Pure Temptation

by Connie Mason

  “You’re completely unflappable, aren’t you, Pettibone?” Jack said with a hint of amusement. “I knew I acted wisely when I kept you on. Though I can little afford servants, I don’t regret retaining your services.”

  Pettibone looked enormously pleased. “Living with you has taught me to expect anything, so nothing you do surprises me, sir. Will the lady be all right?”

  “We won’t know until the doctor examines her. Send him up the moment he arrives. Tell Fenwick to await me in the library. We would appreciate something to eat later.”

  Pettibone left the room, and Jack turned back to the woman occupying his bed. She was shivering, and he placed another blanket over her, wondering how long she had been out in the brutal weather. Did she have no sense at all? Didn’t she know she’d find little business on a night like this?

  The disgruntled doctor, perturbed at being routed out of bed at such an ungodly hour, arrived a few moments later and shooed Jack out of the room. Jack joined Spence in the library.

  “Well, how is she?” Spence asked, smothering a yawn behind a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Still unconscious,” Jack said, frowning. “I fear I may have done the woman irreparable harm. She’s my responsibility now, though Lord only knows what I’m going to do with the wench once she’s recovered. It would be a travesty to send her back out on the streets. She’s younger than we thought, Spence, and probably new at her trade. I may be a black-hearted rogue, but I’m not a devil.”

  “Hire her on as a maid,” Spence said, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. “Or keep her to warm your bed.”

  Jack sent him a black look. “As you well know, I can’t afford a maid. As for warming my bed, I have no problems on that score. My tastes are rather discerning. I prefer women who don’t ply their trade on the streets.”

  “Lud, Jack, I think you’re stuck with the woman until she recuperates and you can send her on her way.”

  “The woman upstairs in that bed isn’t going anywhere for a while, gentlemen.”

  The doctor entered the library and plopped into an overstuffed chair that had seen better days.

  “What’s wrong with her, Doctor…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Dudley. For starters, her left arm is broken. She has numerous bruises and most likely will develop pneumonia, which can be quite serious. Pretty little thing. Who is she, and how did she get hurt?”

  Jack hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. For some obscure reason, he didn’t want to reveal the fact that the woman was quite likely a whore.

  “She’s a distant relative of Jack’s, from the Irish side of the family. Her father is a baron. He sent his daughter to London to be introduced to society,” Spence said, warming to the subject. “She’s Jack’s ward. She was injured when her coach overturned on the outskirts of London. She lay out in the rain several hours before help arrived and she was brought here.”

  Jack groaned in dismay. Spence’s fertile imagination would be the death of him one day.

  Enormously pleased with his quick thinking, Spence sent Jack a smug grin. Jack’s virulent scowl was anything but amused.

  “That would explain the injuries,” Dr. Dudley said. “I’ll leave medicine and return tomorrow to put a cast on her arm. By then the swelling should recede. She’s likely to be in considerable pain, but laudanum should ease her. Barring unforeseen setbacks, Lady Moira should be right as rain in four to six weeks.”

  “You know her name?” Jack asked, sending Spence a fulminating look. “I don’t recall mentioning it.” He could cheerfully strangle his friend for getting him into this muddle. Relative, indeed.

  “She awoke briefly while I was treating her. When I asked her name, she told me it was Moira. Her Irish brogue is delightful. Since she is in no condition to answer questions, I decided to get them from you instead.”

  Spence had had no idea Moira was really Irish when he’d woven his tale, and he was now enormously pleased that his story at least held a thread of truth. On the other hand, Jack appeared ready to explode. Not only was Jack saddled with an injured whore, but he had claimed her as a relative, thanks to Spencer Fenwick and his wicked sense of humor. Jack hoped Dr. Dudley would be discreet but feared the old man was inclined to gossip.

  “Will you stay for breakfast, Doctor?” Jack invited courteously. He hoped the doctor would refuse, for he couldn’t wait to get Spence alone and berate him soundly.

  “No time,” Dudley said, levering his bulk from the chair. “Office hours start early. I’ll be back tomorrow evening to look in on the patient.”

