Between the Devil and Desire (11 page)

She should transfer to another bedchamber, but it would be an admittance of cowardice and he'd lord it over her. If she was to have any hope at all of curtailing his influence over her son, she had to never retreat. She would stand her ground and curse him while doing it.

She needed to get some sleep so she'd be rested and better prepared for whatever tomorrow brought. Perhaps some warm milk would help. She considered ringing for her maid, but she was in the mood for wandering through the house when Dodger wasn't around. During those moments, she could pretend it was hers, pretend that Lovingdon had cared for her enough to notice how much she'd treasured the residence. But he'd noticed so very little. It left her with a deep sadness that they'd given almost nothing of themselves to each other. She blinked back the tears that threatened. How could she miss a man who, since she'd conceived, had been more a stranger than a husband?

But at least thinking of him allowed her thoughts to wander away from Jack Dodger. She drew on her night wrap and left her room.

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the feminine laughter drifting up from the foyer, followed by a deep rumble that she recognized as Dodger's. After tossing and turning with unfulfilled desires for the past hour because of his innuendo, she wasn't in the mood to tolerate his flirting with the maids or taking advantage of his position over them. If she was to go unsatisfied this night, he could as well.

Quickening her pace, she arrived in the foyer just as Dodger was dismissing Brittles, who promptly took his leave. A woman stood with Dodger, her hair a vibrant red that diminished all the colors in her proximity. Olivia didn't know her, but she had no doubt regarding the type of woman he'd bring to the residence at such a late hour. She wouldn't tolerate this sort of behavior. She simply wouldn't. Especially in the bedchamber next to hers.

Dodger and the strumpet turned toward her. “Ah, Olivia, you're up rather late, aren't you?” he drawled.

She marched up to him. “I will not allow you to bring strange women into the house. You must take her elsewhere to sate your lust.”

He narrowed his dark eyes, and she watched as a muscle jumped in his jaw. “It's
my
house, and she is here because I desire it. We're going to take care of our business in the library.” He leaned toward her. “You're even welcome to watch if you'd like. I'm sure you'll find our exploits quite imaginative and entertaining.”

Before Olivia could offer a solid retort, the woman slapped his arm. “Jack, what mischief are you about?”

“Stay out of this, Frannie,” he growled, never taking his gaze from Olivia.

Olivia fought not to look away. An obvious familiarity existed between him and the woman, and she didn't want to consider that she might be more than a prostitute he'd picked up off the streets for an evening's entertainment, that she might be his mistress, someone who frequently warmed his bed. He possessed a magnetic virility her husband hadn't, and she suspected it took frequent beddings to keep his lust in check. With those thoughts, she could feel heat swarming to her cheeks, knew she was blushing, because satisfaction touched his eyes.

What was she thinking to confront him? Olivia was playing with the devil. A dangerous thing to do when she didn't know the rules of the game.

“You will apologize to my guest,” he said.

“Jack—”

“Not now, Frannie.”

“Jack.”

The single word came out as a command and to Olivia's surprise, her nemesis obeyed it. He backed up, and while the taut muscles in his jaw didn't slacken, the heat in his eyes cooled somewhat. “She owes you an apology.”

“She does not. What else is she to think when you bring a woman into the house this late at night?”

“She's not to think you're a whore.”

“Well your behavior upon our arrival didn't help matters.” She stepped in front of him and curtsied slightly. “Your Grace, I'm Frannie Darling. His bookkeeper. He's asked me to take a look at the books.”

“Frannie, your purpose here is not her concern.”

“Perhaps not, but you're giving the impression I'm here for a very different and improper reason. I deserve better than that.”

He cursed harshly beneath his breath. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

His contriteness was sincere, and Olivia wondered if the woman meant more to him than he would ever acknowledge.

“However, I'm not the one who first insinuated you are anything other than what you are.”

“No, but you did nothing to correct the misunderstanding,” Miss Darling said, sounding quite hurt.

“I must apologize as well,” Olivia began. “I assumed the worst. I'm sorry.”

She smiled. “Most do where Jack is concerned. It's a reputation he's worked quite hard to shape.”

“Frannie—” he ground out.

