Between the Devil and Desire (18 page)

“Yours is a bit different,” Jack said, his long finger trailing over the rich, dark wood of the cylinder. He turned the larger end toward her. “It has bits of colored glass in it, mostly red and purple. When you turn it, you get different images.”

As she lifted it to look through it, he slipped one of his arms around her shoulders placing his hand over hers where it held the turning mechanism, as though she needed assistance for so simple a task. A week ago, she might have shoved him aside. Now she welcomed his nearness as she might a warm blanket on a snowy winter night.

His cheek was almost touching hers, as though he could see what she was viewing. “Do you like it?” he asked in a low voice.

She wasn't certain if he was referring to the kaleidoscope or the way he was almost holding her. In either case, the answer was the same. “Very much.”

Turning her head, she realized that she'd placed her lips only a whisper's breath away from his. Considering the madness that had consumed them when they'd kissed before, she thought it prudent not to close the distance between them. “Did you want to have a look?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, before he leaned ever so slightly toward the kaleidoscope, his hands over hers, guiding it toward his eye. “The colors remind me of you,” he murmured. “Fiery, passionate. Each turn reveals a different facet.”

“I'm not certain I'm that interesting.”

He leaned back. “Then you don't recognize your own appeal. How are you feeling? Strong enough for a walk about the garden?”

“With you?”

Jack studied her, not certain if she'd welcome his company, but he had some questions he wanted answered and he thought the garden might be a better place for answering them. He'd hoped the toys he'd brought would cause her to lower her guard. “Yes, I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Your best could still be quite bad.”

It could indeed. He'd felt badly that she'd gotten sick and had wondered at first if his actions the night before she'd collapsed—plying her with brandy and then a kiss, the memory of which still had the power to make his body respond—had any bearing on her health. He couldn't ask Graves without explaining what he'd done—not that he was ashamed, but he wasn't accustomed to sharing the personal intimacies of his life.

“Out of deference for your recent illness, my best will be good. I was thinking I should be there in case you faint again.”

“I'm not likely to faint. Still, I would welcome your company.”

Words he'd never expected her to say. He wasn't certain what to make of their newfound camaraderie. He just knew things had changed between them. Whether as a result of the kiss or her illness or simply an acceptance that, for now, they were part of each other's lives, he didn't know. He still wanted to marry her off, but he also still possessed an almost uncontrollable desire to have her in his bed.

While she put away the kaleidoscope, he unfolded his body. When she was ready, he helped her to her feet, immediately releasing his hold on her hand once she was steady. Taking her into his arms wouldn't gain him what he needed at that moment.

“Have you even seen all of your garden?” she asked.

It was the first time she'd referred to anything there as truly belonging to him. Somehow it gave credence to his possessing everything, and he was left to wonder if she'd finally accepted the conditions of the will.

“I have, actually,” he said. “I'm rather fond of gardens.”

“I'd have thought you'd find them frivolous.”

He escorted her to the narrow cobblestone serpentine path that led away from where Henry and Ida were still exploring their new toys. The hedges and flowers were abundant here, forming a sense of seclusion. “I grew up in the rookeries. They're filthy, crowded, not prone to offering much in the way of green grass or vibrant
colors or pleasant fragrances. So, yes, I tend to appreciate gardens. And my mother sold flowers, so being near them has a tendency to remind me of her.”

“Strange, I'd never thought of you as having a mother.”

“Unlikely as it is, even Satan's spawn must have a mother.”

She jerked her head around to look at him. “Sometimes you have such a low of opinion of yourself that it takes me by surprise.”

He grinned at her. “Why would you think I'd consider it a disadvantage to be a relation of the devil?”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you wouldn't. Bless your mother for putting up with you.”

“She didn't, actually. Not for long, anyway. She sold me when I was five.”

Sympathy and horror swam in her eyes, and he cursed himself for revealing that little tidbit of personal information. He didn't know what had possessed him to tell her. He'd only ever told Luke. And of course, Feagan had known. Feagan knew everything.

“Don't look so horrified, Olivia. It was a long time ago.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don't know. I did something to displease her, I'm sure.”

“I can't imagine you could have done anything to cause her to so callously sell you.”

“Yes, well, I suspect there's a good deal you can't imagine. It's a very different world in the rookeries.”

“To whom did she sell you?”

“It no longer matters.”

“Surely you misunderstood her intentions.”

“It's a bit difficult to misunderstand anything when the coin purse passes in front of your eyes.” He was beginning to sound defensive. “Let's move on to another subject, shall we?”

“Yes, of course. I didn't mean to intrude on your painful past.”

Inwardly, he cursed again for sharing as much with her as he had. Whatever had possessed him to show such poor judgment?

“I understand you're building a hospital for Dr. Graves. You're far more charitable than I realized,” she said.

“No, I'm not. I lost a wager.”

Her eyes widened. “You wagered that you would build him a hospital?”

He shrugged.

“And what was he to build you?”

“A tavern.”

She laughed. “Of course. What was the wager?”

“Luke—Claybourne—had always loved Frannie. I knew he intended to marry her. One night Graves mentioned he thought Luke would marry Lady Catherine Mabry. And I, always on the prowl for easy money, said, ‘I'll take that wager.' Luke married Catherine three weeks later. Now I'm obligated to build this hospital.”

“How did he know?”

Jack shrugged again. “Those of us raised under Feagan's tutelage are skilled at deducing. In this instance, Graves was more skilled than I.”

“I'm sorry. Who is Feagan?”

“He was the kidsman who ran our band of child thieves.”

“Claybourne was one of these children?” she asked.

He nodded. “And Graves and Swindler and Frannie.”

“That first night, you said you respected only a few—”

“They are the few. In spite of the odds, they've done well for themselves.”

