The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,63

out into the night. Her carriage awaited her in the drive next door, the ruins of Cecelia’s old manor. The rebuild of Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies had already broken ground, but the last of the rubble had yet to be cleared away.

London seemed darker tonight. Quiet and eerie, with the muffled, biting chill of the winter. Or perhaps that was just how she perceived it.

Perhaps she saw in the atmosphere what swirled about inside. She was both a tempest and wasteland after tonight. A storm with nowhere to blow.

But she’d achieved her goals, hadn’t she? She’d infiltrated the enemy, and seduced their leader. If she was stalwart, she could break them. So long as she didn’t break first.

The gas lamps didn’t seem gold tonight, but pallid and wan. They cast more shadows than light, and she kept a firm grip on her knife in case she might need it.

When strong hands grabbed for her and pulled her behind the solid stone security fence of Cecelia’s property, she had the blade out and at a male throat in an instant.

“Frank, darling,” Alexandra said gently. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you didn’t stab the father of my child.”

Francesca wrenched herself out of the Duke of Redmayne’s grasp and scowled up into his scarred, satirical features. “I’ll slice the pretty side of your face if you presume to grab me again,” she snapped with no veracity whatsoever to the threat.

“You’re welcome.” The split in his lip showed as his close-cropped ebony beard parted to reveal one of his rare smiles. He pointed at a post, one she might have walked into if he hadn’t have redirected her.

She scowled at it, refusing to thank him while he was being smug.

“I expressly forbade you two from spying on me,” she scolded the Rogues, refusing to let them know how knee-wobblingly glad she was to see them. “And then you bring these brutes to muddle things up? If I’m discovered because of you, I’ll be so bloody cross I’ll—”

Cecelia threw her arms around her as if she were a long-lost sister. “We were so worried, Frank.” She might as well not have whispered, as the rasp of her voice carried through the night at a regular pitch. “All these people and no lights.”

They turned to watch the last few people disperse into the night like Mayfair ghosts. “I’ve never seen the like. What is going on over there?”

Francesca backed up, right into Ramsay, who wisely stepped back and allowed her to steady herself.

Ramsay, a famous celibate before Cecelia, touched no woman but his own.

Francesca assessed the four faces glowing at her expectantly from what little light shone through the clouds.

Should she tell? Should she confess to Ramsay that the Lord Chancellor was dead, arguably at her command?

As she searched each of their faces, she thought of power. These were powerful men. Redmayne held one of the oldest ducal titles in the realm. And Ramsay, who lorded over one of the most powerful elected offices, was being eyed by the throne as the next Lord Chancellor. Their women were influential in their own rights, Alexandra as one of the few female doctors of archeology in the entire world, and Cecelia a wealthy, brilliant businesswoman—and keeper of enough secrets she might inadvertently be able to tear down the Crimson Council on her own.

Though the sweet woman wasn’t capable of wreaking destruction. Not on purpose.

Yes, they were formidable … and yet they could never stand against the throng of what she saw in there. They didn’t have an army of devotees, nor did they have the kind of killer instincts to burn someone’s entire legacy to the ground on a whim.

No, she had to do this herself. She … and Chandler. This had become their destiny long ago, the moment they’d clung together in a fireplace.

“This is the Crimson Council?” Ramsay asked, his features arranged in such a way to show how thoroughly unimpressed he was. “It seems like any soiree dispersing into the early hours of the morn.”

Francesca nodded. “Promise me you’ll not do anything.” She seized his arm. “I’ve infiltrated them, but not deep enough yet. You must be patient a while longer.”

“Like hell!” Ramsay seethed before Cecelia clapped a hand over her would-be husband’s mouth.

His eyes burned murderous, and Francesca hurried to mollify him.

“I found something out. We knew they were planning on using the girls they kept in the catacombs beneath your house for nefarious deeds, but I don’t believe