In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1)

In the

Devil’s

Bed

A  Sins of the Duke Novel

By

Eva Devon

Máire Claremont

Bard Productions

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the work of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

In the Devil’s Bed

Copyright © 2016 by Máire Creegan

All rights reserved. No redistribution is authorized.

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

For more information: [email protected]

Title Page

Copyright Page

For Patricia, Noelle, and Lindsey

Acknowledgements | I must thank Teresa and Scott for their hard work and contributions to this tale.

Have you tried The Dukes’ Club? | Catch the snippets and grab the books! | Once Upon A Duke | Book 1 | Chapter 1

The Dukes’ Club | Book 2 | Dreaming of The Duke

Wish Upon A Duke | Book 3 | Chapter 1

Thank you

Author’s Note:

Dear readers, this is a darker love story!  A tale of love, revenge, and redemption with a dash of humor thrown in. I hope you enjoy Jack and Regan’s journey to happiness as much as I loved writing it.

Sincerely,

Eva

S
pain

1812

Prologue

Where is the bloody medic?

Jack sucked in the acrid stench of fired musket powder. Disbelief warred in his chest. Blood pooled and sprawled in winding rivulets over his shaking fingers, spilling onto the dry earth of Badajoz. He thrust his hands down harder over the wide-open wound oozing on his friend’s chest.

In ten years, they’d never fought a battle without each other. On or off the field. Hell, they were extensions of each other. Jack could actually feel Devlin’s heart slowing beneath his hands.

Their battalion charged around them, kicking up dirt onto Dev’s prone body, settling on his brown hair and tanned skin. The glint of a French Eagle in the smoke of the cannon fire caught his eye. Bloody hell, but the French were close.

Jack leaned over Dev and blocked him as much as he could from the battle with his shoulders. He stared down into his friend’s face. “Why the ‘ell did you step into that bullet?”

Devlin blinked his blue eyes. Pain streaked his pupils, turning them into pinpricks of black. His lips curled into a grimace of a smile. “You’re a sissy-ass bastard, Jack. You’d have dropped— like a fly.”

Devlin drew in a ragged breath, his face slowly turning ghostly white.

This could not be happening. They’d survived everything together. Everything.

Jack’s hands slid over the wet, torn cotton of Dev’s shirt. “Oh, and you stood like an iron post, is that it?”

The soldiers around them yelled at the top of their lungs, brandishing bayonets, the spear tips shining in the smoke-tinged sun. Thousands of booted feet slammed into the earth, sending vibrations up through Jack’s knees. In moments, he and Dev would be in the middle of hand to hand combat.

The smile faded from Dev’s face. “Jack, I can’t feel the lead ball. It’s not bad, is it?”

Jack opened his mouth and choked on the answer. If he said it, it would be true. His hands shone dull red and Dev’s blackened jacket and shirt stuck to his body, soaked. The skin around the angry wound shifted under the pressure of the flowing blood.

“’Tis nothing,’” rasped Jack.

Devlin’s eyes closed for a brief moment. The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed. “Liar.”

Jack’s chest clenched in a tight vise. “You can’t leave me here alone. I cannot carry out our plans without you.”

Dev slowly lifted his bloodied, dirt-ridden hand to Jack’s wrists. “Oi’m. . . damn well. . . not dying.”

Jack growled at the stupidity of his friend’s words. A trickle of blood was slipping from Dev’s mouth down his cheek. He had only moments. “You bastard, you can’t leave me. We’ve never been apart—Not since—“

“The duke—,” gritted Dev. “The home— But Jack— I’m not leaving you.” Devlin sucked in a breath, a low rattle shaking his ribcage. “We’ll go back to London. And we’ll. . .“

The words died on Devlin’s lips. His body tightened, then, in a single moment, relaxed into seeming sleep. The light dimmed from his blue eyes and his jaw relaxed, leaving his mouth open.

“Destroy the Chance family,” finished Jack. Dev’s fingers slid off his wrists. Jack pressed his hands harder against the wound.

“No!” He could stop it. He could bring Dev back.

Blood flooded over Jack’s forearms. Dev’s heartbeat still pulsed out the blood. And then stopped. A growl ripped from Jack’s throat as he slammed his hands down against the torn flesh and stared down into the face of his only friend. Like a vacant mask, Dev’s eyes looked up into the air, a sheen of dust covering them.

“Not here!” Each word grated from Jack’s throat. His eyes burned as Dev’s face blurred before him.

Jack felt nothing except a solid hum of anger and power thrumming through his veins.

Get up
, a voice urged inside him.

Jack winced and blinked. His hands slid from Dev’s chest and fell to his sides. Jack planted them into the ground.

Get up
, the voice commanded.

It pounded inside his head, filling his body with rage. Jack shoved himself to his feet. He looked down at what was left of his friend.

Revenge
, growled the deep voice.

Metal clashing on metal jerked Jack’s attention away from Devlin’s body. Men surged around him in a violent dance. Killing each other.

Pure hatred boiled inside of him. And for the first time, Jack wanted blood. He needed to take life and allow himself to be crazed with revenge.

He locked eyes with a French soldier. The young man’s blue and white coat flashed in the sun as he ran towards Jack. Jack grabbed the cool, wood barrel of his pistol and yanked it from his belt. He aimed at the white space between the man’s brown eyes, caressed the trigger, and fired.

The French man’s body jerked back and stopped mid-run. Surprise flashed across the young man’s face before he tumbled to the earth. Jack thrust his pistol into his waistband and drew his sword from its sheath.

