In Bed With the Devil (7 page)

 

“You need to be wary of Jack Dodger.”

It was nearly three in the morning, and Catherine was completely drained of all energy. They were traveling in the coach without benefit of light so they had little risk of being seen and recognized, not that she thought there was any chance of anyone she knew being about this time of night. He'd also drawn curtains over the windows. She thought the precautions extreme, but then she suspected he was accustomed to lurking about and knew best how to achieve anonymity.

“Why is that, my lord?”

“You intrigue him, and like me, he would ruin you without remorse.”

“And you think I'd fall under his charms?”

“If he sets his mind to it, yes. Many a woman has.”

She laughed lightly. “I assure you he doesn't interest me in the least.”

“He's a handsome devil.”

“Again, my lord, I'm amazed you'd think me so shallow. My opinion of a man is not influenced by something over which he has no control—such as comely features. I base my opinion solely on his character.” Which was the reason that she had such a low opinion of Claybourne. His character was questionable—in the extreme. But in spite of that, he still fascinated her—
Drat him!
“How is it that you know Mr. Dodger?”

“How much do you know of my past?”

“I know you were orphaned. I know you spent
a part of your youth living in the streets. Other than that, and what you've so kindly revealed, very little.” Still, a shiver went up her back. Here she was in a coach, in the dark, with a man who'd admitted to murder and deception, a man who'd taken her to a gaming hell as though it was the proper place for a woman.

“He was one of Feagan's lads,” Claybourne said. “As was I.”

“And who was Feagan?”

“The kidsman who managed our little band of child thieves, taught us our craft.”

“How many of you were there?”

“A dozen or so. It changed, depending on who was caught and who was recruited.”

“And Frannie?”

“She's one of us as well.”

“You've had a very different upbringing than most lords.”

“Indeed.”

“Is that where you learned to kill?”

“No, it's where I learned to steal.”

“To pick pockets?”

“I was more prone to fleecing. Jack was the pickpocket.”

“And Frannie?”

“The distraction.”

“Do you miss it?”

“What? Living on the streets? Being filthy, cold, and hungry? No. Never.”

She wished she could see him more clearly in the shadows. She knew she shouldn't be intrigued by him, and yet she was. While she'd accused him of bullying Frannie, he'd not really been unkind
or forceful with her. He'd only dared to let his frustration show.

That more than anything reinforced to her his strong feelings for the woman. He guarded his emotions so carefully, but around Frannie he'd revealed them.

“I deduced that you don't believe you're the true heir to Claybourne. Forgive me for my naiveté, but why let the previous earl believe you were?”

He slipped his finger beneath the curtain, moved it aside slightly, and gazed out. She wondered if he was trying to determine their location. Or perhaps he was searching for an answer to her question.

“They were going to hang me,” he said quietly, releasing the curtain. It fluttered back into place.

Her stomach knotted at the thought of him facing the gallows. “I can understand that under the circumstances, anyone would have done the same, pretended to be someone he wasn't. But once you were free, why not run back to where you belonged? You stole the title and all that came with it.”

“It was more than trying to save my neck,” he said quietly, almost as though he was lost in the moment. “Have you ever wanted something so badly that you would do anything, believe anything in order to acquire it?”

“I would think our present arrangement would confirm that indeed I have.”

“No, I'm talking about wanting something more badly than that, wanting it with such yearning that you would be willing to deceive yourself in order to acquire it. That was how the old gent
was. I saw in his eyes how desperate he was to find his grandson, how desperate he was that I be that child—”

“And you took advantage.”

“That is one way to look upon it—and I readily admit that there are nights when I view my actions in that way.”

“How else could you look at it?”

“I gave him what all of us want and few of us acquire: our deepest desires. There was nothing he wanted more than to once again have in his life the son of his first-born. And so I became what he wanted.”

“There is that odd honesty in you again. You make it sound almost noble.”