“Oh, do be civil, or I'll not look at your books.” She
gave her attention back to Olivia. “As unlikely as it seems, considering his success, he's terrible with numbers.”

“I'm not as bad as all that,” he grumbled.

When Miss Darling gave him a pointed glare, he muttered, “But I'm not as good as you. Can we get to work now?”

“Of course,” Miss Darling said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. And Jack is quite right. You're more than welcome to join us.”

Olivia was suddenly very much aware she was in her nightclothes, hardly the proper attire for entertaining. “I shall have some refreshments prepared for you.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Miss Darling said.

Olivia watched as they walked down the hallway, Dodger seeming to be very careful to leave a discreet distance between him and Miss Darling. She realized Frannie Darling meant something special to him. She wondered what it would be like to have the attentions of a man as young, virile, and darkly dangerous as Jack Dodger.

 

Frannie Darling sat at the large mahogany desk in the grand library and studied the books and ledgers Jack had set before her with almost as much concentration as she studied him. He was lounging on a couch near the window, looking through a black ledger as though he were seeking an answer to a puzzle that baffled him.

She'd known Jack for a good many years. He'd always been as an older brother might be, looking out for her, making certain no one ever harmed her or hurt
her feelings. It was one of the reasons she'd been so surprised this evening when he'd purposely led the duchess to believe something improper was afoot. It made her wonder why he cared what the duchess's opinion of him was and why he wanted it to be unflattering. While she'd never known him to be afraid of anything, she was well aware he studiously avoided any entanglements that might involve the heart.

He never spoke of his past, his origins, or his mother, but Feagan had once told her that Jack's mother had sold him. “Imagine how ye'd feel if someone ye loved put a value on ye,” Feagan had said. Frannie couldn't imagine it.

She also believed that something horrible had happened to Jack when he was in prison with Luke. Before he spent time in prison, Jack had laughed often, and when he did, Feagan's children laughed with him. But when he returned to Feagan after his incarceration, his laughter had changed. It no longer contained even a sprinkling of joy.

She'd asked him about it once, but he'd refused to talk about what he called the dark times. Luke, too, was silent on the matter; but when the two of them looked at each other, Frannie knew that whatever had transpired affected them both, brought them together and separated them from everyone else.

Jack had erected walls, and in some ways, she thought he was still in prison—one of his own making, but a prison just the same.

She also wondered what his true feelings were regarding the duchess. He'd been sitting on the couch nonchalantly as though he hadn't a care in the world,
but when a knock sounded on the door, he'd looked up, and she'd seen a trace of anticipation cross his face, revealed for only a heartbeat and quickly shuttered. He'd had less success disguising the disappointment that registered on his face when only a serving girl came in with biscuits and tea. Frannie had a feeling he'd been hoping the duchess had decided to join them. Not that he'd ever admit it. He gave nothing away that would make him seem vulnerable.

With a yawn, she stretched her arms and arched her back to ease the kinks out of it. She'd been scouring the books for more than two hours now.

As though accurately judging that she was calling it a night, Jack got up, walked to the desk, and sat on the corner. “What do you think?”

“Not too shabby. But you're right. The money isn't being invested as wisely as it might be.”

“I suppose I could invest it in Dodger's.”

“I don't think your widow would approve.”

“She's not my widow.”

She wasn't entirely convinced of that assessment. “You're not very nice to her.”

“I'm as nice as she deserves.”

“But wouldn't it be better to be nicer than she deserves? Then she might come to like you.”

“I've never cared what anyone's opinion of me is. You're well aware of that.”

Ah, the man did have a stubborn streak in him. “Her life has taken a drastic turn. I can't imagine the strength it would take to go on after losing one's husband.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk as though he was losing patience with her. “I've tried to be cordial.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “I pray that encounter in the entry hallway was not your being cordial.”

“She finds fault with me at every turn and I take exception to her opinion.”

“Jack—”

“Frannie.” He held up his hand. “I will deal with the widow on my terms as I see fit.”

“Fine. Be stubborn.” She slammed the book closed. “I'm tired. I'll take this book with me. I want to study it a bit more closely.”

He shifted off the desk and dropped into the chair across from her. “We'll have to purchase her a house.”

“What's wrong with this one?”

“It's mine.”

“You have no need of it. You've told me on numerous occasions you'll never marry or have children.”

