Pure Temptation (3 page)

Moira O’Toole did not drop off to sleep easily. She worried excessively about the kind of trouble she had gotten herself into this time. From the moment she had flung herself from Lord Roger Mayhew’s moving coach and struck her head, she recalled nothing. From what she knew of men, which was blessed little, they were egotistical, lust-crazed wretches who demanded their way with helpless women. If they didn’t get what they wanted, they found ways to make women suffer. Did Jackson Graystoke live up to his nickname? she wondered bleakly as she pictured the man whose bed she occupied. He pretended to be a gentleman, but his intense gray eyes held the weariness of a man who had indulged freely and frequently in every vice known to man.

Was Black Jack—the very name made her shudder—a disciple of the infamous Hellfire Club like Lord Roger? She must be extremely careful, Moira told herself, or she’d find herself in another dangerous situation. Black Jack and his friend must never know her shameful secret. Moira had expected life in London to be difficult for a poor Irish immigrant, but never did she expect to encounter such unmitigated evil.

Clutching the gold locket circling her neck on its delicate chain, Moira thought of her sainted mother and how she would have despaired to see her daughter in such desperate straits. The locket was a cherished heirloom, a legacy from Moira’s grandmother, who had died giving birth to Mary, Moira’s mother. Mary had always cherished the locket, for it
bore the tiny faded likeness of a young man in uniform who Mary had always assumed was her father, Moira’s grandfather.

Haunted by her illegitimacy, Mary had given the locket to her daughter, Moira, explaining that it contained proof that she and Kevin had noble blood flowing through their veins. Moira’s mother had been told by the nuns who raised her that her father was an English nobleman who had deserted Mary’s pregnant mother.

“Mother, what am I to do?” Moira asked despondently, expecting no answer and getting none. Her cheeks wet with tears, she closed her eyes and slipped effortlessly toward sleep. She did not see Lady Amelia’s ghost hovering above the bed, but a tentative smile stretched Moira’s lips as a comforting warmth engulfed her, wrapping her in protective arms.

Jack awoke long after the sun made a belated appearance in an overcast sky. He stretched and yawned, disoriented at finding himself lying in a guest bed. Total recall came instantly. At this very moment, his bed was occupied by a woman he had run down in his carriage. He groaned in dismay. He could hardly afford to support himself, let alone assume responsibility for another human being. Yet what could he do? He had caused her injuries and couldn’t in all conscience throw her out on the street.

He rose quickly and rang for Pettibone. The servant, dressed somberly in unrelieved black, appeared almost immediately, bearing a tray containing a teapot and cup.

“Ah, Pettibone, you always seem to know just what I need. Though truth to tell a stiff brandy would serve me better. Something tells me I’m going to need fortifying today.”

“Are you referring to the young woman, sir?”

“Then I wasn’t dreaming.” Jack sighed. “I was hoping…Never mind. Is the woman awake?”

“Aye, Miss Moira is indeed awake. I took her up a tray just
moments ago. If I may be so bold, sir, you should engage a woman to see to her needs.”

“How in bloody hell am I supposed to pay for the services of a maid?” Jack wanted to know.

Pettibone did not offer a solution to Jack’s dilemma as he helped Jack dress and prepare for the day. By the time he finished eating his breakfast, Jack was ready to confront Moira about the idea he and Spence had hatched the day before. He knew it was a harebrained scheme, but the longer he thought about it the more the idea of passing off a woman of questionable virtue as a lady appealed to him. Making bloody fools of his peers filled him with wicked delight. And it did offer a solution to the perplexing problem concerning the future of the woman he had run down. The sooner he rid himself of the unwelcome burden, the better.

Struggling from bed, Moira used the chamber pot behind the screen and then returned to bed just moments before Jack rapped lightly on the door and barged into the room. He stood at the foot of the bed, legs spread wide, hands clasped behind his back, staring at her. Looking into his keenly intelligent gray eyes, Moira felt as if she had inadvertently dropped into the turbulent depths of a violent storm.

There was inherent strength in the bold lines of his face, she thought as her gaze settled on his lips. They were firm and sensual, set above a square chin that suggested a stubborn nature. He was a compelling, self-confident presence, one Moira had learned to fear from her dealings with Lord Roger.

