Between the Devil and Desire (5 page)

She frowned. “It's been a while, Jack. 'aven't found someone else, 'ave ye?”

“No, just distracted. How are things going with the other girls?”

Prudence oversaw the girls who worked here, made certain they understood the rules, stayed clean, weren't abused. “Things are good, but I think yer goin' to lose Annie. One of the lords offered to set 'er up as 'is mistress.”

“Does she want it?”

She nodded. “'e's a good bloke.”

“Make sure she understands he'll never marry her.”

“She knows, Jack. 'ell, we all know what we are.”

“What you are, Pru, is a bit of wickedness. Every now and then a man needs that.”

She winked at him. “Well, let me know when you need some. I'm still yer girl.”

With a flourish, she returned to where her gentleman waited for her. Lately Pru was the only working girl Jack availed himself of. He didn't need jealousy among his girls. He paid Pru very, very well—not because she
was particularly good, but because she never expected more from him than he was capable of giving.

He turned away from the room where men enjoyed the company of women.

Strolling back through the gaming room, he acknowledged a few of the gents. It was long after midnight, but still the room was crowded and spirits were high. Sin possessed no timepiece, which suited Jack well as he required little sleep.

He shoved open the door that led to the back rooms where his business was managed. He stopped by an open doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and watched as Frannie Darling made precise notations in his ledgers. She'd been one of Feagan's children as well—the only one whose skillful hands had matched Jack's. No one had ever brought in as much booty as the two of them had.

Her red hair was pulled back into a bun, but it didn't seem to draw the skin tautly across her cheeks the way the duchess's had. Like the duchess, she also wore black, not because she was in mourning, but because she didn't wish to draw attention to herself. Jack had once bought her a dress of emerald green. He preferred bold colors and had thought she'd look beautiful in it. She'd blushed and thanked him profusely, but as far as he knew, she'd never worn it. She didn't like for gents to notice her, but notice her they did. Jack didn't think a single one of Feagan's lads hadn't fallen in love with her at one time or another. Even he wasn't immune to her charms.

Looking up, Frannie gave him the impish, shy smile that had won many a lad's heart. “There you are. You were gone a rather long time.”

“The meeting turned out to be far more complicated than I expected.”

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, but you need to be aware of some changes that are likely to occur.”

“I'm not certain I like the sound of that.”

Stepping inside, he glanced around. Unlike the residence he'd just left, this room was sparsely furnished with a desk and three chairs. The walls were plain. One set of small shelves held the ledgers that provided a history of his business. Against another wall was a couch. He wasn't certain what she used it for. She certainly didn't sleep there. Her bed was in an apartment accessed through an alley and stairs at the back of the building. He had his own apartment there as well, as did most of his employees. Cost him a bloody fortune, but a happy worker didn't take from the till.

“Why don't you sit down?” Frannie said.

Shaking his head, Jack took a step nearer and folded his hands around the top of the leather chair in front of her desk. “I spent too much of the night sitting.” He jerked his head toward the open books spread across her desk. Frannie was a genius when it came to ciphering. Perhaps because Feagan would sit her on his lap and let her count the handkerchiefs and coins that the others collected through the day. He might not have realized it, but he'd given her a skill that served them all very well. “Did we have a profitable night?”

“We always have a profitable night. You're going to die a wealthy man, Jack.”

Her voice contained a sadness that he didn't miss. He knew she objected to the importance he placed on
money. He grinned. “Wealthier than I'd anticipated. The Duke of Lovingdon left me a fortune.”

Her green eyes widened. “Why?”

“Bloody hell if I know.” His fingers dug into the leather of the chair. “Did you ever speak to him?”

“Why would I?”

“He visited here on occasion.”

“You know I avoid the gaming area as much as possible.” Fine liquor made their customers friendlier than they might have been otherwise and caused them to misjudge their own appeal. The gaming area was not the place for a lady who wished to avoid the advances of men.

“He was also an acquaintance of Luke's grandfather. I vaguely remember meeting him at the Claybourne residence, showing him the locket.”

“What locket?”

The locket contained a miniature of his mother. The night she'd sold him, she'd given it to him with the admonishment, “Never forget that I loved you, Jack.”

Loved
. He'd never known what he'd done to lose her love. In time, he'd stopped trying to figure it out. He'd put all his mental abilities toward surviving.

The day he'd met Lovingdon, he'd been in Claybourne's garden, studying his mother's features as drawn on the miniature, trying to determine if she would be disappointed in him if he didn't take advantage of all that the earl was offering him. He'd hated being in that fancy house. It had reminded him of another…

Jack shook his head. “It's not important. I thought perhaps you'd spoken with him at Claybourne's.”

“Not that I recall.”

