Her black dress had far too many buttons to be of interest to him. They ran from waist to chin, from wrist to elbow. He imagined when she was out of mourning her clothes were just as boring. She struck him as someone who would think temptation ultimately led to hell, and that path was not to be traveled at any cost. Her dull brown hair was pinned up, a widow’s cap covering most of it, leaving him to wonder how long it might be. Then he cursed himself for wondering anything at all about her personal intimacies.
She was a duchess, probably related to the queen in some form or fashion. Weren’t they all? They certainly acted like they were. Even in his club, on occasion, they tried to order him about—but he’d created a world where he was king, where his word was law. They paid a yearly stipend to be admitted because he provided entertainment and never judged them for indulging. Unlike the woman following behind him. He’d seen the judgment in her eyes the moment they’d been introduced, the conviction he was beneath her. He’d felt her gaze remain on him after they’d taken their seats, had been keenly aware of her studying him as though he were some curiosity that should be on display at the Great Exhibition. He’d deliberately avoided looking at her, instead concentrating on studying the room while the solicitor had taken his time preparing things.
Jack emerged from a grand hallway into the foyer. Crossing quickly, he started up the black marble stairs.
“Where are you going?” she asked from behind him.
“I told you, Duchess, I want to see everything.”
“But only bedchambers are up there.”
“To a man such as me, as I’m sure you might have guessed, no room is more important.”
He fought not to grin as he heard her growl behind him. God, whatever had the duke seen in her? From what he’d been able to deduce, she didn’t know the meaning of humor. She was as rigid as a fireplace poker. Although he did have to admire her valiant fight to retain what she considered hers. A willowy wisp of a woman, she’d certainly turned into a lioness with the thought of her cub being turned over to Jack’s care. If his own mother had only been so inclined, his youth might have been less harsh.
At the top of the stairs, he turned to his left and jerked open the first door he came to. He strode into the room and his gaze fell on the massive four-poster bed. The canopy was covered in heavy purple velvet. He heard the duchess breathing harshly as she came to a stop behind him, and he wondered briefly if she’d gasped for breath in that richly appointed bed. He shook his head to clear it of its wandering thoughts. What did he care if she’d found satisfaction there?
“The duke’s bedchamber?” he asked, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.
“Yes.”
A book rested on the bedside table, a ribbon sticking out of it as though the duke had expected to return to it. It made Jack uncomfortable to think about that. He’d barely known the man, certainly not well enough to truly mourn his passing, and yet sorrow nudged him. He wondered what else the duke may have left unfinished.
Shaking off his morose musings, he glanced to the side, toward another closed door, beyond the sitting area. “And is yours through there?”
He heard her swallow. “Yes.”
So the duke kept her near. Jack didn’t know why that knowledge bothered him, but it did. He faced her. “What is it with the aristocracy and this insane notion they have that husband and wife should sleep in separate bedchambers?”
He wasn’t certain he’d ever seen a woman as pale as she was, but suddenly a rose hue blossomed over her cheeks, and he found himself wondering if that blush had visited her in the duke’s bed. Why did he keep having visions of her in that blasted bed?
“I suppose they do it because they can,” he said laconically, not really expecting her to answer. She probably went to bed covered head to toe in something resembling a shroud. He took a step toward the sitting area—
“Please don’t go into my bedchamber,” she ordered softly.
The faintness of her voice shimmied through him, disconcerting him. All night she’d been demanding, angry, hurt, and upset. It seemed at odds she would choose now to be submissive. Perhaps she’d deduced that abrasiveness didn’t influence his temper. Hitching up a corner of his mouth, he turned back toward her. “What’s the matter, Duchess? Have all sorts of machines designed to give you sexual pleasure hidden away in there?”
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
He studied her for a moment, her black attire, the proper way she held herself…“Sadly, you probably don’t.”
Innocence had never appealed to him. He walked out of the room and continued down the long hallway.
“All the bedchambers are the same,” she said from behind him. “I don’t see why you need to—”
He reached for another door.
“I forbid you to go into that room,” she stated emphatically.
Looking over his shoulder, he winked at her. “Never forbid me, Duchess. It’ll only make me do it.”
He barged into the room. A young brown-haired, brown-eyed woman, obviously a servant, gasped and came out of the chair she was sitting in beside the bed. A young boy abruptly sat up, the covers falling to his waist, his blond hair tousled, his golden eyes wide.
The duchess brushed past Jack, sat on the bed, and took the boy protectively into her arms. It irritated the devil out of Jack that she assumed the boy needed protecting from him, that she expected him to hurt the lad.
“The heir?” Jack asked flatly.
The duchess nodded. “Yes.”
“Henry, right?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you, lad?”
“He’s five,” the duchess said.
“Is he mute?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why didn’t you let him speak? I asked the question of him.”
“You’re terrifying him.”
“Am I?” He studied the boy. He was as slightly built as his mother, as pale. His eyes were huge and round, but Jack saw more curiosity within them than fear. “Are you afraid of me, lad?”
The boy peered up at his mother.
