Jack Dodger unfolded his long, lean body, dropped the ledger on the desk with a loud thump, and leaned ominously toward Mr. Beckwith. “Is this some sort of prank?”
Mr. Beckwith, to his credit, stood valiant against the devil’s advance. “I assure you, Mr. Dodger, this is no prank.”
“You’re telling me a man I barely knew is leaving me”—he jabbed the ledger with a blunt-tipped finger—“all of this?”
“You knew my husband?” Olivia asked, stunned by the revelation.
He had the audacity to wave his hand at her as though she were insignificant, to be dismissed with no more thought than one might give a beggar pleading for coins.
“Yes, Mr. Dodger, it appears that is in fact the case,” Mr. Beckwith said.
“And what of his debts?” he asked caustically. “I suppose I inherit them as well.”
“There are no debts. The duke didn’t believe in credit. He paid as he went.”
That seemed to give Mr. Dodger pause, before he splayed his long, slender fingers over the ledger. “And the final item is more valuable than all of this?”
“As indicated in the will, its value cannot be measured.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I do. It’s to remain in my possession until such time as it’s to be handed over.”
“He trusted you with something of immeasurable worth?”
“He trusted me with everything, Mr. Dodger.”
Mr. Dodger seemed to consider that. “An item the value of which cannot be measured could be worth nothing.”
“If I had to measure its worth, I would declare it the most valuable item the duke ever had the pleasure to possess.”
“Bloody hell,” Mr. Dodger said quietly in that raspy voice he possessed. “I need a drink.”
In spite of the ludicrousness of the entire situation, Olivia felt all her appropriate upbringing and her need to be the perfect hostess shoot to the fore. “Shall I have a servant bring you a cup of tea? Or some lemonade perhaps?”
Mr. Dodger glared at her with eyes as black as his unredeemed soul. “I was thinking whiskey, gin, rum. All three if you have them.”
“We don’t keep spirits in the residence,” Olivia said sharply, her indignation suddenly very much alive.
“Of course you don’t.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, sir.”
“As though I give a damn what you appreciate.”
Oh, the man was infuriating. Then he did the strangest thing. He slowly prowled the room, hungrily glancing around as if about to pluck and tuck everything into his pockets. Although now he no longer had a need to pilfer anything. It had all been handed to him on a silver platter.
After several long moments, he returned to the desk and stared intently at Mr. Beckwith. “Everything within this residence is mine?”
“Everything,” Mr. Beckwith said somberly, as though he felt the weight of that single word on Olivia’s heart. “On the condition that you—”
“Yes, yes, serve as the heir’s guardian. Unlike the duchess, I have no difficulty comprehending the simplest of terms when they’re laid out for me.”
She couldn’t let the insult pass, but for the life of her, she could think of no retort that might effectively put him in his place. She did feel like a dimwit. How could Lovingdon do this to her? More important—do this to their son? Did he care not at all what sort of man he would become?
Jack Dodger turned around slowly, looking at everything once more, as though he were feasting his eyes on a magnificent creation. “Was the duke a raving lunatic?”
The crack of Olivia’s palm hitting Jack Dodger’s cheek echoed through the room. Since she’d never in her life struck anyone, she hadn’t realized how much her palm would sting. It took everything within her not to yelp or give any indication that she’d probably hurt herself more than she’d harmed him. “My husband was only recently laid to rest and you speak of him with such disrespect. How dare you, sir!”
Jack Dodger presented her with a slow, calculating smile that caused her stomach to plummet clear down to her toes. “The duchess has spunk. Who’d have thought?”
She wanted to toss him out of the house, back into the streets from whence he’d come. She turned to Mr. Beckwith. “His language is vulgar, his manners are atrocious. I simply will not allow this man to be responsible for the upbringing of my son.”
“That’s easy enough to remedy, Duchess,” Jack Dodger drawled. “Find yourself another husband.”
