Between the Devil and Desire (3 page)

Jack turned on his heel and headed toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” the duchess asked, her shoes tapping rapidly behind him.

Lord, she was quick to follow. If his legs weren't so long, he didn't think he'd be able to outdistance her. “Not that it's any of your concern, but I want to speak with Beckwith.”

Why was he bothering to explain himself? He explained himself to no one. He hadn't since he'd decided to make the streets his home.

He hurried down the stairs, the duchess nipping at his heels like a rapacious dog. He strode through the hallway that displayed possessions that had no doubt been gathered for generations. The liveried footman opened the door to the library. Jack walked inside and quickly spun around to face the duchess, barring her entry.

She stumbled to an abrupt, jerky halt, her breathing labored, her golden eyes wide, her luscious lips parted. When her mouth wasn't puckered up as though she spent her spare time sucking lemons, she had a damned kissable-looking mouth. It irritated him that he noticed, irritated him even more that he wondered what kissing her would be like.

“In private,” he said and slammed the door on her. Her infuriated shriek penetrated the thickness of the wood, bringing him a small sense of victory. Not trusting her to do as he bade, he turned the key in the lock. Fortunate that the duke had kept it handy. He was no doubt accustomed to dealing with his wife's disagreeable moods and this room probably served as his sanctuary for solitude.

Jack sauntered toward Beckwith, who seemed innocently unaware of the turmoil roiling through Jack. The man was either a fool or as skilled at playing cards as Jack was. “It's been a little more than fourteen years since you approached me with the news I had an anonymous benefactor. That's the only reason I bothered to make an appearance tonight. Was my benefactor the Duke of Lovingdon?”

While it made absolutely no sense, that explanation was the only one Jack could come up with to explain this lunacy.

“I serve at the pleasure of many lords and gentlemen of considerable wealth, Mr. Dodger. Your benefactor wished to remain anonymous, and so he shall.”

“Are you saying he wasn't Lovingdon?”

“I'm saying until your benefactor gives me leave to reveal his wishes, I will hold his confidence to the best of my ability.”

“What if I beat you to a bloody pulp? I suspect you'd find your ability isn't what you think it is.”

Beckwith had the audacity to grin as though he were slightly amused. Jack didn't like being made sport of, or worse, having his bluffs called. Swearing beneath his breath, he swept his hand over the will and ledgers. “This makes no sense.”

“Is it important that it does?”

“It's important I understand why a man I spoke to on only a few occasions deemed it appropriate to give me so much for doing so little.”

“Being guardian of a lord of the realm is a grave, serious, and important task, Mr. Dodger. Don't underestimate the power of your influence or the amount of work required to ensure the young lord becomes a man who can reach his potential.”

Jack laughed harshly. “Blast it all, man, that's my point exactly. The duchess is correct. I am the last person who should serve as guardian and protector of her son. I abhor the aristocracy.”

“That's unfortunate, especially as they are largely responsible for your unprecedented success. The duke felt differently regarding your qualifications for guiding his son into manhood. However, he also understood you cannot be forced to do that which you have no desire to
do. You have twenty-four hours to give me your decision. At the end of that time, if you have not agreed to the terms and conditions of the will as presented to you this evening, your opportunity to gain all of this—and the final item—will have passed and the second will shall be brought into play.”

“You speak as though this is an elaborate game.”

Beckwith smiled knowingly. “Who am I to judge?”

Jack glanced around the room. He'd only ever seen more books in Claybourne's library. If he read one book every day for as long as he lived, he'd never get to them all. The leather-bound books alone were worth a fortune.

Jack returned his attention to the man sitting calmly at the desk. Nothing seemed to unsettle him. He was a man who took his power from those he served. “In the second will, what does he leave to the widow?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Damn it, man, at least tell me if it favors her more than the first.” Which Jack had thought were pitiful leavings to a wife, truth be told. Even for the hoyden who'd been traipsing along behind him.

“What does it matter?” Beckwith asked.

