In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  In Bed with the Devil

  Lorraine Heath

  For Auntie Jean

  Thank you for always being there.

  Contents

  Prologue

  They say my parents were murdered in the London streets…

  Chapter 1

  It was common knowledge that one never spoke of the…

  Chapter 2

  If Catherine hadn’t been standing so extremely close to Claybourne…

  Chapter 3

  “It’s so monstrously difficult to decide,” the Duchess of Avendale…

  Chapter 4

  Very deliberately and carefully, Catherine dipped the gold nub of…

  Chapter 5

  Damnation, what was it about the woman that had him…

  Chapter 6

  Frannie Darling stepped out of Dodger’s Drawing Room—the elegant name…

  Chapter 7

  “I have it on good authority that Mr. Marcus Langdon…

  Chapter 8

  Traveling in his coach, Luke couldn’t help but be irritated…

  Chapter 9

  “It’s my hand, not my legs,” Catherine said as Luke…

  Chapter 10

  Catherine studied the missive that had been delivered earlier in…

  Chapter 11

  Catherine was mortified. Quite simply and completely mortified.

  Chapter 12

  Exhaustion claimed her the moment she walked into her bedchamber.

  Chapter 13

  “Whatever happened to your hand?” Winnie asked.

  Chapter 14

  Catherine couldn’t sleep and it seemed a waste to lie…

  Chapter 15

  Luke sat at the desk in his study, the taste…

  Chapter 16

  He saw his grandson.

  Chapter 17

  The coach came to a stop outside Claybourne’s ancestral residence…

  Chapter 18

  They walked from the house in the early hours of…

  Chapter 19

  Using strips torn from Catherine’s underskirt, Luke bound and gagged…

  Chapter 20

  Catherine was drained as she slowly made her way up…

  Chapter 21

  The missive went out to three of them. There was…

  Chapter 22

  It was a lovely day for sitting in the garden,…

  Chapter 23

  “Aren’t we somber in our mourning clothes,” Winnie said.

  Chapter 24

  It was late, long past midnight, when Luke walked the…

  Epilogue

  They say my parents were murdered in the London streets…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  From the Journal of Lucian Langdon

  They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians. I have no memory of it, yet it has always seemed to me that I should.

  After all, I was supposedly there, but only if I truly am who the world recognizes me to be.

  The Earl of Claybourne.

  It is not a pleasant thing to always doubt one’s identity. I often study the portrait of my father hanging above the massive fireplace in the grand library of my London residence and catalogue the similarities in our appearance.

  The hair—black as the soot that lined the inside of a chimney.

  The eyes—the shade of pewter that brought a fair price from fences.

  The nose—a slender knife-like shape, a fine-honed blade, aristocratic. Although that similarity might be merely wishful thinking on my part. It’s difficult to tell if our noses are truly the same, as mine was severely broken at an early age, the result of an encounter that left me nearly dead. I have always attributed my escape from death’s clutches to Jack Dodger, who offered himself up as a target for the abuse being delivered to me. Things went much worse for him. Not that we ever speak of it.

  When you grow up on the streets of London you learn about a great many things of which people never speak.

  It’s my eyes that convinced the old gent who called himself my grandfather that I was indeed his grandson.

  “You’ve got the Claybourne eyes,” he’d said with conviction.

  And I readily admit that looking into his was very much like looking into a mirror at my own, but still it seemed a rather trite thing upon which to base so grand a decision.

  I was fourteen at the time. Awaiting trial for committing murder. I must confess it was a rather fortuitous moment to be declared a future lord of the realm, as the judicial system was not opposed to hanging young lads who were considered troublesome. I’d developed quite a reputation in that regard. Considering the circumstances of my arrest, I have no doubt I was traveling a swift path straight to Newgate and then the gallows. Having a fondness for breathing, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to escape the hangman’s noose.

  Because I was brought up under the tutelage of Feagan, the kidsman who managed our rather notorious den of child thieves, I was adept at deceiving people, at pretending to remember things of which I truly had no memory. During a rather intensive inquisition, observed by inspectors of Scotland Yard, I was quite the showman, and the old gent not only declared me to be his grandson, but appealed to the Crown to take the unfortunate circumstances of my life into consideration and to show extreme leniency. After all, I’d witnessed my parents’ murder, been stolen and sold into near slavery. Certainly it was understandable that I’d engage in a bit of misbehavior. If returned to his keeping, he vowed to set me back on the righteous path to being a proper gentleman. His request was granted.

  And I found myself traveling a far different—and more difficult—road than I’d expected, always looking for the familiar, the evidence that I truly belonged where I now resided. By the time I grew to manhood, by all appearances, I was an aristocrat.