“No, not noble. Not in the least. He provided me with an opportunity to live, and I snatched it as quickly and as humbly as I could. I wish I had been his grandson. He showered me with love that rightfully belonged to another, and that I was never comfortable with.”

“The love he gave you was yours. Even if he thought you were another, what he felt for you came about because he came to care for you.”

“He cared for me only because he believed I was his grandson. If he believed otherwise, I have little doubt that he'd have slipped the noose around my neck himself. After all, I killed his remaining son.”

A son who had a son: Marcus Langdon. The man who should be earl. Catherine knew him, because he, rather than his notorious cousin, was often invited to balls as though people were preparing him for the day he'd assume his rightful
place. But they'd obviously underestimated the present earl.

“I must admit to being confused by your confessions. They don't paint you in a very favorable light, and I can't help but wonder if you're telling me these things because you don't want me to like you.”

“I don't know why I tell you these things. Perhaps because only a soul as dark as mine could ask of me what you have.”

“I am nothing like you, my lord.”

“Are you not? My hand shall do the deed, but it does it at your bidding. You will share the guilt, Lady Catherine. Be certain your conscience can stand the weight of it.”

“It can.” At least she thought it could. She hoped it could. She hated that she doubted. But she didn't see that any other recourse was available to her. “While your pretending to be the earl's grandson saved your neck, it also came at a very costly price. Because now, as a lord, you've having difficulty acquiring what you want: Frannie.”

“I'm impressed by your astuteness, Lady Catherine. I've never been overly impressed with ladies of the nobility.”

“How many do you know well?”

“Obviously not nearly enough. Are you telling me that they're all as intriguing as you?”

Her heart gave a strange stutter, and she wondered if a woman could die from a man's attentions. It irritated her that she was pleased that he found her intriguing.

“I believe women are vastly underestimated.
After all, we've been known, on more than one occasion, to rule an empire.”

“You seem to think very highly of your gender.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Shouldn't you be married by now?”

It seemed an odd change in topic. Why was everyone so concerned with her marital status? “There is no law as to when one must marry.”

“Why have you not?”

“Obviously I've not yet found any man worthy of me.”

He chuckled. “Heaven help the man who does think he's worthy.”

“I am not as bad as all that.”

“I think as a wife you will be a challenge to any man.”

“You don't think Frannie will be a challenge?”

“Of course not. Not once we overcome this obstacle.”

“Is that truly what you want? Someone who never offers you a challenge? I think it would be rather boring.”

“I've had enough challenges in my life, Lady Catherine. I welcome a marriage without them.”

“Of course. Forgive me. It is not for me to judge what you seek in marriage.”

Yet, she couldn't help but think about the reason Frannie had given her for not wanting to marry Claybourne.

“I owe him everything, and he owes me nothing. I'm accustomed to dealing with numbers and keeping everything balanced. It seems to me that our marriage would be incredibly lopsided. It
doesn't seem like a pleasant way to live, and in time, I fear we would regret it and eventually lose whatever affection we hold for each other.”

I owe him everything.

I'm not doing for her anything I've not done for her before.

Catherine couldn't help but think that the man Claybourne had killed was somehow tied in with Frannie. Would she ever know the whole story? Did she wish to know it? If his actions were truly justified, would she begin to see him in a favorable light? Would she begin to question her own plans involving him?

He was a man that at least one person felt she owed
everything
. Frannie hadn't used the word lightly. She truly felt she owed Claybourne everything. Catherine couldn't imagine being that much in debt to anyone. Oddly, she wanted to reach across the short distance separating Claybourne from her, take his hand in hers, and plead with him to tell her every sordid detail of his past.

Why was it the more time she spent in his company, the more he intrigued her?

Thankfully the coach came to a halt before she could carry through on what she was certain would be a rash decision. Did she truly want to know his past? Wouldn't the arrangement be better served if they kept their distance, were more strangers than friends?

The door opened, and she made a move toward it.

“Allow me to go first,” Claybourne said.

“There's no need for you to escort me.”

“I insist.”

