The Devil in the Duke: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  It meant taking them into a battle he needed to win—one he couldn’t win alone—one he wasn’t sure he could even win.

  But he would do it for Sienna. Do it again. Sacrifice his men.

  He unclenched his clamped jaw, his knuckles landing on the edge of the table in front of him as he leaned forward. “Some of you have been here since the start. Victor, Wallton, Pinkers—you started this guard with me ten years ago and you trusted me when there was no reason in hell to do so.”

  Victor, Wallton, and Pinkers nodded from their spots at the table.

  “But you came. And you were loyal. And we built something.” His look travelled around the table, meeting the eyes of each of his men. “We built something with each and every one of you. But it isn’t over here. We only do this if the guard goes on—no matter what happens to me or to any of us when we walk into Bournestein’s lair.”

  Twenty-five heads nodded in unison.

  His heart thundering in his chest, Logan heaved a breath, his voice fierce. “Then it’s time to start a war.”

  ~~~

  Logan tightened his grip on the lapels—the fistful of Bournestein’s purple tailcoat he clutched. His right hand pulled back, fingers curling under his thumb.

  Another blow fired from the depths of his hell and Bournestein’s lip busted open, blood splattering up Logan’s arm.

  “Where is she?” Logan’s voice had lost its initial rage. He’d asked the question thirty times now, and the beating that Bournestein was taking only worked to cool his rage into relentless resolve. She wasn’t in the Joker’s Roost. She wasn’t in the three other brothels Bournestein owned in the surrounding streets.

  So now Logan would beat the man until he gave up Sienna.

  Both of his eyes bloodied, swollen, Bournestein stretched his right eye open far enough to catch the glimmer of light from the lantern hanging from the back door of the Joker’s Roost. “Same answer, boy.”

  A fresh shot of rage flashed through his limbs, and he slammed Bournestein back against a crumbling brick wall, then jerked him forward with his grip on his coat.

  Logan set his nose right to the mangled mess of Bournestein’s face. “Where is she?”

  It wasn’t the first time someone had been bloodied in the alleyway behind Bournestein’s main gaming and whorehouse. It was the first time Bournestein had ever been subjected to the pain of it. Pain Logan needed him to feel a thousandfold more.

  Four of Logan’s guards stood watch on either side of him, each with a torch. The rest of his guards had already cleared Bournestein’s men out of the gaming hell, sending them to the streets in front of the building along with all the drunks and whores inside.

  Bournestein chuckled, blood and spittle spewing from his mouth.

  Logan lifted his fist again. He would beat him until he got an answer. And beat him. And beat him. And beat him.

  “She doesn’t want ye, boy.” A bloody dribble sprayed down Bournestein’s chin. “She told me herself.”

  Logan’s fist lowered and he slammed Bournestein against the wall again. He was rewarded with a satisfying grunt exploding from Bournestein’s chest at the blow. “You’re mad, old man.”

  A rancid chuckle left Bournestein’s throat. “And yer bitter because it was me that saved her in the war—not ye, boy.”

  Logan stilled, both of his hands gripping the front of Bournestein’s coat. “What?”

  Bournestein’s torn lip managed to stretch into his snake smile, his broken hand lifting to grab Logan’s wrist, but only flopping uselessly to the side. “Who do ye think saved her from those French troops—cause it sure as hell wasn’t ye, boy.”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “It was my man that dragged her away from that village. I sent him there to follow her, make sure no harm come to her cause I knew ye weren’t up to the task.”

  “Bastard.” Logan’s fist flew fast, connecting with Bornstein’s jowl, again and again, sending his head smashing into the wall with every blow.

  Bournestein’s legs collapsed and he slumped down against the brick, the only thing holding him from sinking into a crumpled heap was Logan’s grip on his coat.

  Still, Bournestein twisted his head, scowling up at Logan with a sneer on his lips. “Ye never even knew my man was there. But he was watching the whole time.” He coughed, hacking up blood. “Reporting back. Ye were playing at war while I was busy protecting her.”

