In Bed With the Devil (10 page)

“I know some coin tricks, but I didn't think they'd be as effective.”

“I'm certain they wouldn't have been.” She sighed. “Are you attacked often?”

“From time to time, there have been dangers.”

“Do you think it was Mr. Marcus Langdon?” She knew better than to refer to him as a cousin.

“My death would certainly expedite things for him, but unlike you and I, he's not of a bloodthirsty nature.”

She brought her head up quickly, was immediately hit with a spinning world, and dropped her head back against his shoulder. “You think me bloodthirsty?”

“You want me to kill someone.”

“Oh, yes. Quite.” She'd almost forgotten what had brought her to his door. It was sometimes easy to forget—when Winnie wasn't bruised. When she seemed happy.

Was Catherine's solution a rash one?

As often as she'd lain awake at night pondering solutions before she'd approached Claybourne, she didn't see any other way. And yet sometimes her decision seemed extreme. If only two of Avendale's wives hadn't died mysteriously. If only he didn't take his fists to Winnie.

“Tell me about the rescued lambs,” she said, needing a distraction from the discomfort of her thoughts and aching hand.

He groaned low as though irritated—or maybe embarrassed—by the question and she thought he would leave it at that. Finally his low voice filled the coach, lulling her with its purring resonance.

“Each of us has our weakness. For Frannie, it's children. For me, it's unmarried mothers. It began innocently enough. One of my servants had a friend who found herself with child, and she was let go. I suspect the babe's father was the lord of the manor, but he wouldn't claim it. So I sent her to one of my lesser estates. I wasn't using it. I've sent
rescued lambs
there ever since.”

He made it seem so unimportant.

“Your good works must cost you a fortune.”

“You say that as though you find me generous. If you'll not consider me a braggart, I'll confess that I'm in possession of a fortune, a very nice fortune. What I give is nothing. The truly generous man is the one who gives away his last ha'penny when he can ill afford to do so.”

Or one who gives away the last of his soul,
she thought desolately,
when it's all that remains to him.
Was she asking too much?

When they arrived at Catherine's residence, the coach came to a halt in the alleyway. Claybourne didn't stop at the gate, but escorted her all the way to the servants' entrance, his hand sturdy beneath her elbow as though she needed the support. Perhaps she did. Sometimes she felt like she was floating, that everything was at a great distance—and then suddenly it would be before her.

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I'll see you at midnight tonight. Or is it tomorrow? I'm never quite sure how to refer to the upcoming night when dawn has not yet taken this one away.”

Cradling her chin, he rubbed his thumb over her lips. It was so dark and foggy that she couldn't determine what he was thinking.

“Do you think you'll be up to teaching Frannie?” he asked.

His question surprised her. She'd expected something a bit more intimate after all they'd shared tonight.

“Yes.” She sounded breathless. It irritated her that he had such power over her.

“Good. Tonight then.”

He quickly disappeared into the fog, like a phantom. Opening the door, she slipped inside, then pressed her back to the wood. She'd not expected to like Claybourne. She'd wanted only to use him, then forget him.

But she knew now that no matter what the outcome of their arrangement, she would never forget him. Never.

 

Luke listened to the sounds of the city coming to life as his coach traveled toward its destination. He'd always enjoyed the hustle and bustle of London, but particularly in the early hours of the morning. As a lad, he'd always felt that it offered the promise of opportunity: pockets to be picked, food to be stolen, tricks to be played on the unsuspecting. And always there was Frannie.

From the first night that Jack had taken him to Feagan's, the first night when he had spotted the little girl sitting by the fire, the first night when she had crawled onto the mound of blankets, tucked her small hand in his, and told him not to be afraid, he had loved her.

He remembered nothing of his life before Jack found him. Marcus Langdon and his attempt to claim the title had Luke trying to remember what he could of his past. But there was nothing there. All his memories were of the streets.

Perhaps he should return to them, return to them with Frannie. Let Langdon have the title. Luke certainly didn't need the income. Because of his partnership with Jack, he was a man of wealth
in his own right. But he couldn't quite bring himself to give up the title that the old gent had assured him belonged to him. He'd grown to care for the old gent, in his own way, and a part of him thought it would be a betrayal to the one who had saved him from the gallows and looked after him so well.