“It seems to have failed your notice that I’m in mourning. I can’t accept suitors.”
“Then you don’t want me out of your life badly enough, Duchess. Trust me. There isn’t anything a person won’t do if he wants something badly enough.”
Every time the word Duchess slithered mockingly off his tongue, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled and her palm itched to slap him again. Before she followed through on the barbaric urge, she forced herself to address the solicitor. “Mr. Beckwith—”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but there is no prospect for negotiation on this matter if Mr. Dodger agrees to serve as guardian.”
“Can you explain to me my husband’s thinking?”
“I have served the duke for many years, Your Grace. It has never been my place to question his decisions. He seldom revealed his reasoning, and I cannot know everything that influenced him, but I’m certain in this matter he did what he deemed best.”
If she’d not been raised to be a lady, she would shriek at the unfairness of it all.
“And if I don’t agree to the guardianship part?” Mr. Dodger asked.
A momentary spark of relief gave Olivia renewed hope that this hellish nightmare would come to a satisfactory end. Apparently the man had the good sense to have misgivings about accepting the responsibilities thrust upon him.
“The first will shall be nullified and a second shall come into play,” Mr. Beckwith said.
Olivia dared not ask, but she had to know. It seemed unlikely her husband could have made a worse choice than Jack Dodger, but if he was her husband’s first who would serve as his second? The devil himself? “Who is appointed as my son’s guardian in that will?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” Mr. Beckwith stated calmly. “Mr. Dodger’s decision must be made without any influence.”
“Without any influence? What do you call giving him everything? If that’s not influence, I daresay I don’t know what is.”
“I merely meant that your husband did not wish who would serve as guardian to influence Mr. Dodger’s decision.”
“But surely it is someone more appropriate, someone familiar with the strictures of society. What does Mr. Dodger know of the nobility, our duties and responsibilities?”
“I know a good deal, Duchess,” Mr. Dodger said. “After all, I am a longtime friend of the Earl of Claybourne.”
She spun around at the mention of Lucian Langdon. “Another criminal? A man who committed murder? How in God’s name is that supposed to reassure me? You can’t possibly believe you are qualified to guide my son along the proper path to manhood.”
“The proper path is often determined by where you’re standing.”
“What the devil does that mean? Yours is a world of decadence, Mr. Dodger. You—”
The words abruptly died in her throat. He was suddenly near, so very near, a heat burning in his eyes that could only have been ignited within the depths of hell, a heat that caused unwanted warmth to swirl through her core, that made her knees weaken, her palms dampen, and her mouth go dry.
“You should visit sometime,” he said darkly, his warm, whiskey-scented breath wafting over her cheek.
“Pardon?”
“Visit my world of depravity. I would do all in my power to welcome you properly. You might even find it to your liking.”
His voice was as powerful as a caress, stirring her to imagine that his welcome would involve his mouth, his hands—
It was evident in h
is eyes, the wicked things he would do to her, things she’d never imagined with Lovingdon. She should slap him again, she knew she should, but all she seemed capable of doing was trembling with something akin to…God help her…Was she feeling desire? It wasn’t possible. It was only that it had been so very long since she’d felt a man’s touch. Once he had his heir, Lovingdon had made it plain he didn’t hold with the notion a spare was needed. One son was all he required. In that regard, she and Lovingdon had been well matched. They both put duty above all else. Regretfully, she’d come to discover that duty was a lonely taskmaster.
“Have you ever sinned, Duchess?” Jack Dodger asked in that strangely rough voice that hinted at passion barely tethered.
Only in my dreams hovered on the tip of her tongue. She wondered if Jack Dodger had fulfilled other women’s fantasies. She had no doubt he was fully capable—
A harsh clearing of a throat caused them both to jump. She saw irritation flash across Jack Dodger’s face as he moved back and slid his uncompromising gaze toward Mr. Beckwith. For a heartbeat, it appeared the solicitor was fighting not to retreat. He cleared his throat again, as though his courage resided in the deep rumble. “I believe, Mr. Dodger, your behavior toward the duchess is not at all warranted and certainly not what the duke envisioned when he named you in his will.”
