In Bed With the Devil (3 page)

A year after my incarceration, it was determined that the practice of marking criminals in that cruel manner should be stopped. And so it was.

I knew prison was not a pleasant place. I knew some criminals were transported on great hulking ships away from England's shore, but I didn't know the particulars and so I could not judge the fairness of it.

I'd attended a public hanging or two. It seemed a harsh way to go.

But still I was not willing to risk that the man who'd hurt Frannie would go unpunished or that his punishment would not fit his crime. So I killed him.

The policeman who arrested me assured me that I'd soon find myself dancing upon the wind. I listened to his grave predictions with stoicism for I had no regrets. When someone harms those whom we love, we must do as we must. And I had always loved Frannie.

I was waiting in an interrogation room at Whitehall Place when they brought in an old gent. Vengeance burned in his eyes and I knew, without being told, that it was his son I had killed. By
his dress and manner, I recognized that he was a man with the power to see me delivered into hell.

He stared at me for the longest, and I stared back. Since my arrest, I'd spoken not one word, other than my name. I neither denied nor confirmed the charges.

“Always 'old yer tongue,” Feagan had advised us on the matter of being arrested. “No matter wot ye tell 'em, truth or lie, they'll twist it around to suit their own purposes.”

I'd learned early on that Feagan's words were not to be dismissed. He knew of what he spoke.

Then the old gent did the strangest thing. He stepped forward, clamped his gloved hand around my chin, and turned my face one way and then the other. “I need more light,” he declared.

More lamps were brought in and set upon the table, until I felt completely exposed. The anger in the old gent's eyes changed into something softer, an emotion I didn't recognize.

“What is it, my lord?” an inspector asked.

“I think he's my grandson,” the old gent rasped.

“The one that went missing?”

The old gent nodded once, and I saw a way out of my predicament. Already I had learned how to read people. I knew what the old gent wanted. With my answers to his questions, I deceived him into believing it was me.

When he was convinced that I was his grandson, he told the inspectors to give us a moment alone. He sat in a chair across from me.

“Did you kill my son?” he asked.

I nodded once.

“Why?”

For the first time that night, I spoke the truth. In the end, it was the truth that convinced the old man that I was redeemable. It would be some time before he forgave me completely.

My salvation and my punishment were to live my life as his grandson.

“I
t's so monstrously difficult to decide,” the Duchess of Avendale said. “I don't know which one would be best.”

Looking across the small table in her garden, she caught Catherine in the midst of an embarrassing yawn, not that the duchess seemed to notice. She pushed the selections across the table. “Which do you favor?”

“Winnie, you're selecting parchment for invitations,” Catherine told her. “Great Britain will not fall because of your decision. Which one do you like best?”

Winnie gnawed on her lower lip. “I don't know. I think I like the look of the cream, but it's more expensive. Is it worth it?”

“If it pleases you then it's worth the extra expense.”

“It's not I who has to be pleased, it's my husband. The stationer is expecting me this afternoon. Will you come with me to make sure I do the invitations properly?”

Winnie had been Catherine's dearest friend
since they were small girls. It bothered Catherine immeasurably to see Winnie's confidence waning. “You've given balls before. You know how to properly order invitations.”

“But Avendale is always disappointed in some aspect of the affair. I want everything to be perfect.”

Catherine couldn't believe there were many men in London who truly gave a fig about ball preparations. It was Winnie's misfortune that she'd married one of them. Always striving for perfection, he made her life miserable and took the joy out of every task.

“There's no such thing as perfection, and even if there were, I think it'd be rather boring. Still, let's go with the cream color,” Catherine said. “I think it looks a bit more elegant and I'll purchase the invitations.”

“That's not necessary.”

“It's the least I can do. You're letting me host the ball with you, at your lovely home, since Father's ill and it wouldn't be proper to have a ball in mine. So I'll see to the invitations.”

“If you're sure you don't mind.”

“I don't mind at all.”

Winnie released a deep breath. “Thank you. That's one less thing to worry about.”

“I'll stop by the stationers on my way home.”

“You're such a dear.”

Catherine yawned again. “Sorry.”

“I don't recall there being any balls last night, and yet since the moment you arrived, I've had the distinct impression you were out rather late,” Winnie said.

“I simply didn't sleep well.”

“Is it your father? Has his condition worsened?”

It should have been her father keeping her from sleep. It had been almost a year since his last bout with apoplexy had left him a bed-ridden invalid. Now he was little more than a shell of a man. She spent her afternoons and often her evenings reading to him, trying to bring him what comfort she could. She'd hired nurses to see after him when she couldn't be there, because she'd known he'd feel guilty if he thought she was devoting all her time to him. She was young. He'd want her to enjoy life. But of late, that was very difficult to accomplish.

