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

by K. J. Jackson

  He had just laid a bitter swath of destruction and he was no closer to finding Sienna than when he started. Not only that, he had dragged his men deep into the fray. By the graces, his men had only suffered two broken bones and five gashes that needed stitches. The bruises and cuts were numerous.

  Logan looked down at his fingers, exhaling a low whistle as he shook his hand, the sting in the sharp bones of his knuckles going deep.

  Clear thoughts.

  Bath. Sleep. Clear thoughts.

  Logan yanked down his trousers and stepped gingerly into the cool water of his copper-lined bathing tub. He’d been lucky that one of his guards had sent over a maid with food from the Revelry’s Tempest and she’d happily filled his tub for an extra crown while he ate in stony silence.

  He hadn’t been in the tub for ten minutes—just barely scrubbed the blood from underneath his fingernails—when he heard a floorboard creak in his hallway.

  Blast it. How had anyone gotten into his house? Greyson had insisted on staying watch in front of his house with another two of his guards watching the mews.

  Logan looked to his left to see a ragamuffin boy of maybe eight years old standing in the doorway, staring at him. Dirty and scrawny, the boy nervously twisted his fingers together in front of him.

  “How did you get in here, boy?”

  “I followed ye. I followed ye all night, sir. And when yer maid left the door open to get water from the well and chatted with that monster of a man in front, I snuck in by them. I followed ye from the Joker’s Roost, I did, sir.”

  “You were at the Joker’s Roost?”

  “I was, sir. I saw ye in the alley with Mr. Bournestein. And ye be a hero, sir. A true hero. I saw what ye did to ‘im. I know plenty in his streets that would want to be ye getting to hit ‘im.” The boy paused, his fingers lifting to tuck the dirty strands of his too-long hair behind his ears. “And I heard what ye want. Ye want the pretty lady. The one with the strawberry hair and sweet skin.”

  Logan sat straight up in the tub. “You saw her? The woman with the red-blond hair?”

  “Kinda red, kinda blond, sir? She was with Mr. Bournestein’s men yesterday. She didn’t look none happy, sir. Looked like she done got caught in one of his traps, sir, and was headed for the whorehouse. Angry sad. He had lots of men ‘round her—more than normal—that’s why I noticed.”

  “You know of Bournestein’s brothels?”

  “I do, sir. My mama lives in one.”

  A pang cut across his chest. He could very well be that little boy. “Where did you see her?”

  “By the whorehouse on Wild Street. That’s where my mama lives.”

  “The Canary brothel?” He had checked there. Checked there thoroughly. Or had he? His mind was still muddled. He eyed the scamp. “You are sure on that, boy?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Are you more sure if there’s a sovereign involved?”

  “A sovereign, sir?” The boy’s eyes went wide, his words tumbling out.

  “A sovereign for your honest answer. Or two. I would hope several gold pieces would override anything you were sent here to say.”

  His wide eyes expanded and he looked like he was about to run from the room. But the boy held his ground. “You know, sir?”

  “That you came here to send me into a trap?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped. He nodded.

  “It isn’t hard to figure out, boy. You’re nervous as hell.”

  A small smile lifted the corners of the lad’s mouth. “I never been a good liar, sir. Never. Mama always said so.”

  Logan nodded. “So did you actually see the blond woman?”

  “That I did, sir, but she ain’t at Wild Street.” He stopped, his head tilting to the side as he eyed Logan. “Ye sure ye got those gold pieces, sir?”

  “I am. They are yours.”

  “Then yer lady be at the Risky Hen gaming hall. She didn’t go to no whorehouse.” He shoved his thumbs under the waistband of his trousers, his feet tapping with unspent energy. “Mr. Bournestein showed up there too, last night after ye let him go. Showed up there a bloody mess, wat with ye made of ‘im.”

  Logan nodded. For all he knew of Bournestein’s holdings, he hadn’t known Bournestein had taken over the Risky Hen gaming hall. They hadn’t checked there. There’d been no reason to. “Let me get dressed and I’ll get you your sovereigns, boy.”