“I didn’t think you knew what he envisioned.”
“I know he respected his wife, sir, and he would be very disappointed if you didn’t do the same.”
“The man is dead. I suspect he’s not likely to be disappointed in anything anymore.”
“You, sir, are despicable,” Olivia snapped before Mr. Beckwith could give him a proper tongue-lashing. “Have you no respect for my late husband?”
He turned toward her and she suddenly wished she’d kept silent. She truly didn’t want to spar with him. She couldn’t determine how to attain the high ground. Where he was concerned, she suspected it was impossible. He would always somehow manage to drag those around him into the gutter with him.
“I respect only those who have earned my respect. And they are few in number.”
“I can well imagine what a person must do in order to earn your respect.”
Some unidentifiable emotion—remorse?—shifted in his eyes. “Actually, Duchess, I suspect you can’t.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Dare she hope he was taking his leave, and in so doing, turning his back on this ridiculous first will?
“Where are you going?” Olivia called out.
“I want to have a look around, determine what all I’ll gain by suffering through your presence.” He stormed from the room without a backward glance.
With a gasp of indignation, Olivia hurried after him. This house was hers—hers—until he agreed to the terms of the will. Whatever she could do to dissuade him from consenting, she would do. She’d show him who was willing to do anything.
Although she did have to give him credit for being correct about one thing: somehow, without her noticing, her husband had gone stark, raving mad.
Considering Mr. Dodger’s reputation, Charles Beckwith was inclined to follow the couple, but the duke had left specific instructions that he was not to interfere as they settled their differences. Only a fool would have expected the duchess to serenely accept so ludicrous a choice for guardian, and the duke had not been known for being a fool.
With a sigh, Beckwith leaned back in his chair to await their return and began to mentally prepare himself for the next round with Jack Dodger. He knew it had the potential to be challenging. He had to carry out the duke’s wishes without compromising his own integrity.
He was not in the habit of questioning those who paid so handsomely for his services, but he did wonder if the duke had truly understood the ramifications of his actions. To Charles Beckwith, they seemed to serve but one purpose: to pave the way for disaster.
Chapter 2
Ignoring the widow following at a rapid clip, Jack Dodger strode briskly through the hallways and rooms, searching for anything familiar, anything that might signal he’d been in this residence before. He’d learned long ago nothing came easy, and this entire situation seemed far too easy. Well, except for dealing with the widow. She was the very definition of the type of woman he avoided at all costs. Judging him through a kaleidoscope of righteous indignation, she was so damned passionate about his being so damned unworthy. It didn’t matter that she was right. Her belief in his unsuitability irritated the devil out of him, and he preferred holding the devil close. It was the only way to ensure he was never again taken advantage of, never again hurt, never again left to live with regrets.
The duchess had certainly not taken well to the news delivered by the solicitor. The fire of anger burning in her eyes had hit him like a punch to the gut, and he’d wanted to nurture it into a blaze of passion—
Damnation.
He knew better than to lash out at women, knew better than to reveal anything at all about his thoughts or feelings. Somehow the widow had forced him to throw caution to the wind. He’d begun to lose the upper hand in this game of…what? What in God’s name was going on here?
So he’d stormed from the room because he’d learned that sometimes retreat could lead to victory. Sometimes effective strategy required a restocking of the arsenal or a bit of breathing room so a man could think clearly and make sense of things.
What sort of lunatic was Lovingdon to appoint Jack guardian of anything? The nobles were so protective of their heirs. It was ludicrous to place the lad in Jack’s keeping. Still, it angered him that the widow was so appalled by the notion. He should accept the terms of the will simply to irritate her further. But he’d never been one to base his decisions on immediate reactions. He’d always thought out his strategy, always looked at things from every angle. Although in this situation the angle of inheritance was looming enticingly large and threatening to overshadow his common sense. While Jack had accumulated quite a bit of wealth over the years, his coffers weren’t yet to the point that he wanted to spend his money on a palace such as this. It was monstrously huge and overflowing with statuettes, figurines, artwork, handsome handcrafted furniture, and everything else imaginable.
