sharp sound hissed, silver glinted in the dark, and the blade she withdrew from the walking cane was held with confidence and steady grace. The men paused and exchanged a glance, no doubt wondering if a lady would know how to use the rapier and if they could disarm her before she did any damage.

“Ye won’t be able to take two of us,” one of the men taunted.

“Since you are so confident, lads, I invite you to meet your demise.” She tossed her head, and a mass of black hair tumbled loose and fell in waves to her hips.

Devlin faltered into perfect stillness. Everything about him encased in shards of ice—except his heart. Only once in his lifetime had he ever seen hair that black, the sheen of raven’s feather, with a bluish hue under the banner of midnight.

Only once.

He couldn’t look away.

Thud. Thud. Thud. His damn heart was a huge drum pounding in his ears. She had been a hope he held on to for months, years, until he had begun to feel foolish in the extreme. Devlin had not allowed anything to impact him on such a profound emotional level since he had given up thoughts of finding her.

Hence his reaction now was startling…aggravating…and uncontrollable. That was the part that bothered him the most. He could not control his heartbeat or the naked longing, which felt like it erupted through his very soul.

For her.

He lifted his cane and tapped it on the cobbled surface twice. That was all it took for the men who had shuffled closer to pause and withdraw into the shadows as if they had been summoned elsewhere. Confused, the woman twisted about, her weapon held at the perfect defense angle, the wind lifting strands of hair to curl around her cheeks. Devlin walked closer, hugging to the darkness of the night, his footfall as silent as a thief. He stopped when he was close enough.

Devlin made a deliberate noise, soft and barely discernable, and she whirled in his direction.

His world ended as a force robbed him of breath and would not give it back to him. Golden-brown eyes framed by long black lashes. Eyes that were swollen and a bit red, a testament to the tears they had recently shed. The palest of skin. A wide, lush mouth that was made for kissing. And smiling. And laughter.

Her beauty was the same—lush and provocative.

It was her. Fifi.

The only thing he could recall of that girl…the one who had changed his entire life. The one whom he had called for in his delirium as fever and pain had raged through his body. The one he had searched for but never found, not even with his connections and money.

It is you…

A fog of memory wafted through him, and the words danced in his head as if they were a song. Wait for me…

But he had stopped waiting, years ago, when the memory of her had become a distant dream. Yet here she was.

He stood in the dark, watching as three footmen in livery ran toward her, fear on their faces.

“Lady Ophelia, please come with us! The marquess would skewer us if he knew you were here. Please, milady!”

He tucked away the name and carefully assessed the footmen, noting the designs of their livery and the shapes of their features. With this, he would be able to find the family to which she belonged. A stately carriage rattled down the street, and she hurriedly slipped the hood of her cloak over her head and went with the footmen. They knocked the carriage steps down for her, and with a last look behind her at that red door, she mounted the steps and entered the carriage. Devlin watched as it rumbled away, until he could no longer hear its wheels before he turned his attention to that door.

Something existed in there that was important to her.

Lady Ophelia…Fifi…I’ve found you when I was no longer looking.

“And what exactly should I do about it?”

Conan rumbled low in his throat, and Devlin replied, “I do believe you are right, my friend. Let us find out everything we can about Fifi.”

Conan growled several times, and Devlin rubbed his head.

“Yes, it is the girl I told you about so many times.”

A sound shuffled behind him, but Devlin did not startle, for he had long sensed Riordan O’Malley in the dark.

“You know,” Riordan said drolly, appearing from the shadows to walk in stride with Devlin, “I cannot tell if the dog understands when you talk to him or not. He makes all the right noises at the right bloody time. Uncanny, that. Nor do I believe he actually told you to investigate the chit. That is all you, my friend.”

“His name is Conan.” Devlin patted his pal’s head, who made an odd sound of pleasure deep in his throat. “We understand each other.”

“Is that what it was, an understanding?”

They turned onto St. James Street, walking toward the notorious gambling den in which they owned considerable stakes—the Asylum.

