Chapter Four

The rough clearing of a throat brought Devlin out of his reveries and out of the past he felt stuck in since he had delivered Ophelia home. The carriage ride to her father’s home had been filled with hesitant and curious silence. Neither of them had broken it, and she had simply sat beside him, stroking Conan’s fur with the delicate tips of her fingers. Even when she had exited the carriage, she had not turned around, and once more the door had closed on a silent wonder.

The emotions that had been awakened were real and tangible. His life before tonight had been nothing but feeling hollow, as if his existence was already exhausted with nothing new to inspire wonder.

Then her.

Before tonight, he’d had enough of loss and useless hope. Over the years, all that nonsense had been replaced with ruthless pragmatism. There was no disappointment in emptiness; yet, with just a smile, he felt a small drop into that well, and it resounded deep within him. This was a weakness that he would have to carefully guard against.

A violent feeling leaped through him. What kind of man was he to be so weak over one damn woman? Devlin abhorred weakness, and it was something he had excised from his life years past when he had reshaped himself into the man he was today.

Devlin gritted his teeth until they ached.

“Whose death are you plotting?” Rhys Tremayne, Viscount Montrose, the man everyone in their world called The Broker, drawled.

Devlin’s mouth tugged, but he buried the smile. “No one. I was merely thinking.”

“About Fifi?”

He considered his friend with an arched brow. “Riordan told you.”

“Some. He was very succinct. I believe he was leaving it up to you to decide what to divulge.”

With clipped brevity, Devlin filled him in.

“Are you certain Lady Ophelia and your Fifi are one and the same? Fifteen years have passed.”

“I have been certain for weeks.”

Rhys intently studied their chess game for several moments. “I had always wondered why you were so protective of Lady Starlight. You rediscovered her ages ago. Why the hell are you just now making your move?”

Devlin smiled and moved a piece across the chess board. “Everything takes calculation.”

“Not love.”

He froze. “Have a care with your words.”

“Why?”

“I do not love her.” Not anymore. “That was a young, ignorant boy’s foolish idea.”

It annoyed him to recall the boy he had once been, idealistic, full of unrealistic dreams. He had been a fool who thought he was in love when he had barely understood the concept. Fifi was not the only woman in the damn world. When he had relinquished the idea of her, he had told himself that he had simply built up a fantasy around it…her…them, and he could dismantle the entire ridiculous affair by cutting her from his heart…from his hungry, tormenting dreams.

Keeping his expression inscrutable was no easy feat.

“Then what are you, if not in love?”

“You are overthinking the matter,” he said with a derisive scoff.

Rhys dealt him a skeptical glance that said he saw the truth Devlin hid.

“I still recall that every backbreaking labor you did at the docks, you said it was all for Fifi,” Rhys said in a tone rich with mockery and amusement. “You were a lad obsessed.”

“Love and obsession—fruits from the same poisoned tree,” Devlin drawled caustically.

“They are different, my friend. Very different.”

Devlin said nothing, his efforts fiercely concentrated on the game. Or better, recalling every moment of the reunion he’d just had with Fifi. One thing had become inescapable to Devlin: she had not thought deeply of him once or the promise they made to each other after the door closed on his plea to wait for him.

While he…everything he had made himself to be, had been to make himself worthy of the lovely black-haired girl who had stolen his heart.

Who would I be if I had not met you, Fifi?

A farmer…a carpenter…a dockside worker. Not the young fool whom he had tossed in the fires and reshaped with brutal clarity of purpose. To be good enough for a girl his mother told him was the figment of his delirium. A dream to find succor in because of his poverty. A dream of pointless hope even if she were real.

“I am certain I spoke of providing for my family. My sisters and parents,” Devlin said drily.

“It was always…and I mean always Fifi first. You were thin and weak, yet you pushed yourself with a single-minded determination that damn well scared me at the time. And now it means nothing?”

Impatient, he passed a hand over his face. Why was he allowing Rhys’s words to rattle him so?

“Was it not errant idiocy?” he demanded harshly, lifting the bottle of whisky directly to his mouth. “I was nothing but a foolish boy who spoke of foolish hopes.” He took a burning swallow before handing the bottle to Rhys, who also took a swig.

