Free In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) by Eva Devon Page B

Countless are losing their positions throughout the city. The least I can do is help them.”
    “And what does that have to do with pride?” Captain Hazard opened the coach door. He glanced inside, looking right then left as the footman descended from his perch.
    Regan stood by the coach, her feet sinking into the muddy ground. His dark eyes probed her as if trying to measure her. And she refused to be found lacking. “By receiving the money in their pay packets, they will not feel they have received charity. They will have earned the money.”
    The footman opened the coach door and Regan climbed in. She sat down on the soft cushion and leaned forward. “Something that is very important to these men.”
    Captain Hazard filled the small doorway, his gloved hands resting on the edges. “Your wisdom does you credit.”
    Regan blinked. Wisdom? He had asked her question after question with disdain hidden beneath each one. Yet he called her wise? “It would seem I don’t quite understand you.”
    He pushed himself away from the coach door, his face hard. “Few do.”
    Slamming the door shut, he turned the handle with a sharp twist. The vehicle swayed as he climbed up beside the driver. “All clear?” he called, his deep voice drifting into the carriage.
    “Clear!” shouted the other outrider that Captain Hazard had insisted accompany them.
    Regan clutched at her umbrella as the coach jolted forward. Something dangerous dwelled inside Captain Hazard. A deep hate that drove him, holding him in tight control. Regan drew in a deep breath. It was only a matter of time before he lost that control.
    And she had no desire to be there when he did.

Chapter 11
    Firelight flickered over the rocking horse. The white paint glowed gold. Once, so many years ago, it had been beautiful and bright, his son’s favorite toy. Now, the thing was riddled with rot and a good shake would probably send the thing into shards of splintered wood.
    Chiles cradled his brandy to his chest and caressed the carved, black mane. James had laughed and ridden it with chubby, little hands clutching the reins. And Chiles had rocked the horse in big sweeps telling his son to sit up straight and keep his heels down like a good soldier.
    For a moment, Chiles could have sworn that he heard the faint echo of his little boy’s voice. He slid his hand off the chipped wood and turned to the fire. The mantel barely came up to his chest and there was a small, red chair beside it.
    Slowly, he crouched and placed his hand on the small armrest and fancied he could still recall the smooth feel of his son’s fingers beneath his. He took a long swallow of brandy and stared at the flames till his eyes glazed and burned.
    His brilliant son, his eldest son, the son meant for great things, had betrayed him, had chased after causes not worth his boot black. And worst of all, James was dead. Dead at forty-five and not a word spoken between them in the last two years. Chiles let out a rattling breath and sucked down another gulp of brandy. His son had made his choice. He would not relent. He had made the right decision.
    Still. . . Chiles lifted a hand to his cheek and brushed away a ridiculous tear. . . He did not have to like the necessity of his choice. No, he didn’t have to like it, but unlike his son, he had to live with it.

Chapter 12
    Regan laughed. “Father, whatever are you doing?” Sun spilled in through the French windows of her father’s study. A halo of silver glimmered about her, his brilliant white hair in the sunshine.
    He stood behind Regan’s chair, his strong, gnarled hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
    She tilted her chin up and glanced into his face. A deep sadness tinged his usually merry blue eyes. Her laughter faded. A sudden unease flickered in her chest. “Father?”
    Lacing his fingers into her hair, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. The soft velvet of his green smoking jacket brushed the side of her face as he pulled