Too Wicked to Love

Too Wicked to Love

Debra Mullins

Dedication

 

 

To the Plotiquers:

Beth, Brianna, Heather, Lynn, & Susan

Contents

March 1872

I
t was done.

Jack Norman sat alone by the fire in his tiny parlor and lifted a glass in salute to the memory of his daughter and her new husband waving their good-byes from the coach after the wedding. Anne would be happy in the protection of her William, comfortable in her new life on her husband’s ranch in Australia.

And safe, now that she was far away from him and the past that haunted him.

“Here’s to you, Raventhorpe,” he said. “May you rot in hell.”

“Now, Jack, is that a nice thing to say? I am crushed.”

The silky voice made him jerk in his chair, spilling his precious whisky all over his hand. His heart faltered as a familiar, dreaded figure stepped into the light from the dark hallway. The man was tall, thin, and fair-haired, dressed in black from his hat to his swirling cloak to his trousers and shoes. His light-colored eyes narrowed to slits above his beaky nose.

Raventhorpe.

“My lord!” Jack scrambled to his feet, but Raventhorpe pushed him back into the chair with one gloved hand on his chest.

“Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Jack glanced at the unlit hallway leading to the bedroom. “But Alice . . . my wife . . .”

Raventhorpe smiled, a sinister baring of the teeth that chilled Jack’s blood. “She will not be interrupting us.”

“What have you done to her?” Jack dropped his glass and lunged from the chair.

Raventhorpe produced a wicked-looking blade, freezing Jack in his tracks. “She is sleeping. And I do mean sleeping, Jack, like an innocent babe.”

Jack slowly raised his hands in surrender, his gaze fixed on the deadly weapon inches from his face. Raventhorpe was younger and probably faster. It would be suicide to try anything heroic. “She’s still alive?”

“So far. Test me further, and that will change.”

Jack swallowed hard and took one step back from the blade, then dropped into the chair again. “I am surprised to see you, Lord Raventhorpe.”

“I expect you are. You thought you got away with trying to betray me.”

He wiped his mouth with one shaking hand. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Last month you had a visit from Lord Phillip St. Giles.”

His breath stilled in his lungs. “I did not tell him anything.”

“Oh, come now, Jack. Of course you did. Why would you not? You promised to come to London and testify on behalf of his son—after your daughter’s wedding, of course.”

Dear God. He knew.

“I . . . he . . . he was a very determined man, my lord.”

“I am certain he was. Of course, he is dead now.”

Jack nodded. “I heard. Drove his phaeton into a frozen lake.”

“Yes.” Raventhorpe’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Such a tragedy.”

Jack squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them again. Raventhorpe had killed Lord Phillip. He might have simply said it out loud. But then, Raventhorpe had killed many people.

Including the woman Jack had helped him murder four years ago.

Even now, the shame nearly crippled him. Oh, he had not held the knife or even witnessed the deed. But he had helped cast suspicion on an innocent man. And for that, he would probably burn in Hell.

“You disappoint me, Jack. I want an apology. Right now and in writing.”

“Writing?”

“Yes. Come now, be quick about it. I should hate for your wife to awaken early and witness things she should not see.”

The implication was clear. Jack scrambled across the room to the chest where his wife kept her precious writing supplies. With a son in the military and now a daughter married and on her way to Australia, writing letters had very nearly become a daily chore.

He got a piece of paper and the pen and ink and sat down next to a tiny table. “I shall begin ‘Dear Lord Raventhorpe . . .’ ”

“No. No names.” Raventhorpe came to stand over him. “Or perhaps you would like to write it in blood.”

“No, my lord.” Jack cleared his throat, though a lump still lodged there. “How would you like this written?”

“Let’s keep things simple. Just write ‘I am sorry for everything’ and sign your name.”

Jack did as he was told. He had not had much schooling and couldn’t write well, but it was legible. He signed his name.

“Excellent,” Raventhorpe said. He took the letter and set it aside. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. “I thought you might be interested in seeing this.” As he unfolded the layers of material, Jack noticed splotches of red on the snowy linen. Cold crept through him. Finally the object was revealed. His chest tightened.

“Where . . .” His voice faded as Raventhorpe displayed the bloodstained oval cameo on its dark ribbon resting against the white of the handkerchief. The last place Jack had seen it had been around his daughter’s throat as she waved good-bye from the coach. He raised his gaze to meet the earl’s.