Jack unclasped his hands and stood with his arms akimbo.

“How are you feeling, Miss O’Toole?”

“Better, thank you. I’ll be on my way in a day or two.”

Jack’s lips curled in amusement. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

Moira’s chin rose fractionally. “I won’t impose on you any
longer than necessary or accept charity. You’ve been very kind, but I must find work.”

“With a broken arm? There is still the possibility of pneumonia. You don’t even have a place to live, do you?”

Moira bit the soft underside of her lip. Everything Jack Graystoke said was true. Her life was in a shambles. Moreover, once she left the safety of Black Jack’s house, she’d likely find herself imprisoned in Newgate. But even that was preferable to being forced to participate in vile, heathenish rites.

Jack stared at Moira, enthralled by the silky-soft texture of her bright hair, so rich and heavy and lush it almost seemed alive. He couldn’t recall ever seeing hair that exact shade of red before. Not exactly auburn, not really red, more like burnished copper. When she returned his gaze with mock bravado, her eyes reminded him of sweet, wild honey.

“Most domestics live in,” she informed him. “I had no need for separate quarters.”

Jack eyed her narrowly. “Except for a delightful lilt, you speak flawless English. One could almost deduce that you have been educated beyond your station.”

Moira hung on to her temper by a slim thread. She thought his lazy drawl sounded somewhat condescending. “My mother insisted that my brother and I be educated. She taught us at home, and when she and my father could afford it, they hired a tutor.”

“I’m surprised they saw the need to educate you and your brother. It isn’t as if you’re gentry.”

Refusing to be goaded, Moira’s hand closed convulsively on her locket. She had only her mother’s fanciful notion that she came from noble stock. “My family are poor dirt farmers. Kevin is trying to eke a living for his wife and children out of the drought-ravished land left to him by our parents. Mama and Da died of typhus five years ago.”

“Who was your last employer?” Jack inquired. “Why were
you let go? What aren’t you telling me? Perhaps I should speak with him…”

Moira blanched. “No! Don’t bother, sir. I’ll be gone soon.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably. “You may have forgotten that it was my carriage that ran you down, but I haven’t. I intend to take care of you until you’re on your feet again.”

Moira gulped nervously. “Take care of me?” She didn’t even want to guess what he meant by that remark. “I can take care of myself.” It was shameless of her to let him go on thinking he was responsible for her injuries, but she had no choice.

“That’s all well and good, but I owe you my protection. If I hadn’t been foxed and hell-bent on driving at breakneck speed last night, I wouldn’t have run you down. Do you have any plans for your future? A promise of employment, perhaps?”

Though his question was innocent enough, Moira suspected an ulterior motive. It was with good reason that this man was called Black Jack. “I left Ireland to find work and earn money to help out my brother. He’s barely scraping by on the farm. My first employment didn’t work out, but I’ll find something soon.”

What Moira didn’t say was that it was unlikely she’d ever work as a servant again. Lord Roger had seen to that. Her only recourse was to return to Ireland and become another dependent on her poor brother, not that Kevin would mind. He’d welcome her with open arms, and so would his wife, Katie.

“Your meager servant’s pay won’t be enough to help your brother substantially,” Jack said, choosing his words carefully. Nor would a streetwalker’s earnings, he thought to himself. “Perhaps I can be of service.”

Moira sent him a wary look. “How so, sir?” Her gaze lifted to the faded wallpaper, continuing on to the worn draperies and threadbare carpet. It appeared as if Jackson Graystoke
wasn’t well-heeled enough to take care of his own affairs, let alone hers.

Noting the direction of her gaze, Jack shrugged philosophically. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss O’Toole, and you’re right. I’m nothing but an impoverished baronet who can’t even see to the upkeep of his own home. My main source of income arrives via the gaming table, and I must marry money soon or see my ancestral home fall down around my ears. But I’m not powerless to help you.”

“Why do you care?”

“I have accepted responsibility for your injuries. What in God’s name were you doing out so late on a raw night like last night?” He searched her face. “Were you meeting a lover?”