  Logan jerked him up to his feet. “Protecting her, you madman? You took away her life, her memories.”

  “No,” Bournestein yelled, strength that should have long been beaten out of him bursting forth. “I took her away from ye, boy. Just as ye took her away from me. Quid pro quo, my boy.”

  Logan’s hand crept up, curling around the front of Bournestein’s neck. “I’m not your boy.”

  “No, yer not. Ye lost that title long ago. Ye could have had everything one day. My empire. My daughter. But ye left.” He sneered. “Good thing yer brother was handy.”

  Logan’s fingers jerked, crushing his neck. “My brother was off-limits—always—you swore it to my mother.”

  Bournestein squirmed as Logan’s grip on his throat tightened. “I swore a lot of things to yer mother. I loved the lass.”

  “Loved her?” Logan’s lips pulled back, his teeth gritting. “You made her your whore.” He slammed Bournestein into the wall, his fingers not moving from his neck.

  “And she never loved me—not with ye brats around. Ye took her from me and then ye took my Sienna from me. Yer brother was what little was left to scrounge—second pickins at best.”

  Logan brought him forward only to crack him back into the wall again. “We were never yours, Bournestein—never—none of us. Now tell me where the hell my wife is.” With a savage growl, Logan yanked his hand away from Bournestein’s throat, his arm pulling back in a wild coil.

  Just as his fist descended toward Bournestein’s skull, his forearm was snatched to a stop in its swing.

  “Stop, Logan, stop.”

  A voice. A voice he hadn’t heard in years.

  He turned his head. “Robby?”

  “Hello, Logan.” Robby released Logan’s arm as his words drifted into the alleyway, the low drawl his brother had always spoken with filling the stale air.

  Logan twisted his grip on Bournestein’s coat, making sure the bastard didn’t move a muscle as he looked at his brother. “I thought you were in Newgate.”

  Robby motioned with his head to Bournestein’s slumped body. “Bournestein got me out.”

  “How?”

  Robby shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.”

  Before Logan could even reconcile the fact that his brother was standing, alive and healthy right before him, Greyson slammed open the back door of the Joker’s Roost and ran to Logan. “The place is cleared, Logan. Checked over thrice. His men scattered or face down in the street.” He looked at Bournestein and then sized up Robby. “You need me to take care of this one?”

  The question jarred Logan, snapping his attention back to Bournestein and what he was actually doing in this alleyway. “No.” He glanced at Robby. He had grown. A man. The same size now as Logan. His frame thinner, but then, he’d been in Newgate for years. Survived Newgate for years.

  His look narrowed at his brother. “No, Greyson, this one is going to let what happens here, happen.”

  Robby’s eyebrow cocked, but he made no motion to stop Logan, no rebuttal.

  Still gripping Bournestein in place, Logan turned to Greyson. “Good. Then hand me a torch. This place needs to burn.”

  Bournestein’s feet slipped, scurrying in place as he pushed himself upright against the wall. He struggled against Logan’s fist holding him in place as his beady eyes, nearly swollen shut, pierced Logan. “No—ye won’t do it, boy.”

  “You think I won’t?”

  Greyson handed him a lit torch and Logan held it out from his body, the flames licking high, hungry for more fuel. He
turned back to Bournestein, his voice callous. “Last chance, Bournestein. Tell me where she is.”

  Bournestein managed to lift his unbroken hand, his weak grip landing on Logan’s fist clutching his coat. “Ye ain’t got the guts, boy. Ye never did.”

  Logan paused, a caustic chuckle bubbling up his throat to escape. His look centered on Bournestein as he released Bournestein’s purple coat from his grip, shaking his hand free. “On the contrary, you bastard, I learned from the best.”

  Logan moved to the back doorway of the Joker’s Roost and tossed the torch into the building.

  It took minutes before the fire caught, and then it lit fast, burning the squalor and decay of the building in flames licked with scorching redress.

  Whorehouse. Gaming hell.

  Home.

  The third floor bedroom he’d shared with his mother and brother. The hidden cubbies under the false floors on the fourth level where Sienna liked to hide from him during hide and seek. The secret staircase to the roof where he’d first kissed Sienna. The bed his mother died in. The bed Sienna’s mother died in.

