In Bed With the Devil (4 page)

His nurse rose from her chair near his bed, where she'd been embroidering. She curtsied. “My lady.”

“How is he?”

“All bathed and tidied up, awaiting your afternoon visit.”

Catherine walked to the foot of the bed and smiled down on her father. She thought she saw pleasure in his blue eyes, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking on her part. “It's a lovely day. I should have a servant carry you into the garden.”

He didn't react to her suggestion, other than to blink.

She wondered if he'd be embarrassed—or grateful—to be carted down. It was so difficult to know what to do.

“Temperance, before you take some time for yourself, please have the servants move the chaise longue from the morning room to the garden and then send a footman up to carry my father down.”

“If I may be so bold, my lady, I'm not certain his physician would agree with that action. It may do more harm than good.”

Then Catherine might have her father's death on her conscience. Avendale's she could live with, but her father's—

She sighed. “Ask his physician the next time he comes to check on the duke.”

“Yes, my lady.”

It seemed as though Catherine could do so little to make her father comfortable.

“I'll be visiting with my father for the next hour,” Catherine told her. “Take some time for yourself.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Catherine sat in the chair and took her father's hand. He moved his head only slightly to look at
her. He awkwardly rubbed the ring she'd begun wearing on her right hand.

“I've taken to wearing Mother's wedding ring. Is that all right?”

He made a sound deep in his throat. Taking a linen handkerchief from a stack on the bedside table, she wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth.

“I wish you could tell me what you wanted.” She brushed her fingers through his thinning silver hair. “I hope you're not in pain.”

With a sigh, she sat back and lifted a book from the bedside table. “Let's see what sort of trouble Oliver and the Artful Dodger are going to get into today, shall we?”

 

“Expected to be collecting from you sooner,” Jack said as he welcomed Luke into their establishment that evening.

“I went away for a bit.”

Three days to be exact. The worst part was when he returned from the brink of despair, when the liquor had served its purpose and its effect began fading. His head hurt, his stomach roiled, and he felt like bloody hell. It was a strange thing for a man such as he, a man who'd done the things he'd done, to be hit with a bit of conscience. It was always worse at night, when he faced his own demons alone. All that would change once he married Frannie. She'd distract him from his somber musings. She'd bring light into his darkness. She'd be his salvation.

“Into a bottle?” Jack asked.

“I don't see that it's any of your concern.”

Jack shrugged. “It's not. I just wondered if I should send another case of my finest Irish whiskey round to your residence.”

Luke hated admitting his weakness, even to Jack. “Yes, see to it. Tonight if possible.”

“Consider it done.”

Luke was well aware of Jack studying him. He also knew his friend wouldn't ask what had prompted his latest fall, so Luke was surprised when he heard himself blurt, “I had a visit from Lady Catherine Mabry.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “Mabry?”

“Daughter to the Duke of Greystone.”

One of Jack's eyebrows shot up. “My, my. Aren't we keeping distinguished company of a sudden?”

“She wanted me to kill someone.”

His other brow shot up. “Who's the unlucky bloke?”

“She wouldn't say.”

“I assume you declined to do her bidding.”

“You assume correctly.”

“Were you bothered that she had little doubt you could carry out her request?”

He was bothered by the fact that she thought he
would
carry it out. With no explanation, no justification as though he was a man accustomed to washing blood off his hands. But he wasn't going to confess all that to Jack so he held his silence.

Jack slapped him on the shoulder. “Don't be troubled, my friend. They're no better than we are; the only difference is we know it, recognize our faults, and readily admit to having them.”

“I'm supposed to be one of them, Jack.” But he'd never felt comfortable around them, never felt as though he belonged.

“But we both know you're not.”

Jack was the only one who knew the truth of Luke's deceptions, knew he'd pretended to recall what the old gent wanted him to.

“No, I'm not.”

“Don't know why you feel so damned guilty about it.”

“I grew fond of the old gent. It didn't seem quite right to deceive him.”

The old gent had loved Luke because he'd thought Luke was his grandson. It was one thing to fool someone into giving him a coin so his stomach wouldn't ache when he went to sleep that night. It wasn't quite as easy to swallow the notion that he had tricked someone into giving him his heart.

“You made him happy, Luke. It's not often that we're able to do something that causes a person to die as the old gent did, content and satisfied, knowing that his kingdom was safe in your hands—and believing that in your hands it rightfully belonged. Draw some comfort in that.”

He tried. He really did. “I'm taking Frannie out for a while.”

Jack grinned cockily, but then everything about him was cocky and self-assured. He'd even swaggered when they were in prison, as though it were all a grand joke, when Luke had never been more terrified in his entire life.

“Finally going to do it, huh?” Jack asked.

“I think you've made enough money off me.”

“I'll never have enough, but you're right. I'm tired of collecting on this wager. It's grown boring. Go make her—and yourself—happy.”

That was Luke's plan as he strode through the establishment, briefly acknowledging those of his acquaintance, until he made his way to the back where he knew he'd find Frannie. She did her good works during the daylight hours, but at night she saw to Jack's books. She was sitting at the desk, with her hair pinned up in a no-nonsense type of bun. She wore her usual non-enticing clothing and yet he was enticed, as always.

“Good evening, Frannie.”

She glanced up, without being startled this time. He'd no doubt caught her before she'd immersed herself fully in the numbers.

“I expected you to come by sooner for an accounting of how I spent your donation.”

“I was occupied with other business. Besides, I told you that you didn't owe me an accounting. I was wondering, however, if you might be willing to take a ride with me in the coach.”

“Whatever for?”

“I just thought it would be nice to get away from Jack's books for a while. There's no fog yet and London at night can be quite breathtaking. I'd like to share it with you.”