“I don't suppose it matters. What's important is for
you to know I agreed to serve as guardian of his heir, so I may not be around as much as usual.”

“Why you?”

“That seems to be the question everyone's asking, and again, I haven't a bloody clue.”

“I think you'll make a remarkable guardian.”

Jack laughed. In spite of being raised on the streets, Frannie possessed a bit of innocence when it came to Feagan's lads. She always believed some goodness resided in them, even when it was buried so deeply they couldn't find it themselves.

“Are you going to tell Luke about your change in fortune?” Frannie asked.

“I already did. I saw him earlier.” He squinted. “I don't think he's quite forgiven me for my part in his parents' death.” It had been only two months since Luke had learned the truth of that fateful day twenty-five years ago, a day that had changed all their lives.

“It's not your fault. You were only a child. You didn't know what the man had planned when he paid you to lure the family into the alley.”

That's what Jack had claimed, and it wasn't entirely a lie. He hadn't known specifics, but he knew evil when it stared at him. He'd ignored his suspicions because he'd wanted the sixpence. He lived with the regret every day. He hoped the same wouldn't be true of the bargain he'd struck tonight. He slapped the top of the chair. “I'd best get to my business, make sure all matters have been taken care of so I'm free in the morning to oversee arrangements regarding my new possessions.”

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Frannie said softly.

Jack couldn't shake off an ominous sense of foreboding. “Condolences, most like.” He winked at her. “'Night, Frannie.”

He strode down the hallway, stopped in his office to gather up his tobacco and pipe, and continued on to the door that led outside. He stepped into the night. The fog had grown thicker, hampering visibility. He wondered if he'd find fog in the country. He might have to eventually look over his ward's estates. Might prove interesting. London was all he knew, but he knew it very well.

Leaning against the wall, he stuffed his clay pipe, struck a match, lit the tobacco, and began puffing until the tantalizing aroma was swirling through him. It was a much richer blend than he'd had as a lad. Still, it took him back to a time when life had been simple, reduced to collecting a certain number of handkerchiefs per day. Jack hadn't been content with the silk. He'd preferred watches, jewelry, and other sparkly items that brought a fair price from fences. He didn't always take his stash to Feagan. He developed his own contacts. If Luke's grandfather hadn't taken him in, he had little doubt he'd have become a kidsman with his own den of thieves that would have eventually rivaled Feagan's for notoriety. That had been his goal, anyway. To become the most famous, to be the one about whom ballads were sung and stories were written.

He'd planned to teach boys in the artful ways of thievery. And now he was supposed to train a lad to be honest and upstanding, to sit in the House of Lords and help to govern a nation.

H
enry Sidney Stanford, the seventh Duke of Lovingdon, knew his porridge was growing cold—and he detested cold porridge because it became all slimy going down his throat—but he was afraid if he tried to eat he might choke and die.

Of late, he was very much concerned with dying.

He didn't really understand it. He knew only that his father had died so they'd put him in a nice box, like his nanny did the toys he no longer played with. And he hadn't seen his father since. But his nanny had warned him that if he ate too quickly, he could choke and die.

He wasn't going to eat quickly, but he was very nervous and it felt like he had swallowed the ball his father would sometimes toss to him. It was because of the man. The man who had been in the coach. The man who had come for his mother last night. He was in the nursery now, walking around, looking at things. Every once in a while he would peer over at Henry, and when he did, the ball lodged in Henry's throat would grow larger.

“How long have you been his nanny?” the man asked.

“Since shortly after he was born, milord, I mean…sir,” Henry's nanny answered, with a quick curtsy.

Henry's mother called her Helen; Henry was supposed to call her Miss Tuppin. But he always stammered when he tried to say her name, and she would rap his knuckles with a little stick she carried in her skirt pocket, so he never called her by name unless he absolutely had to.

She only whacked him when no one was around. He knew it was because she cared about him, and the fact that he wasn't a good boy was their secret. She didn't want to smack him, but he left her no choice. He didn't understand that, either. He knew only that he didn't want his mother to know he did things that earned him a smack. She thought he was a good boy, and even though it was a lie, he wanted her to keep thinking it so she would love him.

“So this is the day nursery?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And where he was sleeping last night?”

“The night nursery, sir.”

“When does Lord Henry move to a proper bedroom?”

“He's not Lord Henry, sir. Never was actually. He was Lord Ashleigh. Of course, now he's the duke. His Grace.”

“Quite right. And when does His Grace move to a proper bedroom?”

“When he's eight.”

“There are rules even for childhood, I see.”

“Yes, sir.” Miss Tuppin looked over at Henry. “We don't always like them, but we must follow them.”

“Do you like rules, Henry?” the man asked.

Henry dropped his gaze to his nanny's skirt pocket, the one where she kept the stick that he was to tell no one about, and shook his head.

