In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  She watched as Winnie leaned forward ever so slightly to pour them more tea. It was ironic that such beauty as found in this garden surrounded a house where incredible ugliness lurked. Her movements explained so much about her unnecessary worry over the invitations. “He’s beaten you again, hasn’t he, Winnie?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Reaching out, Catherine placed her hand over her friend’s, stilling her actions. “I see how gingerly you move—as though the smallest of movements causes you the greatest of pain. You can confide in me. I won’t tell a soul. You know that.”

  Tears welled in Winnie’s expressive eyes. “He came home late last night in a fit of temper. I’m not sure what I did wrong—”

  “I doubt you did anything wrong, and even if you did, he has no right to strike you.”

  “The law disagrees.”

  “Damn the law.”

  Gasping, Winnie widened her eyes. “Catherine, your language.”

  “You chastise me for my language and yet I wager you take his beatings in silence.”

  “I’m his wife, his property. The law gives him leave to do with me as he pleases, even force his attentions on me when I might not want them. A day will come when you’ll learn the truth of marriage.”

  “I doubt I shall ever marry. But if I should, I’ll not give a man control over me.”

  “You’ve only managed to escape marriage because your father is infirmed and your brother traipses over the continents. Once he returns and settles into his responsibilities, including those toward you, everything will change.”

  No, it wouldn’t. Catherine was stronger than Winnie. Although she had to readily admit she’d grown more independent after Sterling left. Her father had begun to teach her things, for fear that her wanderlust brother might not return from his travels. Since her father had fallen ill, she’d taken it upon herself to step into his shoes as much as possible. She knew her forceful nature no doubt intimidated some and was whispered about by others. But she’d not let her father’s legacy fall into decay or disarray.

  “I’m all of two and twenty, Winnie, and no man has indicated an interest in having me as a wife.”

  “It’s because of the way the Devil Earl looked at you that night as though he was singling you out—and the way you peered back. You should have lowered your gaze as any decent woman would. Now you are tainted by him.”

  Catherine forced herself to laugh. If Winnie knew that Catherine had done a good deal more than look at him recently, had actually welcomed his kiss, she’d no doubt expire on the spot.

  “He was striving to intimidate. I’m not one to be intimidated. It seemed the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that part of my character,” Catherine said.

  “What you demonstrated was that you are willful. No man wants a willful wife.”

  “Then no man shall have me, for I’ll not change to please him.”

  “When you love a man, you will do anything to gain his favor.”

  “Even allow him to beat you?”

  Winnie flinched, and while Catherine regretted the harshness of her words, she didn’t know how else to make her dear friend listen—for her own good. “Leave him, Winnie. Come with me. We’ll go to my father’s house in the country. You’ll find sanctuary there.”

  “Do you have any idea how furious my husband would be? He would find me, Catherine, and he would kill me for so blatant a betrayal. I have no doubt. He is a proud man, and when his pride is threatened—”

  “He strikes out at you, because he hasn’t the courage to face his own weaknesses.”

  “You think so poorly of him.”

  “Why should I think otherwise? I see what he does to you. You strive to hide it, but I fear a day will come when it can’t be hidden.”

  “Not five minutes ago, you were asking if he kissed me. He does and sometimes it’s very lovely.”

  “Lovely? No. A kiss should be all-consuming, make your knees weaken, your heart pound…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head. She was getting carried away, remembering Claybourne’s kiss.

  “Catherine, what have you done?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re acting most peculiar and your description…Have you had a dalliance?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then why this sudden interest in kisses?”

  “I’m simply trying to determine why you put up with all that you do. What does he give you that makes any of it worth it?”

  “It is a woman’s place to stand by her husband.”

  Catherine squeezed Winnie’s hand. “Winnie, I’m not your family who insists you be the good daughter and the good wife. It breaks my heart to see you suffer like this.”

  Tears rolled from Winnie’s eyes. “Oh, Catherine, sometimes he terrifies me so. They say his first wife was clumsy and fell down the stairs. And his second slipped in the bedchamber and banged her head so hard on the floor that it killed her. I knew these tales, but I didn’t doubt the veracity of them, not until after I was wed. He is so charming when he is not angry. Oh, but when he is displeased, he is most frightening.”

  “Then leave him.”

  “I can’t!” she ground out. “The law will not protect me. He can claim that I abandoned him and the law will give him my son. My family will be mortified and not stand beside me, and my husband, dear God, Catherine, the fury he will exhibit will pale in comparison to anything he has revealed before. I know it as surely as I know that our tea has grown cold. It will be miserable for everyone. It’s best if I simply accept my fate and strive to appease him in all matters.”

  Catherine released Winnie’s hand and leaned back. “Oh, Winnie, I hate what he has done to you. The physical abuse is bad enough, but what he has done to ruin the lovely woman who resided inside you—I shall never forgive him for that.”

  Grimacing, Winnie reached across the table and took Catherine’s hand. “I know how headstrong you can be. You must never confront him about this matter, you must never let on that you know. If he feels threatened, Catherine, dear Lord, save us both.”