“Don’t look to your mother for the answer, lad. Look to yourself.”
“Do not take that tone with him,” the duchess commanded. “You are not yet his guardian.”
Jack didn’t know whether to envy the boy for the protectiveness of his mother—a protectiveness he wished his own mother had bestowed on him—or to pity him because she was raising him to be a milksop. By the age of six, Jack could survive the streets by cunning, cleverness, and nimble fingers. He’d not been afraid to take chances. He’d learned how to dodge those who wanted to catch him. He’d been quick on his feet, but even quicker with his mind.
“Skill will get ye only so far, boy, but thinkin’ will be wot keeps ye alive,” Feagan had told him.
Learning the tricks of the trade had given him confidence, which had led to success, which had made him daring and fearless. He’d gotten where he was because he’d survived. He wasn’t convinced this lad could wipe his own nose. Was that the reason the duke was turning his care over to Jack?
Jack had first met Lovingdon on a spring day in the Earl of Claybourne’s garden. Jack had been left with the impression that the duke was a sad man. Years later, the duke had visited Jack’s club a number of times, but nothing memorable had come of the occasions. At least nothing memorable from Jack’s point of view. Had the duke noticed something in Jack’s demeanor that indicated he had the wherewithal to be an effective guardian over this lad who was obviously mollycoddled? But even then, to give Jack everything he owned that wasn’t entailed? Jack was suspicious by nature, and his mind was screaming out warnings, insisting something was amiss. He just couldn’t figure out what, precisely.
Jack turned on his heel and headed toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” the duchess asked, her shoes tapping rapidly behind him.
Lord, she was quick to follow. If his legs weren’t so long, he
didn’t think he’d be able to outdistance her. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I want to speak with Beckwith.”
Why was he bothering to explain himself? He explained himself to no one. He hadn’t since he’d decided to make the streets his home.
He hurried down the stairs, the duchess nipping at his heels like a rapacious dog. He strode through the hallway that displayed possessions that had no doubt been gathered for generations. The liveried footman opened the door to the library. Jack walked inside and quickly spun around to face the duchess, barring her entry.
She stumbled to an abrupt, jerky halt, her breathing labored, her golden eyes wide, her luscious lips parted. When her mouth wasn’t puckered up as though she spent her spare time sucking lemons, she had a damned kissable-looking mouth. It irritated him that he noticed, irritated him even more that he wondered what kissing her would be like.
“In private,” he said and slammed the door on her. Her infuriated shriek penetrated the thickness of the wood, bringing him a small sense of victory. Not trusting her to do as he bade, he turned the key in the lock. Fortunate that the duke had kept it handy. He was no doubt accustomed to dealing with his wife’s disagreeable moods and this room probably served as his sanctuary for solitude.
Jack sauntered toward Beckwith, who seemed innocently unaware of the turmoil roiling through Jack. The man was either a fool or as skilled at playing cards as Jack was. “It’s been a little more than fourteen years since you approached me with the news I had an anonymous benefactor. That’s the only reason I bothered to make an appearance tonight. Was my benefactor the Duke of Lovingdon?”
While it made absolutely no sense, that explanation was the only one Jack could come up with to explain this lunacy.
“I serve at the pleasure of many lords and gentlemen of considerable wealth, Mr. Dodger. Your benefactor wished to remain anonymous, and so he shall.”
“Are you saying he wasn’t Lovingdon?”
“I’m saying until your benefactor gives me leave to reveal his wishes, I will hold his confidence to the best of my ability.”
“What if I beat you to a bloody pulp? I suspect you’d find your ability isn’t what you think it is.”
Beckwith had the audacity to grin as though he were slightly amused. Jack didn’t like being made sport of, or worse, having his bluffs called. Swearing beneath his breath, he swept his hand over the will and ledgers. “This makes no sense.”
“Is it important that it does?”
“It’s important I understand why a man I spoke to on only a few occasions deemed it appropriate to give me so much for doing so little.”
“Being guardian of a lord of the realm is a grave, serious, and important task, Mr. Dodger. Don’t underestimate the power of your influence or the amount of work required to ensure the young lord becomes a man who can reach his potential.”
Jack laughed harshly. “Blast it all, man, that’s my point exactly. The duchess is correct. I am the last person who should serve as guardian and protector of her son. I abhor the aristocracy.”
“That’s unfortunate, especially as they are largely responsible for your unprecedented success. The duke felt differently regarding your qualifications for guiding his son into manhood. However, he also understood you cannot be forced to do that which you have no desire to do. You have twenty-four hours to give me your decision. At the end of that time, if you have not agreed to the terms and conditions of the will as presented to you this evening, your opportunity to gain all of this—and the final item—will have passed and the second will shall be brought into play.”
“You speak as though this is an elaborate game.”
Beckwith smiled knowingly. “Who am I to judge?”
Jack glanced around the room. He’d only ever seen more books in Claybourne’s library. If he read one book every day for as long as he lived, he’d never get to them all. The leather-bound books alone were worth a fortune.