  But beneath the surface…I remained a scoundrel at heart.

  Chapter 1

  London

  1851

  It was common knowledge that one never spoke of the devil for fear that in so doing one would attract his ardent attention. So it was that few among the aristocracy spoke of Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne.

  Yet, as Lady Catherine Mabry stood in the midnight shadows near his residence, she couldn’t deny that she’d been fascinated with the Devil Earl ever since he’d dared to appear at a ball uninvited.

  He’d danced with no one. He’d spoken with no one. But he had prowled through the ballroom as though taking measure of each and every person within its confines and finding them all sadly lacking.

  She’d found it particularly distressing when his gaze had settled on her and lingered a second or two longer than was proper. She’d neither flinched nor looked away—although she’d dearly wanted to do both—but she’d held his gaze with all the innocent audacity that a young lady of seventeen could muster.

  She’d taken some satisfaction in his being the first to look away, but not before his strangely silver eyes had begun to darken, to appear as though they were heated by the fiery depths of the very hell from which he was supposedly spawned.

  Few believed him to be the rightful heir, but none dared question his status. After all, it was well known that he was quite capable of committing murder. He’d never denied that he’d killed the previous earl’s remaining son and heir.

  That night at the ball, it had been as if the entire throng of guests had taken a solitary breath and held it, waiting to see where he might strike, upon whom he might vent his displeasure, because it had been quite obvious he was not one to exhibit gaiety. And it could only be assumed that
he’d arrived with some nefarious purpose in mind, for surely he was aware that no lady in attendance would dare risk her reputation by dancing with him nor would any gentleman have his respectability questioned by openly and willingly conversing with Claybourne in so public a venue.

  Then he’d sauntered out, as though he’d been searching for someone, and failing to find him—or her—had decided the rest of them weren’t worth the bother.

  That irritated Catherine most of all.

  To her immense shame, she’d desperately wanted to dance with him, to be held within the circle of his arms, and to gaze once more into those smoldering silver eyes, that even now, five years later, continued to haunt her dreams.

  Bringing up the hood of her pelisse, covering her head in an attempt to warm herself as the damp fog thickened, she studied the earl’s residence more closely, searching for some clue to indicate that he was home. She wasn’t certain that her fascination with him was entirely healthy. As a matter of fact, she was fairly certain it wasn’t.

  She couldn’t say exactly what it was about him that drew her; she knew only that she was irrevocably drawn. Clandestinely, unknown to her family, after her first encounter with Clabourne, she’d even dared to have invitations to her balls and dinners hand-delivered to him by a faithful servant. Not that he’d ever bothered to acknowledge her overtures or attend her social functions.

  As far as she knew, save for that one night, he’d never made an appearance at any other soiree. He was not openly welcomed in the best of homes, and she was quite insulted that he’d rebuffed her attempts to include him in her life. Although she had to admit that her reasons for wanting him there were quite selfish and not entirely respectable.

  She no longer had the luxury of trying to entice him nearer with gilded invitations. She was quite determined to have a word with him, and if not within the safety of a crowded ballroom, then she would do it within the privacy of his own residence.

  An icy shudder skittered down her spine, and she tried to attribute it to the chill of the fog, rather than her own cowardice. She’d been standing in the shadows for quite some time and the dampness had seeped into her bones. If she didn’t approach soon, she’d be a shivering mess and that would hardly suit her purpose. She had to appear as though she had no qualms whatsoever about approaching him, otherwise, she’d no doubt garner his disdain and that wouldn’t do at all.

  Cautiously she glanced around. It was so very late, and the night was very quiet. Ominously so.

  No one was about to witness her approaching his door, no one would be aware of her scandalous midnight visit. Her reputation would remain unscathed. Still she hesitated. Once she set foot on this path, there would be no turning back, but she didn’t see that she had any other choice.

  With renewed resolve, she stepped into the street and began marching forward, fearing that, before this night was done, her reputation would remain the only thing untouched by the Devil Earl.

  None would ever dare claim that Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, was a coward. Yet as he sat at the gaming table, he knew the truth of it. He was there only because he hadn’t the courage to press his suit with the lovely Frannie Darling. He’d come to Dodger’s Drawing Room with the specific intent of finally asking Frannie for her hand in marriage, and just before he’d reached the door to the office where she kept track of Jack Dodger’s accounts, he’d decided to take a quick detour by the gaming tables. Just to give his hands an opportunity to stop quaking and his mind the chance to rehearse once again the words he’d been practicing.

  That had been six hours ago.

  He could blame his delay on the fact that he was winning. But then he always won.

  The next set of cards was dealt. He gave his a passing glance. It wasn’t the cards he was dealt that assured his victory, but rather his ability to accurately determine what the other gents were holding.