  “He will never know from me how much I despise him.”

  Winnie seemed to physically relax, her death-grip on Catherine’s hand easing. “Can we change the subject now? It serves to only burden my heart further to know that I cause you such worry.”

  “Don’t be concerned with my feelings, Winnie. I love you. No matter what happens, that will not change.”

  “Mummy!”

  A small boy of four raced across the garden, leaving his nanny behind. He slammed into Winnie. Gasping, she paled considerably. “Darling, you mustn’t jostle Mummy so.”

  The boy looked wounded at the sharp reprimand. Catherine realized that Winnie was hurt much worse than she was letting on. She never scolded her child. Never.

  “Whit, come see Auntie Catherine,” Catherine said. “My lap is in need of a child.”

  He rushed over and Catherine pulled him close. She wondered how long before his father took his frustrations out on him.

  It was late in the afternoon when Catherine finally returned home. How would she ever live with the guilt if Avendale killed Winnie? How would she be able to look at herself in the mirror if she did nothing—knowing all that was happening?

  She had an abundance of acquaintances, friends, servants, and yet sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one other than Winnie in whom she felt she could confide all that troubled her. Yet, she dared not tell Winnie everything, because her dear friend was already weighted down with her own troubles, so Catherine carried her worries and her burdens alone.

  Weary, with a heavy heart, she climbed the stairs and stopped outside her father’s bedchamber.

  Since he’d fallen ill, she’d achieved an independence that few ladies ever did. Without her brother here to serve as her guardian, she could do as she pleased and answer to no one.

  Was Winnie right? Would she lose this freedom if she ever did marry? Or was Catherine right—and no man
would ever consider her?

  Even as a child, she’d been a bit willful. All right, she scolded herself. A lot willful. Her brother had called her spoiled on more than one occasion. Not that he was one to point fingers. He was the one off touring the world, having his fun, sewing his wild oats, while she was left here to tend to their father. Although to be fair, Sterling didn’t know their father had taken ill.

  After her father’s first apoplectic fit, he’d still been able to talk. He’d told her then that she wasn’t to contact Sterling for any reason. The next fit had left him unable to speak, to communicate at all. He was now simply withering away.

  She took a moment to shore up her emotions. She’d not add to her father’s problems by weeping for her friend, weeping for him, weeping for everything she didn’t have the strength or power to change. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. She was immediately hit with the stench of illness.

  His nurse rose from her chair near his bed, where she’d been embroidering. She curtsied. “My lady.”

  “How is he?”

  “All bathed and tidied up, awaiting your afternoon visit.”

  Catherine walked to the foot of the bed and smiled down on her father. She thought she saw pleasure in his blue eyes, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking on her part. “It’s a lovely day. I should have a servant carry you into the garden.”

  He didn’t react to her suggestion, other than to blink.

  She wondered if he’d be embarrassed—or grateful—to be carted down. It was so difficult to know what to do.

  “Temperance, before you take some time for yourself, please have the servants move the chaise longue from the morning room to the garden and then send a footman up to carry my father down.”

  “If I may be so bold, my lady, I’m not certain his physician would agree with that action. It may do more harm than good.”

  Then Catherine might have her father’s death on her conscience. Avendale’s she could live with, but her father’s—

  She sighed. “Ask his physician the next time he comes to check on the duke.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  It seemed as though Catherine could do so little to make her father comfortable.

  “I’ll be visiting with my father for the next hour,” Catherine told her. “Take some time for yourself.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Catherine sat in the chair and took her father’s hand. He moved his head only slightly to look at her. He awkwardly rubbed the ring she’d begun wearing on her right hand.

  “I’ve taken to wearing Mother’s wedding ring. Is that all right?”

  He made a sound deep in his throat. Taking a linen handkerchief from a stack on the bedside table, she wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  “I wish you could tell me what you wanted.” She brushed her fingers through his thinning silver hair. “I hope you’re not in pain.”

  With a sigh, she sat back and lifted a book from the bedside table. “Let’s see what sort of trouble Oliver and the Artful Dodger are going to get into today, shall we?”

  “Expected to be collecting from you sooner,” Jack said as he welcomed Luke into their establishment that evening.

  “I went away for a bit.”

  Three days to be exact. The worst part was when he returned from the brink of despair, when the liquor had served its purpose and its effect began fading. His head hurt, his stomach roiled, and he felt like bloody hell. It was a strange thing for a man such as he, a man who’d done the things he’d done, to be hit with a bit of conscience. It was always worse at night, when he faced his own demons alone. All that would change once he married Frannie. She’d distract him from his somber musings. She’d bring light into his darkness. She’d be his salvation.

  “Into a bottle?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern.”

  Jack shrugged. “It’s not. I just wondered if I should send another case of my finest Irish whiskey round to your residence.”