“Did you really think it would be so easy?” the earl whispered.

“My . . . Anne . . . is she . . . ?”

“Dead. Yes. As I told you she would be if you told anyone about that night.” Raventhorpe wrapped up the cameo again and shoved the bundle into his pocket. “You told Lord Phillip. Now he is dead, and so is your daughter and her new husband.”

“Dear God.” The words slipped from his lips as he fell back in the chair, all his strength gone. He had thought he had been clever enough. Thought Anne would be safe. But now . . . “My daughter is dead,” he choked, tears stinging his eyes, trickling down his face.

“Yes, she is. And it is your fault.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at Raventhorpe. “You killed her!” He leaped from the chair, reaching for the earl.

Raventhorpe grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back, and held the knife to his throat. “No, Jack. You killed her. And yourself.” The earl gave one swift yank of the blade.

Blood spewed. Jack grabbed his throat as the life gushed from him, as the world tilted. He hit the floor.

Raventhorpe put the knife in his hand, curling his fingers around the handle. “So sad that you killed yourself. And here is the proof.” He set the letter Jack had written nearby, then he stepped over his body and left the room.

The pale page of the note was the last thing Jack saw as the world faded from his senses.

You think you’re smart, you bastard. You think you’ve won. But I suspected this day might come. I made a plan.

Father Holm will not fail me . . .

London, four years later

June 1876

T
he girl mesmerized him.

John watched from his post against the wall as Genevieve Wallington-Willis flirted with a young viscount. Her husky laughter carried across the room, and her dark curls, bound by ribbons and flowers, bounced with each toss of her head. The full skirt of her white bridesmaid’s dress rippled with her movements, and the fitted bodice accented her generous bosom. Even from yards away, he found himself distracted by her infectious smile and sparkling eyes.

Lured in, just like the young viscount.

He could not blame the lad. Genny Wallington-Willis had it all: beauty, social status, and intelligent wit all in one enticing package. Was she aware of her power over the opposite sex, he wondered? He had been watching her all morning, ever since he and Samuel had arrived at the church where Samuel’s wedding to Genny’s sister Cilla had taken place. Now that the vows were said and the wedding breakfast devoured, the guests lingered in the reception rooms of Admiral Wallington-Willis’s London home, awaiting the cutting of the wedding cake. All the while, Genny flitted from one man to the other like a butterfly in an extensive garden, fascinating all of them but staying with none.

He had seen her do the same at the handful of events that preceded the wedding. At all of them, like now, he had kept himself apart from the other guests, lingering on the sidelines so as not to draw attention to himself. He was not there to dally with the opposite sex, no matter how casual the affair. Yet as he watched her dazzle then abandon yet another besotted suitor, a dangerous notion slipped into his mind, taking hold like the devil’s whisper.

She would never walk away from
me.

He was no rake, but he’d had a fair amount of success with the ladies in his time. He doubted such skills could be forgotten, even with the monkish existence he had been living these past few years. She laughed again, a siren song that ensnared his hungry libido. What would she do, he wondered, if challenged by a man who could match her?

The urge to try his hand, to stake his claim, silenced the voices murmuring caution in his mind. Surely a few minutes of innocent flirtation would do no harm. After all, he had managed to resist her all these weeks, and he would go back to resisting her again. But something about this day, about watching his best friend pledge to share his life with the woman he loved, awoke an unexpected yearning inside him. What could it hurt to exchange a few words of banter with a pretty girl? After Samuel came back from his honeymoon, John would probably never see her again anyway.

He took a step forward just as someone called her name. She turned, a ready smile on her lips. That smile dimmed as a handsome naval officer approached. Alarm, horror—both flickered across Genny’s face in less than an instant at the sight of that gentleman, but then the brighter-than-the-sun smile returned full force. Had John not been studying her so closely, he would never have even realized anything was amiss.

She knew the young man. And she was dismayed to see him.

He halted, watching as she spoke with the naval man for a few moments. As the conversation progressed, all trace of her former flirtatiousness vanished. Her smile disappeared, her lips pressing together in a line. Her fluttering hands settled at her sides in clenched fists, her spine straight as any blade.

The young man, on the other hand, kept his charming smile in place, his posture relaxed. What was he saying to her that put the light of battle in her eyes?

“There you are, John.” Samuel Breedlove stepped into his line of vision.