He stepped out, then assisted her in alighting from the coach. He walked with her until they reached the gate that led to the garden and the path used by those delivering goods to the residence.

She placed her hand on the latch. “Good night, my lord. I'll see you tomorrow at midnight.”

“Catherine?”

She froze. His voice held a roughness, a seriousness that almost terrified her, and an informality that was equally frightening. She thought she should look at him, but she was afraid of what she might see, what he might say. So she waited, barely breathing.

“This person you want dispensed with, is it because he…did he force his attentions—his body—on you?”

She dared to look over her shoulder at him. Dark and formidable, he stood there in the shadows.

“You don't have to tell me the details, but if he took your virtue against your will, you have but to give me his name now, tonight, and your portion of our arrangement will be concluded, and I shall immediately see to mine.”

Her throat tightened painfully with the realization of what he was asking and what he was offering. Surely he was not as noble as all that. “Are you saying you'd not require me to teach Frannie before you took care of the matter?”

“I am.”

How easy it would be to just say yes. To have the matter taken care of expeditiously and quickly. She would never see him again. And if she'd not witnessed his odd honesty, if she'd not begun to
question her opinion of him, if she'd not begun to realize that he possessed a moral code that was to be admired, she might have taken advantage of his offer. But the truth was that she selfishly didn't want this moment to be the last she ever saw of him.

Earlier he'd spoken about wanting something so desperately as to be willing to do, to believe, anything in order to obtain it. He felt that way about Frannie. She was his deepest desire, marriage to her the dream he wanted realized. And he was willing to give it up, for Catherine—who meant nothing to him—if she'd been wronged.

Claybourne quite simply fascinated her. She'd never known a man who seemed quite so complex, a man who seemed to have so many varying facets to him. He was not all evil. Nor was he all good. It was an immensely captivating combination.

“My virtue remains intact.”

He seemed to wilt just a bit as though he'd been preparing himself for the blow of learning that she'd been harmed.

“I'll see you tomorrow, my lord.”

He bowed slightly. “Tomorrow.”

She went in through the gate and closed it quietly behind her. She didn't wish to acknowledge how his concern had touched her.

Claybourne was far more dangerous than she realized. Whether a sinner or a saint, he held her interest as no other man ever had.

F
rannie Darling stepped out of Dodger's Drawing Room—the elegant name she'd suggested for something rather inelegant at its core, as though pretty words could make sin acceptable—and walked toward the stairs that led to the small flat where she lived. It was still part of Dodger's, but the outside entrance at least made her feel as though she were stepping away from the dregs and into a better life.

Not that she didn't have the means to live in a fancier dwelling. She did. Feagan's lads treated her as an equal, and she shared in the profits from their ventures. She could live in a palace if she wanted, but the money she earned was never for her. Others were far more deserving.

As she made her way up the stairs, she smelled the familiar richly scented tobacco. It was a much more pleasant aroma than it had been when they were children. Jack could afford the very finest customized tobacco now.

Yet still he packed it into the long clay pipe he'd begun using when he was a lad of eight. It wasn't
unusual for Feagan's lads to smoke and drink spirits at a young age. Kept them warm. The pipe was part of Jack's past, a reminder of what he'd been before Luke's grandfather had offered them a chance at a better life. They'd all brought something with them.

Jack had stayed in the residence in St. James's only long enough to learn what he needed in order to gain what he wanted. He'd never been happy living with the Earl of Claybourne. But then as far as Frannie knew, he'd never been truly happy anywhere—except for the slight contentment he seemed to have with Feagan. Jack had been the most skilled of their little band, always bringing in the most coins and handkerchiefs, always sitting by the fire with Feagan—Feagan drinking his gin, Jack drinking gin and smoking his pipe—both of them whispering late into the night. As far as Frannie knew, Jack's was the only opinion Feagan ever sought.

“'Ello, Frannie,” he said as she reached the landing. Outside the gaming hell, he was never the businessman he was indoors. Still, he was astute. Always looking for the angle that would give him more than he held.