“No, Father seems to be the same, although it's difficult to tell since he can't speak.”

“What's pressing on your mind then?”

A certain irritating lord. Somehow he'd managed to cast some sort of spell over her body to make it writhe unsatisfied for the remainder of the night, not that there had been much remaining after she'd finally gone to bed. What sort of debauchery had he been engaged in to return home so late? And to immediately assume that a woman such as she was there for carnal purposes? Only the worst of blackguards would view women in such a way. Catherine wasn't a trollop. She was chaste and pure and proper. Although after tasting his kiss, she realized her life was rather dull. Still, his actions had resulted in her finally comprehending why ladies were discouraged from experiencing such intimacies until they were wed. Did all men hold such power over women—to make them burn with desire? Or was
it only those like Claybourne, who loitered at the gates of hell?

“Winnie, you've been married for five years now.”

She'd attracted the Duke of Avendale's attention their very first Season and had married him at Christmas that same year.

Winnie furrowed her brow. “Is that a question?”

“No, it's an observation that I felt compelled to make before asking: Does he kiss you?”

“That's an odd question.”

“I'm a maiden and I have no mother to ask about the questions that cause me curiosity, and so I must turn to my married friend for the answers. Does he kiss you?”

Winnie sipped her tea as though mulling over her answer. “On occasion.”

“Does it leave you wanting?”

“Wanting what?”

Catherine almost laughed. If she had to explain it, well, then he wasn't kissing as Claybourne did. But Avendale had been born a gentleman, while Claybourne was little more than a scoundrel dressed in lord's clothing.

She watched as Winnie leaned forward ever so slightly to pour them more tea. It was ironic that such beauty as found in this garden surrounded a house where incredible ugliness lurked. Her movements explained so much about her unnecessary worry over the invitations. “He's beaten you again, hasn't he, Winnie?”

“Don't be silly.”

Reaching out, Catherine placed her hand over her friend's, stilling her actions. “I see how
gingerly you move—as though the smallest of movements causes you the greatest of pain. You can confide in me. I won't tell a soul. You know that.”

Tears welled in Winnie's expressive eyes. “He came home late last night in a fit of temper. I'm not sure what I did wrong—”

“I doubt you did anything wrong, and even if you did, he has no right to strike you.”

“The law disagrees.”

“Damn the law.”

Gasping, Winnie widened her eyes. “Catherine, your language.”

“You chastise me for my language and yet I wager you take his beatings in silence.”

“I'm his wife, his property. The law gives him leave to do with me as he pleases, even force his attentions on me when I might not want them. A day will come when you'll learn the truth of marriage.”

“I doubt I shall ever marry. But if I should, I'll not give a man control over me.”

“You've only managed to escape marriage because your father is infirmed and your brother traipses over the continents. Once he returns and settles into his responsibilities, including those toward you, everything will change.”

No, it wouldn't. Catherine was stronger than Winnie. Although she had to readily admit she'd grown more independent after Sterling left. Her father had begun to teach her things, for fear that her wanderlust brother might not return from his travels. Since her father had fallen ill, she'd taken it upon herself to step into his shoes as much as
possible. She knew her forceful nature no doubt intimidated some and was whispered about by others. But she'd not let her father's legacy fall into decay or disarray.

“I'm all of two and twenty, Winnie, and no man has indicated an interest in having me as a wife.”

“It's because of the way the Devil Earl looked at you that night as though he was singling you out—and the way you peered back. You should have lowered your gaze as any decent woman would. Now you are tainted by him.”

Catherine forced herself to laugh. If Winnie knew that Catherine had done a good deal more than look at him recently, had actually welcomed his kiss, she'd no doubt expire on the spot.

“He was striving to intimidate. I'm not one to be intimidated. It seemed the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that part of my character,” Catherine said.

“What you demonstrated was that you are willful. No man wants a willful wife.”

“Then no man shall have me, for I'll not change to please him.”

“When you love a man, you will do anything to gain his favor.”

“Even allow him to beat you?”

Winnie flinched, and while Catherine regretted the harshness of her words, she didn't know how else to make her dear friend listen—for her own good. “Leave him, Winnie. Come with me. We'll go to my father's house in the country. You'll find sanctuary there.”

