Between the Devil and Desire

When I was five years old, my mum sold me. I never held it against her; even at such a tender age I understood that hunger and fear could make a person do things he thought he'd never do. In my new circumstance, I quickly learned the devil wore gentlemen's clothing, and I ran away, convinced I'd be better off on the streets than in an elegant house where fancy gents pretended respectability.

I was not long on my own when I fell in with a notorious den of child thieves, managed by a crafty old blighter who went by the name of Feagan. Under his tutelage I learned anything could be stolen—given the proper preparation. My own skills, my determination to succeed and thus to survive, were unmatched, and I soon rose in his esteem. He affectionately called me Dodger, and by the time I was eight, I found myself spending the better part of my evenings sitting in front of a coal fire with Feagan, smoking my clay
pipe, drinking gin, and soaking in the rare bits of wisdom he shared with only a respected few.

But my palm constantly itched to hold more coins. One day a proper-looking gent offered me sixpence to lure a highborn family of three into an alley. I did it with false tears and the claim that my mum was dying. The man and his wife were promptly killed, but the boy escaped. Terrified by what I'd been party to, I was quick to chase after the lad, fearing the same fate as had befallen his parents awaited us. I followed him to another alley, where he collapsed, huddled, and cried. We didn't have time for such nonsense. To my relief, he didn't recognize me. The shock of it all, I supposed. I mucked up his clothes, his person, and convinced him I possessed the wherewithal to save him.

The boy's name was Lucian, but that sounded too swell, so I introduced him as Luke. Feagan handed me threepence for bringing in a new recruit. Not a bad tally for the day, even if it meant I didn't sleep well that night.

To my everlasting irritation, although I was only two years older, I felt responsible for the lad. When he was caught stealing, I stupidly thought to rescue him. We spent three months in prison. The prison brand that marked us served to strengthen our friendship, and we became insparable.

Until the night he killed a man.

He was fourteen, awaiting trial, when the Earl of Claybourne declared Luke was his long-lost grandson. He was released into the old gent's
care. Luke's good fortune quickly became mine. The old gent took me in as well. We were constantly at odds. He worked diligently to transform me into a gentleman, but I preferred to remain a scoundrel. It seemed a more honest way to go.

When I was nineteen, a solicitor informed me that I had an anonymous benefactor who had grand expectations where I was concerned and wished to bestow upon me ten thousand pounds so my future might be assured. I never questioned who my benefactor was, because I had no doubt he was Luke's grandfather—seeking to rid himself of me without disappointing his grandson. I had lived on the streets long enough to know money was to be made investing in vice. I purchased a building and transformed it into an exclusive gentlemen's club.

And so it was that I became a man of means, far exceeding what I was certain my benefactor—or anyone else, for that matter—had expected of me. But no matter how much money I earned, it was never enough. I was always hungry for the next coin. I would do anything, anything at all, to possess it.

London
1851

T
he devil had come to call. Sitting beside him in her library, Olivia Stanford, the Duchess of Lovingdon, didn't know whether to be appalled or fascinated. He was an interesting creature, and while she'd heard many of the sordid tales regarding him, she'd never actually set eyes on him before that night.

His black, unruly hair, curling teasingly across his broad shoulders, spoke of a desire to rebel against societal constraints. The harsh lines of his face had been carved by a life of decadence, misbehavior, and excess. Yet, he was beautiful in a rugged sort of way, like the manner in which a jagged coastline at dawn could steal one's breath with its magnificence.

She lowered her gaze from a profile that had held her enthralled from the moment she'd walked into her library and met the deliciously wicked Jack Dodger.

His gambling den provided entertainment for many men of the aristocracy. Sisters, wives, mothers heard slurred references to the debauchery that occurred
within Jack Dodger's domain when their brothers, husbands, sons returned home in the early hours, three sheets in the wind. The women, of course, discreetly exchanged stories over tea, and so Dodger's reputation, as well as that of his establishment, had grown among proper ladies who weren't supposed to know about such improper things. Women detested his existence and the opportunity he provided for the men in their lives to stray from all that was good and respectable, yet none could deny their ceaseless fascination with a man so devoted to sin.

Sitting near him, Olivia became increasingly aware of the raw sexuality emanating from him. She imagined women followed him into his bedchamber without a single word being uttered. She could smell the tobacco and whiskey fragrance that permeated him and, to her everlasting shame, found herself relishing the darkly masculine scent. Everything about him spoke of forbidden indulgences.

He was truly the work of the devil.

He even carried the devil's mark. The brand was clearly visible on the inside of his right thumb, because he didn't possess the good manners to wear gloves and his long fingers were splayed across the arm of the chair. While marking criminals was no longer a practice, Olivia knew what the
T
burned into his flesh signified: he'd spent time in prison for thievery. She had little tolerance for those who took what did not rightfully belong to them.