“That's beside the point.”

“Why did you want her to think we were going to do something naughty in here?”

“She thinks the worst of me. Might as well meet her expectations.”

“So you
do
care what she thinks.”

“Don't be daft, Frannie. It doesn't suit you.”

“You're most disagreeable.”

He rubbed his brow. “I'm sorry. I'm tired. I've slept very little since last night, but it's a small price to pay. What do you think of the residence?”

“I think it's very lovely.” She eased forward and propped her chin in her palms, her elbows on the desk. “Feagan always said you'd go farther than any of us.”

Jack glanced around. “But I didn't bring myself to this, so it doesn't count as my achievement.”

“Most would just take their good fortune and be glad of it.”

“I don't trust good fortune that comes so easily. There is always a price to be paid, Frannie. Always.” He gave her a cocky grin. “I want to know the price before I have to pay it.”

“You've had a harsh life, Jack. Maybe it's simply your turn to have some good.”

“If only life were that fair.” He abruptly came to his feet. “Come on, then, let's get back to the club. For us the night is still young.”

T
he following morning, as unprecedented weariness settled over him, Jack realized he should have slept after he and Frannie returned to his club. Instead he'd dealt with a lord who had been accused of cheating at hazard and spent considerable time explaining to one of his girls that he couldn't kill a man because he'd grown tired of bringing her favors. Then he had a short conversation with the Earl of Chesney that might offer a solution to one of his problems. Swindler had stopped by to inform Jack that all he'd discovered about the cousins so far was that they led very private lives—and
that
, he believed, was cause for him to scrutinize them more closely. Swindler liked a good puzzle. Whatever the cousins were hiding, he'd discover it. But the majority of Jack's night had been spent studying plans to increase his profits.

As he'd told Frannie, he'd slept little since the reading of the will, so exhaustion claimed him when he walked into his residence and was greeted with chaos. He heard scrapings as though furniture was being moved around, and various voices were calling, “Henry! Your Grace! Young Master!”

The lad had no doubt created some sort of stir. Jack wouldn't have thought him capable of much more than sitting quietly and behaving. Good for him. It was natural for a boy to create mischief now and then.

Jack had just started up the stairs when he spied the duchess hurrying down them.

“Oh, thank God, you're here at last,” she said on a rush.

He grinned at her. “Finally starting to appreciate me, are you?”

“No, you buffoon, Henry is gone.”

Jack wanted his bed, not to play a child's game of hide and seek. “What do you mean he's gone?”

“He's disappeared. When his nanny woke up this morning, he wasn't in his bed. No one has seen him. We thought perhaps you'd taken him. Did you?” She spoke quickly as though desperate to make her point so he could provide the answer she sought. Now he could see that worry clouded her eyes.

“No.”

“Then where is he? Has he been stolen, do you think? Is it as you suspected? He's in danger?”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down, Olivia.”

She broke free of his grasp and nearly tumbled down the stairs. “I don't want to calm down! I want to find my son! What if…what if he's been harmed?” she wailed.

“Who would harm him?”

“You seemed to think someone would.”

He rubbed his chin. “Yes, yes, yes.” He had thought the lad might be in some danger, but how could anyone have gotten the boy out from under the watchful eye of
his nanny? Well, not so watchful, apparently. But still, he thought it unlikely that someone had crept into the house, taken Henry, and crept out. “Where have you looked?”

“Everywhere. Is this one of your sick pranks, one of the ways you think to bring me to heel?”

“I've not been here for hours. How could this be my doing?”

“I haven't the foggiest, but I have no doubt that you could be responsible.”

He'd had enough of her suspicions. He started up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” she called after him. She was panting as though she'd been rushing around and was suddenly unable to catch a breath. She always seemed in control. It unnerved him to see her in a panic.

“To my chambers to splash a bit of water on my face and get my senses back so I can deal with this situation.”

He recognized the echo of her rapid footsteps as she followed him. Amazing how much about her was beginning to become familiar. The sound of her steps, her fragrance.

“You didn't take him with you when you left?”

“Of course not.” He reached the landing. “Maybe he headed to the Great Exhibition. He wanted to go, didn't he?”

“He wouldn't strike out on his own. He wouldn't even know where to go.”

