Surrender to the Devil (18 page)

Drawing back, he clamped his hand beneath her chin. “Much remains unresolved between us, but never think for a single moment that I don’t desire you. Sleep well, Frannie.”

Later, leaning back in his coach, Sterling slipped his thumb into his waistcoat pocket and smiled. His pocket watch was missing. Her taking of it was an invitation, if he’d ever received one. He was looking forward to accepting.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed with the lamp turned low, Frannie watched as Jimmy slept. Poor lad. She was familiar enough with Sykes to know that Jimmy would worry about retribution if he didn’t return to his mentor. Sykes had been a bully as a lad, a monster as an adult. He cared for no one save himself, and while Frannie had not seen him since she was twelve, she walked the rookeries often enough in her search for orphans to hear stories about him.

She slipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew Greystone’s watch. She wanted to see him again, and she hoped that by taking his watch she’d sent him the message. A message he would understand.

He might never realize how deeply it touched her that he’d sent for her instead of a constable. If only she could get others to do the same. If these children never had to experience gaol or prison or any sort of punishment. If only her work could make a difference.

She wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but she awoke with her neck aching and sunlight filtering into the room. Jimmy was still asleep.

“Miss Darling?”

With a smile, she looked to the doorway, where Mrs. Prosser, the headmistress of the orphanage, stood. “Good morning.”

Mrs. Prosser gave a quick curtsy. Frannie couldn’t convince her that she wasn’t deserving of one. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but a gentleman is here to see you.”

She felt her smile grow. Greystone had wasted no time in returning to reclaim his watch. Perhaps he’d join her for a bit of breakfast. But when she stepped into the foyer, it wasn’t Greystone who waited for her, but a small man with a ruddy complexion and a balding pate that was only visible because he’d removed his hat and was squeezing it between his chapped hands.

“May I help you, sir?” she asked.

“I’m here to help you, ma’am. I’m a cobbler. His Grace, the Duke of Greystone, has hired me to see that all the lads here have proper fitting shoes.”

Frannie felt the tears sting her eyes at yet another example of Greystone’s generosity. “He did, did he?”

“Yes, ma’am. Whenever a lad needs new shoes, you just send word to me and I’ll be by to take measurements. His Grace will pay for all the shoes you need.”

“That’s very generous of him.”

“Aye, ma’am. I’ve brought plenty of paper with me. If you’ll line the boys up, I’ll start taking their measurements, so I can get to work back at my shop.”

After setting some of the staff to work gathering up the boys, she returned to the bedroom where Jimmy had been sleeping to discover he wasn’t there.

“Mrs. Prosser?”

Mrs. Prosser hurried into the room. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The boy who was sleeping here, did you do something with him? Send him for a bath perhaps?”

“No, ma’am. When I left he was sleeping.”

Frannie was fairly certain it was futile, but she had everyone search the building and grounds for more than an hour. No one caught sight of a scraggly boy who answered to the name of Jimmy. She felt that she’d not only let Jimmy down, but Greystone as well.

Standing in the darkened alleyway, Sterling reached into his waistcoat pocket for his watch before remembering that its absence was the very reason he was here now. It was habit to take out his watch, flip it open, and look at the time—even though he’d not be able to see its face in the darkness. He’d instructed his driver to park his coach on the street at the end of the alleyway. If Swindler or Dodger was about, he didn’t want either of them to know that he was. There was also the possibility that he’d misread Frannie’s taking of his watch. Perhaps she intended to pawn it in order to acquire the few coins needed to feed the little urchin who’d stolen into his residence.

Or as he hoped, perhaps it was an invitation. He’d gone into Dodger’s briefly and cornered one of the lads who ran errands. He’d confirmed that Miss Frannie was seeing to the books. With any luck, she’d be finished shortly and Sterling would approach her and invite her to join him for a late-night repast in his residence or a late-night ride in his coach. She’d initiated this encounter and he was content to let her dictate the pace of things. Since Claybourne’s visit, Sterling wasn’t quite sure what he wanted of her any longer. Considering her past, seducing her for his own pleasure seemed inherently wrong. He couldn’t deny that he still wanted her, but he recognized that he wanted her for more than one night. He wanted to undo the harshness of her past, he wanted to introduce her to the sensual pleasures that she should have known all along.