  The Earl of Chesney’s eyes bugged slightly when he received a nicely matched set of cards, as though he were taken by surprise by his good fortune. This round, his eyes remained noticeably unbugged. Viscount Milner kept rearranging the order of his cards, never finding satisfaction there. The Earl of Canton always took a sip of his brandy when he was pleased. His glass remained untouched. The Duke of Avendale sat forward as though ready to pounce upon the winnings when he thought they would be his. He lounged back when the outcome was doubtful. Presently, he looked as though he were in danger of sliding out of his chair onto the floor. A monstrously bad hand that he no doubt thought he could bluff his way through.

  The game continued, with each man betting or passing. When this particular round of brag was completed, with all the other lords groaning and moaning, Claybourne took his winnings and added them to the stack of wooden chips already resting in front of him.

  “I believe, gentlemen, that I shall call it a night,” he said, coming to his feet.

  A young lad, dressed in the purple livery for which Dodger’s was so well known, rushed over with a copper bowl. He held it at the edge of the table while Claybourne slid his abundant winnings into it.

  “See here, Claybourne,” Avendale said, “you’re hardly being sporting about this. You should at least give us an opportunity to win it back.”

  Removing a crown from his pocket, Claybourne took the bowl from the lad, flipping him the coin as he did so. The boy, who was probably no more than eight, touched his fingers to his brow and dashed off.

  “I’ve given you most of the night, gentlemen. Trust me when I assure you that you’ll come out ahead if I leave now.”

  The gentlemen did a bit more grumbling, but Claybourne knew they weren’t sorry to see him go. He made them uncomfortable. No more so than they made him. But that was his secret. Unlike them, he never allowed his emotions, thoughts, or feelings to rise to the surface. Not even when it came to Frannie. He doubted that she had any idea how deeply his affection for her ran.

  He stopped by the exchange window and swapped his chips for coins, relishing the additional weight of the bowl.

  As he strode through the gaming establishment, he realized that Frannie had no doubt already retired for the evening, in which case, he’d have to wait until tomorrow to proclaim his feelings. But as he neared the back, he saw the door to her office was open. Most likely he’d find Jack inside. The man gave fewer hours to sleep than Claybourne did. But what if it wasn’t Jack? Claybourne could get this bothersome matter over with. So he walked down the hallway, peered around the door frame…

  And there was Frannie. Lovely Frannie. Her red hair pulled back and tucked neatly into a tight bun, the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks barely visible beneath the glow from the lamp on the desk behind which she sat, diligently marking numbers in a column. Her dress had a high collar, every button, all the way up to her chin, securely in place. The long sleeves left only her hands visible. Her delicate brow was pleated. When she became his wife, she’d have no worries.

  She glanced up, released a tiny squeak, jerked back, and pressed a hand to her chest. “Dear God, Luke! You gave me quite a start. How long have you been standing there spying on me?”

  “Not nearly long enough,” he said laconically, striding into the room with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He set the bowl on the desk. “For you and your children’s home.”

  The home was a small place she was in the process of establishing with hopes of making life easier for orphans. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Are these ill-gotten gains?”

  “Of course.”

  Snatching up the bowl, she smiled at him. The impish upward curve of her lips hit him as it always did, like a powerful punch to the gut. “Then I shall take them gladly and do good works with them to absolve you of your sins.”

  Her voice held a bit of teasing, but a sadness marred her eyes.

  “No one can absolve me of my sins, Frannie, you know that.” With a wave of his hand to stop her from even attempting to argue with him on the matter, he sat in the thickly pad
ded chair in front of her desk. “You’re up rather late.”

  “The amount of work necessary to keep track of Jack’s finances is unbelievable. His profits are astounding.”

  “He’s always said if you wish to die rich, invest in vice.”

  “Well, he shall no doubt die rich, and in a way that’s rather sad. He should spend the money on something that brings him pleasure.”

  “I think he finds his pleasure in taking money from rich blokes.” His accent dipped at the end to reveal his street origins. It was always so easy to slip around Frannie, because they shared the same origins.

  “But is he happy?” she asked.

  “Are any of us?”

  Tears welled in her eyes—

  “Dammit, Frannie—”

  She held up her hand. “It’s all right. I’m in one of my moods is all, and while I can’t claim to be happy, I do believe I’m content.”

  Now was the perfect opportunity to promise her unending happiness. But her office suddenly seemed like such a ghastly unromantic place. Whatever had he been thinking to consider asking her here? The setting for the proposal should be as memorable as the proposal itself.

  Tomorrow. He would ask her tomorrow. Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “Well, it’s rather late. I’d best be off.”