In Bed With the Devil (12 page)

“I should think they are. The old gent hired only the best.”

“You never refer to him as your grandfather.”

“As you well know, he wasn't.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

He dropped his gaze to the table, and only then did she realize that she'd leaned forward, placing her elbows, both of them—
Drat it!
—a much worse offense, on the table. She straightened. “You're avoiding my question.”

“The old gent's son and his wife had taken their six-year-old son to see a menagerie. The son and his wife were found murdered in an alley surrounded by garbage. I should think—if I was that child—I would not soon forget watching the horror of my parents being killed.”

“Unless you ran off, unless you didn't see it.”

He seemed to ponder that for a moment, then shook his head. “I should still remember them. I don't.”

“But the names Lucian and Luke are so much alike—”

“Coincidence.”

He was infuriating in his determination not to believe he was the rightful heir. For reasons she couldn't explain, she wanted him to be—desperately. She didn't want him to be a scoundrel who'd stolen what rightfully belonged to another.

“Who are your parents then?”

“I haven't a clue. In my mind, it's as though I didn't exist before Jack took me to Feagan.”

“So you could be the lad.”

“It's inconceivable that I could be.” He pressed his fingers to his brow. “When Jack took me to him, Feagan would have recognized by my attire that I was of quality. He would have taken advantage.”

“Perhaps your clothes were tattered by the time you were—”

He slammed his hand down on the table, making her jump. “Why are you determined to make me who I am not?”

“The very first Earl of Claybourne was granted his title for services to king or queen. He earned the right to pass that title on to his son. If you're not a descendant of that first earl—as much as I like you—it's a disgrace for you to hold the title.”

“As you're well aware, I live for disgrace.”

“No, you don't. You talk as though you do, but your actions show you to be a liar. You're much more honorable than you give yourself credit for.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you think I should give the title to Marcus Langdon.”

“It's not a matter of giving. It's a matter of to whom it rightfully belongs.”

“The old gent believed it belonged to me. Out of respect for his wishes, I shall hold it until my dying breath.”

She couldn't believe her disappointment in his words, or her relief. For all the reasons she gave for why he shouldn't be earl, she had to admit that
she couldn't envision anyone else as the Earl of Claybourne.

Sighing heavily, he rubbed his temples. “How in God's name did we fall into this argument?”

“Is your head starting to hurt again?”

“A bit. It'll go away. And speaking of going away, I should get you home.”

She was surprised to discover their omelet was gone, although he'd eaten the lion's share. She heard a distant bump and a thump.

“My servants are getting up,” he said.

They both stood. He walked around the table, took her cloak from the chair, moved behind her, and draped it over her shoulders. His hands seemed to linger, and she almost imagined that she felt him placing a kiss against the nape of her neck. A delicious little shiver cascaded through her.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his breath wafting over the sensitive skin below her ear. “For caring.”

“I need you in good health to carry out your portion of the bargain,” she said succinctly, before moving away and turning to face him. “I daresay you're giving my actions too much credence.”

Could he tell that she was having difficulty breathing, that his nearness caused inexplicable pleasures throughout her body?

Chuckling low, he strode past her and opened the door. She was only halfway through the doorway when he said, “So you don't want me to kiss you again?”

He was slightly behind her, so he couldn't see her face. Still she slid her eyes closed and shook
her head. She felt his ungloved hand—his fingers strong and warm—cradle her chin and turn her head back. She opened her eyes to find his gaze on her mouth.

“Pity,” he said quietly.

“The first time you kissed me to intimidate me. The second to distract me. What would be your excuse this time?”

“Damned if I know.”

She took immense satisfaction in his answer, but she had no desire to reveal her thoughts. “A gentleman doesn't use profanity in the presence of a lady.”

“But then, you and I both know I'm not a gentleman.”

She licked her lips, wondering what harm there would be in having one more small taste of him.

Groaning, he released the featherlike hold he had on her and ushered her through the doorway. She could hear the city coming to life, deliveries being made. She waited while he had the coach readied.