John fixed his gaze on his best friend’s face, managing with effort to conceal his irritation that the brawny, dark-haired bridegroom had managed to block his view of Genny. “Samuel. Allow me to offer my congratulations on your marriage.”

Samuel laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. “Why so formal? You sound like some stranger, not my most trusted friend.”

“Nonetheless, my felicitations are sincere.”

Samuel grew serious. “I know they are, as I know that without you, I might never have met Cilla. And for that, I owe you a tremendous debt.”

John shrugged and shifted so he could see past Samuel. Genny had vanished, though the naval officer now lingered near the door. “Your friendship is thanks enough. You had best return to your bride, Samuel.”

“You’re just concerned my presence will draw attention to yours.”

John met his friend’s gaze. “That, too.”

“Very well, let’s go into the admiral’s study. I need to talk to you.”

The gravity of Samuel’s tone put John on the alert. “Is everything all right?”

“Just come with me.” Samuel started through the crowd, leaving John no choice but to follow. They left the ballroom, passing Genny’s naval officer, and headed for the stairs. As they descended, John noticed the fellow dart from the ballroom, down the hall, and into a nearby sitting room.

John hesitated on the stairs. First Genny had disappeared, and now this fellow had slipped from the party as well. She had not seemed to want the man’s company—or had that been a ploy to distract anyone watching from noticing a secret assignation? Such things were not unheard of with a coquette like her.

“John, are you coming?”

“Yes.” Turning away, John took the rest of the stairs at speed and followed Samuel into the admiral’s study.

Genny ducked into the small sitting room and closed the door behind her. Folding her arms around herself, she wandered to the window and looked out on the street below without actually seeing any of it.

“You will not cry,” she whispered to herself, even as the betraying tears stung. “Just because Mama and Papa did not warn you that Bradley would be here, in your own house . . .” She clenched her eyes closed. “He must have come with his parents. Of course he did. But I did not even know he was back from India.” She took a deep breath, straightened. “You can handle this, Genevieve. You learned your lesson. You are strong.”

The door to the sitting room opened. She whirled around as Midshipman Bradley Overton filled the doorway. “Hello, Genny.”

He dared follow her in here?

“This room is for private family use only, Bradley. Please rejoin the guests.”

“There was a time I was considered family.” He ignored her request and closed the door behind him. “I’ve missed you, Genny.”

His tender tone irritated rather than soothed. “Do not insult either of us with more lies.”

“It is not a lie.” He took a step closer to her. “Ever since we—”

“Stop.” She held up a hand. “You told me you loved me when all you wanted was to marry the admiral’s daughter. That constitutes a lie.”

“You misunderstood.”

“No,” she snapped. “I did not. It is quite difficult to misunderstand one’s own fiancé laughing about her gullibility with his shipmates. You courted me for your naval career. Not because you loved me as you claimed.”

He tilted his head as he regarded her. “You have become quite hard-hearted, Genny. I can hardly credit it.”

“Perhaps you should consider yourself lucky that we did not wed after all.”

“I hoped our time apart might have made you see reason.” He gave her a slow, lingering study that would once have sent shivers of delight through her. “I miss you, Genny.”

“I certainly do not share your sentiment.” She eyed the distance to the door. The only problem was, he stood between her and escape. “I should return to the reception. My family will be looking for me.” She started forward. Perhaps if she moved quickly enough, she could slip by him.

“Wait a moment.” He took her arm before she could pass him.

She halted, finding herself staring into the blue eyes that had once made her weak at the knees.
You are stronger than this. Walk away.

“Do you remember the last time we were alone together?” he murmured, tracing her cheek with his fingers.

God help her, but she did. She closed her eyes as longing swept through her, challenging her hard-won confidence. Why couldn’t he have been the man she had thought he was? She had wanted so desperately for it all to be real. To be married and have a family. To have someone who would finally love her, completely and unconditionally.

His deception had left her feeling foolish. Unwanted. Naïve.

Not anymore. She would not accept his imitation of love, no matter how blue his eyes or how pretty his words. She had made that mistake once, had allowed herself to be lured into the fantasy and to throw caution to the winds. Living with the consequences of that fateful night had taught her a hard lesson.

One she would never forget.

John closed the door to the study behind him. “What happened, Samuel? This should be a happy day for you.”

“It is a happy day. Cilla is my world. I only hope that you, too, will someday experience such happiness.”

