In Bed With the Devil

by Lorraine Heath

  “Not really,” Catherine said.

  “I can hardly believe that Lady Charlotte has taken a fancy to Mr. Marcus Langdon. He’s nice enough, I suppose, but I think her interest may wane if his pursuit in reclaiming the title isn’t successful.”

  “I don’t think Claybourne will give it up easily.” Quite honestly, she didn’t think he’d give it up at all, and while a part of her recognized that he’d stolen it, she couldn’t quite see him as anything other than a lord. There was simply something about the way he held himself that seemed to indicate he’d been born into the role.

  “Sometimes, like the way you sounded today when you spoke his name, it’s almost as though you know him.”

  “He is so mysterious, Winnie. Maybe we should invite him to our ball.”

  “I daresay his appearance would certainly make it the talk of London.”

  Yes, Catherine thought, it would.

  The carriage came to a halt outside Winnie’s residence.

  “Would you like to come in for a moment?” Winnie asked.

  “Yes, I’d love to see Whit.”

  “That, my dear friend, is the very reason you should marry. You so enjoy children.”

  “I think it important to enjoy their father.”

  Winnie blanched. Catherine reached out and touched Winnie’s arm. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Winnie.”

  “I know.”

  “For myself, I just need there to be something special between me and the man I might marry.”

  “I hope you find it.”

  In Winnie’s voice, Catherine heard the despair of a woman who had not found happiness.

  The footman assisted them in leaving the carriage. They walked up the steps and entered the house.

  “Where have you been?”

  The voice was harsh, demanding. Winnie squeaked and jumped aside, knocking into Catherine, and they both did a strange little stepping dance to keep from losing their balance.

  Avendale laughed in a mean sort of way. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Catherine didn’t believe that. He moved from near the window where he’d obviously been watching them.

  “Answer me, Duchess.”

  So formal. Winnie was his wife for goodness’ sakes. Catherine heard her swallow.

  “We were spending the afternoon visiting with Lady Charlotte,” Winnie said.

  “She’s naught but a gossip. Why would you spend time with her?”

  “We spend time calling on many of the ladies. It’s what we do,” Winnie said.

  He narrowed his dark eyes. His hair was almost black. Claybourne’s was darker, and yet it didn’t make him seem as sinister. Avendale wasn’t nearly as tall as Claybourne but what he lacked in height, he made up for in width. Still, Catherine thought Claybourne could take him easily enough.

  Avendale shifted his attention to Catherine, and unlike Winnie, she didn’t cower. “Shouldn’t you be seeing after your father?”

  She wanted to tell him it was none of his business. Instead she said, “He has nurses. It would weigh on him if I spent all of my time with him.”

  “Where did you say you spent the afternoon?”

  Why in the world did he sound so suspicious? “With Lady Charlotte.”

  “Where?”

  “In her garden.”

  “For how long?”

  “About twenty minutes or so.”

  “And before that?”

  Catherine looked at Winnie who was studying the tips of her shoes. Did she always go through this inquisition?

  “We stopped by to visit with the Countess of Chesney. After our visit, she invited us to join her at Lady Charlotte’s.”

  “And before that?” he asked again.

  “Would you like me to provide you with a written schedule?”

  He grinned, more like one who was irritated than amused. “No need. You don’t like being challenged, do you?”

  “No, Your Grace, I do not, but then name me one person who does.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  Winnie cleared her throat. “Did you have a need of me?”

  He slid his gaze back to her and Catherine was aware of her shrinking.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. My boots were not polished to my satisfaction. I took a strap to the lad. I think he’ll do a much better job in the morning, but will you please inspect them before I have need of them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You took a strap to the boy who polishes your boots because they weren’t shiny enough?” Catherine asked.

  “Are you questioning me in my home, Lady Catherine?”

  “Yes, I rather think I am.”

  He snorted. “You need a man to put you in your place.”

  She felt fingers digging into her arm. She knew Winnie was warning her. Do not poke a stick at a tiger. Oh, but it was tempting, so very tempting.

  “It’s rather late, my father’s expecting me. I should go”—without seeing Whit. But she knew she was in danger of saying something she shouldn’t.

  “I’ll see you out,” Avendale said.

  He followed her out to where her carriage waited. Catherine forced herself to place her hand in his when he offered to assist her. His fingers closed painfully around hers.

  “I believe you’re a rather bad influence on my wife,” he said in a low voice.

  Catherine’s heart thudded against her chest. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not, but I’m not certain you understand a wife’s place in the world.”

  She met and held his gaze. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I fear it is you who doesn’t understand a woman’s place.”

  Before he could say anything further, she stepped up and into the carriage. She tugged her hand free of his.

  “Take care, Lady Catherine. You never know what dangers are about.”

  Oh, she had a very good idea about the dangers. The carriage moved forward and Catherine took several deep breaths to calm the erratic beating of her heart. Just before the carriage turned onto the street, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Avendale was still there, watching her.

