Between the Devil and Desire (28 page)

“Dear God, you're a monster.”

“Yes, yes, I am.”

He moved away. She swung out her legs as best she could, hoping to trip him up but he easily sidestepped. “Careful, Duchess. I'm not in the habit of hurting ladies, but I can always make an exception.”

 

Jack knew the rookeries like the back of his hand. A lot of evil men lived there. A lot of good men too. With the satchel filled with a hundred thousand pounds gripped tightly in one hand, a lantern in the other, he walked among the detritus of society, fearing no evil because he carried a knife in his boot, a pistol in his pocket, and—in the hand holding the satchel—a walking stick that came apart to reveal a sword.

The abductor had said to come alone. He'd said nothing about coming unarmed—which made Jack think Rupert Stanford was only marginally familiar with the rookeries. Obviously he knew it well enough to identify a meeting place, but not well enough to know that many of the people there were armed. Or maybe he knew little of Jack, thought he wouldn't have a clue regarding the destination to which he was walking.

Jack wasn't a fool. He thought it unlikely Stanford would let Olivia or Jack live once he had his money.

There was just enough light that Jack could see the shadows keeping pace with him if he turned his head just so. Shadows had always served as his friends.

Tonight was no exception.

They effectively hid Luke and Swindler as they followed at a discreet distance. Graves and Frannie walked in the open, giving the impression they were a couple looking for a place for an illicit rendezvous. When Jack desperately needed them, Feagan's brood had come through for him.

He reached the abandoned building, which looked as though a strong wind might blow it down. In foul weather people would take refuge here, but on a clear night it wasn't worth the risk. It would be very difficult to go up to the third floor without being heard. He supposed that was the point.

He made his way carefully inside, the rats scurrying away. He knew they'd return. They always returned. Holding the lantern high, he glanced around. Even though he'd never been here before, everything was familiar. Little difference existed between one building and another there.

He started up the stairs. They creaked beneath his weight. No point in treading lightly. He hurried up them, his heart pounding.

“Livy!”

He heard nothing. She could be gagged, she could be dead, she—

“Jack!”

He staggered, the relief so great his legs nearly gave out on him when at the same time a surge of energy shot through him. He rushed up the stairs, barely stopping
at the landing, simply charging down the hallway. He could see pale light easing out of one room. It could be a trick, so he slowed his step, angling the lantern to give him the best light.

“Livy!”

“We're here!”

She and Rupert Stanford. He could barely stand the thought of that bastard touching her, but he fought back the fury because he had to keep a clear head.

Jack walked slowly, cautiously. He peered into the room—

Livy was standing beside Stanford in the corner, near the window, and Jack wondered if he'd been looking out, watching for his approach. It didn't matter. He'd have not seen anything.

As Jack stepped into the room he was hit with an odor. Anyone else probably would have considered it a fragrance. It was a rich scent, undoubtedly masculine, but it caused his stomach to roil as memories assaulted him. That scent crawling into bed with him when he was a boy, offering comfort before it hurt him.

He raised the lantern higher and saw the unholy gleam in the eyes that glittered at him—like those of a rat coming up out of the sewer. Everything in Jack went cold. He thought he'd prepared himself for this encounter, but suddenly he was five years old again, terrified, hurting, ashamed.

He fought to focus on the here and now. “Rupert Stanford.”

“You say that as though I know you.”

“We've met before. My mother was Emily Dawkins.”

“You're Jack Dawkins?” Stanford released a bark of laughter. “It is a small world. You changed your name…how clever. I'll do the same, now that my meddling cousin and your suspicious inspector have been uncovering my business.”

“Business
? Taking advantage of young boys?”

He heard Livy's sharp intake of breath at the revelation.

“My cousin has told me all about you, about the boys you keep. I think we're very much alike—”

“I'm nothing like you,” Jack ground out. “I protect them.”