In spite of his questionable past and occupation, she could not fault the quality of his attire. It had obviously been sewn by the finest tailor in London, but the red
brocade waistcoat beneath his black jacket was entirely inappropriate for this somber occasion: the reading of her late husband's will.

Why Lovingdon had insisted the notorious Jack Dodger be in attendance was beyond the pale. How did he even know the blackguard? As far as she knew he'd never visited Dodger's Drawing Room. However, her brother, the late Duke of Avendale, had frequented it quite often, providing her with the enviable opportunity to add greatly to the repertoire of scandalous tales circulated amongst the ladies.

But Lovingdon had been as pious as they came. The man hadn't even kept liquor in the house, and to her knowledge, wine had never touched his lips. She knew the same could not be said of Jack Dodger's. He had the fullest set of lips she'd ever seen on a man, a dark, dark red, as though they'd been soaked in fine wine, and she had little doubt they were accustomed to tasting all pleasures. His mouth was designed to lure the most virtuous of women toward forbidden passion. Why else would she find herself inappropriately wondering what it might be like to have him kiss her? She'd long ago stopped pondering the delight of kisses—perhaps because Lovingdon had been so dead-set against them. Yet there she was, imagining those lips playing over hers, enticing her in ways that Lovingdon never had.

Again she wondered why he had wanted Jack Dodger at the reading of his will.

Yet Mr. Beckwith, the duke's solicitor, positioning his papers at the desk across from her, had insisted it was not only so, but that Olivia was to be in attendance as well. So there she was, as always, honoring her re
sponsibilities, no matter how distasteful they might be. From the moment she was born, a devotion to duty had governed her life. It was the reason that, at nineteen, she'd married a man more than twenty-five years her senior—because her father had arranged the marriage, and a respectful daughter did not go against her father's wishes, regardless of her own passionate yearnings.

Lovingdon had been honest from the beginning. Getting up in years, he was in dire need of an heir, and while marriage to him had not been all she'd hoped for, it was not as bad as it might have been. She'd earned his respect and had supreme reign over his household. And he'd given her a precious son, even if he'd been unable to give her his heart.

She was quite confident that Henry, as the legitimate heir, would inherit everything of importance. She had hopes the will would stipulate that the London residence was to become the dower house, because she loved it so. But it was rather grand, and usually the dower house was a smaller residence. Lovingdon, however, had never purchased any other London homes. If this residence was not left to her, then the decision regarding where she would reside in later years would rest with her son—when he was old enough to care about such things. But at present he was five and cared only that she read him a story before he went to sleep.

The solicitor finally folded his hands on top of the papers and lifted his gaze to his audience of two. His dark hair was peppered with silver. His blue eyes seemed larger because of his spectacles, and he gave the impression they allowed him to see a great deal more than the average man. “Mr. Dodger, I want to thank
you for finding time in your busy schedule to be with us this evening,” he said solemnly, as befit the occasion.

“Let's get on with it, shall we? I've a business to get back to.” Jack Dodger's voice was rough, as though he spent a good deal of his time screaming until his throat was raw. Yet, it also reverberated with a pleasing quality Olivia couldn't quite explain. She could imagine him whispering near a lady's ear, tempting her toward disgraceful behavior.

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Beckwith said. He picked up a long sheaf of parchment. “The will contains quite a bit of legal terminology which, with your permission, I shall not bother to read.”

“Just tell me why the bloody hell I'm here, so I can go.”

Olivia gasped. Jack Dodger gave her a disdainful look, the first time he'd bothered to give her any attention at all since they'd been introduced and taken their seats.

“Good God, don't look so appalled.”

Considering the manner in which he was suddenly studying her, Olivia had a strange desire to check her buttons and make certain they were all properly done up. “I must insist vulgar language not be used in my home. I can't remain if you're going to be blasphemous.”

“I don't give a damn if you remain or not.”

“Mr. Dodger,” Mr. Beckwith interrupted emphatically, an edge to his voice indicating he, too, might have reservations about the present company, “the duke insisted you both be in attendance. I shall get to the matter at hand, posthaste, before your patience deteriorates any further.” He cleared his throat and began
to read: “I, Sidney Augustus Stanford, Duke of Lovingdon, Marquess of Ashleigh, and Earl of Wyndmere, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath to my legitimate son and heir to my titles, Henry Sidney Stanford, all my entailed properties, as well as the assets and income derived from them.”

Olivia nodded with satisfaction. She'd expected as much. It was only a bit of formality to state so in the will.

“To my devoted wife, Olivia Grace Stanford, Duchess of Lovingdon, mother of my heir—”

Blinking back the tears stinging her eyes, she wished Jack Dodger wasn't present to witness this portion of the reading. Her husband's last words regarding her were private and personal.

“—I bequeath a trust that if properly managed should provide her with two thousand pounds per annum as long as she lives. To Mr. Jack Dodger—”

Olivia barely had time to acknowledge the disappointment he'd not left her the residence, before her attention was snagged by the fact that at long last, the reason for the ridiculous summons of Jack Dodger would come to light.

