“Not exactly.”
With the grace of a stretching lion he pulled himself up and sat on his haunches beside her. “I am cutting him out of your life.”
Before she could form a reasonable retort, he stroked her ankle, distracting her. It was working. A line of tingles traveled up her body, escaping with the shudder of her shoulders. “I—um…”
He smiled, a bone-melting smile that made her feel as fluid as a pot of face cream. “Shall I share the details of my plan? Something you neglected to do for me.”
She refused to feel guilty for deceiving him. When she tried to pull her leg out of his reach, he tightened his hold. “You would have locked me up in this study if you had known what I was planning.”
“Rightly so. Your exploit bordered on lunacy. Succeeding would have only made you a danger to society,” he said; the edge to his voice could have cut down to the bone.
The lash of temper had her recoiling. It was the first time he had shown any visible sign of anger toward her. “You make it sound as though I do not have a sensible thought in my head.”
“Oh, I consider you a highly intelligent female. There lies the problem.”
Insulted, she jerked her leg free and walked to the chimneypiece. Devona glared at the jovial porcelain angel grinning at her. “Doran is no longer your concern.”
Tipton came up behind her. “Not for long at any rate.”
She turned and found he had her neatly caged in his arms. “W-what will you do?”
“How much do you love Claeg, Devona? Is he worth the price you will pay?” He caressed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. “You stood in this room once on a night very much like this and offered your soul as payment. Some call me a devil. I have decided I will accept your offer after all.”
“Which offer?” His closeness was confusing her. His eyes reflected and glinted like a dull silver blade in the firelight. This time when she shivered it was not out of excitement but rather out of fear.
“A choice, my lovely Devona. I get to keep you, and Claeg—”
“And Doran?” she prompted.
“He gets to take my place as the walking dead.”
TEN
“Hold him still,” Rayne ordered, concentrating on pulling the last stitch through and knotting it. His patient had been the unlucky recipient of a jagged piece of crockery to his temple. The man would walk away with a nasty scar, but he would survive if the hemp did not catch him in a stranglehold.
“Strange business last evening,” one of the trusted prisoners said while he held the flinching patient.
Rayne reached for a piece of linen to dress the wound. “A small riot, I hear.” It had been more than that according to another guard. At least fifty inmates had gotten their hands on files, the source of which no one was exactly certain. Although a small charity blamed for providing numerous barrels of beer to several wards was under suspicion. The ones who were not happy with getting pleasantly drunk and busting chamber pots were busy cutting their way through the rusting iron bars. One very productive ward managed to cut a large enough opening for several prisoners to escape. Two had been captured immediately; five others were still missing. Rayne shook his head. The way Devona’s mind worked fascinated him. He could not be certain if she was trying to free Newgate’s population single-handedly or if it had been her ruse to cause confusion so Claeg could escape.
Rayne had to stitch up a half-dozen other patients and help a fourteen-year-old girl give birth to her stillborn child before he was free to seek out Claeg. It might have been simpler to have allowed him to escape as Devona had planned. However, Claeg’s early release would have messed up Rayne’s own plans. Cold bastard that he was, he intended to use the man’s dire predicament to gain Devona for his own.
Rayne could still see her expression when he had bartered the release of Claeg in return for her hand. He had never seen such a reluctant acceptance in her. Devona had appeared almost disappointed in him. He stalked down the dim corridor, nodding to the passing turnkey. What had she expected from the man everyone called Le Cadavre Raffiné? As far as he was concerned he was just living up to the name.
“I am Tipton. Is Doran Claeg waiting for me?” he asked the two gatesmen braced against the wall, passing a bottle between them. He had made certain Claeg would be isolated for their conversation.
“Inside. Is he ill?” one of the men asked, but he did not seem truly interested in the response.
Rayne stepped aside so the door could be unlocked and opened. “That’s what I’m here to take care of.” He was standing in the same room in which Devona had tried to execute her half-baked scheme. Walking over to the prone figure on the floor, he nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, Claeg.”