  Luke hated admitting his weakness, even to Jack. “Yes, see to it. Tonight if possible.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Luke was well aware of Jack studying him. He also knew his friend wouldn’t ask what had prompted his latest fall, so Luke was surprised when he heard himself blurt, “I had a visit from Lady Catherine Mabry.”

  Jack furrowed his brow. “Mabry?”

  “Daughter to the Duke of Greystone.”

  One of Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “My, my. Aren’t we keeping distinguished company of a sudden?”

  “She wanted me to kill someone.”

  His other brow shot up. “Who’s the unlucky bloke?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “I assume you declined to do her bidding.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Were you bothered that she had little doubt you could carry out her request?”

  He was bothered by the fact that she thought he would carry it out. With no explanation, no justification as though he was a man accustomed to washing blood off his hands. But he wasn’t going to confess all that to Jack so he held his silence.

  Jack slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be troubled, my friend. They’re no better than we are; the only difference is we know it, recognize our faults, and readily admit to having them.”

  “I’m supposed to be one of them, Jack.” But he’d never felt comfortable around them, never felt as though he belonged.

  “But we both know you’re not.”

  Jack was the only one who knew the truth of Luke’s deceptions, knew he’d pretended to recall what the old gent wanted him to.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Don’t know why you feel so damned guilty about it.”

  “I grew fond of the old gent. It didn’t seem quite right to deceive him.”

  The old gent had loved Luke because he’d thought Luke was his grandson. It was one thing to fool someone into giving him a coin so his stomach wouldn’t ache when he went to sleep that night. It wasn’t quite as easy to swallow the notion that he had tricked someone into giving him his heart.

  “You made him happy, Luke. It’s not often that we’re able to do something that causes a person to die as the old gent did, content and satisfied, knowing that his kingdom was safe in your hands—and believing that in your hands it rightfully belonged. Draw some comfort in that.”

  He tried. He really did. “I’m taking Frannie out for a while.”

  Jack grinned cockily, but then everything about him was cocky and self-assured. He’d even swaggered when they were in prison, as though it were all a grand joke, when Luke had never been more terrified in his entire life.

  “Finally going to do it, huh?” Jack asked.

  “I think you’ve made enough money off me.”

  “I’ll never have enough, but you’re right. I’m tired of collecting on this wager. It’s grown boring. Go make her—and yourself—happy.”

  That was Luke’s plan as he strode through the establishment, briefly acknowledging those of his acquaintance, until he made his way to the back where he knew he’d find Frannie. She did her good works during the daylight hours, but at night she saw to Jack’s books. She was sitting at the desk, with her hair pinned up in a no-nonsense type of bun. She wore her usual non-enticing clothing and yet he was enticed, as always.

  “Good evening, Frannie.”

  She glanced up, without being startled this time. He’d no doubt caught her before she’d immersed herself fully in the numbers.

  “I expected you to come by sooner for an accounting of how I spent your donation.”

  “I was occupied with other business. Besides, I told you that you didn’t owe me an accounting. I was wondering, however, if you might be willing to take a ride with me in the coach.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I just thought it would be nice to get away from Jack’s books for a while. There’s no fog yet and London at night
can be quite breathtaking. I’d like to share it with you.”

  “You sound so mysterious.”

  “We’ve not had much time together of late, and I always enjoy your company, as you well know.”

  “I could show you the children’s home. The building is almost completed.”

  “I’d like that.”

  As she stood, she gave him the same sweet smile that always warmed him. He snatched her shawl from the hat rack near the door and draped it around her shoulders. Then he extended his arm. Shyly, she placed her hand on his forearm. Neither spoke a word until they reached his coach and the footman opened the door. She halted as Luke was assisting her inside. Her smile bright, she looked back over her shoulder at him. “It’s filled with flowers.”

  “Yes, I thought they’d bring you pleasure.”

  “They must have cost you a fortune.”

  He heard the gentle scolding in her voice. She didn’t believe in frivolous spending, and her attitude only served to diminish his pleasure at giving her a gift.

  “I can well afford it, Frannie.”

  “You’re far too generous, Luke.”

  Sometimes he didn’t think he was generous enough. She climbed inside, and he followed, sitting opposite her, the fragrance of the flowers almost nauseating. An abundance of bouquets were arranged on either side of her. He’d have his footman carry them to her living quarters when they returned.

  As the coach rolled along the street, the dim light of the lantern inside allowed him to have a shadowy view of her. He always took such delight in watching her, and the confines of the conveyance created an intimacy that he’d not been able to achieve while she sat at her desk with her ledgers before her. Leaning forward, he took her bare hands in his. While he knew it was improper for his bare skin to touch hers, it somehow seemed appropriate at this moment. He’d memorized Shakespeare’s twenty-ninth sonnet to recite to her, but he suddenly felt that he should rely on his own words, as inadequate as they might be. “Frannie, I adore you. I always have. Will you honor me by becoming my wife?”

  Her smile withered, her fingers tightened around his. She shook her head jerkily. “Luke, I can’t,” she whispered hoarsely, and he heard the terror in her voice.