“Dodger.” In their youth, he'd been Dodger more often than Jack. He'd been skilled at dodging the hands that wanted to grab him when the target realized his pockets were being picked. It was usually the other thief who clumsily tipped off their intended prey. They'd all scatter when that happened.

Only once had Jack gone back to try to help a thief who wasn't quite as nimble. He'd gone back
for Luke. It had been the only time Jack had ever been caught.

“Lovely evening tonight,” she said.

“Oh, yeah, the fog is bloody luvely. Think there's anywhere in England where they don't have fog?”

“Would you move if there was?”

“Not likely. I doubt there's a city anywhere where I can make more money.”

“There's more to life than coin.”

“Not for me there's not.”

Sighing, she looked out at the fog. It was like life, preventing her from seeing what was beyond reach. She wasn't unhappy. She simply felt that something important was missing from her life.

Jack puffed on his pipe, and they stood in silence for a while. She always enjoyed Jack's company even if they weren't talking. As a matter of fact, she usually enjoyed it most when they weren't. He had the uncanny knack of knowing what she was thinking.

“Why didn't you tell him the truth, Frannie, instead of making up all those silly excuses?” he asked after a while, his voice low as though he thought Luke might be waiting around a corner listening.

“I couldn't, Jack. I didn't want to hurt him. Not after all he's done for me.”

“Not hurt him? All you've done is prolong the matter. And now he's brought a bloody stranger into our midst to teach you what you already know.”

Her chest tightened painfully. “I know I've made a mess of things. I do love him, but I don't
want to marry him. I don't want to be a countess. I just want to do what I want to do.”

“He won't stop you from doing that.”

“Oh, I know that well enough, but it won't be the same. Oh, God, maybe I should just marry him, be done with the worry over hurting him, but I don't think he'd be really happy with me. Sometimes having the dream makes you more content than having the reality.”

“That doesn't make a bloody bit of sense.”

“I heard about your blasted wagers. Why did you keep encouraging him to ask me when you knew how I felt?” she asked, almost as disappointed with him as she was with herself.

“Because he needs to know the truth, and it needs to come from you. He won't believe it from anyone else.”

He puffed, she sulked.

“He likes her,” Jack said, his voice low.

Frannie felt an unfamiliar prick of…what? Jealousy?

“Who? Lady Catherine?”

Nodding, he puffed on his pipe again. “Warned me to stay clear of her. It wasn't an idle threat either. Damned near had me trembling in my shoes the way he came after me.”

She wasn't quite certain how she felt about that. She should be relieved, but a part of her mourned the prospect of losing a portion of Luke's heart. She'd held it all for so long, and yet she knew she couldn't hold it forever. It wasn't fair to him. As much as she cared for him, what she felt was the love of a sister for a brother, not a woman for a man.

“Maybe he feels responsible, bringing her into our den of criminals, thinks you'll corrupt or ruin her. You may no longer live with Feagan, but you're still recruiting people, enticing them to the dark side of London.”

He grinned around his pipe. “Where's the harm? We're all going to hell anyway. Might as well have a bit of fun along the way, and the more the merrier and all that.”

“You're so like Feagan. You know, I used to pretend he was my father. We both had red hair that was so irritatingly curly.” She shrugged. “It seemed likely he could be.”

She waited, hoping Jack would laugh at her silly confession. He'd been with Feagan the longest, knew everything. But Jack simply tapped his pipe against the landing railing, sending the ash into the darkness below.

“Good night, Frannie. Sleep well.”

He jaunted down the steps. He had rooms next to hers, but she knew it would be dawn before he retired to them. She knew a good deal about Jack Dodger.

But not everything. None of them knew everything. They all had their secrets, but she suspected Jack's were the worst of the lot.

 

Luke strode into his library, crossed over to the table, poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass, and immediately tossed it down, relishing the burning sensation. Whatever had possessed him to tell Catherine the things he told her?

