In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  “Why didn’t you tell him the truth, Frannie, instead of making up all those silly excuses?” he asked after a while, his voice low as though he thought Luke might be waiting around a corner listening.

  “I couldn’t, Jack. I didn’t want to hurt him. Not after all he’s done for me.”

  “Not hurt him? All you’ve done is prolong the matter. And now he’s brought a bloody stranger into our midst to teach you what you already know.”

  Her chest tightened painfully. “I know I’ve made a mess of things. I do love him, but I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to be a countess. I just want to do what I want to do.”

  “He won’t stop you from doing that.”

  “Oh, I know that well enough, but it won’t be the same. Oh, God, maybe I should just marry him, be done with the worry over hurting him, but I don’t think he’d be really happy with me. Sometimes having the dream makes you more content than having the reality.”

  “That doesn’t make a bloody bit of sense.”

  “I heard about your blasted wagers. Why did you keep encouraging him to ask me when you knew how I felt?” she asked, almost as disappointed with him as she was with herself.

  “Because he needs to know the truth, and it needs to come from you. He won’t believe it from anyone else.”

  He puffed, she sulked.

  “He likes her,” Jack said, his voice low.

  Frannie felt an unfamiliar prick of…what? Jealousy?

  “Who? Lady Catherine?”

  Nodding, he puffed on his pipe again. “Warned me to stay clear of her. It wasn’t an idle threat either. Damned near had me trembling in my shoes the way he came after me.”

  She wasn’t quite certain how she felt about that. She should be relieved, but a part of her mourned the prospect of losing a portion of Luke’s heart. She’d held it all for so long, and yet she knew she couldn’t hold it forever. It wasn’t fair to him. As much as she cared for him, what she felt was the love of a sister for a brother, not a woman for a man.

  “Maybe he feels responsible, bringing her into our den of criminals, thinks you’ll corrupt or ruin her. You may no longer live with Feagan, but you’re still recruiting people, enticing them to the dark side of London.”

  He grinned around his pipe. “Where’s the harm? We’re all going to hell anyway. Might as well have a bit of fun along the way, and the more the merrier and all that.”

  “You’re so like Feagan. You know, I used to pretend he was my father. We both had red hair that was so irritatingly curly.” She shrugged. “It seemed likely he could be.”

  She waited, hoping Jack would laugh at her silly confession. He’d been with Feagan the longest, knew everything. But Jack simply tapped his pipe against the landing railing, sending the ash into the darkness below.

  “Good night, Frannie. Sleep well.”

  He jaunted down the steps. He had rooms next to hers, but she knew it would be dawn before he retired to them. She knew a good deal about Jack Dodger.

  But not everything. None of them knew everything. They all had their secrets, but she suspected Jack’s were the worst of the lot.

  Luke strode into his library, crossed over to the table, poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass, and immediately tossed it down, relishing the burning sensation. Whatever had possessed him to tell Catherine the things he told her?

  He began filling the glass again. Tomorrow night he’d shove his neckcloth into his mouth so he’d be unable to blurt all the irritating nonsense—

  “I’ll have one of those if you don’t mind.”

  Luke swung around, knocking bottles to the floor where they shattered. He was crouched, ready to spring—

  “Sorry,” Jim said, holding up his hands. “It’s just me.”

  Mortified by his reaction and his thudding heart, Luke straightened. He’d become too complacent. “No one informed me that you were here.”

  “I assumed you wouldn’t want them to know. I slipped in on my own.” Jim took a step nearer. “Are you all right? I’ve never been able to sneak up on you. You’ve always been too astute, too aware—”

  “I was occupied with my thoughts.” Turning, Luke snatched up a bottle. “We’re in luck. One didn’t fall.” He began filling two glasses. “I take it you have something to report.”

  “Not really. She’s rather boring.”

  “Boring? Catherine Mabry? She’s anything but boring. Are you certain you’re following the right woman?”