The coach came to a halt in front of a house that Luke seldom visited. He stepped out onto the cobblestone drive and strode up the steps. He didn't knock or wait for admittance, but simply opened the door and went inside.

A maid, dusting the banister on the nearby stairs, released a tiny screech, then recognizing who he was, curtsied.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“In the breakfast dining room, my lord.”

That surprised him. He'd expected to find them still abed, had relished the notion of rousing them from slumber. But perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. A guilty conscience made it difficult to sleep late, made it difficult to sleep at all. Without hesitation, he made his way through the residence. He wore neither hat nor gloves, because he'd not thought the formality was required when taking Catherine home. It was only on his way back to his residence that he'd changed his mind and decided to stop by here first. His clothes were unkempt, but then he'd never been interested in impressing them.

He strode into the breakfast dining room as though he owned it. His determined footsteps no doubt alerted the occupants to his arrival. Scraping back his chair, Marcus Langdon came to his feet with such swiftness that he nearly lost his
balance. His mother gasped, her fleshy face quivering as she struggled to rise.

“You have no right to be here, sir!” she exclaimed, spittle flying over her plate, a plate heaped with enough food to feed a family of four.

“On the contrary, madam, I pay the lease on the residence.” He walked to the sideboard, took a plate, and began selecting items of interest. They certainly didn't skimp when it came to their palate. “I daresay I purchased the goods that provided this lovely breakfast as well as the servants who prepared it.” He raised an eyebrow at the footman standing nearby. “See that I have some coffee.”

“Yes, my lord.” He immediately headed for the doorway that would lead to the kitchen.

Luke carried his plate to the table, took the chair opposite Langdon's mother—he had no doubt she was the more dangerous of the two—and smiled as though all was right with the world. “Please, don't let me interrupt your meal.”

Langdon sat down cautiously, his mother less graciously.

“Good God, is that blood on your shirt?” Langdon asked.

Catherine's blood. Luke hadn't given any thought to the fact that she'd bled on his clothing. Thinking about how close he'd come to losing her, he had a strange sensation, as though he might be ill, but he couldn't dwell on that now or afford to be distracted. He had these two to deal with first.

As though Langdon's question were of no consequence, Luke began slicing off a bit of ham. “Yes, as a matter of fact. You'll no doubt find this interesting. A strange thing happened on my way
home from Dodger's in the early hours of the morning. My coach was stopped and some footpads threatened my life. Can you imagine?”

Langdon paled. His mother turned a ghastly, blotchy red. Luke suspected that before bitterness had hardened her features she'd been a lovely woman.

“Were you hurt?” Langdon asked.

Luke wasn't surprised by the true concern echoed in the man's voice. Marcus Langdon was two years Luke's senior. He had the famous Claybourne silver eyes, as well as the dark hair. He was a handsome fellow. Luke suspected that if not for Langdon's mother's resentment of Luke that the two men might have even been friends. But Langdon's loyalty rested with his mother, not with the man who had usurped his right to the title.

“Barely at all,” Luke assured him. “As you can imagine, growing up on the London streets as I did, I'm quite adept at dealing with those who crawl up out of its underbelly. Any notion who might want me dead these days?”

Langdon shifted his gaze to his mother, then back to Luke. “No.”

“Most of London, I suspect,” Mrs. Langdon said. “You're not a popular sort, but then thieves never are.”

Luke gave her an indulgent smile. “Are we back to that? I've heard that you've filed with the courts.”

Langdon cast another quick glance at his mother, who'd squared her shoulders in defiance.

“How'd you hear of that?” Langdon asked.

“I have my ways.”

“The title rightfully belongs to
my
son,” Langdon's mother said.

“The old gent didn't agree.”

“You never call him your grandfather. Marcus did.”

Luke fought not to show how the force of her words struck him. “I'm well aware of that, madam, but you'll not wrest the title from me. I enjoy too much the benefits that come with it.” He came to his feet and looked at the man who no one in the room believed was truly his cousin. “If you've ever a desire to earn decent pay for an honest day's work, let me know.”

“Honest? At Dodger's?”

“I have other business interests. They don't pay as well, but they're more respectable. I could use a good man to help me manage them.”

Langdon scoffed. “You don't understand what it is to be a gentleman. You've never understood. We don't
work
.”