“As I did you. Your mother was dying, poor thing. I gave her a few coins to ease the way and took you in so she wasn't burdened with worry. But then you had the audacity to escape. The only one ever to escape.”

Something in the man's voice…Jack knew the longer he kept him talking the greater his advantage. He needed to give the others time to position themselves.

“The only one? Do the boys still live with you?” He'd seen no evidence of it.

“In my garden,” Stanford said wistfully.

“You killed them?”

“I'd love to stay and chat, but I really must be off.”

“You're not taking Livy with you.”

“She's my insurance. Set the satchel down and move across the room.”

Jack took two steps and released a shrill whistle. A crash sounded as the window was smashed.

Stanford glanced back, giving Jack the narrow space he was looking for, just enough that he could shoulder his way in, shove Livy aside, and take Stanford to the
floor. He fought to wrench the pistol free of Stanford's grasp, but the man, while older, was surprisingly strong and agile. They struggled, rolling over the floor. Jack tried to leverage himself—

An explosion rent the night as the pistol went off, and Jack felt the fire of its report burning his chest as warm blood seeped through his favorite red waistcoat.

 

Olivia had barely hit the floor before the pistol thundered and both men went completely still.

“Oh, God, oh, God. Jack.”

Suddenly someone came in through the window. Before she could scream, she heard, “It's all right, it's Swindler.”

The thud of heavy footsteps sounded outside in the hallway and two more large shadows burst into the room, followed by a smaller one. Frannie crossed over and took Olivia in her arms. “Are you all right?”

Olivia nodded and whispered. “Jack?”

Frannie began working on the knots in the rope securing Olivia's hands.

“Jack,” Swindler said sternly.

Olivia watched as a man rose up. She recognized the form, would forever recognize that shape. “Jack?”

“I'm all right,” he said, his voice hard as he crouched beside her husband's cousin.

She heard harsh breathing, a gurgling sound—

“Jack, I need to see to him,” Dr. Graves said, and Olivia realized he was one of the men who'd come inside. The other was Claybourne.

“No,” Jack said.

Stanford coughed and gagged.

“The boys? How many were there?” Jack demanded.

“You…the first.”

“And after me? How many, damn you?”

“Don't…know.”

“You killed them? Buried them in your garden? Is that what you were saying with all your cryptic words?”

But Rupert Stanford made no sound.

“Answer me, you bastard.”

“He's dead,” Dr. Graves said somberly.

Jack slowly unfolded his body. Suddenly his arms were around Olivia, holding her tightly until she could barely breathe. “I didn't think you'd come.”

“Of course I'd come,” he growled.

“He said he was asking for a hundred thousand pounds.”

“I'd have given him everything, Livy. Everything to have you back safely.”

 

Jack and Olivia returned home immediately while Swindler and the others saw to the matter of Rupert Stanford and reporting tonight's incident to Scotland Yard. The first thing Olivia did was dash up the stairs to the nursery and hold Henry close.

“I knew he'd save you,” Henry said.

It humbled her that Henry had possessed so much unquestionable faith in Jack, while she'd had so little. Never again would she make that mistake. Tonight she'd made many, and she intended to correct them all.

She considered how to go about that while she took a wonderful hot bath to get the grime of the rookeries off her. After that night's experiences, she thought she'd probably take a full bath every day in the future. She'd
hoped Jack would join her that night, would come in to see how she was doing, but when he didn't, she put on her nightgown and went in search of him.

She found him in the library, sitting in a chair, his elbows on his thighs, his hands wrapped around a glass, the bottle nearby waiting to do its duty, to numb what had been a traumatizing night.

She padded across the carpet, knelt before him and wrapped a hand around each of his wrists. “I can't imagine what you're feeling.”

“No, you probably can't. Before tonight I had no name for the man who took me, but he was Stanford. I don't know if I never knew his name or simply forgot it. It's been nearly thirty years. I think he must have known my mother. She knew him, trusted him. They must have met when she worked here. She gave me into his keeping, thinking I'd be safe. The first night”—she heard him swallow hard—“he bathed me, put me to bed, then he crawled in with me. He touched me in ways a man shouldn't touch a boy…he did things that not only ravaged my body but my soul.”