At Devlin’s lack of response to his prodding, Riordan asked, “Is it really her? The girl you spoke about from when you were a lad?”

Devlin’s gut tightened. He had hoped his friend was far away enough in the shadows to have not heard him. He didn’t want to think about what seeing her again meant. “Yes.”

“What will you do?”

“She was a mere speck in my past. There is nothing to do.”

“If that is the truth, why did your fingers just tremble?”

A raw hiss of annoyance slipped from Devlin, and he stuffed the offending appendages into the pocket of his great coat.

“I have touched a nerve,” Riordan murmured provokingly. “I am now exceedingly curious about this lady.”

Devlin shuttered his expression and made no reply. His friend must have sensed he was on edge, for he made no other provocative taunts, and that in itself was unlike Riordan. A quick glance at him showed a man lost in deep contemplation.

“You were gone for over three months,” Riordan murmured. “It is good to have you back.”

“I gather I was missed,” Devlin replied drolly. “I had business in Ireland. It took longer than anticipated.”

“Rhys was worried.”

“I’m a grown lad. I can take care of myself.”

Riordan grunted. “He wanted to celebrate with us before his wife went into confinement a few weeks ago.”

“I missed it,” Devlin murmured, soft regret flaring through him. “I took ma and da to Ireland. They longed for home and wanted to visit. Does he have a son or a daughter?”

Riordan smiled. “A daughter. She has his eyes.”

“Has he retired from the dark side of the business?”

There was a contemplative silence from his friend before he replied, “Rhys certainly spends most of his time in Derbyshire with his wife and wee ones. I do not begrudge him such fine contentment.”

A wife…children…a dream many men of their ilk hungered for themselves. Hope and happiness could be found within a family. Devlin knew that, having grown up with a father and mother who did their very best to provide for a son and two daughters. While many days their bellies had been empty of food, the house empty of coal to see them through the bitter winter, they had never been short of laughter or love. “Nor do I,” Devlin said with a wry smile.

Riordan took a cheroot from his pocket, lit it, and started to smoke. “I cannot understand this penchant for walking. If we had hailed a bloody hackney, we would have reached the gambling house by now.”

“Conan and I did not ask for your company.”

Riordan drawled, “I suspect you wanted the time to think about your lady.”

Wanting to sink under his friend’s skin in the same manner he did to him, Devlin said, “Have you made an offer for Grace Tremayne?”

His friend stumbled as if he had tripped over something. He shifted to face Devlin.

“What did you say?” he demanded raggedly.

Devlin arched a brow. “I know you want her. Only a fool would not be able to tell.”

He raked his hands through his black hair. “Hell! Do you think Rhys knows?”

It was Devlin’s turn to freeze. “He is your closest friend. Why would he object to a match between you and Grace?”

Riordan gave him an incredulous stare. “She is his bloody baby sister! You know everything he has ever done was to see his family elevated from the dregs…and I am the dregs.”

Devlin had nothing to say to that, and they continued walking. Riordan O’Malley was the majority owner in the Asylum—one of the most profligate and powerful gaming hells known to London society. Rhys Tremayne, now Viscount Montrose, was a businessman who sold information on London’s black market. Known as The Broker, for years he studied the men and women of England, high- and low-born, unearthing and collecting their secrets with great diligence, then traded that information when it held the greatest benefit.

Devlin had been one of Rhys’s lads who slipped in and out of alleys watching, listening, and reporting back what he learned for a coin. So had Riordan. At one point they had diverged and pursued their own business interests but had always remained a close-knit group.

Devlin wondered if Rhys would truly hate the idea of Riordan with his sister Grace.

Hell. It was hard to say, but now he understood why his friend stayed away from the girl he stared at with such naked longing. Dragging on his cheroot, Devlin blew a plume of smoke to the overcast night sky. Wanting someone and endlessly longing for them was something he could identify with. Over the years, he had tried to envision the kind of beauty Fifi would have evolved into.