He didn't say anything when the coach arrived or as he helped her climb inside. He held his silence as they traveled through the streets. It wasn't until they were at her gate that he finally spoke.

“You intrigue me, Catherine Mabry.”

“I'm not certain that's a good thing.”

“I'm sorry I'm not the man you wish I were.”

“Actually, I give you a good deal more credit for your honesty than you probably deserve.”

“Probably.” He touched the tip of her nose. “I'll see you tonight.”

She nodded. “Indeed.”

Only when she'd closed the gate behind her did she hear him walking back to his coach. He was a contradiction. Was he a scoundrel? Or was he not?

She no longer knew. More disturbing than that was the fact that she no longer cared.

E
xhaustion claimed her the moment she walked into her bedchamber. Her bed called to her like a siren's song. It was all she could do to remain patient while Jenny helped her out of her clothing. She wanted to simply rip it off and fall into bed. Dealing with Claybourne was always tiring—and exhilarating. Which only served to make it more tiring.

She had to keep her wits about her at all times, although this morning they'd seemed to settle into a kind of companionship. Perhaps they would become friends and when he married Frannie and they moved more frequently within Catherine's circle of acquaintances, the blasted earl would at last accept her invitations. Or at least his wife would.

Catherine had been drawn to him that first night—that first ball. But what she felt now ran more deeply. She wanted to know everything about him. Once she knew everything, perhaps she'd no longer be intrigued.

She crawled into bed, yawned, and told Jenny, “Wake me at two.”

She needed to pick up the invitations. And even though Winnie would be appalled, Catherine was determined to send one to Claybourne. If for no other reason than to irritate him. He wouldn't come to the ball, so what was the harm?

Winnie would never know, and it would give Catherine a sense of satisfaction.

Before she was even finished contemplating Claybourne's reaction, she was asleep. It seemed as though only seconds passed before someone was gently shaking her shoulder.

“My lady? My lady?”

She squinted. “What time is it?”

“Two o'clock.”

Groaning, she threw back the covers.

“A package arrived,” Jenny said. “I put it on your secretary.”

“A package?”

“Yes, my lady. From Lord's.”

“Lord's?” The shop specialized in the finest of accessories. But Catherine hadn't purchased anything there of late.

Her curiosity piqued, she padded in bare feet across the room to her secretary where she spied the oblong package. She unwrapped it to reveal a gorgeous hand-painted floral glove box. Inside, lying on the puffed satin, was an exquisite pair of cream colored kidskin gloves.

“Is something amiss, my lady?”

Only then did Catherine realize that tears dampened her eyes. How silly. She never wept.

“Was there no note?” she asked.

“No, my lady. The gent who delivered it said
simply that the package was for Lady Catherine Mabry.”

Of course, there'd be no note, because if there was, she'd have to burn it. The gloves were from Claybourne. Her injured hand was too sore, but she couldn't resist having Jenny help her tug the glove onto her uninjured one. It was a perfect fit.

Oh, dear Lord, she wished he hadn't done this. It was so much easier to deal with him when she believed he was the devil, so much harder when she realized he was a man who could easily win her heart.

 

“You've lost your knack. She spied you following her around.”

Luke had decided that he needed a word with Jim, before he picked Catherine up for their nightly ritual. Now he was pacing in Jim's lodging. When had it grown so small? He barely had the room to stretch his legs. Ever since Catherine had left his bed that morning, he'd felt like a ravenous beast on the prowl—with no clear understanding of what it was he was seeking.

Whatever had possessed him to ask if she wanted a kiss? For more than a year, he'd been fiercely loyal to Frannie, not taken the least bit of interest in another woman. Whatever madness had claimed him? What was he thinking to tempt himself and Catherine with the promise of a kiss? He'd been disappointed. Well, and truly, disappointed when she'd shaken her head. Then he'd gone to Lord's and purchased her new gloves like some besotted fool.

No, he chastised himself. He was simply replacing the pair that had been destroyed when they'd been attacked, replaced the one that now rested in a drawer in the bureau in his bedchamber. The one that he'd held and studied that morning after returning to his residence, thinking about how close she'd come to having her life ended with the slash of a blade.