The man laughed. “Good lad. I think we'll get along.”

The man was tall, like Henry's father had been. They were all supposed to wear black now that Henry's father had died, but the man was wearing a dark purple waistcoat. Henry wondered if he should tell the man about that rule.

The man pulled out a chair, turned it around, and straddled the seat, folding his arms over the backrest. Henry had never seen anyone sit like that. He was certain it was the wrong way to sit, but Miss Tuppin didn't whack the man. Maybe she was afraid of him.

“Do you know who I am, Henry?”

Henry nodded, then shook his head. He sort of knew. The man upset his mother, but he'd also lifted Henry's mother into his arms with a great deal of care. And he'd looked at her as though he liked her as much as Henry did.

“My name is Jack Dodger. You may call me Jack.”

“Sir, I don't mean to interfere, but that's not proper and he'll develop bad habits,” Miss Tuppin said. “He should call you ‘Mr. Dodger.' And if I might be so bold, you should call him ‘Your Grace.'”

“You'll find, sweets, I'm not one for rules and have quite a few bad habits of my own.” He looked at Henry the entire time he spoke. “You and I have that in common. I don't like rules either. Your father asked me to serve as your guardian. Do you know what a guardian is?”

Henry shook his head.

“It's the person who protects you. If anyone ever hurts you, all you have to do is tell me and I will see to it that the person never harms you again.”

Henry shifted his gaze to Miss Tuppin. Her mouth was set in the hard line it always was when she whacked him. He looked back at Jack.

“I'm sorry your father died,” Jack said.

“Is your f-father dead?”

“Probably. The truth is, Henry, I never knew my father. So, you see, we have something else in common. Neither of us has a father.”

“Will he c-come back?”

Jack arched a brow. “Who? Your father?”

Henry nodded.

Jack suddenly looked sad. “No, lad, he won't. But he's asked me to take care of you, so if there's anything you need—” He started to rise.

“A puppy!” Henry blurted.

The man stopped. “You need a puppy?”

Henry nodded quickly.

Jack winked at him. “We'll see about that.”

He walked out of the room. Henry looked at Miss Tuppin. Her gaze was on the door, and she was chewing her bottom lip like she was thinking about something very hard.

“Eat your porridge, Henry.”

Even though the porridge was slimy, he did as he was told, because her hand had slipped into her pocket.

 

Olivia stretched beneath the covers. She still had a headache, her throat had become raw, and her eyes felt gritty. The laudanum had helped her sleep, but it had
failed to relieve her of the symptoms of mourning. She wondered how long they would linger.

Then the lethargy wore off and she remembered the horror of discovering the terms of her husband's will. She sat up abruptly and held her aching head. Her hair tumbled around her. When had she loosened it? Had she gone to bed without braiding it? Then her gaze fell on her hairpins, lined up neatly on the bedside table.

Only, it wasn't her bedside table. God help her, it wasn't her bed.

With mounting horror, she glanced around the room. Her husband's bedchamber.

Before last night, she'd only ever come in here once, a silly attempt to seduce her husband when he'd failed to come to her bed for more than a year after Henry had been born. She'd thought perhaps he wasn't aware she was fully recovered from birthing and could return to her wifely duties. Instead, she'd discovered he'd not wanted her any longer. He had his heir. He'd looked at her with pity. She feared she'd looked at him with desperation. She wasn't even certain why she'd gathered her courage to go to him. It wasn't as though he'd been affectionate in bed. Perhaps because a brief touch was better than no touch at all. He'd not been a passionate man.

He'd been nothing like Jack Dodger.

That thought caused her heart to thunder. The manner in which he'd looked at her—as though he knew all her secret desires and was capable of satisfying them. The heat in his eyes made her shiver, not from cold, but from the longing to have a man gaze at her as though she were desirable. She'd always been the good
daughter, the good wife, the good mother, the good woman. Duty above all else. But suddenly, too much was being asked of her. What was Lovingdon's purpose in bringing Jack Dodger into her life?

And how had she come to be in this bed?

Dear God, perhaps it wasn't her husband who had gone mad, but her. She didn't remember coming here. She was still fully clothed, save for her shoes. She remembered taking a small amount of laudanum to help relieve her headache, then reading to Henry. Afterward she was supposed to meet with Mr. Dodger—to convince him that letting them travel to the country was in the best interest of all. She'd simply wanted to take a moment to gather her strength before facing him. She'd closed her eyes…

And now she was here.

Had Jack Dodger sought her out? Had he brought her to his bed? Had he had his way with her? She didn't feel as though she'd been touched. She felt no tenderness between her legs. Surely after nearly six years of not lying with a man, she would be aware if one had bedded her. There would be some indication. As there was none, she could only deduce that, if Mr. Dodger had brought her to this bed, nothing untoward had occurred. He'd kept his word. Imagine that.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. What sort of wantonness was taking possession of her?

