Because the man who rose from her mother’s settee wasn’t Malum.
It was the Duke of Crossings.
ROTTEN ROW
Malum urged his mount forward, the steady rhythm of the hooves muffled on the damp earth. He hadn’t bothered with sleep the night before, not after the news Beckworth had brought him. Instead, he’d returned to theDomusand gotten straight to work.
After years of planning, the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. And true, he and his cohorts could wait, but… Malum didn’twantto. After all this time, and especially after this recent situation with Melanie, his patience had practically evaporated.
He would act now. Strike while the iron was hot.
At dawn, he’d dispatched letters, messengers racing across the city with precise instructions for his allies. Shortly after, he’d met with his contact at the Home Office. Quiet words, clipped responses. The Home Secretary was aware. Options were laid out. A course set.
Now, as Malum rode across Hyde Park, the crisp morning air did little to temper the steely resolve that gripped him. Ahead, a handful of riders trotted leisurely toward Rotten Row, their carefree movements a sharp contrast to the purpose that drove him forward.
The meeting he’d called today was the opposite of routine. In all the time he’d worked with the Rotten Rakes, he’d never met with them in public. It was a signal they would recognize, and knowing that, he felt a stillness—alert in a way that brought about an eerie calm.
He tightened his grip on the reins, his knuckles twisting into the worn leather.
Through every step of his planning, he’d failed to shake the memory of Melanie’s face the night before. The moonlight reflecting in her crystal-blue, tear-brimmed eyes—so full of questions. Feelings of betrayal—they haunted him. The raw pain in her expression as he’d closed the window felt like he’d cut himself off from his own heart.
It was necessary. He repeated the words to himself like a prayer. Necessary to protect her, to keep her safe.
None of this was remotely familiar—this consuming need to protect, to put someone else’s wellbeing so far above his own. It rattled him, the intensity of it, the singular focus. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but there had only ever been one person before her who had mattered, and even those memories were distant and fractured. His brother, gone for years.
But this—what he felt for Melanie—was something entirely different. Stronger. Unyielding. Dangerous in its power, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to fight it.
He needed her.
She would forgive him. Of course she would—once she knew the truth.
And yet, he had doubts. It was possible that, when this was all over, she’d realize she could do so much better than a man who lived on both sides of Society—or rather, one who lived in the no-man’s land in between. She could do so much better.
The thought tightened his stomach, though he scoffed at himself for the weakness.
There were better men, perhaps. But the idea of those “better men” getting close to her, touching her, even so much as holding her hand, it pained and enraged him in equal measure. It was untenable.
The ache in his chest deepened, though he pressed it down.
Focus, Malum.
He would see this through—this investigation into Crossings—and once the truth was laid bare, once justice was done, he would make her an offer.
A real offer.
As his horse’s hooves struck the dirt and gravel of Rotten Row, Malum straightened in the saddle, staring down the horizon.
The time for waiting, for gathering evidence and biding his time, was over.
Approaching the designated meeting spot, he scanned the tree line. A familiar figure on horseback emerged from the shadows.
It was Standish. The earl’s silhouette was rigid, his posture betraying his tension even in the dim light.
As Malum slowed to a stop, another set of hoofbeats came up from behind him—Baron Westcott.
Standish tipped his hat to them both.
“Morning.” The tone of Westcott’s greeting was deceptively light. But then he jerked his chin up. “Is that who I think it is?”