  “Or ye could just tell me where they be and I be helpin’ meself.”

  Logan had to stifle a chuckle. He would have asked the exact same thing twenty-odd years ago. “I’ll get you your coin, plus three, if you can be patient about it.”

  He coughed, choking, his head bobbing up and down. “I can, sir. I rightly can.”

  “Then wait downstairs in the drawing room—the room off the front door.” He gave the boy a stern look. “And know anything you pilfer from there won’t be worth as much as what I give you.”

  The boy nodded, turning to exit out the door.

  “Oh, and lad, be far, far away when I show up at the Risky Hen. You were sent here with a mission and I don’t see Bournestein looking to take a double cross lightly upon you.”

  “Yes, sir. Me mama too, sir?”

  “I’ll give you ten more pieces so you can take her with you. That should be enough for her to set up trade in another part of town, or look for a different position if that is her choice.”

  The boy nodded, a wide smile bursting across his face. “Yes, sir, most kind, sir.” He disappeared down the hall, his excited steps clambering down the stairs.

  Logan’s head clunked back against the rolled copper edge of the tub.

  His mind revived with the boy’s news, clear thoughts sped through his brain. He ran through what he knew of the Risky Hen from years ago. Five stories high and brick, the building was more structurally sound than most of Bournestein’s rickety holdings. It was night and that would help him. Bournestein was surely busy attempting to cobble back together his empire after the terror Logan and his guards had brought upon his brutes and his establishments during the last twenty-four hours.

  He would go alone. It would give him the best chance to slip in and find Sienna unnoticed. And his men needed a break. Needed to sleep. They were as battered and bruised as he was—several of the men mending broken bones.

  But he hadn’t lost any of them. A fortunate gift.

  Logan glanced at the mixture of blood and dirt still on his arm—he’d never gotten to scrubbing it off. May as well leave it now. He’d go in dirty and unkempt, all the better to blend in to the masses of St. Giles.