  It burned.

  Quickly. Mercilessly. Irrevocably.

  { Chapter 13 }

  “Kill ‘im. Ye know that be what Bournestein wanted.” Freddie Joe grabbed his hand with his meaty paw and shoved a blade into it.

  Where Freddie Joe got the blade, Logan didn’t know. Lifted it, most likely. Or probably Bournestein slipped it to him. “Kill ‘im, Logan.”

  The hazy glow from the street lamps snaked down through the fog and Logan looked at the limp body at his feet crumpled next to the railing of the bridge over the Thames. Blood slid down in a stream on Logan’s face, dripping off his chin and onto the top of Gregor’s head.

  A vile retch blasted up his throat and he swallowed it back.

  He couldn’t vomit now. Not in front of the boys.

  “Kill ‘im, Logan.” Freddie Joe poked him in the back. “Only one of ye is comin’ back. That’s what Bournestein said.”

  Logan reached down, grabbing the back of Gregor’s ragged shirt and lifting him up. Without a doubt, Gregor would have killed him by now if their spots were reversed.

  Which was all the more reason Logan had needed to win.

  He bent, setting his eyes in front of his friend’s mangled face. Gregor’s head bobbed, rolling about on his neck, only slightly on this side of consciousness. “You can jump in the river now and end it, or you can run, Gregor. It’s your choice. Run and never set foot in St. Giles again, or it’ll be the river for you.”

  Logan released his hold on his shirt, and Gregor fell to the bridge. It took a long moment for Gregor to flop his limbs about, his broken hand slipping again and again on the railing as he tried to pull himself to standing. On his feet, Gregor leaned his side against the top of the railing, his arm flopping over the side.

  For one second, Logan thought he was about to flip himself over the edge. Instinct stepped him forward, ready to yank his friend back from death.

  But then Gregor’s feet started moving, running, slipping every other step on his broken ankle, his weak hold against the railing the only thing keeping him upright.

  He ran. Ran off the bridge. Ran away from St. Giles. Ran from Bournestein.

  Lucky bastard.

  Logan coughed. The metallic twinge of blood flooded his tongue. His head swiveled in a circle, looking to each of the faces of the boys surrounding him.

  His look went pointedly to the sight of Gregor at the end of the bridge, floundering into the fog.

  “Watch him run, boys, but know we’re no better than him.” Logan coughed again, blood filling his mouth. His voice had recently changed, lowering into a rumble he couldn’t always control. A voice he didn’t always recognize. “We’re Nowheres Boys, through and through. We don’t belong nowhere. And we fight to keep what’s ours.”

  A chorus of squeaky-pitched “Ayes” surrounded him.

  It was done. He was the undisputed leader of the Nowheres Boys. Just as Bournestein wanted.

  Fifteen minutes later, Logan left the boys in the alley behind the Joker’s Roost and went up to the back card room above the main level of the gaming hell whorehouse.

  Smoke, thick, rushed at him as he opened the door. Thick cheroots glowed in the smoke around the table and Bournestein sat in the middle slapping cards onto the table, his booming laughter filling the dingy room.

  The smoke made Logan gag, near to upending the vomit he was still forcing back.

  He stepped into the room and Bournestein, barrel-chested and huge, laughed and looked up at him.

  “I didn’t know which one of ye boys was gonna be walking back through the door, boy.” Bournestein sucked in a long drag of his cigar.

  Logan nodded. “Gregor is taken care of.”

  “’Bout time ye started earning yer keep ‘round here, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bournestein eyed him through the haze of smoke and the room grew quiet.

  Blast it. Logan needed to get out of here. Out of here before he retched all over the floor. And Bournestein was working up his latest pontificating. He must be six brandies in.

  “Boy, ye gotta toughen up if yer gonna survive here.” Bournestein’s hand swept around the table at his men. “The one thing these brutes about me understand is pain. Pain is power, boy. Master it and the world is yours. Master taking it. Master giving it. And this empire be yers, boy.”

  Logan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Be gone with ye.” Bournestein waved his hand, dismissing Logan, and went back to the cards on the table.

