“A compound of both.” The Devil’s gift remained a secret known only to him and the other Hellraisers. As far as Anne and the rest of the world understood, the Devil was an abstract, an idea preached about on Sundays and on street corners, but never truly believed as real. If he told Anne of what had transpired beneath a Roman ruin three months earlier, she would have him committed to Bedlam. There was nothing to be gained by telling her.

No, she could not know. Her learning about his magic would jeopardize this tentative connection growing between them, and he found—to his surprise—he valued that connection too much to place it at risk.

“So it was luck and wisdom that saw you from a saddler’s son to ...” She waved her hand at the parlor, its walls covered in ivory damask, gilded carvings adorning the mirrors, moldings, and sconces. In truth, he found the style of the room to be oppressively ornate, but had permitted the designer to decorate the whole house as he pleased. Naturally, the man had employed the most expensive designs and artisans.

Leo had been home too infrequently to be bothered. So long as his house had displayed his wealth, he did not care.

Now, however, seeing Anne like a bryony amongst rotten hothouse roses, he found that he did.

Abruptly, he got to his feet. Anne blinked up at him in confusion, until he came around to pull out her chair. “This room feels choked. There’s a garden out back. At least,” he amended, “I believe there is one.”

“It has paths and a fountain, though it is a little barren so early in the year.” She rose, and he caught her scent of green meadow and young woman.

He had an urge to place his mouth at the juncture of her neck and her shoulder. But it was too soon. Instead, he strode to the door and said to the footman waiting outside, “Have Mrs. Bailey’s maid fetch a cloak for her mistress. And don’t light torches in the garden.” After the glare of indoors, he wanted the darkness.

He turned back to Anne. “You don’t mind.” Leo realized he spoke this more as a directive than a question, but he wanted out of this room, out of the house. And he wanted her with him.

“I often walked in the garden at night. After the chaos of the day, it gave me some peace.”

He would scarce recognize peace if it shot him in the face.

In a moment, Anne’s maid appeared with a sapphire woolen cloak. Leo took the cloak from the maid, dismissing her with a nod. He stepped close to Anne and, with a flourish, draped the garment around her slim shoulders. A flush of awareness pinked her cheeks as he worked the fastening at her throat. Good. He wanted her affected by him, for he found himself growing more and more responsive to her.

Claiming his glass of wine, he offered her his arm. Her fingers rested lightly on his sleeve. Had his other hand not been occupied with his glass, he would have clasped her fingers closer. A testing, to see whether she would retreat, or push forward. Yet without the slightest provocation on his part, her hold became more secure, fingers curving with purpose around his forearm.

Desire knifed through him. He mentally shook himself. I’m a sodding boy again. A time in his life when just the fan of a girl’s eyelash could rouse his cock. Now, years later, only the firmer press of Anne’s fingers on his arm caused him to respond.

“Comfortable?” He wasn’t.

At her nod, they walked downstairs and then out together. Brittle air scented with smoke and fog bit at exposed skin, but after the close heat of indoors, Leo welcomed the bite. He led her down pathways paved with crushed shells. Accustomed more to purposeful striding than a placid stroll, Leo forced himself into an even, steady pace, feeling the cold air abrade his lungs.

Bare-branched privet hedges squatted beside the path, and Leo could just make out in the darkness the skeletal arms of espaliered fruit trees reaching toward the sky. He tried to remember what might grow in the neat rectangular beds and found that he could not.

“In the spring, this will be a very pretty spot.” Anne spoke softly, a deference to night and its muted expectation. “Broom, and Sweet William, and candytuft. The pear trees will have lovely white flowers.”

It was the first he knew of it, or even what fruit the trees might bear.

“We had no garden,” he said. “The saddlery shared a common yard with a potter and a chandler, and we lived behind the shop. The yard was just that, a square of dirt. It smelled of wax, clay, and leather.”

“That’s where you played?”

He snorted. “No play. From the time I could hold a pair of shears, I helped my da. Schooling first, then work. Da wanted to be sure I knew my letters. He didn’t, not until he reached four and forty.”

Leo had never spoken of this to anyone, not even Edmund or Whit. They knew many aspects of his low birth, but never such intimate details, and it surprised Leo that he talked so openly to Anne now. The false affinity created by darkness.

As if sensing this, a cloud over the moon abruptly shifted and icy light spilled into the garden, washing away the intimate dark. In the light, he felt exposed, the distance between him and his wife all too evident. Moonlight drove them apart, for now he had nowhere to hide.

He cursed himself for being so unguarded. Surely she’d mock him for being the son of an illiterate. He readied for her cutting words, telling himself that he didn’t care what she thought of his humble blood.

“Your father must have taught himself,” she said instead.

Leo’s steps slowed a little, surprised by her response. “He did. Sat at the kitchen table with a hornbook, struggling to sound out the Lord’s Prayer.”

“With such a determined son, I expect no less from the father.” Esteem warmed her voice.

Leo felt as though he’d taken a punch to the chest. To steady himself, he took a drink of wine. He had expected bafflement from her, or outright disdain. But not this ... admiration. Especially not in the clarity of a barren, moonlight-blasted garden. Yet she saw him fully, and liked what she saw.

“No one more determined than Adam Bailey,” he said after a moment. “Was as determined.” Leo’s father had died as he lived: working. Always wanting more. A trait shared by his only living son.

Leo had advantages his father did not. More wealth, a greater understanding of the exigencies of business. And magic, given to him by the Devil.

Leo would use his every power to seize whatever he wanted.

As if frustrated by the growing bond between him and Anne, clouds slid across the face of the moon, blotting out its light. The garden sank back into darkness.

“Fifteen shillings a week. That’s what he made.” The same amount Leo carried in his pocket wherever he went. “Hardly more than subsistence.”

“Something altered your circumstances.”

“A rich man’s fancy.” The irony hardly escaped him.

“He gave my father a commission. A bloody big commission that meant pulling me from school so I could help complete it in time. The man wanted a dozen racing saddles. And he wanted them within a month. So we made the damned things, my father, my mother, and me. I was ten at the time. We had to hire the coffin-builder’s wagon to make the delivery.” Sometimes he woke from dreams to find his fingers holding a phantom awl.

“The man must have been quite fond of horseflesh,” Anne murmured.

“He owned two horses only, to pull his carriage. Said that he’d been thinking about taking up racing, and wanted to be prepared, should he ever indulge the whim.”

Anne’s laugh was wry. “No wonder you think all noblemen are fools.”

He stopped and faced her. “I never said that.”

“Those words specifically? No.” Some light escaped the house, tracing the line of her cheek and curve of her ear as she stared up at him. Her gaze was alert, unblinking. “Yet it’s there, just the same. Your opinion of the upper classes is ... low.”