Between the Devil and Desire (2 page)

I
gnoring the widow following at a rapid clip, Jack Dodger strode briskly through the hallways and rooms, searching for anything familiar, anything that might signal he'd been in this residence before. He'd learned long ago nothing came easy, and this entire situation seemed far too easy. Well, except for dealing with the widow. She was the very definition of the type of woman he avoided at all costs. Judging him through a kaleidoscope of righteous indignation, she was so damned passionate about his being so damned unworthy. It didn't matter that she was right. Her belief in his unsuitability irritated the devil out of him, and he preferred holding the devil close. It was the only way to ensure he was never again taken advantage of, never again hurt, never again left to live with regrets.

The duchess had certainly not taken well to the news delivered by the solicitor. The fire of anger burning in her eyes had hit him like a punch to the gut, and he'd wanted to nurture it into a blaze of passion—

Damnation.

He knew better than to lash out at women, knew better than to reveal anything at all about his thoughts
or feelings. Somehow the widow had forced him to throw caution to the wind. He'd begun to lose the upper hand in this game of…what? What in God's name was going on here?

So he'd stormed from the room because he'd learned that sometimes retreat could lead to victory. Sometimes effective strategy required a restocking of the arsenal or a bit of breathing room so a man could think clearly and make sense of things.

What sort of lunatic was Lovingdon to appoint Jack guardian of anything? The nobles were so protective of their heirs. It was ludicrous to place the lad in Jack's keeping. Still, it angered him that the widow was so appalled by the notion. He should accept the terms of the will simply to irritate her further. But he'd never been one to base his decisions on immediate reactions. He'd always thought out his strategy, always looked at things from every angle. Although in this situation the angle of inheritance was looming enticingly large and threatening to overshadow his common sense. While Jack had accumulated quite a bit of wealth over the years, his coffers weren't yet to the point that he wanted to spend his money on a palace such as this. It was monstrously huge and overflowing with statuettes, figurines, artwork, handsome handcrafted furniture, and everything else imaginable.

In his mind, he heard Feagan cackling. “Ye finally made it, boy. A fancy place in St. James. Who'd a thought?”

Certainly not Jack.

He had a practiced eye when it came to identifying valuables and the good duke had accumulated a fortune's worth. It was also evident that the family, from
the first duke to the last, thought highly of themselves. Why else have all the portraits painted of various stages in their lives, from birth to old age? God, the nobility was an amazing lot—to think anyone would care what they looked like. On the other hand, judging by the number of portraits hanging on the walls throughout, someone obviously did care. Maybe he'd sell them to the heir for a pretty penny.

As though reading his thoughts, the duchess said, “I'm certain when Mr. Beckwith said ‘everything' he didn't mean
every
thing. The portraits are obviously part of the entailment.”

“How did you come to that conclusion, Duchess?”

“They are portraits of the dukes and their families, my son's ancestors. There can be no doubt they are part of his inheritance.”

“We'll see.” She made a reasonable argument, but he planned to study the ledger more closely, to memorize and account for every item. He'd not let her take anything that had been designated as his—not without paying a fair price for it. He had no intention of taking advantage of her, but neither was it in his nature to be charitable.

“I wonder what funds were used to purchase your clothing,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

He came to a stop outside the third dining room he'd passed, and she almost rammed into him. Her fragrance did, teasing his nostrils now just as it had in the library. Sitting there, he'd wanted to lean toward her and inhale it more fully. Her scent was a subtle lavender, not the cloyingly harsh musk that prostitutes used to cover the odor of their business and other men.

Her face was set in a worried frown that drew her brows together over unusual amber eyes. From the start, their shade—almost gold, just like the color of the coins he favored—had caught his attention.

The top of the widow's head barely came to his shoulder. She was terribly young for a widow. She had to have been a child when the duke married her. With their difference in age, he would have been an old man to her. Had she loved him? Or had she simply wanted the title and everything that came with it?

“I was just wondering if your clothing was part of the entailment,” he drawled.

Anger flashed over her features. “My clothing, sir, is mine. You'll not take it from me.”

“Don't challenge me, Duchess, or I might be tempted to prove I could remove those widow's weeds before you could stammer an objection.”

“Oh, you blackguard.”

Turning away from her, he tried not to take delight in pricking her temper. Not very gentlemanly on his part, but then he'd never claimed to be a gentleman. He had yet to meet one who wasn't a hypocrite. Better to admit to being a scoundrel, more honesty in that. He didn't pretend to be what he wasn't.

Impatient, he headed back the way he'd come. He had to give the duke credit: he'd spent his money wisely.

Beneath his breath, he cursed a man he'd barely known, a man who had obviously judged Jack very well. Everything Jack saw, he wanted. He wanted to look at it and know that he owned it. He wanted to tear down the brick walls, replace them with glass, and let the world catch a glimpse of what Jack Dodger pos
sessed. He wanted to gloat. He, the son of a whore, had not been trampled down by society. He'd risen above his beginnings. He'd conquered London.

By God, that was how it felt, walking through these magnificent hallways with their gilded trim and their painted ceilings. It could all be his for a very small price.

How much trouble could it be to serve as guardian of one boy? Of course, the real question was: how irritating would it be to deal with the merry widow? She was the type of woman he abhorred. Self-righteous, judgmental, thinking she was so much better than others. He'd like nothing more than to take her down a peg or two. Maybe that was the reason he'd brought up the subject of her clothing—certainly not because he'd been considering what it might be like to divest her of it.

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.