The reality of her far surpassed his foolish imaginings.

What would she think of him now? Devlin had changed from the small, weak boy she knew to…hell, he did not know what he was, except a simple man with simple needs even as he was lauded by his friend for his iron determination.

…my daughter’s husband will have wealth, power, and good breeding.

The old memories washed over him, and a peculiar ache twisted through his heart. As a lad of twelve, he had packed his small belongings and made his way to London to seek work. Or anything that would make him become a man worthy of marrying a girl like his Fifi.

His mother’s tears had not been able to stop him, and though brackets of worry had dug deep into his father’s mouth, his da had given him a nod of approval. Devlin had only been in London for a few days before he realized he had wished a hopeless dream. Within another week he had been living on the streets, hanging with a crew of pickpockets, learning the trade of criminality, the pride and dignity his da had taught him mangling.

Shame had filled him, but so had a resolute determination to make it in this world. How else would he become a man worthy to marry Fifi? The criminal class had beckoned, the lure of making money irresistible. Then he had met Rhys Tremayne and Riordan O’Malley, two lads only a few years older than himself.

They had been hungry for the same thing and wanted to claw themselves from the gutter of poverty to the pinnacles of success. A friendship had formed, though Devlin had many times felt he stood outside of the bonds of brotherhood Riordan and Rhys had shared years before they met him. Devlin had been more of an observer of their camaraderie, barely engaging in their bantering and family gathering.

Rhys had done many things to include him, but Devlin’s hunger to remake himself had seen him leaving their crew for days, sometimes months, seeking and searching, wanting to understand the complex world they lived in so he could conquer it.

When he explained this to his mother, she had stared at him somberly before finally saying, “People like us can only belong certain places. In the fields. At the docks. In taverns. At the market. If you dare to, they will break your pride, trample your dignity, and kill your hope. Niall, you will splatter to the ground with no one to scrape you up.”

She had warned him it was foolhardy to reach for heights that he did not belong.

Her words had reminded him of Fifi’s father’s words, but they had only emboldened him to push harder: doing all sorts of odd jobs, saving, teaching himself his letters, reading every scrap of paper thrown out by his supposed betters.

Devlin had been hungry, and he had consumed.

He now owned more wealth than he could spend in this lifetime. He understood the relationship between money and power enough to wield them when necessary to achieve his own ends. Good breeding would forever elude him. With Riordan at his side, as a lad of sixteen Devlin had learned to gamble, haunting the different gambling halls, studying the dice and the tables, learning how to weigh the risks against the rewards, learning to discipline his emotions and reactions so as to not make reckless mistakes.

By the time Devlin was eighteen, he had garnered a reputation amongst the different gaming halls. He did not lose. He picked the table he sat at with care and due diligence. He could not be goaded into acting imprudently. They hated when he entered their clubs and took their money, unentailed estates, lands, and even shares in a hotel he had won. He’d also learned that there was money to be made in the fighting pits and in investments.

Still he had felt it was not enough.

Devlin did not stop until he had amassed a fortune that rivaled most lords. He had taught himself to be cunning…and ruthless, a man who knew how to hold on to the things that were his.

Achieving them had been damn hard work…holding on to them was even harder. Now as a man of seven and twenty, he should be contented. Yet there was a nameless restlessness upon him that had seen him many nights standing in the dark of his bedroom, Conan by his side, the windows open as they stared at the beauty of the night sky in silence.

It felt as if he were simply drifting through life, with little compelling him to live.

With a scowl, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Devlin truly did not understand what more he needed or why he was so discontented.

Fifi.

He only needed to think her name, and the restlessness lowered its raking talons, giving him a measure of peace. A sensation that was impossible to know or understand scythed through him, stuttering his heart. Devlin faltered, and Riordan, preoccupied with his own musings, continued strolling along St. James’s Street toward his gambling club. Devlin turned around and stared down at the empty road. The wind gusted, and a discarded piece of newssheet danced in the air before settling under a streetlamp.

What should I do now that I’ve found you?