“I do not think it wise to dismiss hope so foolishly. Meeting her gave your life a different meaning. And that made you the man you are today.”

Devlin grunted, for a moment lost in the memory of those early days, working any and all jobs, saving for something grander. An opportunity. In the lives of those who were poor, there was nothing grander than a chance for something else. His chance had been Rhys, who gave him the job of a secret collector, pulling him from the drudgery of being in a gang.

Rhys leaned over, scrutinizing the chess board. “I know you, Devlin. I can see the gears in your mind turning. Admit what you are plotting.”

He allowed himself a slight smile. When he had joined their gang at the age of twelve, he had been the youngest and the wettest behind the ears. Rhys Tremayne had been like an older brother, one who had been able to see through a lot of careful walls Devlin constructed around himself.

“She was here tonight…and she sang for me,” Devlin admitted, as if that explained everything.

“Ah. Riordan told me you had some very specific request about a particular room. He had to direct men to set a stage, decorate it in swaths of green and cream, and even set the lighting to illuminate only the stage. I spent a few minutes telling him you were not a madman.”

A fleeting smile touched Devlin’s mouth.

“Was it worth meeting her like that?”

“Have you ever heard her sing?”

“Once. If I did not love my duchess with my entire heart, I would have stolen her at that moment.”

Devlin grunted but could offer no rebuttal. Her voice was dreamlike.

His friend hesitated slightly. “Your Lady Starlight is the daughter of a powerful marquess. That cannot be taken lightly.”

“I seem to recall that you brought a duchess here more than once.”

Rhys grunted and made no comment on the lady who was now his cherished wife. Rhys made a move, and Devlin contemplated sacrificing his knight.

“I do not want to see you tangle with the marquess and get hurt. My advice is to walk away from her.”

Blasted hell. Months ago—five, to be precise—he had made a promise to keep his distance, for there was no future with her. She was forbidden to him, a sweet apple perched on a branch he would never be able to reach. Then he had heard one little rumor, and that vow had faltered.

He had faltered.

As a man who prided himself on self-control and discipline, the ease with which he had abandoned that promise to walk away from her had shaken him to his core. Then when she sang for him—those old dreams, those gnawing, unrelenting cravings, had once more erupted inside and reawakened a foolish wish. Pure unguarded joy had also leaped in Fifi’s gaze when she recognized him as Niall. “I cannot let her go.”

“Devlin—” Rhys began in a warning tone.

“Even in my dreams,” Devlin clipped, interrupting a warning that was useless, for he would not heed it. “Fifi visits me there nightly, in such bright images. All of that time in the cottage, I remember now so clearly. You asked me why I took months to approach her. At first I was content to simply extend my protection to a girl I knew briefly.”

“A girl you wanted with everything inside of you,” Rhys pointed out.

“I know it,” Devlin murmured, his fingers tightening over a bishop. “I wanted to protect her from the vagabonds on the streets, and also from penury. Seeing her again reminded me of the old dreams, but I am a damn sight older and wiser than that foolish lad. How could I still want to marry her? Protecting her without revealing myself was enough. Then…”

At his long silence, Rhys frowned. “Then?”

“Then a few weeks ago, Princess Cosima mentioned that it is on the tongue of everyone that Fifi might marry soon…to an earl, one Lord Langdon.”

“Hell,” Rhys said, leaning back in his armchair.

“Everything I thought I had let go…” He scrubbed a hand over his face and released a wry chuckle.

Being this close to her, speaking with Fifi, revealed she still possessed a part of him—that piece which had believed in the whimsical nature of love. Devlin loathed to admit it, but she still fucking owned it when he thought all sentimentality had been eradicated from himself. If not, how would his heart still beat harder at the mere sight of her?

Should he not be in control of his body, if it was in his possession?

How could his heart thunder, make his body feel weak when the corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile? How could she make sweat bead on his brows when she tipped her head and laughed?

“Devlin—” Rhys began.

He slashed a hand in the air, cutting off his friend. “I have fought for everything I have ever wanted. I am a fighter. Should I let her go without trying? That is the damn question that has been on my mind. I know the odds are stacked against me; I know I will never be able to force society’s acceptance. But it is Fifi’s acceptance I want. How can I walk away without trying? Failure or success, I will damn well try first. That way I shall live without regrets.”