Pain shot through his head. He had to stop thinking about that encounter in the alley. Why was it that it troubled him so? She was nothing to him except a means to an end.

“She didn't see me,” Jim insisted, lounging in his chair by the fire as though nothing were amiss.

“All the running around she did earlier in the week? She did it to befuddle you, to make certain you were following her.”

“If she spied someone following her, it was not me. She saw someone else.”

Jim sounded so certain of himself. Not that Luke could blame him. He'd always been the best, the very best. So good in fact, that he'd managed to carry out his duties at Scotland Yard during the evening while pursuing Catherine during the day. He'd merely claimed to be following up with some witnesses to a burglary.

“Why would someone be following her?” Luke asked.

“Maybe it's the bloke she wants killed.”

The thought of her being in danger caused Luke to break out in a sweat. “Did you see someone following her?”

“I wasn't looking for anyone else. I was concen
trating on her and making certain she didn't spy me.”

“We need to determine if it was you she saw.”

“Now, that's a jolly good idea. Let's ask her shall we? And then she'll know you're having her followed. Do you think she's going to take kindly to that news?”

“I'm not as daft as all that. We need to come up with an innocent opportunity for your path to cross with hers.” He walked over to the window, moved the drapery aside slightly, and peered out.

“Once she's seen me, she's more likely to notice me and become suspicious.”

“If she does, we'll simply say I was worried about her safety, that you're following her is a new development.”

“So how do you propose we
innocently
cross paths?”

How indeed without arousing suspicions?

“We just need a small ruse,” Luke said quietly. “Something simple, easy to bring about.” He considered his options, the players at his disposal. Finally he faced Jim. “Get word to Bill. We're going to play some cards tonight in Dodger's back room.”

“I'm all for a bit of gaming, but how does that achieve your end?”

“We'll have Frannie bring Catherine into the room—quite innocently. Catherine's reaction to seeing you should tell us everything.”

“What excuse will Frannie use to bring her into a room where gents are playing cards? It will be apparent that it's staged.”

Luke waved off his concerns. “Perhaps Frannie will want to show me something that she's learned. We'll leave the reason to her. I have no doubt she can lure Catherine into the room without raising suspicions.”

Feagan's children were all skilled at delivering lies so easily that they resembled truths. That talent had allowed him to convince the old gent that Luke was his grandson. What he required of Frannie tonight wasn't nearly as complicated, but in some ways, Luke feared more was to be gained or lost.

 

“Do you know that Luke has never kissed me?”

Catherine looked up from her feeble attempt to write. While Frannie was writing out a menu that Claybourne could deliver to his cook for the dinner party that the three of them would have at his residence tomorrow night, Catherine was using her time to test her ability to write, scribbling nothing of importance. With her wounded hand, she was having difficult properly holding a writing instrument. How was she going to help Winnie address the invitations to their ball? Although that concern slipped to the back of her mind with Frannie's announcement.

She felt her cheeks warm and wondered if Frannie had some sort of inkling that Claybourne had kissed her. Did her lips now carry a brand as visible as that upon his thumb?

Catherine swallowed. “Because he respects you.”

“I suppose. It has just always seemed to me that if a man is attracted to you that he shouldn't be
able to resist, that you should have to scold him and make him behave.”

“But a gentleman doesn't kiss a lady until they're betrothed, so perhaps since you haven't accepted his offer of marriage—you haven't, have you?”

“No. He hasn't asked again, thank goodness. I'm not ready to say yes.” She set her elbow on the desk, her chin in her hand. “I felt so badly that night. He'd taken me out in his coach. It was filled with flowers. Terribly romantic.”

“Indeed.” Something else about Claybourne that she'd never expected. “How fortunate you are to hold his affections.”

“Fortunate?” Frannie straightened. “I work all evening and then I have to take lessons, while Luke is off playing. His affections have added to my burdens.”

Her attitude surprised Catherine. She'd never consider Claybourne's affections as a burden. For an unkind moment she wasn't certain Frannie deserved him. But it was not her place to judge, to decide whom he should love and who should love him.