He could make her his mistress, provide for her orphanage, get her out of Dodger’s. For years. They could find a satisfying happiness. Yes, eventually he would have to marry some lord’s daughter, but he knew many men who had a wife and a mistress. It was the way of things. Of course, there was still the problem of saddling her with a blind man, denying her marriage, which she deserved, and her own children, who deserved her. No, making her his mistress was not the way to go. It was dreadfully selfish, and while he’d always seen to his own pleasures first, where she was concerned, he was more interested in hers.

The back door opened and she stepped out onto the stoop. After she locked the door, she brought the hood of her cloak up over her head. A strange thing to do when her apartment was so near. It was certainly chilly out tonight, but…

She hurried down the alleyway, passing by the stairs that led up to her apartment. Where was she going?

By nature he was not in the habit of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But her movements were those of someone not wishing to be discovered. He told himself it was none of his business as he began walking briskly yet quietly in her direction. Coincidence, on his part. His coach was just around the corner, after all.

Frannie had finished with her books as quickly as possible. She wanted to get to the rookeries while children were still out and about, while men were not completely foxed, while women hadn’t taken their last customer to bed. She’d spent most of the day prowling the area for Jimmy with no luck. But the atmosphere was different at night. Sometimes Feagan also haunted the streets. If she could find him, she was fairly certain she could persuade him to help her. He knew every nook and cranny. He might be bent with age now, but he was still clever.

As she drew near the end of the alley, her heart picked up its tempo. She would find a hansom—

Someone snagged her from behind and hurled her against the brick wall. Before she could react in self-defense, he was pressing his body against hers, pinning her in place, one of his hands gathering up her skirt, lifting it—

“I’m ’ere to deliver a message from Bob Sykes,” he rasped, his breath rancid from too much drink and rotting teeth. “Leave his boys be.”

“Let me go,” she demanded, trying to buck him off.

He jammed his thigh painfully between her legs. “Not until I get payment fer delivering the message. I’ve always wanted a taste of a fancy skirt.”

He clamped his hand on her jaw, his mouth smothering hers, his other hand touching her—

No, no, no!

She was twelve again, fighting, fighting—

Everything happened in a heartbeat. Struggling against the dark abyss into which she wanted to fall, she pulled out the knife and thrust it—

He yelled and was gone. She heard a thud, even as the knife hit something hard, and the impact reverberated up her arm.

A strangled groan sounded.

Labored breathing echoed around her.

Fingers dug into her shoulder. In the pale glow of a distant gas lamp, she found herself staring at Greystone, his hand pressed to his side. She could barely make out the inky blackness flowing between his fingers.

She heard a scrabbling motion and was vaguely aware of the other man running away. “This ain’t over, Frannie Darling,” her attacker called out as he disappeared in the deep shadows and around the corner of the building.

Releasing the knife, she pressed her hand over Greystone’s. He ground out a strangled curse, and she felt the warm blood oozing between her fingers. So much blood.

“Dear God. How badly are you hurt? Can you make it up the stairs? I want to have a look, see how—”

He wrapped his hand around her neck, surprisingly strong, holding her near. “If I’m to die,” he rasped, “let me do so…with the taste of you upon my lips.”

Without his usual finesse he planted his mouth over hers. She told herself that he couldn’t be mortally wounded if his hand still held such strength and his mouth such passion.

A strange fluke of fate that he’d jerked her attacker off her just as she was plunging a knife toward his midsection. Greystone, with his heroics, was now spilling his blood over himself and her. So damned much blood.

She pushed against him. “You fool. You’re going to bleed to death.”

“It’s a mere scratch.”

“Then you’re an even bigger fool for making me worry. Have you the strength to climb the stairs?”

“Yes.”