“Tell me, Langdon, if I cut off your allowance, how would you pay for the solicitor you've hired to represent you in court?”

The man remained silent. Luke knew he was pushing him—and that he was unwise to do so. Yet he seemed unable to stop himself. “The next time I meet with my man of business, perhaps you should come with me, so you'll see exactly what you will inherit if you meet with success in the courts. I assure you that the income you'll derive from your estates will not be nearly as generous as I am. Consider that.”

He gave them each a mocking bow before seeing himself out. He'd barely made it into his
coach before the pain tore through his head. The head pains came whenever he confronted them, no doubt a result of guilt because he knew they were right and he was wrong. He was holding on to that which didn't belong to him. God knew why he refused to give it up. Perhaps because he thought some good could come from his being considered a peer.

Or perhaps it was simply because the old gent had believed so fervently that Luke belonged here, and for some reason that Luke failed to grasp, he didn't want to disappoint him.

 

“You tried to have him killed?” Marcus Langdon asked as he paced in front of the fireplace.

“It seemed the most efficient way to achieve my ends.”

“But as I explained, I wanted to go through the courts. I want everything legal.”

“That could take years.”

“I want there to be no doubt that I am the true Earl of Claybourne.”

“There's no doubt now. All of London knows he's an imposter.”

Marcus despised the calm voice, the absolute absence of emotion.

“I don't want to be party to this—”

“It's far too late to have misgivings now.”

Marcus shook his head.

“Why do you have such qualms? He murdered your father.”

“That was never proven.”

“He's never denied it.”

“Quite honestly, he doesn't seem like a killer.”

Dark laughter echoed through the room. “But then, neither do I.”

Marcus had always thought of hatred as a heated emotion, but looking into the dark eyes of the person standing opposite him, he realized it was cold, very cold—and very, very dangerous.

C
atherine studied the missive that had been delivered earlier in the evening. Then she compared it to the one she should have burned. It was incomprehensible that they were written by the same hand. The latest was more scribble than anything else, looking like something her father in his infirmity would have written.

Not something that the bold, strong, and daring Lord Claybourne would write.

Unexpected dread filled her. He'd been fighting the ruffians long before she'd stepped out of the coach. He'd disappeared into shadows, only to reemerge. She'd assumed he was unscathed, but her assumption could be wrong. He could have been wounded. Seriously. And it would be just like him to worry over her wound and allow his own to go untended—to strive to be so amazingly brave and sacrificing.

This very moment, he could be fighting an infection, shivering with a fever, writhing in pain.

His handwriting certainly indicated that something was amiss. And his missive was so blunt, so curt. After all they'd shared, she was owed an explanation. One way or another, she intended to get it—on her schedule not his.

She waited until later, until most decent people wouldn't be about. Then she called for the carriage. Just as she had the first night she'd visited Claybourne, she had the driver drop her off at St. James's Park.

“No need to wait,” she said.

“My lady—”

“I'll be fine.” And then she walked away before he could argue further.

She slipped through alleyways, hid behind trees, and made her way cautiously to the servants' door. She knocked briskly.

A plump woman who wore her apron over her nightgown opened the door. The cook, no doubt, always ready to prepare a meal at a moment's notice.

“I need to see his lordship,” Catherine said.

“He's not receiving guests.”

“Is he home?”

The woman hesitated.

“It's important that I see him.” Catherine brushed past the woman, ignoring her protests.

“Mr. Fitzsimmons! Mr. Fitzsimmons!” the cook screeched.

Catherine would never tolerate such caterwauling in her household. Claybourne needed a wife, and before the thought had reached its end, she
remembered that his acquisition of a wife was uppermost in his mind. Otherwise, they'd not now be in partnership.

The butler walked into the kitchen, his eyes widening in surprise when he spotted Catherine.

“I need to see Claybourne,” Catherine announced without preamble.

“He's abed, madam.”

“Is he ill?”

“I do not discuss my lordship's business.”

“I must see him. It's a matter of life and death. I daresay, you'll be sacked if he learns I was here and was not taken to him immediately.”

He studied her for a long moment as though he might have the audacity to argue, then he bowed slightly. “If you'll be so good as to come with me.”