  Logan exhaled a breath of relief. He must be ten brandies in if his pontificating was that short.

  Logan’s feet couldn’t carry him up the stairs to his and Robby’s room fast enough. He stumbled into the far corner of the tiny space, sliding to his knees in front of the chamber pot. Curled over it, he heaved, over and over, everything emptying from his stomach.

  His guts empty to the core, he sank back onto his butt, untangling his legs to stick out straight as he leaned against the wall.

  The curtain next to him moved, and Sienna popped out from behind the torn, faded red velvet. Damn that she was still so small she could hide there without being seen.

  Her blue eyes were huge, fear shining in them. “Was it awful, Logan?”

  Logan lifted his right hand and dragged it across his face. Fresh blood smeared across his palm. He met her eyes. “You watched it, didn’t you, Sienny?”

  Her lips drew inward, her mouth clamping shut.

  “You watched, didn’t you, Sienny?”

  She nodded, the red-blond braids on either side of her head swinging against her shoulders.

  “Dammit, you were supposed to stay here.”

  She shrugged, not in the slightest apologetic and walked over to stand in front of him. Even sitting, he was almost now eye level with her. He grew too much in the last six months.

  “I couldn’t, Logan.”

  He shook his head and clunked it onto the wall behind him, his eyes closing to her. “Yea. You couldn’t listen.”

  “You didn’t kill him.”

  His eyes flew open, his look narrowing at her. “I was never gonna kill him, Sienny, no matter what Bournestein said. You know that.”

  She went over to the cracked basin of water in between the two beds and dunked a cloth into it, wringing it out before she brought it to Logan. She went to her knees and started dabbing at the blood on his forehead and temple.

  The cloth quickly turning red, she was more shuffling about the blood than removing it. She sighed. “I will miss Gregor.”

  “Yea, I know. Me, too.” He reached up with his right hand and grabbed her dabbing fingers, moving them so he could see her eyes. His voice turned hard. “But you are too young for how he was looking at you. You gotta understand that now, Sienny. That’s gonna happen and the Nowheres Boys are sworn to make sure it doesn’t. But you gotta watch out for boys like him.”

  She
nodded, a deep frown dragging down her face. She didn’t want to be the cause of Gregor’s banishment. “I’m the cause so I gotta be the reaction. It’s what you always say, Logan. So we need to find Gregor and help him. He’s got nowhere, no one, now.”

  “No, we don’t.” He squeezed her wrist. “It had to happen, Sienny, not just for that. For all of our sakes. If that had been Robby that had taken Gregor on, he would’ve killed Robby, and I would’ve had to stop him.” He paused, shaking his head. “And I don’t know if I could’ve let him walk if he hurt you or Robby.”

  “Robby never should’ve crossed him. Gregor just wanted to be the leader—the boss of all of us. And Robby don’t like to be bossed by anyone.”

  Logan chuckled. “Especially by me. But you know how he’s been since our mama died.” Logan shrugged. “But that’s how it is now. Nothing we can do on it.”

  She let loose an exaggerated exhale and got to her feet, going back to the basin to rinse out the rag. “Robby will get over it.”

  “I’m not so sure, Sienny.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him and her eyes dipped downward, then went wide. “Logan, your wrist. It’s weird.”

  Logan looked down at his left arm, his hand dangling at an odd angle.

  She ran across the room and tried to grab his left hand.

  He snatched it out of her grasp. “No—don’t touch it. It’s broken.”

  “Oh.” Her hands fell to her skirts. “Well, we should fix that.”

  “Yea.” Logan nodded. “We should fix a lot of things around here, Sienny.”

  ~~~

  Logan slammed his fist into the wall. Already raw and split from the beating he gave Bournestein, a thin scab broke free and blood stained the plaster wall in his changing room.

  After leaving the Joker’s Roost in flames, he and his men had been to every single one of Bournestein’s brothels, ale rooms, and gaming hells, searching for his wife. All night. All day. And into the darkness again.

  She was nowhere to be found.

  His men, ragged and soot-stained, had all needed rest. He needed rest.

  He needed to clean the soot and dirt from his skin and come up with a clear thought. A clear thought would lead to a clear plan.