Drawing up her legs, she rested her forehead against her knees. She didn't want to face the day. She wanted to run away. To the country. To a field of green grass and yellow flowers. She wanted to take off her shoes and dance bare
foot. She wanted to laugh. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. She was all of five and twenty, but of late she felt as though she was nearer to a hundred.

She wanted to crawl back under the covers, go to sleep, and wake up to discover that the reading of the will had been a dream. But duty called.

And Henry. Dear Lord, what if Mr. Dodger had decided to take his responsibilities seriously and seek out Henry? She had to check on her child. She scrambled out of bed and scurried to the door. Opening it, she peered out. No sign of the dreadful Mr. Dodger.

She slipped into the hallway and hurried to the nursery. To her immense relief, Henry was sitting at the short table eating his morning porridge. “Is everything all right, darling?” she asked.

He nodded. “The m-man said I c-could have a p-puppy.”

“The man? What man? A puppy?”

“Mr. Dodger, Your Grace,” Helen said. “He spent a few moments with the young duke this morning.”

Olivia's heart fairly stopped. “Did you leave them alone?”

“No, Your Grace. As a matter of fact, Mr. Dodger insisted I stay in attendance so I could report firsthand anything you wished to know about his visit.”

“Oh. Well.” Her heart returned to its rhythmic beating. “That was rather considerate and unexpected of him.”

“He's very different from what I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don't think there's anyone who hasn't heard of Jack Dodger. He's rather notorious in some parts of London. But he seemed right nice this morning.”

“Did he use profanity?”

“No, he just asked if the young duke needed anything.” She smiled. “And of course, he said, ‘a puppy,' because he's been on about that for months now. Mr. Dodger said he would see about it.”

Cursing the man's ambiguity, she walked into the room and knelt beside her son. “Darling, that doesn't mean he's going to get you a puppy.”

“B-but he said.”

“His words meant that he might, but he probably won't, because they're such a lot of bother.”

“I-I'd take g-good care of it.”

“I know you would.” She sighed. “I'll talk to him about it.”

Henry gave her a sweet smile. She hugged him tightly. He was so precious. How he would change under Mr. Dodger's tutelage. “Now I need to get ready for the day.”

She went to her room and tugged on the bellpull to summon Maggie. Her maid had already put away the things she'd packed for their hasty departure last night. Olivia spotted the leather ledger on her secretary. She had tucked it into her satchel because she'd wanted to study it when they reached the country estate. She walked to her desk and turned back the leather cover. Everything was so meticulously written out, with detailed descriptions—

Her breath caught. She reread the words written on the first page. She released a furious screech just as Maggie walked into the room.

“Your Grace—”

“Where's Mr. Dodger?” she asked succinctly.

“He's in the breakfast dining room.”

“Help me to get ready quickly. I have a few choice words for him.”

 

“The coach is my son's!”

Jack looked up from the page he'd been reading in his ledger while enjoying a leisurely breakfast. The duchess had arrived and she was furious. And in her fury she was breathtakingly beautiful. How had he failed to miss that last night? Or was it simply that a good night's rest had brought color to her cheeks and washed away her weariness? Mentally shaking himself free of her spell, he came to his feet. “Good morning, Olivia. Did you sleep well?”

“Don't take that tone with me.”

“What? Cordiality? I'd have thought you'd appreciate it.”

“Innocence. Do not pretend to be innocent.” She marched toward him, tapping her ledger as she came. “You accused me of trying to steal from you, yet you knew good and well that the coach belonged to my son.”

“I fear I did not. It's listed in my ledger.”

“Show me.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don't believe I will.”

“It's listed on page one of this ledger. If you don't show me yours, I shall assume you purposely lied and I shall so inform Mr. Beckwith who will no doubt reconsider whether or not to honor the first will.”

Jack would take her to court before he'd have the first will set aside now. “Show me yours…and I'll show you mine,” he challenged in a low voice.

She studied him for a moment as though she should read something else into his words, and for the life of him, he wasn't certain if she should or not. He wasn't accustomed to flirting with women in order to lure them into his bed. He paid for the women he wanted. Nothing else was required of him except parting with his coins. With the duchess, he had the uncomfortable feeling something more was going on between them and that it could lead him down a path he didn't wish to take.

As though making up her mind, she slapped the ledger on the table, turned back the cover, and placed her finger on the page. “There.”

Slowly he lowered his gaze from her triumphant expression to the words written so neatly. “Black coach with ducal crest. Ah, I see.”

“What precisely do you see?”

“A mistake, obviously. The duke put the conveyance in both ledgers.”