She followed him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

“Madam—”

“No one knows I'm here,” she interrupted, certain that he had plans to distract her from her purpose. Also very much aware by the way he addressed her that he hadn't a clue to her proper station in society, which was to her advantage.

He sighed as though she were a burden too great to bear. As he escorted her up the stairs, Catherine thought to ask, “He is alone, isn't he?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Catherine suddenly wondered what in the world she thought she was doing here. Other than being reckless. Their relationship was one of master and servant with her being the
master. No, it wasn't. It was a partnership. And she needed him in good health to carry out his part of the bargain. So she would check on him, determine what he needed, and see that he acquired it.

After they reached the top of the stairs, the butler walked down the hallway to a closed door. Catherine grabbed a lamp from a nearby table.

“If you'll wait here—” he began as he opened the door.

But Catherine had no plans to wait, to risk having Claybourne insist his servant remove her from the premises. Before the butler could announce her or discuss her with Claybourne, she brushed past him saying, “Your services are no longer required.”

She closed the door on his stunned expression, then quickly turned to face the person lying on the large four-poster bed.

Claybourne flicked the sheet over his hips, but not before she caught sight of an incredible expanse of bare leg, firm thigh, and rounded buttock. He wasn't wearing a nightshirt. Apparently he wasn't wearing anything at all.

“What are you doing here?” he ground out, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I sent…a missive.”

“You're in pain.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Did you get conked last night?”

“Don't be absurd. Just go.”

She remembered how her father had suffered terrible head pains, and then one night—

“You should send for your physician—Dr. Graves.”

“He's already been here. It's only my head. I'll be fine by tomorrow. Just leave me to it.”

“You say that as though you've encountered this before.”

She took a step nearer. It didn't smell like a sickroom, didn't smell like her father's room. It carried the strong, tart fragrance of male. For some strange reason, the scent appealed to her, more than the fragrance of flowers in a garden.

“You weren't wounded last night?” she asked again.

“No.” He was breathing heavily, laboriously.

She placed the lamp on the bedside table, removed her cloak, and draped it over a nearby chair. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“This isn't prop—” he began.

“Shh! Since when do you care about what's proper? Just lie still.”

Leaning forward, she placed her hands on either side of his head and, with her fingers, began to gently massage his temples. His brow was deeply furrowed, his jaw clenched. She could see the pain etched in the silver of his eyes as he held her gaze.

“You're playing a dangerous game, Catherine.”

“No one knows I'm here. I took precautions and was very careful. Even the man who's been following me wasn't about.”

“What?” He shot up in bed, groaned, grabbed his head, and fell back down.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered, breathing with short, quick gasps.

“Is swearing thrice more effective than swearing once?” she asked.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Hardly. But it brings me some satisfaction. Now, tell me…about this man who's following you.”

“Only if you'll close your eyes and allow me to do what I can to ease your pain. My father suffered horrendous headaches. Applying pressure at his temples helped.”

She was near enough to see that Claybourne was no stranger to hurt—his body bore the evidence with small scars here and there on what was otherwise an immensely attractive chest. She hated the thought of him enduring any sort of discomfort. What had he ever done to deserve such a harsh life? That even now, when he had almost everything, he still suffered.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered.

To her immense surprise, he complied without arguing.

“Shouldn't—”

“Shh,” she interrupted. “Just relax. Shh. I'm going to turn down the lamp just a bit.”

She moved away to turn down the flame in the lamp on the table beside his bed. He groaned as though the pain had spiked. Returning her hands to his face, she began circling her fingers over his temples.

“Your hand.”

“It's not bothering me,” she lied, not certain why she felt this great need to ease his suffering even at the expense of her own comfort. Perhaps the scuffle last night had formed a bond between them. They'd fought the same
battle and survived. “Did you send a missive to Frannie?”

He moved his head slightly from side to side. “They'll know.”

Then this was something he'd suffered before, no doubt suffered alone. Why wasn't Frannie here to ease his hurt?

“What did Dr. Graves recommend?”

“He gave me a powder. Didn't help.”

His breathing became less labored. “Now, tell me about this man.”

Even now when he was in pain, he was concerned about her. And even though she was alone in his bedchamber—in his bed for that matter—he was being a perfect gentleman. She'd always thought of Lucian Langdon as a rogue, a scamp, and far more unflattering terms, but she was discovering the legend of Lucian Langdon was far removed from the reality. The legend was a man to be despised; the reality was one that she thought she could very easily come to care for a great deal. She wanted to end his discomfort and bring him what comfort she could.