“He's a boy, Duchess. He doesn't need to know the path to adventure. He simply needs to recognize that it awaits.”

He opened the door to his bedchamber.

“But what if he's been stolen?” she asked. It sounded as though she was skirting the edge of hysteria. He knew the only comfort she'd welcome involved the finding of her son.

“We'll send for Swindler. The man can follow clues blindfolded.”

He walked into his room, surprised that she followed him inside. Obviously her panic took precedence over proper behavior. If apprehension hadn't been rolling off of her in waves, he might have teased her about it.

He was walking to the stand that held the porcelain basin when he heard a bump in the wardrobe that he passed. Had they looked everywhere? Or had they only looked where they'd expected the boy to be?

Jack jerked open the wardrobe door. The boy lunged out like a wild thing.

“N-no! I w-won't l-let you! I d-didn't m-mean t-to!”

Jack instinctively caught the boy, wrapping his arms around him, trying to still his ferocious thrashing. He was in his nightclothes, fighting like a tiger. Lost in intense fear, he was tenacious. “Hold on there, lad.”

“Let him go. What have you done to him? Let him go!” the duchess screamed.

Jack ducked. What the devil was she hitting him with? He felt the skin split in his cheek. He cursed soundly, dodged another
whap!
, and released the boy, who promptly kicked his shin.

Wasn't this all just bloody wonderful.

Breathing heavily, he backed up yet another step to get beyond reach of the offending weapon—he could see now that she was holding a cast-iron poker—and
her wrath. The boy was blubbering that he was sorry. With hate in her eyes directed at Jack, and the poker still at the ready, the duchess had one arm wrapped protectively around her son.

“What did you do to him?” she demanded to know.

Jack touched the back of his hand to his aching cheek, brought it away, and stared at the blood.

“I'm s-sorry,” the boy cried, tears streaking his cheeks. “I-I w-won't do it again. I p-promise.”

“What are you on about, boy?”

Jack heard a sound in the doorway. The nanny had arrived, concern clearly etched in her features, but he wasn't certain it was for the boy. He thought it more likely it was for herself, because she'd lost track of the lad. What was her name? Hazel? Harriet? Helen? Helen, that was it.

“I'll take him, Your Grace,” she said, reaching for the boy.

“No, you won't,” Jack said sharply, and everyone stared at him. At least they'd stopped their yelling. “Not until I understand what's going on here.”

“It's obvious he's terrified of you,” the duchess snapped.

“I can see he's frightened,” Jack stated calmly, when he felt anything except calm. “What did you do wrong, lad?”

The boy vigorously shook his head.

“What do you think I'm going to do to you?”

The boy shook his head again.

“Leave him be,” his mother stated, turning toward the door, her arms wrapped around the boy.

“No.” The threat of some sort of retribution must
have been clear in his voice because she stopped and glanced back at him. “You seem to forget that I'm his guardian. I will have the answer to my questions if we have to stand here all day.”

He remembered how Swindler had crouched before the duchess the day before and while it went against Jack's instincts to cower before anyone, he crouched, putting himself on eye level with the lad, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. “Are you afraid of me?”

The boy nodded.

“Why?”

The boy looked up at his mother, looked at his nanny.

“Don't look to them for the answer, boy, look to yourself. What do you think I'm going to do to you?”

The boy began to study his toes.

“Do you remember what I told you yesterday morning? That your father asked me to protect you? I didn't know your father well, Henry, but I know he cared for you very much and I do not take lightly the request he has made of me. I told you I'd never let anyone hurt you. So why are you afraid of me?”

He watched as the boy swallowed. His lower lip quivered. “You-you'll b-burn my th-thumb.”

“Why would I do that?”

“B-because I f-forgot and-and sucked it w-when I-I was s-sleeping.”

So he'd awakened, discovered his thumb in his mouth, and went into hiding. The picture was beginning to take shape. “Who told you I'd burn your thumb if you stuck it in your mouth?”

“My nanny,” he whispered as though he were bearing the weight of a heavy secret.

With his gaze on the nanny, who looked as though all the blood had drained from her face, Jack slowly unfolded his body. “I'll not be used to terrorize children into behaving. You're let go. Pack your things and be gone within the hour.”