  He stood, water sloshing everywhere as he stepped from the tub.

  ~~~

  Logan pulled the rough cap down over his brow, slipping along the edge of the main gambling room at the Risky Hen. The place was alive with raucous games of loo, vingt-et-un and hazard. Plenty of women mixed in with the men, draped on laps, delivering tankards of beer. It was as jolly as he’d ever guessed this place had been.

  He shook his head. Burn one gaming hell down, and the bird-wits all just moved onto the next. A cycle he had long ago accepted as fact of life in St. Giles. The only thing that mattered was who owned the gaming hell still standing.

  Bournestein was an expert at that.

  Logan sidled near the entrance to the rear stairs, watching closely for guards and surprised to find none. He waited until a half-staggering man with two women fawning about him walked past and into the stairwell. Logan followed them closely, as though he were part of the group as they walked up the steps and onto the second level.

  Apparently, the displaced whores from the Joker’s Roost had moved in here.

  The threesome dipped into a room in front of him and closed the door. Logan glanced about.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. No guards were waiting in the hallway of this floor. This was one of the four main levels above the gaming room and Logan quickly went down the corridor, discreetly checking in the rooms. Half were busy with women and cust
omers. Half were empty.

  No Sienna.

  He made his way up to the next level. No guard on this level as well.

  His gut began to sink.

  Nonetheless, he moved along the rooms, level after level, cracking doors and peeking inside.

  No Sienna.

  On the top level he stopped at the end of the hallway, staring at the red peeling paint on the door in front of him that he’d just closed. The last door. And his wife was not here.

  His sinking gut turned into a jagged rock.

  A fool’s errand.

  He’d just been sent on a fool’s errand.

  The floorboards creaked at the end of the hallway and Logan’s head swiveled to see a boy dive into the shadows of the stairwell.

  Blasted boy.

  Logan ran down the hall, catching the boy that had sent him here by the scruff of his neck halfway down the stairs.

  “She was never here, was she, boy?”

  “Please, sir.” The boy’s hands flailed in front of him.

  Logan shook the boy, lifting him off his feet. “Was she ever here?”

  “No…no...no, sir.” He wiggled, trying to squirm away.

  He lifted the boy higher, looking at him straight in the eye. “Bournestein sent you to bring me here?”

  The boy nodded, defiant in being caught in his lie. “He did.”

  Logan resisted smashing the boy into the wall. Instead, he dropped him. The boy stumbled to his knees. “Why do it? You know how Bournestein is—you’ll not live long, boy.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet, looking up at Logan with curiosity in that he didn’t just get blasted with the back of Logan’s hand. “Maybe, sir. Maybe. But I be living under Bournestein’s watch, not yours, sir. I had to do it.”

  As much as he wanted to fault the boy, Logan understood. He understood too well how life was when one was trying to keep his family safe from Bournestein’s wrath. It was hard to think past what was directly in front of one’s eyes. Food. Warmth. Survival. It was impossible to imagine a different life.

  Logan pointed down the stairwell with a sigh. “Go. Out of my sight, boy.”

  Arms and legs floundering about, the boy scrambled, flying down the stairs.

  Logan stared down the dark stairwell, the cacophony of hoots and jeers from the main level drifting up to him.

  Bournestein had lured him here, but not for an ambush.

  If that was his plan, he would have had a stack of men waiting for him.

  Bournestein didn’t underestimate. He especially didn’t underestimate Logan.

  But why?

  What was his game?

  Bournestein always had a game. Always had a next move. And he never stopped. Never.

  Hell.

  Logan broke into a run, tearing down the stairs and out to the street. Rain had started, the muck on the street sucking at his feet. The first horse he saw, he ripped the reins from the rider and mounted it, sending it into a thundering gallop down the street.

  He needed to get to the Revelry’s Tempest.

  { Chapter 14 }

  The top floor had already collapsed by the time he arrived on Brook Street.

  Flames licking high. Embers drifting upward into the sky.

  In a daze, Logan dropped from the horse he’d stolen, staggering toward the building. Staggering so close the heat licked his face, smoke singeing his eyes.

  No.

  Not the Revelry’s Tempest. Not the one thing that had mattered to him since losing Sienna. His salvation. His men’s salvation. His purpose. It didn’t deserve this end. They—Cassandra and Violet and Adalia and his guards—didn’t deserve this end.

  His look flew around and he spun in a circle, searching the people in the street, the fire brigade shooting water at the flames skirting out from the street level windows.

  He spun and spun, the rain and the mayhem blurring in front of his eyes.

  His people. Where were his people?

  He froze in place, frantically searching his mind. It wasn’t a gaming night. That had happened days ago. His men were at their homes, resting after tearing up St. Giles. Cook would have retired for the day back to her townhouse by now—as would the maids. Violet and Cass and Adalia would be home with their families.

  No one should have been inside. No one.

  Please let there be no one inside.

  Whereas he’d cleared the Joker’s Roost, Bournestein wouldn’t take such a care.