And I will not falter.

Rhys contemplated for long moments, and Devlin did not rush to fill the silence.

It had been thoughts of marrying Fifi that had driven Devlin to reshape himself, and he had worked brutally hard to do so, all with the dream of becoming worthy of her. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he had given up hopes of ever finding her—when exactly he had realized they came from different worlds and even if he found her, he would never be seen as deserving of a marquess’s daughter.

He had let the idea of her go.

Until he learned he might lose her forever.

It had damn well gutted Devlin. The notion another might soon be kissing and loving Fifi. Another man might be responsible for her laughter and joy. Another man might give her children. It would be another man’s duty and care to protect her.

Devlin had felt like someone had punched a hole inside his chest and ripped out his fucking heart. A long-interred hunger had risen to the surface and tormented him for the night. Devlin had not slept, and when his mirror had reflected back to him the ravaged face of a man in doubt, he’d acknowledged that old dream was finally now within his grasp.

How could he walk away without trying?

He had weighed the risks and probabilities and deduced his chances of success were slim to none. However, such low yield had never stopped him before. Devlin had learned to be persistent and tenacious, always willing to fight for what he wanted. Sometimes it was not the outcome that made the man, but the journey. And he was willing to walk this journey and invite Fifi along. Thus he had scrawled the words, A song from you to me, and set everything in motion.

“I am only accepted in the upper circles and in my duchess’s life because I managed to wrangle a title from the powers that be. I gave up many secrets for it. Many. Worth millions on the black market. What do you have as leverage for her father to accept you?”

“Nothing,” Devlin said icily, recalling the man’s promise years ago about the type of man his daughter would marry.

He was not a person of refined breeding, nor was he educated to the standards of most gentlemen. He had not attended Cambridge or Oxford like gentlemen of quality. He had never traveled beyond England and Ireland. Many gentlemen often spoke of their grand tours across the continents, their treks to Egypt and Prague, their dashing swaths cut across Rome and Italy with their ribald tales of singers and actresses. He had not learned to make small talk seem charming and of importance.

Devlin’s edges were rough and would forever remain unpolished. The fires that had forged him were not the ones that cared about gentlemanly mannerisms. In the company of her friends and family, Devlin would always be found lacking.

“You have not told me why it was imperative we meet tonight. Is it wooing tips you’re after?” Rhys asked, tacitly changing the topic.

“I want everything you know on a Miss Sally Martin.”

Rhys stilled, a frown marring his handsome countenance. “As an investor…hell, part owner in our venture, all the secrets and information we collect are yours.”

“Sally Martin is not in the books. I have been asking discreet questions about her, and I have gotten nowhere.”

“Who is she?”

“I do not know. However, she is important to Lady Ophelia. It is the reason she risks her reputation and safety.”

Rhys nodded. “I will set my team on it.”

“D-do you have any?” Devlin asked.

Rhys arched a brow. “What?”

Devlin cleared his throat. “Wooing…courting tips.”

Rhys grinned, and Devlin scowled. Grabbing up a few of the chess pieces, he tossed them at a now-chuckling Rhys. The man saw everything through the lens of love since marrying his wife, the young and lovely former Duchess of Hardcastle.

“Save it,” Devlin said. “I do not want to hear anything about love at the moment.”

“You are planning on seeing her again, aren’t you?” Rhys murmured.

Devlin ignored him, but his heart already answered for him in the erratic way it started to race. Yes, I’ll be seeing her again. The only thing he was uncertain about, a state he did not like, for he was a man of surety, was how Lady Ophelia—Fifi—would react to his pursuit.

Would she run, or would she be intrigued?

Devlin stood, grabbing his coat, hat, umbrella, and walking stick, which held a hidden blade.

His friend also stood. “Where do you head to?”

“To see Mrs. Ashely.”

Rhys stilled. “Your paramour?”

Devlin donned his coat. “My friend.”