Jack returned his attention to the man sitting calmly at the desk. Nothing seemed to unsettle him. He was a man who took his power from those he served. “In the second will, what does he leave to the widow?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Damn it, man, at least tell me if it favors her more than the first.” Which Jack had thought were pitiful leavings to a wife, truth be told. Even for the hoyden who’d been traipsing along behind him.
“What does it matter?” Beckwith asked.
Jack rubbed his thumb along the line of his jaw. He’d not let the keys to a kingdom far grander than anything he presently owned slip through his fingers. He picked up the leather-bound ledger that Beckwith had given him earlier and bestowed upon the man the infamous cocky grin for which Jack was so well known.
“How do I signify that I accept the terms of the will?”
Chapter 3
With the fog swirling around him, Jack walked along the quiet street. He’d taken a hansom cab to the duke’s residence. He could find another to take back to his place, only he no longer needed it. He had a carriage and horses. He had a residence and servants and doubts. With misgivings, he’d signed the document Beckwith had laid before him. In spite of his attempts to question and convince himself otherwise, he’d known from the moment Beckwith read the terms of the will that he’d not walk away from everything he’d been given.
He’d not expected the duchess to be gracious when told the news he’d accepted the terms. Surprising him, she’d simply nodded at Mr. Beckwith and said, “The servants will need to be informed.”
She’d called them into the foyer. With Jack standing at the bottom of the stairs, she stood partway up, with all the regal bearing of a queen. He thought he now knew what a warrior looked like at the end of the day when the hard-fought battle had not gone his way, when he had to look into the eyes of those he’d sent onto the battlefield and convince them that honor was to be found in simply surviving. She’d been elegant and eloquent as she explained the residence was now Jack’s and that they all served at his pleasure.
Not one word had been uttered by the staff. Jack imagined they’d have questions aplenty once the shock wore off. But he’d been content to leave them and the duchess while he adjusted to his change in fortune in solitude.
While he admitted that he didn’t consider himself the best choice to serve as guardian to her beloved and overprotected son, he could certainly think of worse. Perhaps the duke himself had fallen into that category.
Jack often walked along streets with grand houses, trying to remember what he’d thought he’d never forget. The first fancy house in which he’d lived—he’d been five. The man had promised his mother he’d take good care of Jack. She’d seemed to know him and trust him. Maybe he’d been one of her customers.
All Jack remembered was that the man had fed him and bathed him and put him to bed. Crawled beneath the covers with him…done things…
Jack quickened his steps as though he were five again, running away.
The man had wept afterward, said he was sorry, promised to never do it again…
Jack detoured by a towering elm and pounded his fist into the trunk, relished the bite of the hard bark, and felt the pain ricochet up his arm. He didn’t want to go there again, didn’t want to return to being frightened and hurting. And ashamed.
Although he’d run away, a terrified cadence to his steps, he’d thought he’d always remember where that house had been. But London had changed in twenty-eight years. Jack couldn’t even remember what the man looked like. He hadn’t thought about him in ages, but now he wondered…
What would guilt cause a man to do? Would he seek out and leave everything to a boy he’d abused? Was Lovingdon the man who’d bought him? What did it matter now? He was dead. He’d left Jack a fortune. What did it matter if it was a fortune steeped in guilt and regret? Jack had only ever cared about accumulating the coins that ensured no one would ever buy him again. Now, no one ever would.
“Tell me what you know of the Duke
of Lovingdon,” Jack demanded. He’d been desperate for the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and since he was in the neighborhood, he’d stopped at Luke’s residence. It had been only a week since Luke’s hastily arranged marriage, and the couple did not seem inclined to take a wedding trip.
Sitting across from Jack, near the window that looked out on an impressive garden when it wasn’t draped in darkness, Luke took a sip of whiskey. He’d dispensed with his jacket, and his shirt was unbuttoned at his throat. His dark hair appeared to have been fingered recently, and Jack suspected it wasn’t Luke who’d done the fingering. Yet, in spite of his dishevelment, he had the look of a man in control, a man who knew his place in the world and was finally comfortable with it. Jack didn’t like to admit it, but Lucian Langdon wore the title of earl well.
“He was well respected in the House of Lords,” Luke said solemnly. “When he spoke, people listened. His passing leaves shoes that will be difficult to fill.”
“So you thought he was a decent-enough chap?”
Luke shrugged. “Seemed to be. I only spoke to him on a few occasions. Politics mostly. Advised me that I always needed to know why I felt the way I did about certain issues. He was prone to asking why of the younger lords. Insisted we not be sheep.”
“What of his wife?”
Luke shook his head. “We should probably ask Catherine. She’s much more familiar with the ladies of the aristocracy than I am. Until recently, I didn’t walk in their circles.”
Catherine, his wife, was the daughter of the Duke of Greystone. He’d passed away recently, and her brother—who had been absent during her father’s long illness—had returned to London and inherited the titles. It seemed of late the lords were dropping like flies. Jack wondered if Catherine’s father would have approved of her marrying the “Devil Earl.”
Between the Devil and Desire Page 3