  Pettibone appeared with a breakfast tray, which he set down on a table with a flourish. Sensing the doctor was ready to leave, he bowed and escorted him to the door, leaving Spence and Jack alone.

  “You wretched oaf, you really threw the fat into the fire,” Jack thundered. “Relative, indeed. Whatever possessed you to tell that old gossip that the whore upstairs is related to me?”

  His mouth full of food, Spence grinned. “’Tis a grand joke, eh, Jack? I outdid myself this time. What a hoot. How many whores can you claim in your family?”

  “None that I know of,” Jack replied soberly. “And I’m not about to claim any now. Especially not for your amusement. One day your pranks are going to backfire.”

  Jack ate in silence. When he finished, he threw his napkin down and rose abruptly.

  “Where are you going?” Spence asked, setting down his fork.

  “Upstairs to see the patient.”

  “Wait, I’m coming with you.”

  Moira looked to be sleeping as innocently as a babe when the two men tiptoed into the bedchamber. But evidently she wasn’t sleeping as soundly as they thought, for she opened her eyes and gazed up at them.

  Rich, warm honey, Jack decided as he stared into her eyes. Not brown, not hazel, but pure amber with gold flecks.

  “Who are you? What happened?” Her lilting voice was as enchanting as the doctor had indicated. “Where am I?”

  Mesmerized, Jack had to clear his throat twice before he could answer. “You are in my home. Do you recall what happened, Moira?”

  Moira’s gaze turned inward, then grew murky. She recalled very well what had happened, but it was nothing she wanted to tell these two strange men. “How do you know my name?” She tried to sit up, grasped her splinted arm and groaned. “Blessed Mother, I hurt.”

  “Don’t move. Your arm is broken,” Jack said. “Can you remember anything?” Moira shook her head. “My carriage ran you down last night. ’Twas a most unfortunate accident. I learned your name from Dr. Dudley. I’m Sir Jackson Graystoke, and this is Lord Spencer Fenwick.”

  “Black Jack?” Moira asked, her eyes widening.

  Jack’s gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “I see you’ve heard of me.”

  Moira swallowed convulsively. “Aye. Though I believe none of the gossip, sir.”

  Jack tilted his head back and laughed. “You should. You had no identification on you,” he continued, “so I brought you to my home and summoned a doctor to treat your injuries. I’m sorry about the accident. If you have relatives in town, I’ll gladly contact them for you.”

  “There’s no one in England. My brother and his family live in Ireland. He has three small children and a wife to support. I left home some weeks ago to find work in London and ease his burden.”

  “Is there anyone who should know about your accident?” Jack asked, skirting the issue of her obvious occupation. “An employer, perhaps?”

  “I’m an unemployed domestic servant, sir,” Moira replied.

  “Unemployed?” Spence asked. “How have you been supporting yourself?”

  “Just recently unemployed,” Moira amended. “I haven’t had time yet to look for work. I have no money, sir. I fear I can’t pay for the doctor.”

  For some reason her remark made Jack angry. “Have I asked you for money? Until you’re well, you’re my responsibility.” Deliberately, he picked up a small bottle from the night
table and poured a measure into a glass. “Dr. Dudley left laudanum for your pain. Drink,” he ordered gruffly, holding the glass to her lips.

  Moira sipped gingerly, made a face at the bitter taste and refused to take more. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “The soul of kindness is Black Jack,” Spence said, smothering a laugh. “You’re in good hands, my dear.”

  When Moira’s lids dropped over her incredible amber eyes, Jack pushed Spence out the door and followed him into the hall, closing the door firmly behind them.

  “Do you believe her?” Spence asked, openly skeptical. “What would a decent woman be doing out late at night? Why do you think her employer fired her? She’ll be a proper beauty once all that swelling goes down. Do you suppose she was diddling the master or his sons?”

  “I’m not about to speculate, Spence. What concerns me more is what I’m going to do with her once she recovers. Perhaps I should send her back to Ireland.”