“What!” Her eyes blazed with outrage. “What makes you think that? I’m not like that. I thank you for your concern, but I’d rather not say.”

Jack mulled over her words, deciding there was more to Moira O’Toole than met the eye. She claimed to be from the serving class, but she neither talked nor acted like any servant he knew.

“Dr. Dudley said you’d be unable to use your arm for at least four weeks, so you may as well content yourself to remain here until you’re able to function on your own. Meanwhile, I’ll hire a maid to see to your needs.”

“There is no need. I’ll…”

“It’s all settled, Miss O’Toole.”

Before Moira could offer further protest, the jangle of a bell coming from somewhere in the far reaches of the old house caught her attention. She looked askance at Jack.

“Someone is at the door,” Jack said in response to her unasked question. “Pettibone will see to it. He’s the jack-of-all-trades around here. Couldn’t exist without him. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was about to ask if you have any preferences as to a maid.”

Moira was on the verge of denying her need for a maid
when Lord Fenwick burst into the chamber unannounced. “Ah, I see our little patient is alert this morning. Have you told her yet, Jack?”

Spence looked like a cat who had just swallowed a canary.

“Tell me what?” Moira asked sharply. Just what did Black Jack and his friend have in mind for her? Judging from the guilty expression on Jack’s face, it had to be something devious.

Jack sent Spence a blistering look. “Bloody hell, Spence, do you always speak without thinking? I haven’t said a word yet to Miss O’Toole, but I would have come around to it eventually.”

Moira certainly didn’t like the sound of
that.
“I don’t believe I’ll stay after all.” Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire? She started to climb out of bed but remembered she was wearing naught but a threadbare shift. It suddenly occurred to her that if Jack Graystoke had no maid, then he must have undressed her himself. Her face flamed scarlet and she jerked the covers up to her neck.

“We mean you no harm, Miss O’Toole,” Jack assured her, though he could see she wasn’t convinced. “What my precipitous friend here wanted to know was did I mention to you a plan we had discussed concerning your future.”

“Plan? Why should you care about my future? I’m not…” she gulped, unwilling to say the word aloud, “what you think.” Moira could tell by the way Jack talked that he thought her a fallen woman.

“It matters not one whit what you are, Miss O’Toole. As for your future, I told you I have assumed full responsibility for your accident. I merely want to right a wrong. There is nothing evil in my intent, so don’t reject something that could benefit you greatly. Hear me out.”

What choice did she have? Moira wondered. She was injured and helpless in a strange bed, in a strange house, wearing naught but her shift. She had no money, nowhere to live
and no one to turn to for help. So far, Sir Jack Graystoke had made no demands on her, had in fact accepted full responsibility for her “accident” and offered amends. The least she could do was listen with an open mind.

“Very well, Sir Graystoke, what is this plan you and Lord Fenwick have devised for me?”

“First let me explain. Spence is in line for a dukedom and will do nothing to damage his reputation. He’s a marquess in his own right. Thank God I do not aspire to so noble a rank. My young cousin, Ailesbury, is welcome to the title.”

“Get on with it, Jack,” Spence nagged. “I’m sure Miss O’Toole has no interest in my family tree or your lack of title.”

“Sorry. I merely wanted to impress upon Miss O’Toole that we mean her no harm.” He turned to Moira, impaling her with the gray intensity of his eyes. “Since you are temporarily unemployable, Miss O’Toole, with no prospects of future work, Spence and I have come up with a solution to your dilemma.”

Moira’s warm golden gaze settled disconcertingly on Jack, making him decidedly uncomfortable. “I refuse to be used for vile purposes. Others have tried and failed.”

Jack stared at her through narrowed lids. What in bloody hell did she mean by that remark? What vile purposes was she referring to? “My dear Miss O’Toole, Spence and I have no designs on your person. You are perfectly safe with us.”

Moira looked skeptical but gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Go on, sir, I’m listening.”

“If you agree to the little escapade Spence and I propose, I can promise you a grand adventure. Moreover, if it works out as we expect, you will never have to worry about money again. You’ll be able to better your own lot and provide for your brother’s family.”

Moira’s eyes widened in disbelief. “How do you propose to do that?”

Jack perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a lady? To belong to the gentry?”