He set the lantern down on the floor near the man’s head. Claeg rolled over; his arm covered his eyes as if the light hurt. “Too much liquor to lessen your disappointment of last eve.”
“Go to Hades, Tipton,” Doran mumbled, groaning when he tried to sit up.
“If this isn’t hell, it is at least the entrance hall. I heard that thanks to our mutual friend several prisoners escaped last evening. A pity you were not among the counted.”
“No thanks to you!” Doran glared, then ruined the effect by rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I could not believe you called the guards in on our gathering.”
Rayne reached over and dragged the small bench closer to the light before sitting down. He rested his forearms on his knees and studied his rival. He may have been raised as part of the upper crust; nonetheless, the man had grown a little stale in his present surroundings. “Claeg, I would not pay a shilling for your pathetic hide unless I could find a use, like the patronage of my dissecting table.”
Glorp! Doran reached for the sop bucket and vomited. Once his stomach settled he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sadistic butchering madman. I wager you kill more than you heal.”
Rayne, able to appreciate the grim humor of the situation, laughed. “It is my abilities in the former rather than the latter which bring me to your side today.”
Doran jerked himself upright, prepared to combat the dark specter of the ton. “My death would—”
“Not make the papers, nor stir the gossips’ tongues. You are invisible,” he said, not without some unwanted sympathy.
Denial flared in his young, defiant face. “Not to Devona. Last night proves that she would do anything for me, even risk her own life.”
Rayne tapped down the rage he felt when he considered the great risk she had taken to save her friend. Jealousy rose to take its place at the thought of her feelings for this unworthy fool. “All last evening proved was that Devona broke under the strain of your family’s desire to blame her for your misdeeds.”
Doran shook his head. “I never have blamed her.”
A cynical curve turned Rayne’s mouth upward. “Not aloud. You just reminded her every time she visited that everything you did, you did to win her affection and her father’s approval. Then there is that bitch you call a mother. She has told everyone who bends an ear that Devona was the tart who seduced her poor hapless son down the road of sin. I even witnessed her striking Devona in public for defending herself.” And maybe a bit more, Rayne thought, recalling the chunks of statuary at Devona’s feet when he discovered her in the conservatory.
“No. I—” Doran pressed his fists to his temples. “My mother. She has never tolerated the Bedegraynes.”
The helpless pleading in his eyes did not move Rayne. Devona had been hurt because of this man. Whether she wanted it or not, Rayne would protect her.
“Devona never told me of these incidents,” Doran weakly protested.
“Knowing your mother, you could have guessed what price she would pay for supporting you. It is now time to return the favor.”
The younger man snorted. “Not much I can do from here.”
“Perhaps not,” Rayne agreed. “Devona once begged my services to revive your body once the hangman was
satisfied.”
Doran touched his throat, distinctly appearing sick again. “The stories about you, they are true?”
He did not care to share his own personal torments with this man. “True enough that I survived my own burial,” he said so nonchalantly as to diminish its importance. “I have decided to help you after all, Claeg.”
Blinded by visions of his fate, he stared sightless at a point beyond Rayne’s shoulder. “Your arrival is a bit premature. The hangman has not summoned me.”
“I find myself an impatient man. I am here to speed up the process.”
Doran’s expression of horror filled the silence as clearly as words would have if he had not been robbed of the ability to speak.
Rayne reached down and set the wooden case on his lap. Opening it, he withdrew a glass bottle. “A friend of mine’s creation.” He shook the bottle before Claeg’s wide eyes, mixing the contents.
“What is it?”
“A means of escape. This tincture simulates death. All the benefits of the final repose without you actually becoming nourishment for the worms.”
Doran stared at the bottle, riveted as if Rayne held a deadly coiled snake in his hand. “Why would your friend create such a substance?”