  Chapter 8

  Traveling in his coach, Luke couldn’t help but be irritated by the amount of time he was spending preparing himself for his nightly visits to Dodger’s. He’d never before been on a schedule. Now he was on one every night—not only for when he went to Dodger’s but for when he left. Catherine insisted. Three at the latest.

  After all, she needed her beauty rest.

  Not that he attributed her beauty to the amount of sleep she indulged in. He had a feeling she could go a week without sleep and still be ravishing. It was more than the alabaster of her skin or the honey of her hair. It was the confidence that she exuded—as though she somehow demanded that when a man looked at her, he would see naught but her perfection.

  He’d known a good many beautiful women, but he’d never given much thought to exactly why they were beautiful. Catherine in particular puzzled him. She wasn’t striking, and yet he was hard pressed to think of anyone he found more attractive.

  Not even Frannie could compare, and yet, he saw more perfection in her features, and so it stood to reason that she should be the more beautiful of the two. Certainly, gazing at her had always brought him pleasure, but he saw something else there when he looked at Catherine. Something he couldn’t identify, something he couldn’t understand.

  But it wasn’t for Catherine that he’d taken to properly preparing himself for his late-night outings. It was for Frannie. He was taking an inordinate amount of time each evening because of Frannie.

  Before he’d asked Frannie to marry him, he’d simply gone to Dodger’s whenever he wanted, and while he never dressed as a beggar, he’d certainly never taken the time to shave, bathe, and change into fresh clothing. He brushed his hair, he applied sandalwood cologne. He was always properly decked out.

  For several nights now, he’d gone to all this trouble, all this bo
ther. It wasn’t as though Frannie had an opportunity to notice. As soon as he led Catherine through the back doorway into the private hallway where customers were forbidden, she disappeared into Frannie’s office, closed the door, and they were secreted away until Catherine came out, prepared to go home.

  Frannie would give him a sweet smile, but by then his breath was tainted with whiskey, his hair was furrowed from the numerous times that he’d combed his fingers through it, and he was no longer in an agreeable mood because for the first time in his life he was losing at the gaming tables. He was distracted, not concentrating on the gents at the table. He wanted to know what was going on behind that blasted closed door.

  To further add to his irritation, Jim’s reports were of little use. Today Catherine had again visited with the Duchess of Avendale—apparently she was helping the duchess with a party that she was giving—bought a new fan and a new parasol, gone into a bookshop and come out with a purchase, which Jim, with a few well-placed coins, had learned was David Copperfield. According to the shop owner, Lady Catherine Mabry had a fondness for Dickens.

  She’d also stopped by Frannie’s orphanage. Had simply stood on the street and looked at it. What was that about? How did she even know the orphanage existed?

  Now they were heading home and he knew no more at that precise moment than he had when he’d picked her up several hours earlier.

  “So when will I see some progress?” he asked curtly.

  “When we’re ready.”

  “Surely by now you’ve taught her something.”

  “I’ve taught her a great deal.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “I’m not going to list out our accomplishments. You’ll see them when we’re ready.”

  “Can you give me an estimate as to when that might be?”

  “No.”

  “I’m most anxious to wed her.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  She said it on a sigh as though she could hardly be bothered to care.

  “I thought you were equally anxious for me to see about your business,” he reminded her.

  “I am…I was…I…”

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “No, not really. I just—I’ve heard that Marcus Langdon is seeking to prove you’re not the rightful heir.”

  What did that have to do with their arrangement? How had she heard? And how had he not? Still, he wasn’t about to let on that her words had taken him by surprise.

  “You sound concerned. I assure you there’s no cause to fret. He’s threatened to do this on numerous occasions. Usually when he wants an increase in allowance.”

  “You provide him with an allowance?”

  “Don’t be shocked. It’s not uncommon for a lord to see after those entrusted to his care. The old gent requested that I see after them, and so I do.”

  “Out of guilt?”

  “Why can it not be out of kindness?”

  “Are you a kind man then?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. You know what I am, Catherine. Or more importantly, what I am not. I’m not the rightful heir. I’m not the true grandson to the previous Earl of Claybourne. But he entrusted his titles and his estates to my keeping, and keep them I shall.”

  “Do you not worry that I’ll go to the courts and speak on Mr. Langdon’s behalf?”

  “I don’t worry in the least. We’re partners in crime now, Catherine, you and I. Seek to drag me down, and you shall fall with me. You’ll have to explain when I told you. And when it comes out that you’ve been in my company all these many nights…”

  He let his voice trail off into the velvety darkness, with the unspoken promise of retribution. One he’d never carry out. He was not in the habit of harming women—in any fashion. Not that she’d know that. She’d expect the worst of him. Even though there were moments when he thought she was different, he knew that deep down she saw him as everyone else did: a cad, a scoundrel, a man whose life was built on the foundation of deception—and sooner or later, the façade would crumble.

  And he saw her as…a lady. High-born. Elegant. Her rose scent had begun to invade his clothes, take up permanent residence in his nostrils. Throughout the day, he’d discover times when he thought he could smell her. He’d find himself looking around, wondering if she were near, if she’d somehow managed to sneak up on him. When he was walking the crowded streets, he’d sometimes think he heard her voice. He wanted to keep as much distance as possible between them, and yet, she was somehow managing to weave her way into his life.