In his mind, he heard Feagan cackling. “Ye finally made it, boy. A fancy place in St. James. Who’d a thought?”
Certainly not Jack.
He had a practiced eye when it came to identifying valuables and the good duke had accumulated a fortune’s worth. It was also evident that the family, from the first duke to the last, thought highly of themselves. Why else have all the portraits painted of various stages in their lives, from birth to old age? God, the nobility was an amazing lot—to think anyone would care what they looked like. On the other hand, judging by the number of portraits hanging on the walls throughout, someone obviously did care. Maybe he’d sell them to the heir for a pretty penny.
As though reading his thoughts, the duchess said, “I’m certain when Mr. Beckwith said ‘everything’ he didn’t mean everything. The portraits are obviously part of the entailment.”
“How did you come to that conclusion, Duchess?”
“They are portraits of the dukes and their families, my son’s ancestors. There can be no doubt they are part of his inheritance.”
“We’ll see.” She made a reasonable argument, but he planned to study the ledger more closely, to memorize and account for every item. He’d not let her take anything that had been designated as his—not without paying a fair price for it. He had no intention of taking advantage of her, but neither was it in his nature to be charitable.
“I wonder what funds were used to purchase your clothing,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
He came to a stop outside the third dining room he’d passed, and she almost rammed into him. Her fragrance did, teasing his nostrils now just as it had in the library. Sitting there, he’d wanted to lean toward her and inhale it more fully. Her scent was a subtle lavender, not
the cloyingly harsh musk that prostitutes used to cover the odor of their business and other men.
Her face was set in a worried frown that drew her brows together over unusual amber eyes. From the start, their shade—almost gold, just like the color of the coins he favored—had caught his attention.
The top of the widow’s head barely came to his shoulder. She was terribly young for a widow. She had to have been a child when the duke married her. With their difference in age, he would have been an old man to her. Had she loved him? Or had she simply wanted the title and everything that came with it?
“I was just wondering if your clothing was part of the entailment,” he drawled.
Anger flashed over her features. “My clothing, sir, is mine. You’ll not take it from me.”
“Don’t challenge me, Duchess, or I might be tempted to prove I could remove those widow’s weeds before you could stammer an objection.”
“Oh, you blackguard.”
Turning away from her, he tried not to take delight in pricking her temper. Not very gentlemanly on his part, but then he’d never claimed to be a gentleman. He had yet to meet one who wasn’t a hypocrite. Better to admit to being a scoundrel, more honesty in that. He didn’t pretend to be what he wasn’t.
Impatient, he headed back the way he’d come. He had to give the duke credit: he’d spent his money wisely.
Beneath his breath, he cursed a man he’d barely known, a man who had obviously judged Jack very well. Everything Jack saw, he wanted. He wanted to look at it and know that he owned it. He wanted to tear down the brick walls, replace them with glass, and let the world catch a glimpse of what Jack Dodger possessed. He wanted to gloat. He, the son of a whore, had not been trampled down by society. He’d risen above his beginnings. He’d conquered London.
By God, that was how it felt, walking through these magnificent hallways with their gilded trim and their painted ceilings. It could all be his for a very small price.
How much trouble could it be to serve as guardian of one boy? Of course, the real question was: how irritating would it be to deal with the merry widow? She was the type of woman he abhorred. Self-righteous, judgmental, thinking she was so much better than others. He’d like nothing more than to take her down a peg or two. Maybe that was the reason he’d brought up the subject of her clothing—certainly not because he’d been considering what it might be like to divest her of it.
Between the Devil and Desire Page 2