“But, sir, I saw no other choice. He's the young duke now. He shouldn't suck his thumb.”

“It's
his
thumb. I don't give a damn if he sucks it until he's a grown man. Pack your things.”

Helen looked to the duchess. “Your Grace, have pity.”

The duchess opened her mouth—

“Disagree with me on this and you can pack your bags as well,” Jack stated in a firm voice that left no room for argument.

She looked at him, and for the first time, no anger or hatred was reflected in her eyes. Only horror and a deep sorrow at what they'd discovered. She turned back to the nanny. “He's right. What you did was monstrously wrong, unfair to Mr. Dodger, and unbearably cruel to my son. I can neither forgive you nor speak in your defense. I fear Mr. Dodger was too generous in giving you an hour. I want you gone in half that time.”

The nanny released a hideous sob before turning and fleeing down the hallway.

Jack lowered his gaze to the boy. “I will
never
hurt you. Do you understand?”

The boy blinked, nodded.

“Good.”

“You're bleeding,” the duchess said.

“I've bled before. Now, I want a bath, so get the hell out.”

“Mr. Dodg—”

“Get out,” he ground out through clenched teeth, interrupting whatever the hell the duchess was going to say. “Because you, Duchess, I'm likely to hurt.”

She ushered the boy out, reached back to grab the knob, and stilled. “I wasn't going to disagree with your decision to dismiss Helen—even before you threatened me.”

Did she think that confession would ease his temper? Before he could think of an appropriate response, she quietly closed the door.

Jack tore at his cravat. It wasn't enough. He strode to a small table beside the couch in the sitting area. He picked up a vase and slammed it into the hearth, shattering it into a thousand pieces. It didn't make him feel any better.

He'd garnered the low opinion of men for years. Why was he so bothered that a silly duchess thought him capable of harming her son? Her opinion didn't matter. She was nothing to him. He didn't care what she thought. At every turn she expected the worst. What had her husband been thinking, to name Jack guardian?

Staring at the broken vase, he thought of the boys who worked for him, of the night he'd almost killed a man in his club because he'd touched one of the boys in a way that no man should ever touch a boy. Had Lovingdon been there that night? Did he know that protecting young boys was Jack's weakness?

“Could it be that simple?” he asked himself in a low whisper.

The door to the dressing room opened. For a second, Jack had expected to see the duchess coming from the room, and much to his chagrin, he'd felt a momentary surge of anticipation. But it was his manservant, Stiles. Jack had met him briefly the day before. He wasn't much taller than the duchess, and he was up in years. But he still stood proud.

“The duchess said you were in need of some attention and a bath,” he said formally.

“Attention?”

He bowed his head slightly. “You're cut, sir.”

Jack again touched his tender cheek. His fingers came away with barely a speck of blood. “It's fine.”

“I could send for a physician—”

“I said it's fine. If you wish to stay in my employ, you won't make me repeat myself.”

“Yes, sir. I have the maids bringing up the hot water now. The bath should be ready shortly.”

“Good. I'll want one prepared every morning after I arrive and every evening before I leave.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“And when I take clothes off, I don't wear them again until they've been washed and pressed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack had never had a manservant. He wasn't certain he wanted one now. “I'm not a duke. I understand that your status might slip if you serve me. If you wish to leave, I'll provide a good reference.”

The man tilted his head in acquiescence, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,
sir, but I have served the duke from the time he was a young man. I'm comfortable in this household and change does not suit me. I prefer to stay if you have no objections.”

“Fair enough. I packed some clothes. They're in the coach. Have a footman bring them up.”

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“After my clothes are brought up, lay out something for me, then leave. I plan to sleep for a bit and I can dress myself.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Tell me, Stiles, did you ever disagree with the duke?”

The wrinkles in his face shifted as he smiled. “On occasion, sir. He had an atrocious lack of good judgment when it came to coordinating colors. Sometimes he would look like a randy peacock.”

“That won't be a problem in dressing me. Everything I wear is black or white, except for my waistcoats.”

“Yes, sir. I did notice that you seemed to have quite the flair when it came to your waistcoats.”

Jack heard no censure in his voice. He thought the two of them might get along. “You miss him?”

“Very much so, sir.”