“I thought he was here,” Catherine said. She'd never questioned what he was doing while she was showing Frannie various things.

“He is, but he's in a room farther in the back, playing cards with Jack and the others.”

“The others?”

“Friends. Old acquaintances. Lads we grew up with. If I didn't have to take my lessons, then I could play with them. I'd much rather be playing than taking lessons.”

“Is it so difficult to design a menu?”

“So many different dishes need to be served. How can one person eat them all?”

“They're very small portions. I know you're nervous, but it's really not as bad as all that.”

“Still, it doesn't seem fair that we have to work while they play. And it's also not fair that you have to teach me etiquette, while I'm teaching you nothing.”

She was teaching more than she knew, teaching Catherine about Claybourne. Did he kiss Catherine because he had absolutely no respect for her? Or could it be as Frannie surmised—he was unable to resist because he was attracted to her? No, it had to be the former. He never left any doubt that Frannie held his heart. His reasons for kissing Catherine were either to unsettle or tease her or distract her. They were not the result of passion, although they'd certainly felt as though they were.

“You don't have to teach me anything,” Catherine said. “My arrangement is with Claybourne, and I'm quite satisfied with it.”

“But wouldn't it be fun to play a little trick on Luke?”

Catherine hardly thought him the type to enjoy having pranks played on him. Yet she was intrigued by the notion. “What sort of trick?”

Frannie opened a drawer, took out a deck of cards, and placed it on the desk between them. And then she smiled, rather cockily—the first truly confident smile Catherine had received from her—as though she were finally in her element. Catherine realized it transformed her,
and for the first time, she thought she could see what it was about the woman that appealed to Claybourne.

“How about I teach you how to beat a man at his own game?”

Luke glanced at his watch, the watch he'd inherited from the old gent, then stuffed it back into his waistcoat pocket. It was coming close to the time for him to take Catherine home. Why hadn't Frannie brought her in here?

“Are you going to pass?” Jack asked.

 

Luke looked at his cards, looked at the door. “They should have been in here by now.”

“Based on Lady Catherine's stubbornness, I expect Frannie is finding it more difficult than she imagined it would be to lure her in here.”

Luke glared at Jack. “What do you know of Catherine's stubbornness?”

“I've met the woman. 'Tis enough.”

“I thought she was most pleasant,” Bill said.

On the journey here, Jim had explained to Bill exactly who Catherine was and Luke's arrangement with her.

“Boring is what she is,” Jim said.

“She's not boring. How many times must I tell you that? I swear to God, I'm not convinced you're following the correct woman,” Luke said.

“She shops.” Jim cast a quick look at his friends. “She shops. She visits. Where is the excitement in that, I ask you? The only thing she does of any note is meeting you at night.”

“And getting her hand sliced to ribbons,” Bill said quietly.

A result about which Luke continued to feel guilty. Once they'd settled into the coach earlier, she'd thanked him for the gloves. Told him they weren't necessary. Had made him feel rather silly for taking such pleasure in purchasing them for her.

“It'll heal,” Luke said brusquely.

“It's going to leave a nasty scar,” Bill said.

Add that burden to his guilt.

“She shouldn't have gotten out of the coach to begin with,” Luke said.

“She doesn't strike me as a woman who obeys,” Jack murmured.

“You think you know her so well. You know nothing at all about her.”

Jack leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and his hard-edged glare on Luke. “Enlighten me.”

What could he say? That she was bold, courageous, kind, caring…that her scent still lingered in his bedchamber. He wasn't certain he'd be able to sleep with it there. He would wake up searching for her. How was it that she was managing to work her way into every facet of his life?

Before he could form a comprehensible answer, the door opened.
Thank goodness!
Luke had situated himself so he was facing the door, giving him a clear view of her face, her features, and her expression as she took stock of her surroundings. All four gentlemen came to their feet.

“Gentlemen,” Frannie said, sweetly. “Lady Catherine gave me permission to take a small respite from my studies, and I thought we would stop by and say hello.”

That was it? That was the best she'd been able to come up with? The elaborate ruse?