Rhys made no comment but observed him with a measured stare. Conan stood and padded over to him, and, with a brief dip of his head in his friend’s direction, man and dog departed through the back entrance of the gambling hell. Devlin enjoyed walking, and almost everywhere he went in London he walked with a cane or a large black umbrella in one hand, with Conan trotting faithfully by his side. He kept a town carriage, and one for country traveling. He even owned a barouche and a landau. Devlin had never used them. He simply preferred walking, whether it rained or the sun shone.

Now he had at least an hour’s stroll to make to a particular townhouse where Mrs. Jane Ashely lived. When the rain started to fall, he opened his umbrella, ensuring it covered his pal appropriately. Conan could be fussy about getting wet.

A little more than an hour later, Devlin entered the bedroom of his lover. She was tying the belt of a silky robe around her waist, her blond hair tumbling about her in waves. As he stood watching her, she peeked at him from beneath her lashes. Her inviting stare held no appeal, and he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I will await you in the drawing room.” He couldn’t explain the feeling of wanting to be out of the bedchamber.

Ignoring her astonished look, he turned about and made his way downstairs. She was practically on his heels, entering the drawing room as he poured whisky from a tumbler into a glass.

“I did not expect you tonight, but I am pleased you are here,” she said with a warm smile.

He stared at her, and that wide smile faltered as her gaze roved over him. Devlin was not sure what she saw in his eyes, but her throat worked on a swallow, and she looked away from him for a long moment.

“You’ve come not to indulge in pleasure but to end our…friendship.”

“Yes.”

Her flinch was subtle, but he caught it. There was no room for artful and manipulative phrases to make her feel better. They had always been honest with each other—not only lovers but friends.

“Have you found her, then?”

It was his turn to flinch.

“I have always known you would end our liaison once you found your Fifi.”

“I mentioned her only once.”

A wistful smile curved Jane’s mouth. “It was how you mentioned her, Devlin.”

Jane padded over to the sideboard and poured herself some sherry. There was a sadness in her hazel eyes that he did not like to see. He had never promised anything but the pleasure they found in each other’s arms and the security she found in his wealth.

“Is she a lady of quality?” she asked, tossing him a probing stare.

“Yes.”

“Top quality or bottom quality?”

Devlin did not understand Jane’s distinction, but he supposed a marquess’s daughter would be at the very pinnacle of quality. “Top.”

Her face softened in a glance that was almost pitying.

Devlin arched a brow in silent response.

Jane took a deep breath. “Though you are wealthy and have garnered influence in some circles, you will be considered beneath her in every regard, Devlin. Surely you know this.”

The truth of her words stabbed deep in his stomach, leaving a burning sensation inside his body. Of course he was not good enough.

“I know it,” he said drolly, almost with a measure of amusement.

“Then why do you plan to try?” she asked almost pleadingly.

“I do not know what my full plans are in relation to her, so how could you discern it?” he asked, aware of the cutting edge to his words and unable to temper them.

“May I…may I ask who she is?”

“It does not matter.”

Her lips pinched. “Do you think she will love you?”

“I am not looking for love.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you going to marry her? Is that it? To consolidate more power in society?”

Dark amusement wafted through him. “Her family would never consent.”

She emptied the glass of sherry in one swallow and lowered it to the table with a decisive clink. “Then why are you ending our liaison?”

Devlin stared at this lady who had offered him many comforts for the past three years. His first and only lover. As an older widow by six years, she had taught him much, but most of all, they had been friends. She had earned his honesty.

“When I think of bedding you now that I have found her…it feels like I am betraying something,” he said. He held up a hand to forestall her reply. “I intend to pursue her to be my lover, and I will not do that while having another lover.”

Many men had several lovers and mistresses together, but that was not Devlin. Such unfaithfulness either in thoughts or actions disgusted him.

Her expression once again softened. “I should not have asked you just now if you planned to love her. You already love her.”

He stiffened, suddenly angry with himself for letting a fleeting moment in time, a blip in his existence, define so much of himself. That others could fucking perceive it and misinterpret. And that he could not walk away now, even believing his chance of success was less than five percent. He had gambled with worse odds before, he ruthlessly reminded himself.

