Page 9 of The Devil Himself (The Devil You Know #1)

Eight

R ys found it impossible to concentrate on his work.

He sat at his desk, but knowing that Luc was sleeping just down the hall in a private room, the door under guard by one of his best men, was itching at him.

Luc had awakened late this morning and taken some broth and some hothouse orange juice, and then he’d fallen back into a deep sleep after his dressing had been changed and his wound cleaned.

Christ.

Lucian Fitzwilliam had been shot on the very doorstep of the Devil’s Playground. Whoever had killed Owen had recklessly brought the fight to them in a very real way, and no one had seen a goddamned thing.

He unclenched his teeth with a great force of effort. He looked down. Ink stained his fingers from where he’d been gripping his quill in both hands as if he might break it in half.

Whatever his complicated feelings about his family and this whole mess with Owen’s murder, Rys knew one thing. He would hunt down whoever had hurt Luc and make them pay.

A soft knock sounded at his door, and he tossed down his pen with an oath. “Come!”

“Mr. Grey?” One of his burly attendants stuck his head in the door. “A Viscount Warrington to see you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Send him in.”

Julian, Viscount Warrington, swept into his office, his overcoat flapping around his legs. “What the devil is going on, Rys? Tell me Luc hasn’t actually been shot.”

“Hello to you too, Warrington. Do have a seat.”

Julian took off his coat, tossing it over a hook on the stand near the door. “I will, thank you. What in the name of hell is happening?”

He studied Julian for a moment. Heaven knew, he was a handsome one, with his rich chestnut hair and his whisky-brown eyes, his face a study in planes and angles and sensual lips.

They had been more than friends for a brief while, but Julian had been on a campaign to become more respectable of late, thanks to his dear old aunt and mum, and had not been to the club in some time.

Rys steepled his inky fingers in front of him. “I was led to understand that you knew the situation and were making inquiries.”

“I have been. But who shot him?”

“One assumes the same person who shot Owen.”

Jules’s expression changed to one of distress. “I had no idea he was your brother at the time, Grey. My sympathies.”

“We were estranged.” He tapped his fingers together. “Luc says you and Owen were friends, so I imagine my sympathies are with you. I am more concerned with Fitzwilliam.”

Jules gave him an appraising look. “Like that, is it?”

“It does not appear to be mutual, but yes, it is.” He was nothing if not honest, and Jules was discreet.

“How is he?”

He scowled. “Shot. In the upper arm near the shoulder. He was damn lucky. He said he turned about on some instinct, or he would have taken it square in the back.”

“Christ.”

“My sentiments precisely.” He stared at Julian. “What have you discovered?”

Jules frowned. “Not good things. I would just as soon relay them to both you and Luc at the same time.”

“I have no idea when he will awaken.”

“Hmm. How about a drink then?”

He cracked a smile finally. “Jules, it’s barely gone noon.”

“Luncheon?”

Snorting, Rys shook his head. Julian did love his food to distraction. “Setting up camp, are you?”

“Until I can see Luc for myself, yes.”

“Is it that way for you too?” Jealousy rose in his chest, bright red and hot, and Rys felt absolutely certain he did not care for it.

“No. We are good friends, Rys. Frankly, I’ve never seen Luc take on so much as flirtation, man or woman. Perhaps he loved his wife.” Julian shook his head, his nose wrinkling.

“They were an arranged match.” He remembered that much. “But mayhap. I have yet to eat today, so why not?” Rys rose and moved to ring for service.

“Good man.”

“You are welcome to go eat in the dining room, you know. I do have work to get done.” He glowered with mock ferocity, trying to regulate his mood.

“Bah. You cannot tell me you were concentrating.” Julian waved at his ink-stained hands.

“No. I was not. Luncheon, please, Hodge,” he said to the young man who answered the bell.

“Yes, sir.”

“So.” Jules drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Owen is shot. Presumably to pave the way to the title.”

“Yes.” Rys pondered that a moment, then grabbed his quill and a sheet of foolscap. “That’s good. We should construct a timeline.”

He drew a line across the page he’d turned horizontally, making a hash mark at the far left and labeling it “Owen’s murder”.

“Were you at the funeral?” Rys asked.

“At Owen’s?” When he nodded, Jules pursed his lips. “Yes. It was a tense affair. Daffyd was drunk. Arthur came quite late. Hannah was still very much in shock, and young Gareth was trying hard to assume the mantle of the marquess.”