“Dear God! Never tell me that you are married for mere hours and already seeking to see your friends join you in matrimony.” John grinned, trying to stave off another odd pang of envy.

Samuel chuckled and perched a hip on the admiral’s desk. “No, not at all. I know you intend to stay in England until Cilla and I get back from our wedding trip, then you’ll head back to America with us. What are your plans while we’re gone? Are you going to visit family?”

“No.” John’s heart clenched as he said it, and he turned to peruse the admiral’s globe so his expression would not betray him.

“You have no plans at all? London is a fascinating city.”

“I know.” John gave the globe a spin. “I spent much of my youth here.”

“Was that before or after you eloped to Scotland?”

“Both.” The edge to the word spoke volumes.

“I’m sorry, John. I have marriage on my mind, I suppose. I know your past is not something you tend to discuss.”

“Correct.”

“So let’s talk about my past then.”

John looked over at him. “Raventhorpe?”

“Raventhorpe,” Samuel confirmed.

John turned to face him, frowning. “Has our mutual enemy resurfaced already? I thought he was in France, waiting out the scandal from trying to abscond with your ex-fiancée.”

“He is, as far as I know. But this is the bastard who left me for dead on a deserted island, then tried to steal Annabelle away from me. And that’s only a short list of his numerous offenses.”

“I do not know how that snake always manages to slither away,” John said. “The people he has killed, the women he has sold into sexual slavery . . . How does he keep escaping punishment for his crimes?”

“The devil watches after his own,” Samuel said.

“Apparently so. At least Miss Bailey was smart enough to jilt the blackguard.”

“And that’s the problem. Annabelle did jilt Raventhorpe, and he won’t forget that. But she also freed me from my betrothal to her so I could marry Cilla, something
I
can’t forget. She allowed me my heart’s desire, John, at personal sacrifice to herself.”

“A noble act,” John agreed. “But you are correct. Raventhorpe will not allow her rejection of him and the ensuing scandal to go unpunished.”

“That was my thought, as well. I think he might see my absence as an opportunity to strike back at her. He’ll think she is unprotected.”

“Agreed.”

“Which is why I need you to watch over her until I get back. He doesn’t know about you.”

“True.”

“And you did such a good job of staying out of sight—posing as my coachman, for God’s sake—that he has no idea you’re back in England.”

“I did not pose. I
was
your coachman.”

“As if anyone with eyes could not tell that you were born to be more.”

“Leave it be, Samuel.”

“Leave it?” Samuel stood. “Even though you never confided in me, I know you are more than the humble man you seem. Something happened that made you flee England, and you only came back here to help me stop Annabelle from marrying Raventhorpe.”

“The past is done and gone, Samuel. Let us move forward into the future.”

“Look, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, and I want to respect your desire to stay in the shadows, but bloody hell, John, you wouldn’t even stand up for me at my wedding!”

“Virgil Bailey did a good enough job of it.” Seeing Samuel’s impatience, John shook his head. They had been over this before. “It would have been my honor to stand up with you, Samuel, but it is better if no one notices me, especially those in positions of authority. And the front of a crowded church is hardly the best place to stay out of sight.”

“I know that, blast you! But—”

“Look, you asked me to guard Miss Bailey while you’re gone. Consider it done.”

“I . . . oh. Well. Excellent then.” Samuel nodded and let the other matter drop, though not permanently if the stubborn set of his jaw was any indication. “I know I’m asking a lot, John. I wish I could think of another way.” He paused. “I could hire a security detail, I suppose—”

“Except that Miss Bailey is an heiress. You need someone you can trust.”

“Exactly. I trust you, John. Not only do you have a fortune of your own, but I don’t think Annabelle appeals to you that way.”

“God, no. She’s a pretty girl, but I see her more as your little sister, not to mention your former fiancée. And as for the fortune—”

Samuel scowled and folded his arms. “Don’t you dare tell me again that you don’t want the money, John. You spent your own savings to come and find me when Raventhorpe left me for dead. Fate was kind enough to hand us a pirate’s treasure in return, and you deserve half of it.”

“As I started to say, I would be grateful for my share once we get back to America.”

Samuel blinked. “Well, hell. What’s gotten into you today? I thought I would have to tie you down and shove the money down your throat.”

“Maybe weddings make me sentimental.”

“Oh, right. Certainly that must be it.” Samuel fixed him with blatant look of disbelief.