“Do you have any idea how furious my husband would be? He would find me, Catherine,
and he would kill me for so blatant a betrayal. I have no doubt. He is a proud man, and when his pride is threatened—”

“He strikes out at you, because he hasn't the courage to face his own weaknesses.”

“You think so poorly of him.”

“Why should I think otherwise? I see what he does to you. You strive to hide it, but I fear a day will come when it can't be hidden.”

“Not five minutes ago, you were asking if he kissed me. He does and sometimes it's very lovely.”

“Lovely? No. A kiss should be all-consuming, make your knees weaken, your heart pound…” Her voice trailed off as she shook her head. She was getting carried away, remembering Claybourne's kiss.

“Catherine, what have you done?”

“Nothing.”

“You're acting most peculiar and your description…Have you had a dalliance?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Then why this sudden interest in kisses?”

“I'm simply trying to determine why you put up with all that you do. What does he give you that makes any of it worth it?”

“It is a woman's place to stand by her husband.”

Catherine squeezed Winnie's hand. “Winnie, I'm not your family who insists you be the good daughter and the good wife. It breaks my heart to see you suffer like this.”

Tears rolled from Winnie's eyes. “Oh, Catherine, sometimes he terrifies me so. They say his
first wife was clumsy and fell down the stairs. And his second slipped in the bedchamber and banged her head so hard on the floor that it killed her. I knew these tales, but I didn't doubt the veracity of them, not until after I was wed. He is so charming when he is not angry. Oh, but when he is displeased, he is most frightening.”

“Then leave him.”

“I can't!” she ground out. “The law will not protect me. He can claim that I abandoned him and the law will give him my son. My family will be mortified and not stand beside me, and my husband, dear God, Catherine, the fury he will exhibit will pale in comparison to anything he has revealed before. I know it as surely as I know that our tea has grown cold. It will be miserable for everyone. It's best if I simply accept my fate and strive to appease him in all matters.”

Catherine released Winnie's hand and leaned back. “Oh, Winnie, I hate what he has done to you. The physical abuse is bad enough, but what he has done to ruin the lovely woman who resided inside you—I shall never forgive him for that.”

Grimacing, Winnie reached across the table and took Catherine's hand. “I know how headstrong you can be. You must never confront him about this matter, you must never let on that you know. If he feels threatened, Catherine, dear Lord, save us both.”

“He will never know from me how much I despise him.”

Winnie seemed to physically relax, her death-grip on Catherine's hand easing. “Can we change the subject now? It serves to only burden
my heart further to know that I cause you such worry.”

“Don't be concerned with my feelings, Winnie. I love you. No matter what happens, that will not change.”

“Mummy!”

A small boy of four raced across the garden, leaving his nanny behind. He slammed into Winnie. Gasping, she paled considerably. “Darling, you mustn't jostle Mummy so.”

The boy looked wounded at the sharp reprimand. Catherine realized that Winnie was hurt much worse than she was letting on. She never scolded her child. Never.

“Whit, come see Auntie Catherine,” Catherine said. “My lap is in need of a child.”

He rushed over and Catherine pulled him close. She wondered how long before his father took his frustrations out on him.

 

It was late in the afternoon when Catherine finally returned home. How would she ever live with the guilt if Avendale killed Winnie? How would she be able to look at herself in the mirror if she did nothing—knowing all that was happening?

She had an abundance of acquaintances, friends, servants, and yet sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one other than Winnie in whom she felt she could confide all that troubled her. Yet, she dared not tell Winnie everything, because her dear friend was already weighted down with her own troubles, so Catherine carried her worries and her burdens alone.

Weary, with a heavy heart, she climbed the stairs and stopped outside her father's bedchamber.

Since he'd fallen ill, she'd achieved an independence that few ladies ever did. Without her brother here to serve as her guardian, she could do as she pleased and answer to no one.

Was Winnie right? Would she lose this freedom if she ever did marry? Or was Catherine right—and no man would ever consider her?

Even as a child, she'd been a bit willful.
All right
, she scolded herself.
A lot willful
. Her brother had called her spoiled on more than one occasion. Not that he was one to point fingers. He was the one off touring the world, having his fun, sewing his wild oats, while she was left here to tend to their father. Although to be fair, Sterling didn't know their father had taken ill.

After her father's first apoplectic fit, he'd still been able to talk. He'd told her then that she wasn't to contact Sterling for any reason. The next fit had left him unable to speak, to communicate at all. He was now simply withering away.

She took a moment to shore up her emotions. She'd not add to her father's problems by weeping for her friend, weeping for him, weeping for everything she didn't have the strength or power to change. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. She was immediately hit with the stench of illness.