“Do not be foolish. I do not love her.” What he had felt had been through the lens of a boy who hardly understood himself, much less love. What in God’s name was love? He wanted Fifi. That much he knew, for it was a burning hunger he could not ignore or deny. How could he allow himself to become once again mired in the emotions that had ruled him as a lad? They had no place in this moment, nor would they in the future.

He had to be smart about his pursuit. Damn smart or he might find himself shattered against jagged rocks. If he let himself become too entangled, Devlin knew with a chilling certainty that Fifi had the power to cut him deep, flaying his flesh open to reveal bone.

“Nor will I entertain any more discourse about her. That is not why I came, Jane.” Devlin walked over and handed her a roll of paper tied with a ribbon and an envelope.

With a curious frown plucking at her brows, she opened it and gasped. “What is this?”

“You always spoke about living in a cottage by the seaside, growing your children away from the city. That is the deed to your cottage.”

Jane stared at him as if she did not know what to make of him. “You have also provided a dowry for my daughter, a trust for my son, and enough money for me to live in comfort for the rest of my days.” She casually dropped onto the sofa. “Why would you do this? This is too generous of a parting gift.”

“Do you wish to find another protector and live as his mistress?”

Her throat worked on a swallow. “No.”

“Then take it, Jane.” Devlin walked over to her, tugged her to her feet, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you for your friendship.”

She hugged him fiercely, and after a slight hesitation, Devlin returned her embrace.

“Thank you,” she whispered in the crook of his neck. Tears wetted his skin, and he drew back. With an embarrassed chuckle, she wiped them away.

“Farewell, Jane.”

From the look in her eyes, Devlin sensed she wanted a more pleasurable and lasting parting. He turned around and walked out of her life, aware of her stare against his back.

Stepping into the night with Conan, Devlin strolled down the street toward his townhouse in Mayfair.

“Why does it suddenly feel complicated, Conan?”

His dog growled and bounced his large body against his master.

Who would I be if I had not met you, Fifi? If I had not lost my damn senses and rushed to London?

Devlin wasn’t sure why he had found Fifi again, when for the past few years he had all but given up on thoughts of ever finding that little black-haired girl. Happenstance and several accidents of circumstance had allowed their paths to cross once more. After that night he rediscovered her on King Street, Devlin waited for months in the shadows, discreetly observing her whenever he accidentally crossed her path, which happened several times.

The first had been a day at the British Museum. She had been alone, save the two footmen who followed for her protection. How forlorn Fifi had looked as she walked the long halls, pausing every now and then to admire a piece of history. She seemed to adore ancient Greek art. Devlin had scandalously stared, studying her, hoarding every laugh and smile, collecting her smallest habits and gestures, admiring her kindness and the way she interacted with others.

The second sighting of her had been in another suspect part of the city. She had used his name and reputation to scare away a few footpads. He’d liked her daring, especially when she’d declared she was his woman. Those words had unlocked him, jolting desires and hungers awake that he had never felt in his life.

The third instance had been at the botanical garden. In a quiet spot, she had cried her heart out and said a soft prayer asking for help in finding Sally Martin.

Hating the thought of her venturing into the seedier parts of London without the proper protection, he had sent a friend to her side. Princess Cosima. That way, he would always be abreast whenever she visited. Whenever Lady Starlight performed—only four times since she donned the moniker and identity of a songbird—he had watched every performance.

The crowd never applauded when she finished. The silence was always hushed. But they stood. In awe…and shock. For her voice was most enchanting.

“Who is she?” always rippled through the throng in hushed whispers. Desperate men who always fancied that they had just fallen in love would try to chase her when she left the stage. His power and connections always saw that the path before her was like the parting of the Red Sea. He’d ruthlessly broken a few bones so it was understood that she was precious.

Nothing and no one troubled her.

Except whoever this Sally Martin was.

All those meetings had been happenstance, mere coincidences of fate. To Devlin’s mind, it had astonished him that she seemed to appear everywhere, when for fifteen years he had not caught a glimpse of her shadow.

Now that he had revealed himself to her, would she be brave enough to take his hand when he held it out to her?

Ice formed in his gut as he recalled Jane’s warning.

…you will be considered beneath her in every regard…

A humorless smile curved his mouth. The dice have been cast. I will see it through to the end.