  A thunderous crash exploded behind him and a blast of heat scorched his neck. He reeled around to the building. The third level had just crashed down, bringing the second floor with it. Stone and bricks tumbled and a sparking whirlwind of searing heat overtook him.

  His hand lifted to shield his eyes and he stumbled a step backward, crashing into a carriage.

  The window of the coach he staggered into opened up next to his temple and a head popped out. A balding, greasy head set upon a palate of purple and orange glistening brilliantly in the glow of the fire.

  “That is uncomfortably hot, wouldn’t ye agree?” Through his blackened, swollen eyes, Bournestein’s look focused on the burning building, a devil’s glow dancing about his face.

  “I’ll kill you.” Logan twisted, grabbing Bournestein around the neck and yanking him through the tiny window.

  Two pistols pressed into either side of Logan’s head.

  Bournestein’s brutes were quick to surround him. Quick to make sure they inflicted as much pain as possible as they dug their barrels into his temples.

  Logan released Bournestein, his hands going up and fingers spreading wide as his lip curled. “You’ve gone too far with this, Bournestein. This will never end. Not now. You don’t come back from this. Coming into this part of town. You don’t know what you’ve done, what will rain down upon you. You have just lost everything with this.”

  “Did I? Oh, I don’t think so, boy.” His words slurring with his broken jaw, Bournestein pulled his portly form back in from the window, smoothing the lapels of his orange-trimmed purple tailcoat and sloughing off the rain from his forehead and balding head. “In fact, I do believe it is ye that has just lost everything.” His snake smile slinked onto his lips, though the left side of his mangled mouth drooped from the beating he took. “Ye lost her. And I didn’t even have to convince her to abandon ye.”

  Logan twitched, ready to strangle him, and the gun barrels dug viciously into his temples, ready to explode his head. He froze. “It’ll never happen. Sienna would never leave me.”

  “Never?” Bournestein chuckled. “Well then, I give ye this one last gift, boy, and then I be done with ye—I tell ye she’s safe.”

  “She’ll never be safe near you.”

  Bournestein nodded and flicked his fingers to his guards. They lowered their pistols from Logan’s skull. “I agree, boy. And that’s why she’s gone back to Roselawn.”

  Hope flared in Logan’s chest.

  The countryside. Of course he would send her there. Far away from Logan. Far away from the squalor of London. He always knew she was too good for St. Giles. He would protect her from this life. For all of the evil in Bournestein, he loved his daughter.

  Loved her too much.

  Bournestein’s snake smile stretched wider, grotesquely distorting his face. “It shouldn’t spark hope in ye, boy. After I told her what ye done, she left on her own accord. It was her idea.” He rubbed the side of his busted jaw. “Ye be dead to her, boy.”

  Logan stilled, his words escaping through gritted teeth. “What did you tell her?”

  “The one thing ye wouldn’t. I told her what ye did to her mother. That ye killed the fine lady.”

  “Bastard. You swore.” Logan started to lunge at him, but was instantly held back by the brutes flanking him. “You swore you’d never tell her, you bastard.”

  Bournestein chuckled, long and slurred from his askew jaw. “That I am, boy. That I am.”

  He reached under the orange lapel of his purple coat with his unbroken
hand and pulled out a gold ring, embedded with blue sapphires the color of Sienna’s eyes and wrapped on one side with matching blue ribbon. He held it up and out the window to Logan, the sapphires glittering with the flames of the fire, droplets of rain soaking the ribbon. “She said to deliver this to ye. She won’t be needing it any longer. She said to leave the ribbon on, or ye won’t be believin’ she gave it willingly to me.”

  His fingers shaking, Logan reached out and snatched the ring from Bournestein’s grasp. That the man had even touched the ring, defiled it with his meaty paws, made his stomach roll.

  Another triumphant chuckle left Bournestein’s crooked mouth and he slapped the side of the carriage. His brutes released Logan and ruthlessly went to clear a path for the carriage through the throngs of people gawking at the fire.

  The coach rolled away.

  Logan stood in the street, watching it disappear down the street.

  Sheets of rain drowning him.

  Flames licking hot at his back.

  ~~~

  “Get out, boy, I don’t want you in here.” The words spat from Sienna’s mother as her palm lifted to him, her fingers bending and stretching manically in his direction. “You’re death, boy. Death is about you, it always ‘as been. It follows you everywhere. I can see it about you. Get out.”

  “Please just don’t hit her no more, Miss Vivian.” Logan glanced over his shoulder. He hated this room, hated the stench of the thick French perfume. The door was so close. Just three steps and he could escape her. It’d be easy. His feet started to shuffle backward, then stopped. He took a deep breath. Sienny needed this. “Please, Miss Vivian. No more. She’s hurt so much from earlier.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, boy. If your bitch of a mother ‘adn’t shown up here—I’d be happy—happy—and Bournestein would still be in my bed.” Her red hair fanned out on the blue pillows behind her. She looked like an angry sun. “You know, boy, he ‘asn’t visited my bed once since your whore of a mother showed up here? Pathetic she is—shows up with nothing. Except you two brats. What are you now, boy? Seven? Eight? How long ‘as your bitch mother been here?”