  Jim chuckled. “I can’t believe you asked me that. I’m the very best at what I do, and well you know it.”

  Jim wasn’t boasting. He was simply stating fact. Luke handed him a glass and indicated a chair. After they were seated, he said, “What did she do today?”

  “Not much. She called on the Countess of Chesney for perhaps ten minutes and then the Duchess of Avendale. She went to the milliner for a new hat, which is being made, and she went to order a new gown. Apparently she plans to attend some ball. I’m working on acquiring the details. She returned home around two and was there until you picked her up this evening.”

  Luke pondered the information while Jim sipped his whiskey.

  “You do realize her father is infirmed and her brother traveling the world?” Jim inquired.

  Luke nodded. “I’d heard something about that.”

  “I think there’s something there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her father is too ill to properly see after his estates, and his son is off seeing to his own pleasures? I think I need to investigate that.”

  “I don’t care about her father or her brother. Concentrate on the girl. She’s all I care about.”

  He realized what he’d said, considered rewording it, then decided against it. Making an issue of it would only serve to give his words credence they didn’t deserve. He took a long swallow of the whiskey. It was tempting, but he couldn’t afford to overindulge in spirits tonight.

  “What if the answer concerns her father or brother?”

  Luke sighed. “Do what you think best. Just find out who she wants me to kill and why.”

  “What if she’s the only one who knows?”

  “She has to have told someone.”

  “You didn’t. Not until the deed was done.”

  “Not true. I told someone.” Jack. His confessor in all things. And more often than not, his conspirator.

  “Jack. You told Jack. You always trusted him more than you trusted the rest of us.”

  “He’s the one who found me, shivering, starving, wretchedly afraid. I daresay I’d have died if he’d not taken care of me, taken me to Feagan.”

  “You know as well as I that Feagan paid us for recruitments. You were merely threepence in Jack’s pocket.”

  “Are you jealous of my friendship with Jack?”

  “Don’t be absurd. But you speak as though his motives in rescuing you were pure. Nothing about Jack is pure.”

  “He saved your arse on more than one occasion.”

  “And I like him, but I don’t trust him, not completely.”

  “With our upbringing, with what we learned about the world, do you think any of us completely trusts anyone?”

  “I trust you. I’d follow you into hell without questioning why we were going.”

  “You’ve just made my point, because I’m the least trustworthy of us all. No one can be completely trusted. No one’s motives are pure. Which brings us back to Catherine Mabry. Find out all you can about her.”

  Because Luke had a feeling she was leading him straight into hell, but unlike Jim, Luke wanted to know why.

  Luke downed his whiskey and got up to pour himself another glass.

  “How did the lesson go?” Jim asked as he walked over and held out his glass.

  Luke splashed some whiskey into it. “Catherine won’t speak of it. She said I’ll see the results when I see the results. She vexes me as I’ve never been vexed. Do you know she actually had the audacity to question my
selection of a wife? She’s impertinent. I’ve never known a woman such as her.” He rubbed his brow. “She makes my head hurt.”

  “You’ve always been troubled with head pains.”

  “It’s been awhile. I’ve some powder to relieve it. Not to worry.”

  Jim set down his glass. “I’ll be off then. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have more luck.”

  “Perhaps we both will.”

  Chapter 7

  “I have it on good authority that Mr. Marcus Langdon has filed a bill in the Court of Chancery in order to reclaim his English estates. It is a start toward reclaiming his rightful title,” Lady Charlotte said.

  Catherine and Winnie, along with the Countess of Chesney, were having afternoon tea in Lady Charlotte’s garden. While she’d only recently had her coming out, her father, the Earl of Mill-bank, was most anxious for her to marry. Who could blame him? She was the first of four gossipy daughters, which was one of the reasons she had frequent visitors. She seemed to know things before most people did.

  “Then you mustn’t do anything to discourage his interest,” the Countess of Chesney said.

