Chapter Two #2
“Pip and his cousin are keeping an eye out, but so far as I can tell, the dog has tucked its nasty tail between its legs.” A week has passed with no word.
Rook had returned to London with the “invitation” they had printed and swore on his life he’d do good by them.
Drake refused to believe his gut had diminished to the point where he could not judge a man’s character anymore.
However, Rook was the sort who survived by becoming whatever the moment required, and men who adapted that well could be dangerous.
They slipped through the world like mist, belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.
Useful allies when pointed in the right direction.
Absolute devils when the wind shifted favor.
Deuced annoying.
His brother scoffed. “In hindsight, this was a bloody terrible plan from the start.”
“And why is that?” If the Bulldog wanted his hands, should he just wait to hand them over? Not bloody likely.
“Because,” Reaper said, leaning back in his chair, “you sent an open challenge to a mad dog and expected him to trot over quietly. That’s not a strategy, that’s bloody trouble.”
“I’m the mad dog here.”
Reaper gave a snort of disbelief. “You are the most level-headed of us all. Not even Maxen is as disciplined as you. Look at how far our dear brother has fallen. Hasn’t been home in days. Don’t follow his path.”
“I can be a mad dog and level-headed at the same time.” Of course, when it came to a fight, boxing match or otherwise, no one was as disciplined as he was.
As patient as him. However, he wasn’t about to sit still and wait for another attack on him.
He wanted the coward that hid behind his name to know he, Drake, knew of his plans, knew he was coming. And, also, for pure fun, to taunt him.
Drake’s mouth tipped into a humorless smile. “You’d prefer I call him for tea?”
“I’d prefer you deal with him directly rather than this roundabout way.”
Drake would rather not use this roundabout way either. He’d love nothing more than to drag the blackguard out into the street and end this properly. “I can’t leave for London right now.”
“I’m not saying you leave,” Reaper said. “Send Saint or someone else to pick him up and drag his arse here.”
“Then it wouldn’t be dealing with him all that directly, would it?
” Fortunately, except for this barnacle Reaper, no one else thought the faux matches he’d set up were unusual.
He always let off steam this way. For those matches, however, he’d send another fighter in his stead and only satisfy the crowd for one match.
The ultimate match, before heading off to the lure.
Reaper’s jaw tightened. “I still don’t approve.”
Approve his arse. Drake drummed his fingers against the table. “If he shows his face, we end this damn business. If he doesn’t, we use Rook to track his movements so we know his next one.”
“I don’t trust that damn crow either.”
“You don’t trust anyone outside the family.”
“It’s how I survived this long,” Reaper said so flatly, one might mistake the truth of those words for sarcasm.
“A wet nurse frets less than you,” Drake retorted. “Don’t worry. It’s all going to go according to plan.”
Reaper huffed a dark laugh. “Forgive me if I don’t share your optimism.”
The door to the tavern opened, and Deveraux sauntered in, spotted them, and headed over. Reaper groaned.
Drake arched a brow. “Aren’t you always the champion for family, even dragging us all the way to our recluse duke half-brother’s castle to establish a bond?”
“He never betrayed us.”
“Only because he hated our father just as much as we did.” And since that first meeting and attending their brother’s wedding, they hadn’t heard from the Duke of Crane again. “He’s back to ignoring our existence.”
“The man’s a hermit who just got married,” Reaper pointed out. “It will take some time to thaw. Unlike this one.”
This one pulled out a seat and plopped down. “Are you talking about me?”
“So smart,” Reaper muttered.
Drake chuckled, shrugging at Deveraux. He was the only brother who had yellow hair, while the rest of them had black.
Since joining their side, he’d shed his foppish attire and opted for more casual clothing, rarely buttoning up to his neckline.
Reaper’s grudge might be because the newest addition to their number often ended up foxed and naked in Reaper’s bed instead of his own, claiming it was nearest to the stairs.
“Smart enough to know the two of you are up to no good.”
Drake arched his brow.
“What gives you that idea?” Reaper muttered, his brow drawing down in a scowl.
Deveraux pulled a leaflet from his pocket and flicked it onto the table. “This gives me that idea.”
Bloody Pip.
Drake flicked the leaflet with a finger, sending it sliding across the table. “It’s nothing.”
“Oh?” Deveraux’s brows arched. “If it’s so nothing, then how is it that none of the others know about your London trouble?”
“I don’t have trouble,” Drake denied coolly.
“Anyone who’s had a run-in with that bullish dog has trouble.”
That gave Drake pause.
Even Reaper leaned forward. “You know him?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Of course you know him, you diabolical son of a—”
“Reaper.” Drake shot his brother a warning look.
Reaper sank back with a grunt. “Fine, I won’t curse his mother. But that doesn’t mean—”
“I know,” Deveaux interrupted. “You don’t trust me. I wouldn’t either if I were you.”
“It’s good that you’re aware,” Reaper muttered. “So what do you know about this bulldog?”
“I know it never ends well for his enemies,” Deveraux said, lounging back and crossing one leg over the other. “I also happen to know he’s an earl, though I don’t know much else.”
Reaper’s head fell back. “Ah, Christ. And why not? Our life has never been easy.”
Drake cursed, too. An earl. He had no problem dealing with the titled, however, they came with their own set of provocations and weren’t convenient to deal with.
But also not impossible. His cousin was an earl.
Their half-brother was a duke. They had other noble connections as well. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you sure?” Reaper sneered. “A noble with wounded pride. The worst kind. No reasoning, no bargain. He will only be satisfied by seeing you crawl on stumps.”
“Then he’ll be disappointed,” Drake said evenly. “I don’t crawl. Hands or no hands.”
Deveraux arched a brow and jerked a thumb toward the discarded pamphlet. “Your plan won’t work.”
“Told you,” Reaper said, crossing his arms.
Drake didn’t mind their pessimism. “We’ll just have to see about that.”
“I’m telling you, he won’t show. If you’ve already humiliated the man, and it seems that you have—twice with that petty leaflet—he won’t take the risk of a third time.”
Good point.
However, Drake had never expected the man himself to appear. But he did expect someone to come. Someone always did, and that someone would be the key to the man’s identity. “Are you sure you don’t recall his name? His title, even?”
Deveraux shook his head. “Never needed to know.”
“Well, can you find out?” Reaper pressed.
“Of course,” Deveraux said. “If you let me in on your plan.”
Reaper snorted. “Why? Don’t you have better things to do?”
Deveraux shrugged. “I’ve been bored lately.”
“There’s nothing to let you in on,” Drake said before Reaper could retort to that spark of a statement. “The more the men, the muddier the water.”
Deveraux rested his chin in his hand. “I can be of benefit.”
Drake didn’t doubt that. But if this brother of theirs suddenly joined in, it would only be a matter of time before Maxen and the others scented his troubles out.
Better they kept their eyes where they belonged—on their uncle, and whatever devilry he was brewing, and where.
Exactly what Deveraux should be doing. “If you want to be of any help, keep your mouth shut and don’t let the others catch wind of this. ”
“Two already did,” the arse taunted, then grinned. “I suppose we are the two smartest.”
Reaper snorted but still said, “I won’t argue against that. Also, I’m smarter than you.”
“The others have better things to do,” Drake muttered, rising to his feet and stalking to the door, leaving those two thick-headed fools behind.
He also had better things to do.
He needed to find that damn dog.