“Dear God, Jack.” She touched his cheek, tried to offer him comfort, but he wasn't looking at her. He was peering into his past.

“He wept afterward, promised to never do it again. The next night, I learned he was a liar. The third night I ran away.”

Scalding tears welled in her eyes. “You can't blame yourself for any of that. You were an innocent child. I'm glad he's dead.”

He shook his head. “There's more, Livy. I told you that Luke and I were arrested. When you're convicted,
you serve your time in a boys' prison. But before that, before your trial, you're kept in gaol with men. There were three, a nasty lot. They set their sights on Luke, but he fought them. God, he was only eight, but he wouldn't stop fighting. His face was a bloodied mess. I thought they were going to kill him. I knew what they wanted, had survived it before.”

Dear God
,
no
, she thought.
Please no.

“I offered myself to them.” The words came out on a strangle.

“Oh, Jack.” She squeezed his hands, pressed her lips to them while the tears coursed down her face and pooled at the corner of her mouth.

“It was worse than I remembered. Or maybe they were just meaner. They broke something in me that night, Livy. I stopped caring about anything except for surviving, and I became convinced that if I had enough money I would always be safe. But inside, I stayed broken. Until you.

“You made me start to feel again. You and Henry. You brought joy into my life. Laughter and smiles. But there is pain in that, too. Caring for someone makes you vulnerable. What I was feeling whenever I was with you terrified the bloody hell out of me, Livy. I didn't want it. I fought it with everything I could, but tonight I realized if something happened to you, if you died, I'd break again and this time I would remain broken. It's a safer way to live, but it's also a life not worth living.

“I love you, Livy. I know I'm not worthy of any affection you might hold for me—”

“Not worthy? I know of no man more worthy.”

“I live in the gutter.”

“You live in St. James. You may have begun your life in the gutter, but I know of no other man who has achieved what you've achieved. You are a man of means, who owes nothing to anyone. You have a generous heart. I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. Henry adores you. And damn it, so do I.

“I love you, Jack, with all my heart and soul. I was wrong to listen to Briarwood. I realized it as I was waiting in that dwelling, or whatever it was. I thought of all the moments I had with you, and with Henry. And I prayed I would have a thousand more.”

“You're wrong there, Livy. Briarwood was right.”

“No—”

He put his finger to her lips. “Shh. He was right. I have corrupted you. Did you not hear what you just said? You used profanity.”

She gave a brittle laugh. “And the roof didn't fall in on me.”

He cradled her cheek. “I told you that first night there isn't anything a person won't do if he wants something badly enough.” He released a deep, painful moan. “I want you—and Henry—to be mine for all eternity. Marry me, Livy.”

“Oh.” She wasn't expecting that. She was prepared to live the remainder of her life as his mistress, but as his wife? “Oh.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

She laughed from the joy of it. “I think you're supposed to be on your knees and I'm supposed to be sitting.”

“You and your damned etiquette,” he said, shaking his head as a teasing smile formed on his lips.

She placed her hands on either side of his face. “Yes, I'll gladly marry you.”

“We'll mark the calendar. One day after your mourning period ends—”

“Don't be silly. I'll marry you tomorrow.”

“You think the London ladies will forgive you for that breach of etiquette?”

“Of course. I shall have firsthand accounts to share over tea, so they'll promptly forgive me because they'll want to know everything I know about the deliciously wicked Jack Dodger.”

“Deliciously wicked?”

“It was how we referred to you.”

“I don't know that I'm in the mood to be deliciously wicked tonight, but I would like very much to sleep with you in my arms.”

As she lay with Jack that night, she didn't know if it had been Lovingdon's intent, but in his passing, he'd given her in death what he'd been unable to grant her in life: joy, passion, and love.