  “Lud, she’d probably starve to death if conditions are as bad there as we’ve been led to believe. Famine, disease and crop failure have decimated the population.”

  “Confound it, Spence, must you be so damn practical? What do you suggest?”

  A mischievous gleam came into Spence’s blue eyes. He didn’t envy his friend’s predicament, but what a grand opportunity for a little devilment! Life had been bloody boring lately. Like most of his rich and idle friends, Spence loved harmless mischief. That’s why he and Black Jack were such fast friends. Both men possessed a perverse sense of humor.

  “Very well, I do have an idea, though I guarantee you won’t like it.”

  Jack’s handsome features grew wary. “Spit it out, Spence.”

  “Little Moira may be a prostitute, but she isn’t your ordinary one. She is daintily fashioned, well-spoken and not in the least coarse. Her features, even swollen as they are, are refined and almost genteel. I’ve already planted the seed that she is a distant relative of yours.” He paused for effect.

  “Continue,” Jack said, almost certain he wasn’t going to like what Spence had to say.

  “Why not pass Moira off as a lady?” Spence eagerly suggested. “Introduce her to society and find her a husband. What jolly good fun we’d have. You never did have any use for those macaroni dandies who mince about London wearing high heels and makeup. Why not introduce ‘Lady’ Moira to society and marry her off to one of those fancy puppies?”

  At first Jack looked astounded. Then he began to laugh uproariously. “Your wicked sense of humor leaves me speechless, Spence. But your idea does have merit.” He grew thoughtful, toying with the notion. “She will need substantial polishing.”

  “Remember, ’tis already established that she’s a country girl. No one will expect her to be too accomplished.”

  “Granted she is surprisingly well-spoken for a commoner, but making her into a lady will require time and energy. I’m not certain I wish to devote so much effort to the task.”

  Admittedly the notion of making a silk purse from a sow’s ear piqued Black Jack’s sense of the outrageous, and Spence knew it. Not only was Jack intrigued with the endless possibilities such a challenge presented, but the gambler in Jack saw a way to enrich his coffers.

  “How about sweetening the stakes?” Jack proposed.

  “I thought you’d come around.” Spence chortled, slapping Jack’s back jovially. “What an adventure, eh? One of us will be the richer for it; you’ll get rid of the Irish baggage, and we’ll both be able to sit back and spin tales about this for years to come. I’ll put up two thousand pounds against your matched pair of grays that you can’t pass the girl off as gentry and get her engaged within…oh…say three months.”

  “Three months,” Jack repeated, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Two thousand pounds was a lot of money. Then again, his grays were the only thing of value he possessed. “I don’t know. It will be at least four weeks before she is capable of moving about in public.”

  “You can use the time to groom her,” Spence suggested eagerly. “You’re a sporting man, Jack. What do you say? Are you up to the challenge?”

  Spence’s good-natured goading made it impossible for Jack to refuse. “With one exception. The girl has to agree to our proposal. Otherwise the bet is off.”

  “Agreed,” Spence said gleefully. “I have every confidence you can charm the girl into falling in with our harmless little charade. Returning to the streets cannot possibly compare to what can ultimately be hers if she marries well.”

  Chapter Two

  Moira O’Toole did not drop off to sleep easily. She worried excessively about the kind of trouble she had gotten herself into this time. From the moment she had flung herself from Lord Roger Mayhew’s moving coach and struck her head, she recalled nothing. From what she knew of men, which was blessed little, they were egotistical, lust-crazed wretches who demanded their way with helpless women. If they didn’t get what they wanted, they found ways to make women suffer. Did Jackson Graystoke live up to his nickname? she wondered bleakly as she pictured the man whose bed she occupied. He pretended to be a gentleman, but his intense gray eyes held the weariness of a man who had indulged freely and frequently in every vice known to man.

  Was Black Jack—the very name made her shudder—a disciple of the infamous Hellfire Club like Lord Roger? She must be extremely careful, Moira told herself, or she’d find herself in another dangerous situation. Black Jack and his friend must never know her shameful secret. Moira had expected life in London to be difficult for a poor Irish immigrant, but never did she expect to encounter such unmitigated evil.