“Did anyone seem out of place?” He made another mark and labeled it “funeral” where he wrote Daffyd drunk, Arthur late.

“Some of Arthur’s friends attended. Wild degenerates, the lot of them. And I mean that in the least complimentary way.”

“Coming from you, Jules, that’s quite a lot.” He moved across the page, leaving space, then wrote in Jules checking on finances, Gareth back to school, and Luc shot. “What else?” he asked as he handed Jules the paper.

Lunch arrived, and they worked through it, trying to make sense of any scrap of information they had, though Jules had yet to share anything he’d found. Rys was about to insist that Jules tell him when another knock sounded.

“Come!”

“Sir, Lord Angelsey is awake and asking for you.”

He shot to his feet, Jules close on his heels as he strode to Luc’s sickroom, his heart pounding.

“Fitzwilliam,” he said as he arrived at Luc’s bedside. “Warrington came to check on you.”

Luc opened his eyes, frowning a bit. But then the expression cleared. “Ah. Jules. And Rys. Good. Good.”

“How do you feel?” Jules asked.

“Like I’ve been shot.” Luc flexed his fingers just slightly. “But the physician assures me the stitches can come out in a week if I don’t get an infection, and that I should be mostly recovered in a fortnight, if sore.”

“Excellent.” Studying Luc, he noted the pale cheeks, but he supposed that meant no fever. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“It is tolerable right now.” Luc smiled, the expression wry. “Mainly, I keep dropping off to sleep.” He glanced at Jules. “What news?”

“Daffyd is some ten thousand pounds in debt.”

That flopped between them all like a landed fish. Then Rys exploded. “Ten thousand! Good God. Who owns the notes?”

“Your competitor at the Carnival of Dionysus.”

“Indeed! That is fortuitous.” If it had been some other dandy at Brooks’ or White’s, he would have a wall he couldn’t scale. But since he knew Deacon Collingsworth well enough, he’d arrange a meeting.

“You know him?” Luc asked.

Jules hooted, the laugh like a honking goose. “My dear friend, if it concerns the dark underbelly of London, Rys knows everyone.”

Luc squinted at him, the expression rather befuddled, which he found somehow endearing. “I see. Well, then you will speak to him?”

“I’ll send a message around. What about Arthur?”

Jules’s lips firmed, his jaw clenching. “He’s been spending recklessly. A house for his mistress. A new carriage and matched bays. A riding horse worth a small fortune.”

“We knew that much,” Luc murmured.

“But what you might not know is that he’s been borrowing heavily and promising to pay it off on a certain date.”

That caught his attention. “What date?”

“Three weeks hence.”

Stunned, he sat back, his mind racing. Three weeks, which meant whatever they had planned, it would happen in the next fortnight.

And he had to believe it was them, plural. Arthur was a ne’er-do-well with very little ambition. Daffyd, though, was a former soldier, and by all accounts, he’d been a good one, even if he’d had issues with authority.

“We don’t have much time to unravel this, then,” Luc said, then broke their concentration with a mammoth yawn.

“We should let you rest,” Rys said, rising.

“I can help…”

“Of course you can. But you need to mend first. I will send a message to Collingsworth, find out what I can about Daffyd.”

“And I will look into Arthur’s movements more closely,” Jules asserted.

“I can?—”

“You will rest,” Rys told Luc, their gazes clashing. He needed Luc to be whole. Not to get an infection. Luc healing was the most important thing to him. And he wasn’t going to examine that closely right now.

Luc searched his face, blue eyes cloudy with exhaustion. Then his shoulders relaxed. “Very well. But please keep me informed.”

“We will.” Julian went to put a hand on Luc’s good shoulder. “I’m glad to see you looking so well, my friend.”

The urge to snarl and knock Jules away from Luc surprised him, and he held it back, waiting for Jules to move to the door.

“If you need anything, just ring for it. I’ll return to check on you at suppertime.”

Luc chuckled. “Yes, nursemaid.”

He winked broadly. “I can’t have you expiring in my club.” Then he sobered. “We’ll figure this out, Luc. I promise.”

Luc smiled, nodding, his gaze as steady and sure as it had been since he was shot. “I believe you.”

“Thank you.” He touched Luc in the same place Jules had, as if to erase the contact, and then he turned on his heel to go before he did or said something utterly ridiculous.