A whipping boy when one of the earl’s real sons did wrong, and a beast to be beaten into submission when the earl had too much to drink.
But none of that mattered now. It had been a decade since any man had taken a whip to him and nearly as long since he’d lost a fight. The scars were just a reminder of a life he’d left behind.
Mostly.
It wasmostlydead and buried. Except for her. His Lillian. The girl who’d lived at the neighboring estate. The sweet lass with the face of an angel and a heart to match. The beautiful young lady who’d shown him kindness and nursed him back to strength.
To this day he wasn’t sure how she’d always known, but she had.
Without fail, she’d sought him out and found his hiding spot after the worst beatings, and she’d tend to him as if she were a servant and he a lord, rather than a gently bred young miss taking care of an unwanted mongrel.
She’d always been there for him. Taken care of him as his own mother never had, and shown him more love and mercy than anyone ever had before or since.
She’d taken care of him and he’d tried to do the same, in his way. Keeping eyes on her, making sure she was safe. He’d been the first to know when her engagement to the Earl of Fallenmore’s eldest, Malcolm, had been made official.
Dane had nearly murdered a gambler who’d been caught cheating at one of King’s gambling hell the day he’d learned about that. But it wasn’t a surprise. Everyone had known her father and the earl had an understanding that they would join their families.
The wedding was set, and by all accounts she’d been content. Not happy, perhaps, but not distraught. She’d been resigned, that was what her lady’s maid had said.
So what had happened?
Why would she run?
Or had she been taken? His blood froze and his insides twisted with a helpless rage at the thought. But no. King’s best man for these kinds of things had gone to her home and assessed the scene himself. He’d told Dane that she’d clearly left of her own volition. Tracker, King called him, and Dane had never bothered to learn his real name. King was fond of nicknames and the anonymity that came with them. The most Dane knew was that Tracker was a former Bow Street Runner who’d lost his good name, but not his useful skills.
Dane scanned the crowd again. Tracker had been the one who’d insisted he take time off from the search. Said Beast had only been getting in the way when his temper had flared and he’d knocked a drunken pub owner out cold for not answering his questions quickly enough.
Get some sleep, Tracker had said.I’ll report back at dawn.
As if Dane could sleep when Lillian was on her own. As if he could rest when she might be hurt.
So he’d passed the night with fights instead. Earning King and himself more coin they didn’t need, and reminding this rotten crowd that there was a reason he’d been given his moniker.
But the night had passed and dawn’s light was spilling in through the cracks above the wooden slats that covered the windows.
Sure enough, Tracker was lurking in the shadows beneath King’s private box.
Dane caught sight of him through the crowd and changed course—the jeering, shouting crowd shifting with him like a tide.
Dane ignored them, barreling through without a backward look.
He hadn’t even drawn close enough to speak when Tracker gave him the answer he’d been looking for. With a shake of his head the tall, lean man with the sharp features and the even sharper look in his eyes gave Dane the bad news.
Still no sign of her.
Tracker nodded toward a room off the main hall of this dilapidated old warehouse that King had turned into a fighting ring. Another way for the greedy and ruthless to lose their money.
“What’ve you found?” Dane’s voice was little more than a growl in the darkened room.
The rough voice was another remnant of his childhood. He’d never spoken. Never been allowed to speak. Whether it was lack of use or the screams that had wrecked his voice, the end result was this low rumbling growl that only added to his reputation and gave credence to the name Beast.
Tracker moved in the shadows with a lethal predatory grace that made him almost a match for the Beast in a fight. Almost. “We haven’t found her but I did get one of the maids to talk.”
Dane stilled. Something in the other man’s voice set him on edge.
Tracker glanced around them to ensure there were no eavesdroppers. “Seems she’d been crying.” Tracker’s lips curved up in a sneer at the word, like he was disgusted by the thought of a woman’s tears.
Dane went cold at the thought of his Lillian crying. “Why?” Tracker started to shake his head, but Beast’s snarl of rage made his freeze. “Who made her cry?”