“Let’s just say I have been fascinated by near death. He thought it would amuse me.” He did not add that the man was a smuggler and had use of the drug from time to time when what he peddled was flesh.
“H-how can I believe you? For all I know, this is some trick to get me to swallow poison.” Hot, frightened eyes turned their attention to him.
“If I wanted to murder you, Claeg, I could have slipped the poison into your beer last evening. At the very least it would have saved me the trouble of convincing you.”
Doran gave him a shaky nod. He believed Rayne capable of doing it. “Devona agrees to this plan?”
“Devona is no longer your concern.”
Understanding replaced his wary expression. “My God, you do this for her. You want her for yourself.”
“She is mine, Claeg. She has been since the first night she bluffed her way into my town house.”
Doran eyed the bottle clutched in Rayne’s hand. “You must think I am a threat to you. You are taking a personal risk to get rid of me, or perhaps none at all,” he contemplated, thinking the bottle contained poison after all.
“Claeg, if Devona loved you, she would have handled the ribbons to Gretna Green herself. The only hold you have on her is guilt. Guilt because she could not love you enough.”
The direct strike of truth had Doran rubbing the emotion from his eyes. “What of my family? Amara…,” he trailed off.
When Rayne sensed he had reached the man, his expression softened. “If it comforts you, I will make certain your sister understands your choice. As for the rest…” His gesture spoke of what he thought of a man who would abandon his son and a mother’s obsessive hold. “You must never return to England,” he warned.
Doran took the bottle from Rayne. It offered him a freedom he had never dreamed to contemplate. “The choice of life or death. I never thought such power could be contained within my grasp.”
* * *
The funeral for Doran Claeg was a small affair. To the grief of those who loved him, a seizure had taken his young life. Mr. Tipton had been summoned by the guards to assess his condition. However, the young man had been barely breathing, Tipton had told everyone who had asked. The gold he handed the keeper for first rights to Claeg’s body had been profitable to all, even to the poor fellow who was receiving a decent burial, thanks to the Claeg family.
Welcome or not, the Bedegraynes had insisted on showing their support by standing at the grave beside the grieving family. Rayne had insisted on coming along with them. He stood by Devona, his warm, reassuring hand discreetly rubbing her lower back to remind her as she stood crying that Doran was alive and aboard a ship on his way to discover his destiny.
She appeared to be taking Claeg’s “death” a little too hard, Rayne thought, irritated that he was feeling jealous of a supposed dead man. Or perhaps she cried for another reason. Even now, she could be grieving about the deal she had struck with Rayne. His hand froze its gentle ministrations and tensed. Wondering about her reasons would likely drive him insane.
Later, as everyone moved toward the carriages, Rayne watched Brock as he grabbed Amara’s arm to force her to speak to him. She had pulled the veil from her face because of the heat. Even at this distance Rayne could see the grief and torment on her delicate features. Whatever Brock had said to her angered her. Slapping his face, she walked away; the look in her eye had Rayne automatically patting the small concealed blade he carried.
Brock approached them, the red imprint of her hand bold on his face.
“Oh, your poor cheek! Does it hurt?” Devona asked, reaching out to hug him.
“Yes. No.” Brock shook his head. “She hates me.”
“I thought we had managed to quiet the talk of that evening. I have told everyone that the two of you dragged her out of the ballroom because I was ill and needed her assistance.” She dabbed at the remaining tears on her lashes with his handkerchief.
“There was still her mother to deal with. Her mother managed to cut off all her hair because of that damn dye you talked her into!”
Devona’s hand touched her lips in shock. “I would have never thought—yes, I could. How could Lady Claeg be so cruel?”
“Doran is lucky to be free of her.” Brooding, Brock watched Lady Claeg as she seized Amara in what had to have been a painful hold and all but pushed her into the carriage. “Amara is not going to have a good time of it, now that she is all Lady Claeg has left.”