Jack rubbed his thumb along the line of his jaw. He'd not let the keys to a kingdom far grander than anything he presently owned slip through his fingers. He picked up the leather-bound ledger that Beckwith had given him earlier and bestowed upon the man the infamous cocky grin for which Jack was so well known.

“How do I signify that I accept the terms of the will?”

W
ith the fog swirling around him, Jack walked along the quiet street. He'd taken a hansom cab to the duke's residence. He could find another to take back to his place, only he no longer needed it. He had a carriage and horses. He had a residence and servants and doubts. With misgivings, he'd signed the document Beckwith had laid before him. In spite of his attempts to question and convince himself otherwise, he'd known from the moment Beckwith read the terms of the will that he'd not walk away from everything he'd been given.

He'd not expected the duchess to be gracious when told the news he'd accepted the terms. Surprising him, she'd simply nodded at Mr. Beckwith and said, “The servants will need to be informed.”

She'd called them into the foyer. With Jack standing at the bottom of the stairs, she stood partway up, with all the regal bearing of a queen. He thought he now knew what a warrior looked like at the end of the day when the hard-fought battle had not gone his way, when he had to look into the eyes of those he'd sent onto the battlefield and convince them that honor was
to be found in simply surviving. She'd been elegant and eloquent as she explained the residence was now Jack's and that they all served at his pleasure.

Not one word had been uttered by the staff. Jack imagined they'd have questions aplenty once the shock wore off. But he'd been content to leave them and the duchess while he adjusted to his change in fortune in solitude.

While he admitted that he didn't consider himself the best choice to serve as guardian to her beloved and overprotected son, he could certainly think of worse. Perhaps the duke himself had fallen into that category.

Jack often walked along streets with grand houses, trying to remember what he'd thought he'd never forget. The first fancy house in which he'd lived—he'd been five. The man had promised his mother he'd take good care of Jack. She'd seemed to know him and trust him. Maybe he'd been one of her customers.

All Jack remembered was that the man had fed him and bathed him and put him to bed. Crawled beneath the covers with him…done things…

Jack quickened his steps as though he were five again, running away.

The man had wept afterward, said he was sorry, promised to never do it again…

Jack detoured by a towering elm and pounded his fist into the trunk, relished the bite of the hard bark, and felt the pain ricochet up his arm. He didn't want to go there again, didn't want to return to being frightened and hurting. And ashamed.

Although he'd run away, a terrified cadence to his steps, he'd thought he'd always remember where that
house had been. But London had changed in twenty-eight years. Jack couldn't even remember what the man looked like. He hadn't thought about him in ages, but now he wondered…

What would guilt cause a man to do? Would he seek out and leave everything to a boy he'd abused? Was Lovingdon the man who'd bought him? What did it matter now? He was dead. He'd left Jack a fortune. What did it matter if it was a fortune steeped in guilt and regret? Jack had only ever cared about accumulating the coins that ensured no one would ever buy him again. Now, no one ever would.

 

“Tell me what you know of the Duke of Lovingdon,” Jack demanded. He'd been desperate for the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and since he was in the neighborhood, he'd stopped at Luke's residence. It had been only a week since Luke's hastily arranged marriage, and the couple did not seem inclined to take a wedding trip.

Sitting across from Jack, near the window that looked out on an impressive garden when it wasn't draped in darkness, Luke took a sip of whiskey. He'd dispensed with his jacket, and his shirt was unbuttoned at his throat. His dark hair appeared to have been fingered recently, and Jack suspected it wasn't Luke who'd done the fingering. Yet, in spite of his dishevelment, he had the look of a man in control, a man who knew his place in the world and was finally comfortable with it. Jack didn't like to admit it, but Lucian Langdon wore the title of earl well.

“He was well respected in the House of Lords,” Luke said solemnly. “When he spoke, people listened. His passing leaves shoes that will be difficult to fill.”

“So you thought he was a decent-enough chap?”