He would kill every damned enemy on this field in Dev’s name. Every one of them. Jack ran into the wild sea of battling men and thrust his sword into the nearest French coat. The blade sank into the man’s flesh. The French soldier screamed. Jack kicked the man in the back with his booted foot, yanking his sword free. The sound of steel sucking from flesh filled the air.

Blowing out a jagged breath, Jack turned his gaze on the men before him, seeking his next target.

He would do everything to avenge Devlin and his own life. And if the rage growing inside him would help. . . He’d welcome it in. Without regret.

Chapter 1

Five years later

Regan lifted her thin, black veil and peered out of the carriage’s glass window. A sign advertising Hazard’s Outriders loomed like a great giant a little over a block ahead. It was nailed to a brick façade which stood imposingly over all the other buildings. Hazard’s was the most prestigious, and effective, outrider and bodyguard service in all of England. A fact she knew from the papers and word of mouth.

Her breath fogged the glass pane. She wiped it away with her gloved hand, unease and doubt churning inside of her. Captain Hazard stood for everything she was against. Everything her father had opposed. Power through violence.

And yet, Captain Hazard was a self-made man. Something that her father would have admired. The only thing about Hazard he would have admired.

Her carriage bounced over the rough street. The well-sprung wheels absorbed the shocks and the lacquered and cushioned walls muffled the rattling din of traffic outside.

The carriage struggled ahead then stopped directly in front of the immense building.

Regan’s heart raced. Talking with Hazard would compromise her pacifist principles. But if refusing to speak with him meant giving up her father’s work, what choice had she?

The carriage door swung open and Williamson unfolded the step. Regan pulled down her veil and grabbed her umbrella from the seat. Gathering up her crisp black skirts, she took Williamson’s waiting hand and climbed down.

Her booted feet hit stone and she tilted her head up, peering at the reflective, Palladian glass windows on every floor. An atrociously expensive building, perfectly harmless and beautiful in every way from the exterior. On the inside, it housed the most dangerous and reliable guards in all of London.

Regan shook her head and went to the tall, double door entrance embossed with glass. Williamson followed her, his footsteps a pace behind. She hated being followed, but he was the largest of her footmen, and she was not entirely unafraid of whoever was trying to kill her.

One of the doors swung open, manned by a young man only a few inches taller than her own five feet four inches. His blond hair glistened in the morning light under his perfect, blue bicorn hat. He smiled and a dimple flashed in his cheek. His long, matching blue cloak swished about his legs. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Regan nodded and slowly walked past.

His cloak caught over his right leg and she paused, her gaze riveted to the maimed appendage. It was bowed at the strangest angle and his boot stuck out, thick and black.

Although she saw disabled men every day in Whitechapel, she had never seen one working at a respectable establishment in the city. Regan moved her gaze back to the man’s face and smiled.

He closed the door behind her and her footman. Regan’s boots echoed on the marble floor, but the voices of well-dressed men standing in wait swallowed up the sound.

Four lines.

Her dark veil swayed before her eyes, distorting the rows of men that led to a desk, at least ten feet long. Four men sat behind it, glancing in ledgers and scratching in them with quills. One of the bespectacled men beckoned forth a customer from the line before him.

Although she had an appointment, perhaps she needed to stand in line. She glanced about the groups of men, looking for someone who might be able to assist her, but spotted no one.

It also appeared she was the only woman here. Lovely.

Perhaps she was the first woman ever here. A smile tugged at her lips. If she could walk through Whitechapel, this should be as simple as tying her bonnet.

She turned to Williamson. His brown eyes looked above the heads of the men around. Regan tapped his shoulder lightly. “Do you think I should que?”

Williamson looked right to left, the folds of his cream-colored cravat twisting. “Well, my lady. I think—“

“Pardon me, Lady Regan.”

Regan whirled around, looking for the speaker. A large built man, almost six feet with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, stood before her. His curly, black hair brushed his temples and his blue eyes twinkled. He brought a hand to the lapel of his charcoal coat.

“I believe ye be having an appointment with Captain Hazard,” he stated, with a friendly Irish lilt.

“Yes. I do. Mr. . .?”

“O’Malley, my lady. Thomas O’Malley.” He tilted his head to the side and looked to Williamson. “Perhaps yer footman would care to wait in our downstairs parlor? We’d provide tea of course. And ye needn’t fear for yer safety. I shall personally be escorting ye to Captain Hazard’s office.”

Regan paused and glanced at Williamson. She didn’t particularly wish for her servants to know the severity of her predicament and she would be safe here, surrounded by a virtual army of bodyguards. “That would be most satisfactory.”

Mr. O’Malley snapped his fingers and a young boy with sandy hair ran towards them. Smart brass buttons shone on his blue coat. The boy extended his hand towards a hallway off to the right and looked expectantly at Williamson. The footman gave Regan a quizzical look, but she nodded and the two set off.

Gesturing to his right with his thick, calloused hand, Mr. O’Malley smiled. “Step this way, if ye please.”

Mr. O’Malley strode off across the open room, maneuvering around the lines towards the far right wall just off to the side of the long desk.

A sprawling marble and cherry wood staircase loomed at the back of the reception area. Regan looked up and felt her jaw slacken. The ceiling of Hazard’s flew up three stories. Landings circled the sides of the immense opening. Carved wood and gold railings lined the stairway on each floor.

The three-story ceiling beamed a pale cream with an enormous gold and crystal chandelier hanging from its center.

Mr. O’Malley stopped beside her. “It’s an eye opener, isn’t it? Generally, people aren’t observant. Most people never look up.” His musical voice paused. He looked down at her. “And most people never go upstairs.”