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struck. Smallpox went rampant through the ducal seat, wiping out nearly the entire family, the associated village, and a good deal of the neighboring hamlets. It was called a plague, and the area had been isolated simply because no one would risk venturing near.
    The sickness had run its course, and it was time to take stock, bring comfort to the grieving, and rebuild the dukedom. But all the men had died.
    All except the grandson of the disgraced third son. The man was a sailor, only recently come to port. Imagine, they said, going to bed one night as a poor sailor and waking up the next as a duke.
    Wendy smiled at that, as did everyone else. It was the dream of every poor laborer: the wish to suddenly wake up as a wealthy nob. A beautiful dream, until she heard the man’s name.
    Radley Lyncott, now the Duke of Bucklynde.
    “What?” she gasped, unable to stop herself. “What was his name?”
    Everyone’s attention abruptly riveted on her. “Do you know him? What’s he like? Have you danced with him, Green Lady?”
    The questions came thick and fast, but only one man answered her question. It was the Demon, sauntering up behind her.
    “Radley Lyncott, my dear. Imagine that.”
    The men turned to the Demon. “So you know him then?” they asked.
    Demon nodded. “Indeed, I do. We were once the best of friends.”
    That was a stretch perhaps, but not a large one. Meanwhile, Wendy’s hands had gone numb. Radley was a duke? Her Radley?
    But of course he wasn’t her Radley. And likely never would be now, if the rumors were true. An aspiring ship’s captain could court a dressmaker, but a duke was meant for someone a great deal finer than she. She’d only had an afternoon to linger in sweet dreams of herself and Radley, but in those few hours, the longing had become precious. To have it ripped away so bizarrely—like a random throw of the dice—cut her deeply.
    Radley was a duke!
    Meanwhile, Damon had his hand underneath her elbow, smoothly lifting her from her seat. “My apologies, gents, but I require the Green Lady’s attention for a moment. Sara here will keep you entertained.”
    Wendy stood. She had no choice, unless she wanted to make a scene.
    She tucked her thoughts away, forcing her mind to center on the here and now. She was walking with Demon Damon and could not afford to let her wits go begging.
    “Imagine, little Radley’s a duke now,” he said.
    “He was never ‘little’ to either of us.” He’d been older than both of them and taller as well.
    “But look how much we’ve both grown.” He directed her to the stairs, climbing until they looked down at the main floor of the hell. The smoke was not yet thick, so they could see the whole area. Damon preened like a king surveying his kingdom. A king and… Her mind stuttered for a moment, but the truth was hard to deny. Standing here like this, Damon proclaimed to the world that she was his woman.
    “Listen,” he said as he tilted his head to hear better. She had seen him do this often, but had never understood until now. From right here, she could hear nearly everything in the room. The rattle of dice, the murmur of conversation, even the slap of a card punctuated by the bark of a laugh. Or better yet—from Damon’s perspective—the groan when a man lost.
    There was a rhythm here: a cadence and a beat, like the workings of a great beast. And Damon was the one in charge. He was the one who controlled the lifeblood of money and information here.
    Wendy leaned against the railing, feeling the power in a way she never had before. The hell was alive, and she stood beside its brain. Damon didn’t even move when he spoke. If she hadn’t been looking, she could have imagined the words came from the air itself.
    “Have you seen him since he docked?”
    “Radley Lyncott?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Yes.” She never lied to Damon; it was too dangerous. But she also rarely told him the full truth. “He visited my brother when I was at