Luke shrugged. “Seemed to be. I only spoke to him on a few occasions. Politics mostly. Advised me that I always needed to know
why
I felt the way I did about certain issues. He was prone to asking
why
of the younger lords. Insisted we not be sheep.”

“What of his wife?”

Luke shook his head. “We should probably ask Catherine. She's much more familiar with the ladies of the aristocracy than I am. Until recently, I didn't walk in their circles.”

Catherine, his wife, was the daughter of the Duke of Greystone. He'd passed away recently, and her brother—who had been absent during her father's long illness—had returned to London and inherited the titles. It seemed of late the lords were dropping like flies. Jack wondered if Catherine's father would have approved of her marrying the “Devil Earl.”

“Catherine doesn't fancy me. She won't help,” Jack said.

“Catherine has a generous heart. She'll always help someone in need.” Luke leaned forward. “What's going on, Jack? From the moment you left at nineteen, you've always avoided coming to my residence unless absolutely necessary—as though you feared you'd catch the pox—and yet here you are, just as I was retiring for the evening.”

Reaching for the decanter on the table between them, Jack poured more whiskey into his glass. He downed the contents in one long swallow, relishing the burning sensation along his throat that eventually swirled through his blood. The problem with erecting walls
was that climbing over them when he needed help was so difficult. “Lovingdon left all his non-entailed properties and assets to me.”

Luke stared at him as though he'd stood and removed his clothing.

“My reaction was quite similar,” Jack said laconically. If the widow hadn't turned to stone as well at the news, he might have thought he'd misunderstood the conditions of the will.

“Why would he do that?”

Jack shook his head. “That seems to be the question of the evening, and I haven't the foggiest idea as to the answer.”

“Did you even know the man?”

“Barely. I met him once in the garden here. I think he was visiting your grandfather. He came into the club a time or two.”

“Did he owe you a gambling debt?”

Jack poured more whiskey, took another long swallow. “As far as I know, he never gambled, drank, or whored. He simply observed. Some people are like that: voyeurs of sin. I never thought anything of it.”

Luke held up his hands. “Just like that, he left you everything?”

“Well, he did include one minor stipulation, hardly worth mentioning. I'm to serve as guardian of his five-year-old son.”

Luke's eyes widened as he dropped back in the chair. “Why in God's name would he entrust the care of his son to you?”

“I appreciate the faith. Sorry to have delayed your retiring for the evening.” Jack came to his feet. His and
Luke's friendship had been strained of late. Where once they'd trusted each other with their very lives, now distance brought on by regret and secrets revealed separated them. He shouldn't have bothered to come, but the streets had made them brothers. As loath as Jack was to admit he needed anyone, he was suddenly desperate to have someone believe in him.

“No, you misunderstood. I have every confidence you would serve as a fine guardian. Lord knows, when we were boys, you saved my arse often enough. But why would Lovingdon leave the care of his son to a man he doesn't know other than in passing?”

Jack slowly shook his head. “I'm as baffled as you are.”

“How did his widow take the news?”

He rubbed his cheek, remembering the sting of her slap. “Not well, not well at all, I'm afraid.” He heard a light footfall and turned toward the door.

Catherine stood inside the doorway. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I didn't realize you had company. I was simply wondering what was keeping you.”

From my bed
were the words Jack thought were left unspoken. Catherine Langdon, Countess of Claybourne, was a beautiful woman. Her hair, the color of moonbeams, had already been let down for the night. For some reason, it made him wonder what the widow's hair looked like when it was loosened, what it might feel like to comb his fingers through it.

“Please join us,” Luke said now. “Jack has some questions he'd like to ask you.”

No
,
I don't
, Jack thought irritatingly.
You have some questions you want me to ask her.

But he stayed as he was because to leave would give the impression he was unsettled by her, and while that assessment might be true, he had no desire for her to realize it. She had too much influence over Luke as it was. No reason to give her leave to think she could control another man.