“—I bequeath the remainder of my worldly assets, save one item, on the condition he serve as guardian and protector of my heir until the child reaches his majority or my widow marries and her husband assumes the role. When either of the stated conditions are met, Mr. Dodger will receive the final item—its value immeasurable.”

From a seemingly great distance, Olivia became aware of a rushing sound between her ears, like the
beating wings of a thousand ravens fleeing the tower of London and signaling Great Britain's downfall. She was vaguely aware of paper crackling, as Mr. Beckwith laid down the will. She couldn't have possibly heard correctly. Her temples had begun to throb the moment her husband had tumbled down the stairs and taken a mortal blow to the head. The grief she was experiencing at the unexpected loss was playing havoc with her mind, causing words to jumble and lose their true meaning. As she tried to comprehend how that could be, how she could force them back into signifying what they were supposed to, Mr. Beckwith picked up a black leather-bound book and extended it toward Jack Dodger. “This ledger contains a listing of all the non-entailed assets which will become—”

While Olivia watched in stunned horror, Jack Dodger snatched the book from Mr. Beckwith's grasp before he'd finished speaking, opened it, and began quickly scouring the pages, each turn of the page a rasp against her brittle nerves. Mr. Beckwith lifted another ledger and extended it toward Olivia. “For your review, a listing of the entailed assets which go to your son.”

Olivia shook her head. “I must beg your forgiveness, but I don't quite understand the meaning of all this.”

“From the moment the titles passed to him, your husband kept precise records indicating which properties and assets were part of the entailments—”

“No, no. I'm referring to the will; you misread it. You indicated that Mr. Dodger is to serve as guardian.”

“Yes, that was the duke's wish.”

“No, Henry is
my
son.
I
am his guardian.”

“The law recognizes only the father as guardian. Upon
the father's death, if the child has not yet obtained the age of one and twenty, the father must appoint the guardian in his will.” With no emotion whatsoever expressed, Mr. Beckwith sounded as though he were reading from a parliamentary document. “I'm sorry, Your Grace, but your husband's decision cannot be challenged.”

“Not be challenged?” Olivia came to her feet in such a rush that she almost lost her balance. Mr. Beckwith also rose, while Jack Dodger remained seated, hungrily devouring the contents of the ledger. Obviously the man hadn't a clue regarding proper behavior when in the presence of a lady, but then she suspected the women who normally provided him with company would hardly be considered ladies. “Have you lost your mind? Somehow you managed to misunderstand my husband's intent. He can't possibly have meant to let this scoundrel—”

“It says here this residence and everything within it is mine,” Jack Dodger suddenly announced, and Olivia's composure came almost completely unhinged. Not this residence, not the one place she had worked so hard to make a home.

Jack Dodger unfolded his long, lean body, dropped the ledger on the desk with a loud thump, and leaned ominously toward Mr. Beckwith. “Is this some sort of prank?”

Mr. Beckwith, to his credit, stood valiant against the devil's advance. “I assure you, Mr. Dodger, this is no prank.”

“You're telling me a man I barely knew is leaving me”—he jabbed the ledger with a blunt-tipped finger—“all of this?”

“You knew my husband?” Olivia asked, stunned by the revelation.

He had the audacity to wave his hand at her as though she were insignificant, to be dismissed with no more thought than one might give a beggar pleading for coins.

“Yes, Mr. Dodger, it appears that is in fact the case,” Mr. Beckwith said.

“And what of his debts?” he asked caustically. “I suppose I inherit them as well.”

“There are no debts. The duke didn't believe in credit. He paid as he went.”

That seemed to give Mr. Dodger pause, before he splayed his long, slender fingers over the ledger. “And the final item is more valuable than all of this?”

“As indicated in the will, its value cannot be measured.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“I do. It's to remain in my possession until such time as it's to be handed over.”

“He trusted you with something of immeasurable worth?”

“He trusted me with everything, Mr. Dodger.”

Mr. Dodger seemed to consider that. “An item the value of which cannot be measured could be worth nothing.”

“If I had to measure its worth, I would declare it the most valuable item the duke ever had the pleasure to possess.”

“Bloody hell,” Mr. Dodger said quietly in that raspy voice he possessed. “I need a drink.”

In spite of the ludicrousness of the entire situation, Olivia
felt all her appropriate upbringing and her need to be the perfect hostess shoot to the fore. “Shall I have a servant bring you a cup of tea? Or some lemonade perhaps?”

Mr. Dodger glared at her with eyes as black as his unredeemed soul. “I was thinking whiskey, gin, rum. All three if you have them.”

“We don't keep spirits in the residence,” Olivia said sharply, her indignation suddenly very much alive.

“Of course you don't.”

“I don't appreciate your tone, sir.”

“As though I give a damn what you appreciate.”