  He wanted to ask her how her day was. What she’d talked to her friends about. He wanted to know which one of Dickens’s works was her favorite. Who else did she read? What did she do that Jim wasn’t able to spy on? What made her happiest? What made her sad?

  A horse suddenly whinnied, the coach jostled then stopped.

  “What the devil?”

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Luke reached for the cane sword he kept beneath the seat, because he never knew when he might be required to walk through the London streets. “Stay here.”

  He leapt out of the coach and closed the door firmly behind him. It was so very late and the street was empty.

  Save for the six ruffians who now stood before him. One man held a knife to his footman’s throat, another did the same with his driver. He imagined they’d come out of the shadows, leaping onto the coach, taking both men by surprise—even though Luke had trained them better.

  It was very easy to become complacent.

  “Is this a robbery, gentlemen?” he asked calmly. He could see other knives, as well as wooden instruments that could be used for bludgeoning.

  “It will be, m’lord, once we’ve sent ye to the devil.”

  Catherine’s heart was pounding so hard that she could scarcely breathe. She moved the curtain aside only a fraction. There was more shadow than light but she could see Claybourne was surrounded. His only weapon was his walking stick.

  Then in a lightning-quick movement, he pulled it apart to reveal a rather nasty-looking swordlike instrument.

  “I believe, gentlemen, you’ll be breaking fast with the devil this morning, not I.”

  He lunged toward the man who held his footman and the footman somehow managed to break free of the hold and send the ruffian to the ground.

  Claybourne’s move was a feint, Catherine realized, a ploy to simply distract that man so the footman would be at an advantage, because no sooner had Claybourne made a motion to go one way, he reversed direction, making a jabbing motion toward the man who held his coachman. But the coachman had already elbowed his captor and was skillfully avoiding the knife.

  While both his servants were now doing their best to fend off the men attacking them, Claybourne was left to deal with the other four—who were taking unfair advantage of the situation. But then she supposed that was what these sorts of cads were accustomed to doing.

  Claybourne had somehow managed to kick one of the men in the stomach. Doubled over, he’d dropped his weapon—a large wooden stick. Catherine thought if she could retrieve it, she could give him a few good whacks on the head and even the odds a bit. Before she could think it through clearly, she’d opened the door and stepped out—

  Claybourne’s back was to her and a man with a wicked-looking knife was coming up behind him.

  “Nooo!” she screamed.

  She felt the agonizing fire erupt across her palm, and only then did she realize she’d put her hand up to stop the knife from slicing Claybourne. The man wielding the weapon seemed to be in shock that he’d attacked a lady.

  Catherine looked at the crimson flow invading her glove and staggered back.

  “Let’s go, mates!” someone yelled.

  She was vaguely aware of someone grunting, the echo of pounding footsteps.

  “Catherine?”

  She blinked. Claybourne was kneeling beside her. What was she doing on the ground? When had she fallen? Why was it suddenly so very dark?

/>   “He was going to kill you,” she murmured. Or thought she did. The words seem to come from a great distance.

  “That’s no excuse to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  The insufferable ingrate lifted her into his arms and carried her to the coach. He’d barely gotten her inside before following after her, sitting beside her. “Here,” he said, and she felt him wrapping something around her hand as the coach lurched forward.

  “Your servants—”

  “They’re fine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My handkerchief.”

  “It’ll be ruined.”

  “Good Lord, Catherine, your hand is likely ruined. I don’t give a damn about a bit of cloth.”

  “Your language is vulgar, sir.”

  “I believe the occasion warrants it.”

  “Indeed it does.”

  He chuckled, a soothing sound that made her want to reach out and comb her fingers through his hair, assure herself that he was indeed unharmed.

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  “They wanted to kill you.”

  He said nothing.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’m a man with many enemies, Catherine.” He tucked her up against his side, pressed his lips to the top of her head. “But never before have I had a lovely guardian angel.”

  Chapter 9

  “It’s my hand, not my legs,” Catherine said as Luke swept her into his arms as soon as she appeared in the doorway of the coach intending to step out.

  Luke had instructed his driver to go to his residence straightaway, to the back, where none would witness who was coming inside.

  “Yes, but the faster I get you indoors, the more quickly I can have a look.”

  “I’m quite capable of moving quickly.”

  “Stop complaining and just accept that on this matter you’ll not win.”

  “Such a bully,” she muttered, before nestling her head more securely against his shoulder.

  Luke was smiling before he realized it. How was it that she managed to stir to life every emotion possible in him? First she irritated him like the devil, and then she had tried to protect him. He’d spun around in time to see her, to see the knife slashing—and his stomach had dropped to the ground. Fury had almost blinded him. At that precise moment, he’d thought he could have killed all six ruffians without breaking a sweat. They must have realized their mistake in turning on her, must have seen the murder glittering in his eyes—to have run off as they had. Luke couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, and even as he thought that, he realized she wasn’t his to lose.