  Clutching the gold locket circling her neck on its delicate chain, Moira thought of her sainted mother and how she would have despaired to see her daughter in such desperate straits. The locket was a cherished heirloom, a legacy from Moira’s grandmother, who had died giving birth to Mary, Moira’s mother. Mary had always cherished the locket, for it bore the tiny faded likeness of a young man in uniform who Mary had always assumed was her father, Moira’s grandfather.

  Haunted by her illegitimacy, Mary had given the locket to her daughter, Moira, explaining that it contained proof that she and Kevin had noble blood flowing through their veins. Moira’s mother had been told by the nuns who raised her that her father was an English nobleman who had deserted Mary’s pregnant mother.

  “Mother, what am I to do?” Moira asked despondently, expecting no answer and getting none. Her cheeks wet with tears, she closed her eyes and slipped effortlessly toward sleep. She did not see Lady Amelia’s ghost hovering above the bed, but a tentative smile stretched Moira’s lips as a comforting warmth engulfed her, wrapping her in protective arms.

  Jack awoke long after the sun made a belated appearance in an overcast sky. He stretched and yawned, disoriented at finding himself lying in a guest bed. Total recall came instantly. At this very moment, his bed was occupied by a woman he had run down in his carriage. He groaned in dismay. He could hardly afford to support himself, let alone assume responsibility for another human being. Yet what could he do? He had caused her injuries and couldn’t in all conscience throw her out on the street.

  He rose quickly and rang for Pettibone. The servant, dressed somberly in unrelieved black, appeared almost immediately, bearing a tray containing a teapot and cup.

  “Ah, Pettibone, you always seem to know just what I need. Though truth to tell a stiff brandy would serve me better. Something tells me I’m going to need fortifying today.”

  “Are you referring to the young woman, sir?”

  “Then I wasn’t dreaming.” Jack sighed. “I was hoping…Never mind. Is the woman awake?”

  “Aye, Miss Moira is indeed awake. I took her up a tray just moments ago. If I may be so bold, sir, you should engage a woman to see to her needs.”

  “How in bloody hell am I supposed to pay for the services of a maid?” Jack wanted to know.

  Pettibone did not offer a solution to Jack’s dilemma as he helped Jack dress and pr
epare for the day. By the time he finished eating his breakfast, Jack was ready to confront Moira about the idea he and Spence had hatched the day before. He knew it was a harebrained scheme, but the longer he thought about it the more the idea of passing off a woman of questionable virtue as a lady appealed to him. Making bloody fools of his peers filled him with wicked delight. And it did offer a solution to the perplexing problem concerning the future of the woman he had run down. The sooner he rid himself of the unwelcome burden, the better.

  Struggling from bed, Moira used the chamber pot behind the screen and then returned to bed just moments before Jack rapped lightly on the door and barged into the room. He stood at the foot of the bed, legs spread wide, hands clasped behind his back, staring at her. Looking into his keenly intelligent gray eyes, Moira felt as if she had inadvertently dropped into the turbulent depths of a violent storm.

  There was inherent strength in the bold lines of his face, she thought as her gaze settled on his lips. They were firm and sensual, set above a square chin that suggested a stubborn nature. He was a compelling, self-confident presence, one Moira had learned to fear from her dealings with Lord Roger.

  Jack unclasped his hands and stood with his arms akimbo.

  “How are you feeling, Miss O’Toole?”

  “Better, thank you. I’ll be on my way in a day or two.”

  Jack’s lips curled in amusement. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  Moira’s chin rose fractionally. “I won’t impose on you any longer than necessary or accept charity. You’ve been very kind, but I must find work.”

  “With a broken arm? There is still the possibility of pneumonia. You don’t even have a place to live, do you?”

  Moira bit the soft underside of her lip. Everything Jack Graystoke said was true. Her life was in a shambles. Moreover, once she left the safety of Black Jack’s house, she’d likely find herself imprisoned in Newgate. But even that was preferable to being forced to participate in vile, heathenish rites.