“You sound so mysterious.”

“We've not had much time together of late, and I always enjoy your company, as you well know.”

“I could show you the children's home. The building is almost completed.”

“I'd like that.”

As she stood, she gave him the same sweet smile that always warmed him. He snatched her shawl from the hat rack near the door and draped it around her shoulders. Then he extended his arm. Shyly, she placed her hand on his forearm. Neither spoke a word until they reached his coach and the footman opened the door. She halted as Luke was assisting her inside. Her smile bright, she looked back over her shoulder at him. “It's filled with flowers.”

“Yes, I thought they'd bring you pleasure.”

“They must have cost you a fortune.”

He heard the gentle scolding in her voice. She didn't believe in frivolous spending, and her attitude only served to diminish his pleasure at giving her a gift.

“I can well afford it, Frannie.”

“You're far too generous, Luke.”

Sometimes he didn't think he was generous enough. She climbed inside, and he followed, sitting opposite her, the fragrance of the flowers almost nauseating. An abundance of bouquets were arranged on either side of her. He'd have his footman carry them to her living quarters when they returned.

As the coach rolled along the street, the dim light of the lantern inside allowed him to have a shadowy view of her. He always took such delight in watching her, and the confines of the conveyance created an intimacy that he'd not been able to achieve while she sat at her desk with her ledgers before her. Leaning forward, he took her bare hands in his. While he knew it was improper for his bare skin to touch hers, it somehow seemed ap
propriate at this moment. He'd memorized Shakespeare's twenty-ninth sonnet to recite to her, but he suddenly felt that he should rely on his own words, as inadequate as they might be. “Frannie, I adore you. I always have. Will you honor me by becoming my wife?”

Her smile withered, her fingers tightened around his. She shook her head jerkily. “Luke, I can't,” she whispered hoarsely, and he heard the terror in her voice.

He closed his hands more firmly around hers. “Frannie—”

“Luke, please—”

“Frannie, allow me to finish.”

She nodded.

“I know your only experience”—how to say it without terrifying her more—“with a man was nothing short of brutal, but I assure you that in my bed you'll find nothing except tenderness. I will be as gentle as a man can possibly be. I will never force you, nor will I rush you. I'll wait until you're ready. It will be good between us, Frannie. I swear to you.”

He saw tears brimming in her eyes. “Please don't cry, sweetheart.”

She lifted his hands and pressed her lips to his knuckles. “I know you would never harm me, Luke, but you are a lord and I”—she released a bitter laugh—“I don't even know my real name. Do you think there is actually a family somewhere in London named Darling who has no idea what happened to their daughter? I'm Frannie Darling because that's how Feagan referred to me. ‘Frannie, darling, rub my feet.' ‘Frannie, darling, fetch
me a cuppa gin.' And so when your grandfather asked me my name, I said Frannie Darling. I was a child. What did I know?”

“I don't care about your origins,” he said roughly.

“You know who your family is. I have no idea, and a lady who becomes a peer should know.”

He could confess to her that he didn't know who his family was any more than she did hers, but to know of his deceit wouldn't endear him to her. If anything it could cause him to lose her completely. While she'd always known he harbored doubts about the old gent, she'd never known that his doubts were justified, that he'd done all in his power to convince the old gent he was his grandson. She'd never known that he'd lied, deceived, tricked the old gent into seeing what he wanted to see. Death waiting in the shadows was a powerful motivator, but even then he didn't think she'd forgive him for taking so much that didn't belong to him. But he was spoiled now from having. He didn't want to give it back. He wouldn't give it back.

“Frannie, don't think of yourself as becoming a peer. Think of yourself as becoming my wife. That's all that matters to me.”

“How can you say that, Luke? Good Lord, you sit in the House of Lords. The responsibility that comes with your position is overwhelming. And it falls to the wife to know all manner of etiquette and rules. When we have people over for dinner—”

“We won't have dinners.”

“And when I'm presented to the queen? Do you
know how I am to dress? Do you know what behavior I must and must not exhibit?”

“You could learn. The old gent gave you lessons. He hired tutors.”

“They taught me to read, write, cipher, and speak properly. But dear God, Luke, your grandfather never expected me to become a peer. He saw that I was taught to serve, not to be served.

“Please don't ask this of me. I owe you everything. You saved my life.” Tears rolled along her cheeks. “But please don't ask this of me. Please don't ask me to step into your world. The very thought of it terrifies me. It would be such a lonely place.”

The very reason he wanted her there. Because he was so damned lonely. There were times when he thought he'd die of the loneliness, times when he could imagine no worse hell than to be caught between two worlds. To live in one, but belong in the other.

“Frannie—”

“Please, Luke, I don't want to hurt you, but I can't marry you. I simply can't. It will destroy me.”

“You're stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

“But I'm not as strong as you. I could never do the things you've done.”

Sometimes, he thought that he'd have been better off letting them drop the noose around his neck.

“Is there nothing I can say to sway you?” he asked.

Slowly she shook her head.

With a sigh, he released her hands, leaned back, and gazed out the window. The fog was rolling in. It somehow seemed symbolic. “I hope you don't mind if I'd rather not go see your children's home.”

“I'm so frightfully sorry—”

“Don't, Frannie, don't keep apologizing. It only makes matters worse.”

“I do love you, you know,” she said softly.

Which only served to make everything all the more unbearable.

 

Luke lined up his little soldiers, grateful for the bottles of whiskey that Jack had seen delivered tonight as promised. Then Luke sat in his chair and began gulping the contents of the first bottle.

Frannie had refused him and cut him to the core by doing it. He'd put off asking her to marry him not because he'd thought she'd deny him, but because he couldn't quite convince himself that he was deserving of her—that he was deserving of any woman.