Chapter Four
S he did not know the Devil personally. Despite her aunt’s opinion on the matter. Or the fact that she had picked his pocket.
He was lean, black haired, fierce jawed. He exuded dark patience, calm and unhurried, but with the sense of leashed power you knew instinctively you did not want turned on you. You did not want his attention.
Should not want it.
Craved it nonetheless.
And now here she was, caught in the lilac bushes in her wet nightdress. It did not exactly inspire confidence in her ability to take him on. She would, though. And she would win.
Because she had to.
“You have something of mine,” he said in that soft, dangerous voice. She nearly had to lean forward to hear him. That was his gift, surely. You stepped toward the fire instead of running away like any sensible person. She had heard men threaten and yell, pound at her father’s door, smash porcelain on the floor, shatter windows.
None of it as effective as that soft, dangerous voice.
Effective in several different ways, a great many of which were not remotely appropriate to the matter at hand. She shifted from one foot to the other, looked him in the eye. Which was not as easy as it sounded in this close proximity, considering he was tall and she was…not.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
“Everyone has a tell, my little thief,” he murmured. She could smell rain and roses and Devil: smoke and amber, dark like a forest. Otherworldly like his moss-green eyes. “Tell me, Miss Caldecott, are you planning to defy me?”
“Yes.” She blurted it out before thinking better of it. Her options at present were to brazen it out, play the innocent. Run.
Running did not seem feasible. He was too close, too big. Too clever.
His laugh was a surprise to her—and, it seemed, to him as well. “People who are caught stealing from me don’t often defy me as well. It isn’t healthy.”
“That must be dull for you.” She did not know where she found her courage, her sass. Only that when you were drowning anyway, you may as well do it with fervor. Whiskey would drown you as quick as water, but at least it was more fun. Possibly running through a storm was not good for the mind. Or any sense of self-preservation.
“Hand it over and perhaps we can pretend it never happened.”
She did not think he offered that often. If ever. It was tempting.
But not tempting enough. She needed it more than he did.
“I have nothing of yours,” she said.
His eyes narrowed under those strong brows, sharp and cutting as any knife. “Is that so?”
“I don’t even know who you are, sir.”
“Don’t play games you can’t win, Miss Caldecott.” He was getting closer still, pressing one hand to the trunk of the twisted tree at her back. Her mouth went dry. “I don’t give second chances.”
“I don’t require one.” She was mad—she had to be. Standing about in a wet dress had addlepated her entirely. She was taunting the Devil. When he was in the right and she was very much in the wrong.
“I think you do,” he said quietly. “And it’s too late now. You’ll beg like all the others.”
She narrowed her eyes even as her breath caught in the back of her throat. Why was her body reacting as though it were an offer and not a vaguely threatening statement? Warmth fluttered low in her belly.
Outrageous. She was Kitty Caldecott, purveyor of filth.
She straightened her spine. “No.”
“No?” His voice wrapped around her, tightening like silver chains.
“Certainly not.” She did not sound quite as firm as she would have liked. It was distracting to have one’s blood rushing all through one’s body as though some dam had broken under her skin. Thinking of chains in a way she really ought not be considering. Not now. Not here.
His boot edged between her feet, leg pressing gently between hers. Another temptation, a promise. A warning.
And then he blinked.
Utterly befuddled.
If nothing else, she could go to her grave knowing she had befuddled the Devil. She did not imagine it was an easy thing to accomplish.
“Your feet…are bare.”
She followed his gaze and blinked herself. “Yes.” She’d forgotten. He was definitely more accustomed to fawning and flattery from beautiful ladies than he was to a woman with all the dignity of a bedraggled cat, with bare, muddy toes peeking out from the dirty hem of her nightdress.
Clearly any possibility of distracting him from her teeny-tiny theft by seducing him with her elegance and grace was entirely off the table.
It was resignation she felt. Triumph, even, at this befuddlement. Not disappointment, thank you very much.
It would be so much easier if he were not so desperately attractive. It was more than the collection of his features: strong but also almost delicate. Impossible to look away from.
It was something else, something primal. Mysterious.
And then Lady Priya stormed around the side of the house, gardening apron streaked with dirt, trowel in hand.
Kitty was relieved at the interruption. Of course she was.
The gold bangles around Priya’s wrist made a merry sound when she pointed the trowel at Devil as though it were a sword. “ You .”
“Lady Priya.” He barely looked away from Kitty. As if he couldn’t. It did something to her insides.
Something unhelpful. Distracting. Not to be trusted.
She was not a woman for a man like Devil. Even for a moment in a garden full of rain and lilacs. She was a thief. A problem .
Priya looked like a fairy queen, flower petals caught in her black hair, murder in her eyes. “Lord Birmingham.”
“Devil.”
“I’m not calling you by that ridiculous nickname,” she sniffed. Her spine must be made entirely of steel. “Since I am not permitted at your Devil’s Night, you are not permitted on my property. Shoo.”
Devil straightened, expression mocking and hard. “Shoo?”
“Shoo.”
“Don’t make me shoot you, mate,” an Irishman said calmly from the other end of the path.
“Gallagher.”
“Birmingham.”
The swords, though nowhere to be found, were drawn. Despite the mild way they greeted each other, everything was suddenly sharp. Menacing.
Devil’s gaze found Kitty again, and she felt entirely too much like a moth pinned to a board. Not a butterfly, fluttering and colorful. A moth, all paper wings and darkness. He smiled slightly, and it was not the least bit reassuring. “Until we meet again, Miss Caldecott.”
“No, thank you.” She didn’t know what prompted her to keep poking at him.
He paused at the end of the lane, tone dark and whip-sharp, before stepping back into the damp and shining bustle of London.
“Get her some damned shoes.”