  Lady Charlotte smiled knowingly. Obviously her good authority was Mr. Langdon himself. Catherine had seen them dancing together at balls and walking through Hyde Park. Still, she hadn’t realized Lady Charlotte’s interest in the untitled gentleman was so intense.

  “But the Crown has already declared Lucian Langdon as the rightful earl,” Catherine felt a need to point out. She knew Mr. Langdon—he was quite social—and she liked him well enough. He was no doubt the rightful earl. Lucian Langdon had not denied the truth of that matter, to her at least. But still she had a difficult time imagining Marcus Langdon as earl. Or perhaps it was simply that she couldn’t see Lucian Langdon as not being earl.

  “Mr. Langdon’s contention is that King William was deceived, and being quite up in years—he was seventy at the time, after all—he was taken advantage of. Queen Victoria can set the matter to rights. If Mr. Marcus Langdon can simply get the courts to recognize that the property is truly his, then he will have the weight of the courts behind him when he petitions Her Majesty.”

  “I daresay, he’s a very brave man, your Mr. Marcus Langdon,” Winnie murmured. Then all eyes came to bear on Winnie, and she seemed to wither beneath the scutiny.

  Catherine hated that Avendale had transformed a once-vibrant woman into such a mouse. She reached across the table and squeezed Winnie’s hand. “No doubt you’re quite right about Mr. Langdon. After all, Claybourne is not called the Devil Earl for nothing. I don’t expect he’ll go quietly into the night.”

  No indeed. He would fight this latest attempt to usurp his position. He was a man who wore power like a comfortable old cloak. He’d not give it up easily.

  “I’m always amazed by how eloquent Claybourne is,” Lady Chesney said.

  Catherine felt her heart lurch. “You’ve spoken with him?”

  Lady Chesney pressed her hand to her ample bosom, and judging by the shock on her face, Catherine might as well have asked if she’d lain in bed with him. “Of course not. Just the thought of conversing with the man sends my heart into palpitations. I daresay, if he ever addressed me, I would expire on the spot. No, no, no. I’m referring to the letters he’s had published in the Times.”

  Catherine’s stomach dropped to her toes. “What letters?”

  “He maintains that it’s unfair for children older than seven to be judged according to the law of the land.”

  “Well, of course, he’d think it unfair,” Lady Charlotte said. “After all, he spent time in prison—even before he murdered dear Mr. Langdon’s father. Can you imagine growing into adulthood knowing that your father was murdered—and that your grandfather not only welcomed the murderer into his home, but treated him as a son? Or a grandson as it were. It’s absolutely shameful. Can anyone blame Mr. Marcus Langdon for striving to acquire what he knows in his heart is his?”

  “Of course no one can blame him,” Lady Chesney said. “I think it’s frightfully disgraceful that among the aristocracy we have a lord who bears a prison brand upon his hand.”

  “Have you seen it?” Lady Charlotte asked, clearly horrified by the thought.

  “I should say not! My dear Chesney has seen it, though, at the club when Claybourne is not wearing gloves. It fairly turns his stomach, and my Chesney is not one whose stomach turns easily.”

  “I think if I bore the mark of sin, I’d always hide it,” Lady Charlotte said.

  Catherine thought of the scar she’d seen on Claybourne’s hand the night she’d gone to visit him, the burn scar on Jack Dodger’s thumb. Why did Claybourne’s look so different, so awful? She couldn’t imagine someone intentionally pressing hot iron against a child’s small hand. “Do you know how old he was when he was in prison?”

  “Not offhand, no. It was years ago, I believe, when he was a child. From what I understand, he was caught stealing.”

  “He should have gone to prison for killing Mr. Langdon’s father,” Lady Charlotte said, with righteous indignation.

  “Dear girl, he should have been hanged,” Lady Chesney said, “but as he was never actually put on trial, he avoided both consequences. He was in a gaol for a bit, awaiting trial, but gaol hardly suffices as prison.”