Jack watched as she floated gracefully into the room and sat in the chair Luke had vacated. Luke perched himself on its arm, his fingers immediately going to Catherine's tresses as though he couldn't be near her without touching her. It had been a strange thing to watch his friend fall under her spell. Luke would do anything for her—kill if need be. Jack couldn't imagine loving a woman that much, couldn't imagine loving a woman at all. Love made a person vulnerable, and he had no intention of ever being placed in a position such as that again.

“Jack has encountered an unusual situation here,” Luke began. “It seems Lovingdon has bequeathed to him all his non-entailed properties, in exchange for which Jack is to serve as guardian of his son.”

To her credit, the countess did little more than look up at her husband, a frown between her delicate arched brows, before turning her attention to Jack. “How might I help?”

Taking his seat again at her unexpected offer, Jack cleared his throat, hardly knowing where to begin. In dealing with the young widow, the more he knew about her, the more advantage he would have during any future encounters. His interest was as simple as that. Nothing more. “I was wondering what you could tell me about his wife.”

“Olivia?”

“Has he another?”

“No, of course not. I don't know her well. Her father was the Duke of Avendale. I believe she was nineteen when she married Lovingdon. To be blunt, I think we were all a bit surprised that she'd marry someone considerably older. I don't believe she was wanting for suitors. I suspect the marriage had more to do with her father's wishes than hers.” She affectionately patted her husband's thigh. “We're not all fortunate to love the one we marry.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Are you going to serve as the lad's guardian?”

“Of course.”

“He can offer you nothing you can possibly need,” Luke said.

“Need has nothing to do with my decision. As you're well aware, I never turn my back on the opportunity to be wealthier than I am. Besides, now we'll be neighbors. I've inherited his London residence.”

“But serving as guardian is a great deal of responsibility, Mr. Dodger,” Catherine said.

“I don't think it'll be as bad as all that. Besides, I'm only obligated until the widow marries and then the duty will fall to her new husband.”

“I know the duchess well enough to recognize she places duty above all else and adheres to the strictures of society religiously. She'll honor her husband for the full two-year mourning period.”

“Then in two years and one day, I'll have a bloke waiting for her on bended knee.”

“You're going to arrange a marriage for her?” Catherine looked positively aghast by the notion.

Jack shrugged, knowing no matter what he did, Catherine would find fault with his plans. “I don't see any reason not to. I'm not in mourning.”

Besides, how difficult could it be to find the duchess a new husband? And money could purchase a good many things, including forgiveness for violating the rules of etiquette. Society might require that a widow mourn for two years, but Jack didn't see the need for her to mourn for more than a couple of weeks, if that.

A quiet ceremony and off to the country the happy little family could go. And Jack would have his lovely new residence all to himself.

 

“Wake up, darling,” Olivia whispered softly.

Henry blinked his eyes open. He'd taken his fair complexion, his blond hair from his father, but his eyes favored hers. He was such a curious lad, always studying the world around him, trying to discern how things worked. Lovingdon had spared his son little time, but then few fathers did. It was the way of things for fathers to leave their sons' upbringing to others. Perhaps Lovingdon's lack of involvement had convinced him that little thought needed to be given to the selection of a guardian—but even then, Olivia couldn't justify his choice.

Pressing a kiss to Henry's head, she inhaled the sweet, milky fragrance of the child. She could not possibly allow a criminal to raise him. The best way to avoid that was to get him as far away from Jack Dodger as possible.

“I need you to get up and get dressed. We're going to the family estate in the country,” Olivia told him.

The country estate was part of the entailment. It belonged to Henry and would put him beyond the reach of his appointed guardian. Once she was away from this madness, Olivia would be able to think more clearly and find a way to ensure Mr. Dodger had no influence over Henry. He seemed to be a man fond of coins. Perhaps she could turn the funds from her trust over to him. She would do whatever was necessary—do without, make sacrifices—to ensure Henry had the proper guidance. Nothing was more important to her than her son.

She turned to his nanny. “Helen, please pack a few things for Henry and yourself. I'm having a coach brought 'round to the front. We dare not tarry.”