Page 36 of The Devil Himself
Daffyd paled. “Now, come, Rys. I was in my cups, and the last person I wanted to see in my townhouse was Angelsey.”
He sneered, curling his lip deliberately. “It’s not your house. It is Gareth’s.” Rys was prodding Daffyd, trying to provoke him into some kind of admission.
“It’s damn well where I live.”
“And why is that? Any second son worth his own weight would have his own lodgings by now. You were a soldier, for God’s sake. And Owen surely did not want you there.”
“How would you know what he wanted?”
“Because I knew him. And the stick up his arse. He would have wanted you away from his children.”
Now the flush on Daffyd’s cheeks went dark. “You rotter! You talk about someone who should never be near those children. It’s you! You own the most notorious hell in London.”
“Hardly. That would be this place.” He waved a hand to encompass the walls of Dionysus.
“Let me pass.” Daffyd was almost spitting, he was so angry. “Damn you, let me out.”
“I will.” Rys smiled again, his best devil’s smile. “But if aught happens to Hannah, her children, their inheritance, or Angelsey at your hand, you will see me again. Know that.” He finally opened the door to let Daffyd out.
Daffyd rushed past him without another word, and one of Rys’s men filled the doorway immediately after. “Don’t let him out of your sight and report all conversations to me.”
“Aye, sir.” And he disappeared like smoke.
And before Rys could gather his thoughts, Deacon Collingsworth glided into the room. “Damnation, Grey. I think your brothers killed the marquess.”
“You were listening?” he asked.
“I was. And I think you have a whole passel of trouble on your hands. Your remaining brothers are base criminals.”
“I agree. And I intend to catch them up.” He unclenched his fingers by dint of sheer will. Owen had been an arse, but he’d been a decent man apparently, and Luc was only doing his best to help his friend’s wife. Daffyd and Arthur were well beyond the bloody pale.
“Well, let me know what I can do.”
He raised a brow, curious to know why Deacon would offer more than he had.
“It’s one thing for the quality to go killing each other, my friend. But to shoot at someone in front of one of our establishments, or at all, for that matter, and blame it on footpads? Bad for our end of the world.”
“True enough. I’ll let you know. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, and Grey?” Deacon’s voice held a note of warning.
“Yes?” He paused on his way out the door to turn and meet that cat-green gaze.
“Watch your back.”
Fifteen
Lucian Fitzwilliam was bored.
He knew he was no prisoner in Rys’s house. He was there for his own safety. But Luc was accustomed to certain level of activity. He rode. He engaged in sport. He went to his club.
And even Rys had abandoned him this evening, saying Harris needed him at the Playground.
He’d tried reading. He played chess with himself, but sadly, he knew all his own moves. He’d paced, trying to work out some of his energy, which was returning full force now that he was mostly healed.
Mayhap he should deal with some of the correspondence his man of affairs had brought him.
But that held no appeal.