  “Should we be speaking of Claybourne?” Winnie asked, glancing around as though she expected him to jump out from behind the rosebushes. “If we’re not careful he’ll be making appearances at our affairs.”

  “You’re quite right, Duchess. He is a horrible man. I shall pray diligently day and night for the court and the Crown to bestow upon Mr. Marcus Langdon what is rightfully his,” Lady Charlotte said.

  Catherine had an unkind thought that Lady Charlotte was praying so hard because she wanted to be a countess. What a selfish use of prayer that was. Would it not be better to pray for the children?

  For three nights now, in between teaching Frannie proper etiquette, Catherine heard about the children’s home that Frannie was building on land that Claybourne had purchased for her. It was located just outside of London. She intended it to be a place where children could, in Frannie’s words, be children.

  Catherine had done good works. She donated clothing to the poor. She gave coins to begging children. But she didn’t wrap her arms around them as she suspected Frannie did. And now to hear that even Claybourne was taking a public stand against what he considered an unfair practice…she felt quite humbled.

  “I don’t think he’s as bad as all that,” Catherine muttered later as the open carriage rattled over the street, taking her and Winnie to Winnie’s residence.

  “Who?” Winnie asked.

  “Claybourne.”

  “Oh, please, I really don’t want to speak of him. We should be discussing the ball we’ll be hosting at the end of the month. That’s a much more pleasant conversation. Have you managed to acquire an orchestra for us?”

  Catherine smiled. “Yes, I have. And the invitations should be ready tomorrow. I’ll pick them up at the stationers, and then we can spend a terribly exciting afternoon addressing them.”

  Winnie laughed lightly. It always made Catherine feel better to hear her friend laugh. “You don’t like addressing invitations,” Winnie said.

  “No, I must confess that I don’t. I enjoy arranging for a ball, but the tedious tasks bore me to no end.”

  “I shall address them all. I don’t mind. I rather like having a precise goal that can be easily met.”

  “But it seems like such a small goal.”

  Winnie stopped smiling. Drat it! Catherine had hurt her feelings. She was so easily hurt these days, and who could blame her? Her confidence was shattered. Reaching across, Catherine squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling a bit trite of late. Hearing that a man such as Claybourne, a known scoundrel, is taking time to speak out on behalf of children makes me feel as though I should be doing more.”

  “You have your father to look after.”

  “Ye
s, but he has nurses.”

  “And you have the estates to oversee.”

  “That is true, I suppose, although even then it’s simply a matter of approving decisions that the estates’ managers have already given considerable thought to.”

  “When do you think your brother will return home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  Catherine glanced about at the shops they passed. She’d been shopping too much of late, to take her mind off the bargain she’d struck with Claybourne. It was almost as though she wanted to run from her decision, even though she truly believed it was the only way to save Winnie. Threatening Avendale would only anger him further, and he would take his fury out on her friend and possibly on Catherine as well. Yes, killing him was the only permanent answer that guaranteed no harm to Winnie.

  “It’s been nearly a year,” Catherine said quietly.

  “You don’t suppose something horrendous has happened to him.”

  “No, he’s never been one for writing. He’s rather selfish in that regard. He cares only about his own pleasures.”

  “That will all change when he returns home.”

  “Perhaps.” She hoped so. Although she didn’t think she was doing too terrible a job at managing things. She rather liked it actually.

  “We really need to find you a husband,” Winnie said. “Isn’t there anyone who’s caught your fancy?”

  Catherine thought of silver eyes, the way they warmed when Claybourne looked at Frannie, the way they’d heated when he’d kissed Catherine. He was so solicitous where Frannie was concerned. How could Frannie not want what Claybourne had to offer?

  When he’d first told Catherine that he wanted to marry a woman who had misgivings about marrying him, she’d thought she’d understood the misgivings. But the more time she spent in Claybourne’s company the more she discovered a man of such depth that she thought a lifetime spent with him would not reveal all the layers. But what an intriguing lifetime it would be. But he was not for her, and well she knew it.