The Bastards had never had cause to interact with Sedley, as he exclusively ran aboveboard shipments, paid his lading taxes, and kept his business clean, with nary a whiff of impropriety. No weapons. No drugs. No people. The same rules the Bastards played by, though they played in the muck, their contraband running to booze and paper, crystal and wigs, and anything else taxed beyond reason by the Crown. And they weren’t afraid to defend themselves with force.

The idea that Cheadle might have shot the first cannon at them was beyond understanding. But Cheadle and his daring daughter weren’t alone.

“The son,” Whit said. August Sedley was by all accounts an indolent lackwit, bereft of his father’s work ethic and respect.

“It could be,” Felicity said. “No one thinks much of him. He’s charming but not very intelligent.”

Which meant the young Sedley lacked the sense required to understand that going up against Covent Garden’s best known and most beloved criminals was not to be done lightly. If Hattie’s brother was behind the hijackings, it could mean only one thing.

Devil saw it, too. “Ewan has the brother doing his work, and the sister protects her family.”

Whit knew the price of that. He grunted his agreement.

“She fails,” Devil said, tapping against the floor again and looking down at Jamie. “This ends. We take the son, the father, the whole fucking family if need be. And they lead us to Ewan. And that ends, as well.” They’d been fighting Ewan for two decades. Hiding from him. Protecting Grace from him.

“Grace won’t like it,” Felicity said, softly. A lifetime ago, Devil and Whit had made a singular promise to their sister—that they wouldn’t hurt Ewan. It did not matter that he’d been the fourth in their band or that he had betrayed them beyond reason. Grace had loved him. And she’d made them promise never to touch him.

But Grace wasn’t a part of this. Whit shook his head. “Grace will have to suffer it. He comes for more than us now. For more than his past. Now, he comes for our men.”

For the world the Bastards would protect at all costs.

It was time to end it.

Whit met his brother’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”

The words were punctuated by a knock on the door to the building, the sound muffled in the distance. Another body, no doubt. There was always someone in need of care in the Garden—and he’d be damned if he’d let an entitled aristocrat add to the body count.

The brothers locked eyes. “All of it?”

“The business, the name, everything he values. I’ll bring it down.” Young Sedley had crossed the Bastards, and with it, brought destruction upon himself.

“And Lady Henrietta?” Felicity said, setting Whit on edge with the honorific. He didn’t like her as an aristocrat. He’d preferred her as Hattie. “Do you think she is part of it? Do you think she works with Ewan?”

No. The denial rioted through him.

Devil watched him carefully, then said, “How do you know?”

I know.

It wasn’t enough.

“She’ll give up the brother.”

Devil regarded him in silence. “Would you give up yours?”

Whit clenched his teeth.

“If she doesn’t?” Felicity asked. “What of her then?”

“Then she’s collateral damage,” Devil said. Whit ignored the distaste that came with the words.

Felicity looked to her husband. “Isn’t that what I was, once?”

Devil had the grace to look chagrined. “For a heartbeat, love. Just long enough for me to come to my senses.”

“If she’s the enemy, I’ll do it,” Whit said.

One of Devil’s brows went up. “If?”

You’re very inconvenient.

It’s the Year of Hattie.

Snippets of the conversation in the carriage.

“Even if she isn’t the enemy,” Devil pointed out, “she protects the man who is.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his brother with a firm look. “Which makes her valuable.”

It made her leverage.

“You’ll have no choice but to show her the truth of us, bruv,” Devil said quietly. “No matter how much you like the look of her.”

The truth of them. The Bareknuckle Bastards didn’t leave enemies alive.

“Sort it before we have to move more product,” Devil said. A new shipment would come into port within the next week.

Whit nodded as the door to the room opened, revealing the doctor. “You’ve a message.” He pushed the door wide and revealed one of the Bastards’ best runners.

“Brixton,” Felicity said to the boy, who immediately preened under Felicity’s attention. All the boys in the Garden adored her—half lockpicking genius, half maternal perfection. “I thought you were headed home?”

“To learn how to keep your gob shut, I hope, boy,” Whit said, making certain Brixton knew Whit had heard everything the boy had told Devil about Hattie.

“Ignore him,” Felicity said. “What is it?”

Brixton raised his chin toward Whit. “There’s reports there’s a girl in the market. Lookin’ fer Beast.” A pause, and then, “No’ a girl, really. A woman.” He lowered his voice. “The boys fink she’s a lady.”

A rumble sounded low in Whit’s chest.

Hattie.

“Askin’ all sorts o’ questions.”

Felicity looked to Whit. “Is she?”

“Aye. No’ that we’re answerin’.” Of course they weren’t. No one in Covent Garden would give Lady Henrietta Sedley information about the Bastards. That was the first of the unspoken rules there. The Bastards belonged to the Rookery alone.

“Good work, Brixton,” Devil said, flipping a coin to the boy, who snatched it out of the air with a grin and was gone before Devil could add, “Seems like you won’t have to find her, after all, Beast.”

Whit’s grunt hid the thread of disbelief that coursed through him. And the wariness. And the desire to chase her down. No, he wouldn’t have to find her.

She’d found him first.

Chapter Eight

There was nothing in the wide world like the Covent Garden market.

The marketplace was massive, fronted by a great stone colonnade that gave way inside to an endless collection of shops and stalls selling anything a body could need—laden high with fruits and vegetables, flowers and sweets, meat pies and china, antiques and fabrics.

Hattie was full of pleasure as she picked through the interior of the market, weaving in and out of the vendors, tempted by the riotous colors of the late autumn harvest—flower stalls overflowing with reds and oranges, magnificent gourds piled next to bushels of beetroots in myriad colors, and heaps of potatoes still dark with the rich soil in which they’d grown.

To others, the building itself was the pride of the marketplace—an architectural marvel, massive and stunning, with immense, echoing rafters and stonework and ironwork that made this, London’s largest and most expansive market, the envy of all the world.

But the building was nothing to Hattie. For Hattie, the draw of the market was the people within. And it was packed to the rafters with people. Farmers and merchants, florists and butchers, bakers and haberdashers and tinkers and tailors, all hawking their wares for a crush of customers that ranged from lowliest maid to jewel of the ton. If one could find their way into the building, it didn’t matter where they’d come from—Covent Garden market was one of the rare places in the city where a pauper’s ha’penny spent as well as a prince’s—perhaps even better, as a pauper didn’t have qualms about raising his voice when necessary . . . which it always was in the market.