He began filling the glass again. Tomorrow night
he'd shove his neckcloth into his mouth so he'd be unable to blurt all the irritating nonsense—

“I'll have one of those if you don't mind.”

Luke swung around, knocking bottles to the floor where they shattered. He was crouched, ready to spring—

“Sorry,” Jim said, holding up his hands. “It's just me.”

Mortified by his reaction and his thudding heart, Luke straightened. He'd become too complacent. “No one informed me that you were here.”

“I assumed you wouldn't want them to know. I slipped in on my own.” Jim took a step nearer. “Are you all right? I've never been able to sneak up on you. You've always been too astute, too aware—”

“I was occupied with my thoughts.” Turning, Luke snatched up a bottle. “We're in luck. One didn't fall.” He began filling two glasses. “I take it you have something to report.”

“Not really. She's rather boring.”

“Boring? Catherine Mabry? She's anything but boring. Are you certain you're following the right woman?”

Jim chuckled. “I can't believe you asked me that. I'm the very best at what I do, and well you know it.”

Jim wasn't boasting. He was simply stating fact. Luke handed him a glass and indicated a chair. After they were seated, he said, “What did she do today?”

“Not much. She called on the Countess of Chesney for perhaps ten minutes and then the
Duchess of Avendale. She went to the milliner for a new hat, which is being made, and she went to order a new gown. Apparently she plans to attend some ball. I'm working on acquiring the details. She returned home around two and was there until you picked her up this evening.”

Luke pondered the information while Jim sipped his whiskey.

“You do realize her father is infirmed and her brother traveling the world?” Jim inquired.

Luke nodded. “I'd heard something about that.”

“I think there's something there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her father is too ill to properly see after his estates, and his son is off seeing to his own pleasures? I think I need to investigate that.”

“I don't care about her father or her brother. Concentrate on the girl. She's all I care about.”

He realized what he'd said, considered rewording it, then decided against it. Making an issue of it would only serve to give his words credence they didn't deserve. He took a long swallow of the whiskey. It was tempting, but he couldn't afford to overindulge in spirits tonight.

“What if the answer concerns her father or brother?”

Luke sighed. “Do what you think best. Just find out who she wants me to kill and why.”

“What if she's the only one who knows?”

“She has to have told someone.”

“You didn't. Not until the deed was done.”

“Not true. I told someone.” Jack. His confessor in all things. And more often than not, his conspirator.

“Jack. You told Jack. You always trusted him more than you trusted the rest of us.”

“He's the one who found me, shivering, starving, wretchedly afraid. I daresay I'd have died if he'd not taken care of me, taken me to Feagan.”

“You know as well as I that Feagan paid us for recruitments. You were merely threepence in Jack's pocket.”

“Are you jealous of my friendship with Jack?”

“Don't be absurd. But you speak as though his motives in rescuing you were pure. Nothing about Jack is pure.”

“He saved your arse on more than one occasion.”

“And I like him, but I don't trust him, not completely.”

“With our upbringing, with what we learned about the world, do you think any of us completely trusts anyone?”

“I trust you. I'd follow you into hell without questioning why we were going.”

“You've just made my point, because I'm the least trustworthy of us all. No one can be completely trusted. No one's motives are pure. Which brings us back to Catherine Mabry. Find out all you can about her.”

Because Luke had a feeling she was leading
him
straight into hell, but unlike Jim, Luke wanted to know why.

Luke downed his whiskey and got up to pour himself another glass.

“How did the lesson go?” Jim asked as he walked over and held out his glass.

Luke splashed some whiskey into it. “Catherine won't speak of it. She said I'll see the results when I see the results. She vexes me as I've never been vexed. Do you know she actually had the audacity to question my selection of a wife? She's impertinent. I've never known a woman such as her.” He rubbed his brow. “She makes my head hurt.”

“You've always been troubled with head pains.”

“It's been awhile. I've some powder to relieve it. Not to worry.”

Jim set down his glass. “I'll be off then. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have more luck.”

“Perhaps we both will.”