“As have you.”

“I've not done too shabbily.”

They were circling a portion of the garden where roses climbed the wall and flourished. The abundance of roses made their fragrance almost overpowering, certainly served to make it so he could no longer enjoy Olivia's perfume. They were also clearly beyond the hearing of anyone inside or outside the residence.

As they strolled along, he watched her surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, waited patiently as he observed her thoughts shifting away from him. The furrow in her brow eased. Her eyes took on a soft glow, her lips curled up slightly as she became lost in the marvels of the lilies that now greeted them at this turn.

“So tell me…why did you kill your husband?”

 

Olivia staggered to a stop and stared at him. She couldn't possibly have heard correctly.

He gave her an indulgent smile. “You mentioned it while you were fevered.”

She suddenly felt nauseous. “Who heard?”

“Only me.”

The garden was spinning around her. She wasn't moving but somehow she stumbled. He grabbed her elbow.

“Here. Sit down over there,” he ordered, and led her to the wrought-iron bench that she'd put in this area of the garden because it normally brought her a measure of peace and contentment to sit there.

She sank onto the bench. It was small and, as insane as it might be, she wanted him to sit beside her and hold her. Instead he crouched in front of her just as Inspector Swindler had done, as though that particular position would somehow elicit a confession.

“Were you delirious when you said that?” he asked.

He was giving her an easy way to escape her predicament, and if the weight of it weren't still bearing down on her, she might have taken it. But she'd told no one, and it was so hard, so hard, to live with. Blinking back the tears burning her eyes, she shook her head.

“Tell me,” he urged quietly.

“You'll think I'm awful.”

He reached into his jacket, removed a handkerchief, and extended it toward her. “I'm many things, Livy. A hypocrite isn't one of them. I've done far worse things than you could ever do.”

She took the handkerchief, dried her tears, and sniffled. “You called me that when I was ill.”

“It seemed to suit.”

She swallowed hard, sniffled again. “No one has ever called me anything other than Olivia—at least when using my name. They've called me ‘Your Grace,' of course, and ‘Duchess,' but never ‘Livy.' I rather like it, and now I'm rambling.”

His gaze was penetrating and she felt as though he could see straight into her heart.

“If it makes it any easier, I don't believe for a
moment you killed him, not with malice, anyway,” he said.

“But I'm the reason he's dead.”

“How so?”

She squeezed his handkerchief, pulled it taut. “We were going to a dinner. Henry had seemed particularly distressed that we were leaving, so I'd taken some extra time to reassure him. As a result we were running late. Lovingdon made some comment about how it was difficult to believe I'd let time get away from me when I had this obsession with purchasing clocks. It was so unlike him to say anything unkind. His words stung.”

Even now thinking about them, they hurt again. The clocks had always been for him. He'd always smiled when she gave one to him and said, “Oh, now I have more time.”

Only he hadn't. He hadn't had nearly enough.

“I can certainly understand why you killed him,” Jack said.

She scowled at him. “You're making light of my pain.”

He shifted. “Because it makes me uncomfortable. I don't like to see you hurting.”

“Who'd have thought you'd care? I think there's a very different side of you that you share with only a few.”

“I don't share it with anyone.”

He clasped his hands in front of him. He was holding them tightly. She could see the skin stretched taut across his knuckles, and she wondered if he was fighting not to reach out and touch her. It seemed when the situation warranted, they could both be extremely strong.
At that moment she wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms, yet she kept her distance.

“So you were running late…” he prodded.

She nodded. “We were hurrying down the stairs, and I thought I heard Henry cry. I turned to go back to check on him, and Lovingdon grabbed me. Told me to let Henry be. That he was fine. But I was still upset over the silly clock comment—so I jerked free and when I did—”

Oh, God, she could see it all so clearly, each second seeming to last a minute. The startled look on his face. His arms wind milling. His foot going back, searching for the step he expected to find there, searching for balance—not finding either.

“—he fell backward. I reached for him, but he was already tumbling, and I heard this awful, awful sound, like a huge egg cracking…and then he just lay there.”

Jack suddenly looked blurry, and she realized she was looking at him through a veil of tears. “So you see, it was my fault.”

He worked his handkerchief free of her death grip and very tenderly—with more tenderness than she would have given him credit for possessing—wiped at her tears.

“No, it wasn't,” he said quietly. “It was an accident.”

“It was all so silly. He didn't even want to go to the dinner party, but it was with the queen. She and the prince were celebrating the success of the Great Exhibition. You probably are unaware, but you don't turn down an invitation from the queen.”

Through her continuing tears, she saw a corner of his mouth hike up. “I suspect etiquette involving royalty is something I shall never need to know.”

She released a small laugh, a hiccup. “Probably not.” She hiccupped again. “Do you want to hear something ludicrous?”

“I could use a laugh.”

Since he'd stopped wiping her tears, she snatched his handkerchief and gathered up those that remained. “It's silly now, but when the will was read, I thought you were my punishment. I thought maybe Lovingdon had somehow known I'd be responsible for his demise and so he left this ridiculous will to punish me.”

“I'm sure it must have felt like it at the time.”

“It was just so unexpected. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for what he did leave me, but I'd had high hopes he'd leave me the residence. I know it's much too large for a dower house, but when I moved in, it was so gloomy. He never let the light in. His staff was a quarter of the size it should have been. Much of the house went untended. I changed all that. To be honest, I felt betrayed that he'd given it to you, and then to name you—a known scoundrel—as guardian of our precious Henry…it was simply too much to bear. I fear I took all my disappointments and frustrations out on you. I'm sorry for that.”

“You apologize far too much, Livy. You had every right to be angry. My reaction wasn't particularly charming either.”