She snaked her arm around his back, while his landed hard on her shoulders. They staggered toward the stairs, the weight of him increasing with each step as though he were losing strength along with the blood. It wasn’t a mere scratch. A mere scratch wouldn’t drench her hand in blood. They were halfway up the stairs when he dropped to his knees.

“Seems I misjudged,” he said.

“It would be undignified for you to die here.”

He chuckled low. “I’m nothing if I’m not dignified.”

“I’m glad you find this humorous.”

“Not in the least.”

Grabbing onto the railing, he pulled himself up. They lurched up the steps. Anyone seeing them might have thought they were drunk. When they reached the top, he leaned against the wall while she dug the key out of her pocket. Once she opened the door, she led him into the apartment.

Like her office, it was sparsely furnished. She considered the sofa, but decided on the bed. It was far more comfortable and he might need to lie down. He sat on the edge of it while she gathered some towels. She came around and knelt in front of him. His clothing was soaked. So damned much blood. That’s all Frannie could think as she tried to staunch the flow of blood. “This doesn’t look good.”

“I think it’s just a gash. Hurts like bloody hell, though. Remind me…to never try to rescue you again.”

“I can’t believe the timing, that you stepped in just when I was thrusting. I didn’t see you.”

“I didn’t see the knife, so we’re even.”

Hardly. “May I…may I unbutton your waistcoat and lift your shirt?”

He nodded. He was growing paler by the minute. She was gentle but as quick as she could be. The gash was horrible. Long and deep, it ran up his side. Thank goodness nothing was spilling out except blood.

“Lie down. I’m going to send someone to fetch Bill.”

“Bill?” He was taking short breaths as though anything more was painful. With a low groan he stretched out on her bed.

“William Graves. He’s a physician.”

“Right. He looked after Catherine.”

“Yes. Just wait here. I’m going to fetch him.”

He gave her a crooked, endearing smile, as though her order made him want to laugh, because he couldn’t go anywhere if he wanted.

She took a step to leave, then turned back to him. “What were you doing here?”

“Came for my watch. Thought your…taking it was an invitation.”

She’d forgotten all about that. Reaching into her pocket where she’d been carrying it all day, she removed it, placed it in his hand, and folded his fingers around it. “It was,” she whispered quietly, before brushing a kiss over his forehead. But it certainly hadn’t been an invitation for this.

After sending someone to fetch Bill, she found Jim and Jack in Jack’s office. They came with her as she returned to Greystone’s side. Pressing towels against his wound, she watched in horror as the blood soaked through them, little by little.

He was still having difficulty breathing, grimacing and taking shallow breaths. His jaw was clenched so tightly she feared he’d break a tooth. It would be so much easier to endure the guilt if he didn’t keep his eyes on her. They were such a lovely blue, but filled with such pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Frannie said.

“What are you sorry for?” Jack asked, standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. “You were trying to protect yourself. It’s not your fault he got in the way.”

A corner of Greystone’s mouth twitched and she wondered if he wanted to laugh. She was fairly certain this was an incident that he wouldn’t laugh about in later years—if he survived to have later years.

“Would you rather I hold cloth to his wound?” Jim asked.

Greystone, watching her so intently, clutched her wrist and held her hand in place, as though to signal that he wanted her to stay. He needn’t have worried. She had no plans to leave. She shook her head. “No. I’m responsible here. I should see to him.”

She wanted to run her hands through his hair, cradle his face, press her forehead to his, and apologize again. But she didn’t want him to survive this only to be set upon by Jack and Jim. “Where’s Bill?”

As though her words summoned him, he strode through her door. “What’s going on? I got word that Frannie was hurt.”

“Not Frannie,” Jack said, then, “Good God, are you hurt, Frannie? Didn’t even think to ask.”

“I’m fine.” Except for some bruises and scrapes, but she held her silence because she didn’t want any attention taken away from Greystone. He was the one in need of immediate assistance. She twisted around slightly to look at Bill and explain what had happened. Her movement jostled the bed, and Greystone groaned, sounding as though he was strangling trying to hold back the evidence of his pain.

Bill came around to stand beside her. “Let me see, Frannie.”