“I don't know. I'm probably being silly, but I keep seeing a gentleman. I think it's the same gentleman. It's difficult to tell, because I've only been able to catch glimpses of his face. He always turns away, and it would be entirely improper for me to approach him.”

“Then perhaps it's nothing.”

“That's what I tried to tell myself, but it's his not trying to garner attention that captures my attention. Yesterday I went into various shops, made unnecessary purchases, and he always seemed to
be waiting when I came out. When I looked away to see if anyone else was about, and then looked back to where he'd been, he'd disappeared.”

“Perhaps he's one of your many admirers.”

She scoffed. “I have no admirers.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

He sounded as though he was on the verge of drifting into sleep, and she couldn't help but believe her ministrations were causing his pain to recede. She tried to squelch the spark of envy that flared with the thought of Frannie being here and ministering to his needs. She liked Frannie. She truly did. She was sweet, and kind, and so unpretentious. Catherine understood why the young woman feared moving about in aristocratic circles, where ladies were so much more confident.

“This fellow…is there a reason for him to follow you,” Claybourne asked.

“None that I can think of. You don't suppose he's responsible for last night's attack, do you?”

His eyes flew open, concern furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”

“It just seems too coincidental. I can't think of a reason for anyone to follow me.”

“I'm certain the attack last night had more to do with me than you. A description of the fellow would be helpful.”

“Helpful for what?”

“For determining who he is.”

“Oh, you know all the ruffians in London, do you?”

“I know a good many. So what does he look like?”

“He wears a large floppy hat pulled low so I'm
not certain of his hair color. Dark I think. His features are very rough-looking, difficult to describe because there's nothing distinctive about them.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Possibly, but you shouldn't worry about it right now,” she said softly. “You need your pains to go away.”

He barely nodded before closing his eyes again.

“Keep talking,” he ordered, so gently that it was more of a plea.

“About what?”

“Tell me…how it goes with Frannie.”

She sighed. She should have expected that he'd want to speak of his love.

“It goes very well. She is bright as you said. But I think we need to expand the lessons beyond her workplace. I think it might be better to have them here. For example, there is no tea service at Dodger's. No drawing room. It is not a lady's world.”

“Here…is not a lady's world.”

“But it will be, once you marry. We'll discuss it when you're better.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “You don't like losing arguments.”

“I didn't realize we were arguing, but honestly, does anyone want to lose?” She leaned up and whispered near his ear, “Go to sleep now. You'll awaken to no pain.”

Her arms were growing tired. She moved up so she could rest her elbows on the bed. She'd hardly given any thought to the notion that her change in
position would place her breasts against his chest. But he was too far gone to notice, while she was acutely aware of her nipples tightening. Almost painfully so. Perhaps they'd both be in pain before the night was done.

Yet she couldn't deny she was content to remain where she was.

She continued to rub his temples. With her thumbs she began to stroke his cheeks.

All the while taking note of the fine lines etched in his face. He was not much older than thirty, and yet strife had chiseled at his features. That first night in the library, she'd studied the portrait of the man who should have been earl before him. It wasn't difficult to see the similarities. Even though Claybourne claimed she'd find none, she almost imagined that she had. How different the portrait might have looked if the man had lived a life as rough as the man she now comforted.

She didn't like acknowledging how worried she'd been, how much she was coming to care for him. As a friend. One friend for another. There would never be anything more between them than that.

He was in love with Frannie, and Catherine, well, Catherine had yet to meet anyone who could claim her heart. Although she couldn't deny that something about Claybourne did stir her. His odd honesty. His willingness to defend her. The depth of love he held for another woman and the lengths he would go to in order to have her in his life.

Catherine couldn't imagine having a man's devotion to that extent. Having met Claybourne, she didn't know if she could settle for less in her
own husband—if she were ever to meet a man she thought she could be content to marry.

She felt the tension slowly easing out of Claybourne, was aware of him drifting off to sleep. She could probably leave now, and yet she had no desire to go. Against her better judgment she laid her head on his chest, listened to the steady pounding of his heart.