* * *
Wynne poured tea, comfortable with the role of hostess. “Papa told me Lady Claeg dared to threaten him. The Bedegraynes have been scratched off their invite list.”
Brock pushed away his tea, opting to drink something stronger. “I doubt he stood for that woman speaking in such a manner to him.”
“Actually, Papa restrained himself out of respect for Doran and his friendship with Lord Claeg,” Wynne said, finally taking a seat next to Devona. “I am sorry, Devona, but I fear she blames you for Doran’s death. And Brock is now responsible for ruining Amara, although I think Lady Claeg would allow some of that blame to drip onto you. She truly despises you, Sister.”
Eyes bright with tears she refused to permit to fall, she struggled to appear indifferent. “You cannot say I have not inspired it.”
“Glenda Claeg is no longer your concern.” Rayne’s tone was steel as he spoke from the doorway. “You and Doran are both out of her reach.”
“Doran had to die to escape her clutches,” Wynne observed, looking fresh and beautiful despite the black dress she had worn for the funeral. “What is Devona going to do?”
“Marry me.”
Brock coughed; the drink he had been sipping went down the wrong way. Wynne arched an inquisitive brow, seeming almost amused. She calmly leaned over and pounded her brother on the back.
“I thought the betrothal stood only to help you move in society until you found a way to help Doran?” she asked.
“There is still the attempt on her life to consider,” Rayne reminded them.
Brock, unsure of his role, cautiously added, “She has family to protect her.”
“Now she has me. Tell them.” He directed the order to Devona, mentally willing her to say the correct words to ease her family’s fears.
“I love him. Scary reputation and all. I cannot think of another man who would tolerate my nature.” She gave him a faint smile.
Devona’s words punctured his control as if she had thrown spears instead of words at him. He gripped the painted wooden door frame to keep him from crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. Had she meant what she said? Or was her admission just her way to prevent her prying siblings from discovering their devil’s bargain? Why did he want her so? All she managed to do was torment him. Her body, her
mind, her heart … he would have them all, by God!
Wynne jumped up and hugged her sister, oblivious to the morbid tempest stewing behind Rayne’s façade. “Devona, a love match. I am so pleased. But what of Papa? Irene? You know our news will never reach Nyle in time.”
Brock rose. “Leave that to me.” He walked over and offered his hand to Rayne. “I predict our father will be pleased with the match when everything has been presented to him. Welcome to the family, Brother.” His expression was clear: don’t make me regret this.
“Have you set a date? We will need time to prepare.”
Rayne moved from his outsider position to Devona’s side. “There is no need to fuss, Wynne. Devona and I are eloping, then on to my country estate. You may throw us a ball to celebrate our return if you like.”
Since he had not revealed his plans to Devona, she was as surprised as her siblings. He had to admire the way she handled the announcement. With the exception of a faltering blink of her lashes she looked every bit the bride on the verge of running off with her betrothed. He tucked a loose curl behind her ear because he had just given himself the right. Also, he needed to touch her, to reassure her silently that she was not making a mistake.
If her smile had been any brighter, Rayne figured they would all be sporting sunburns. “Our decision should not surprise you both,” she said lightly. “A runaway love match. A fitting fate for someone of my nature, do you not think?”
* * *
Amara lay curled in her bed, yet sleep eluded her. She could not believe Doran was dead. All the risks she took, agreeing to help Wynne and Devona rescue Doran, it had all been for naught. Amara had been willing to face the wrath of her mother and father if her disobedience would have given them back Doran. Furious, she threw off her covers and went to the table. Efficient despite the darkness, she opened a small box and went about lighting a candle.
Grudgingly she admitted to herself that the Bedegraynes had not deceived her in their promise to cover what small scandal might result from Lord Tipton and Brock’s unmasking and kidnapping her from the Dodds’ ball. She should have known her mother would have placed guardians in her absence. She blew on the piece of tinder before touching it to the wick of the candle. Trust was a limited resource in her family.
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 13
