Between the Devil and Desire (27 page)

D
amn her. What did she want him to do? Profess undying love? Ask for her hand in marriage? She was a duchess, for God's sake. She acted as though he'd forgotten what she was, what he was. He hadn't. All the money in the world wouldn't cleanse his origins from him, wouldn't make it acceptable for him to marry her.

Not that he'd ever consider marriage.

Still, he couldn't imagine his house without her in it. Couldn't imagine not hearing the echo of her sharp steps as she strode through the hallways to confront him about one matter or another. Couldn't imagine the scent of her perfume not wafting from her bedchamber into his via the dressing room, couldn't imagine it not being on the pillow next to his. Couldn't imagine silence at meals, laughter unheard, smiles unseen.

He, who had always longed for the next coin, now yearned for something more. A woman. He thought he'd give up every coin he possessed if she would bestow upon him just one more smile.

The knock on his office door made him glower. He didn't want company, but before he could tell whoever it
was that he wasn't at home—what a silly bit of nonsense that was—the door opened and Swindler stepped in.

“Frannie said I'd find you here.”

No doubt after he'd spent considerable time talking with her. Jack didn't know why the man didn't just profess his love for her, ask for her hand in marriage, and be done with it.

On the other hand, maybe he should ask the same of himself regarding Olivia. What was the worst that would happen? She'd say no and he'd send her to the country.

“You all right?” Swindler asked.

“Of course.” Jack reached back and grabbed a glass. He filled it with whiskey, set it in front of Swindler as he took his seat, and then refilled his own glass. “You're a bit late in informing me that Briarwood is spreading rumors about me.”

“I'm sorry, but I've had several things I've been investigating of late, and you're not the one who pays my salary.”

“Quit your job and come work for me exclusively. I'll pay you more than Scotland Yard does.”

“I like my job, thank you very much.”

Jack shrugged. “So what do you have? Did you find out anything about my mother?”

“I'm not hopeful there of ever finding anything. But the other matter you asked me about—Lovingdon engaging in any perversions…”

A hint of something in Swindler's voice had Jack sitting up straighter. “Yes?”

“I found nothing where he was concerned, but his cousin gives me pause.”

“Briarwood?”

“Rupert Stanford. He's very much a recluse. According to his maid-of-all-work, the only servant he had until he let her go two days ago, he nearly worked her into the ground keeping everything clean. She was with him for nearly twenty years. He took in maybe a dozen boys during that time. One at a time. Apparently with the intent of finding each boy a proper home. One day she would come into work and find the boy no longer there. She always assumed he'd carried through on his promise, found them someplace else to live.”

“Which he might have,” Jack said, but he wasn't feeling good about this.

“He well might have. I have nothing conclusive, but I find it troubling in light of your earlier concerns.”

“Perhaps we should visit him.”

 

The house was not particularly grand, but it was vaguely familiar. Could this be the dwelling he'd been searching for when he aimlessly walked the streets? He remembered the man's house as being larger, but then to a child of the rookeries—the child that Jack had been—a residence such as this would have taken on the mystique of a palace. Swindler banged the knocker.

“Doesn't appear anyone's home,” Swindler said.

“I want to see inside.”

The light from a nearby streetlamp cast a faint glow over Swindler's face as he arched a brow and gave Jack a stare. Jack stared back until Swindler sighed. “Did you want to do the honors, or shall I?”

Jack felt the slightest of tremors in his hand. “You.”

“Your coachman and footman—”

“Are discreet.”

“They'd better be.”

Swindler reached into his pocket for his tools. Jack angled his body to form some cover for the illegal action. He heard the click and the door swung open with an ominous creak.

He walked in and was greeted with the fragrance of too much soap and furniture wax. A match flared to life. Swindler located an oil lamp and lit it.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Swindler asked.

“A bedchamber.” His voice rasped along his nerve endings.

“Upstairs, I'd say.”

With a nod, Jack bounded up the stairs. Swindler followed. The lamp Swindler carried cast an eerie glow, chasing back shadows, revealing things bit by bit. Nothing looked particularly familiar.

Then they reached the upstairs hallway. There were only four doors. Jack opened the second on the right.

And he was five years old again. Missing his mother, but excited at the prospect of having a bed to sleep in. It was winter. There was a fire in the hearth and it was so nice and toasty. His mother had begun to talk a lot about going to a place called heaven. He decided this had to be it.

“Let's take a bath
,
shall we?”

Jack squeezed his eyes closed against the memories. Had Stanford met his mother when she was a servant in the Lovingdon household? He fought to remember—

“Miss Dawkins?”

She was holding Jack's hand
,
late at night in the rookeries—

She turned
,
curtsied. “Mr. Stanford.”

“What have you here?”

“My son
,
Jack.”

“Jack? Jack? Are you all right?”

Jack opened his eyes at Swindler's urging and walked farther into the room. “They talked. I couldn't hear the words. We went to a tavern, ate this wonderful pie with meat in it. They kept talking. All the while he held her hand.”

“What are you talking about?” Swindler asked.

Jack shook his head. He couldn't explain the unexplainable, but he remembered that when they left, Stanford gave Jack's mother the coin purse and she'd given Jack the locket. Then Stanford had brought him here.

Jack walked to the fireplace, bent down, and looked up the flue that had served as his escape tunnel. He'd worked to get the coals off the hearth, burned his feet and hands going up. That had been his first lesson in what a person would do if he wanted something badly enough. He'd been willing to suffer anything to get out.

He spun around and looked back at the bed with the four posts decorated with elaborate vines carved into them. His stomach roiled with memories of what had happened there.

Walking back to Swindler, Jack took the lamp from him and tossed it onto the bed. Flames erupted over the counterpane.

“Good God, have you gone mad?” Swindler asked.

Jack was already on his way through the door. “We have to find Stanford.”

They returned to the club—not as quickly as Jack would have preferred since Swindler insisted on alerting the fire brigade so they had an opportunity to prevent the flames from spreading beyond Stanford's residence. Jack took some comfort in knowing at least the bed was destroyed.

“You do realize that I can't arrest him,” Swindler said now as they sat in Jack's office.

“Sodomy is against the law.”

“But I have no one to testify.”

“I'll testify.”

Swindler looked away as though suddenly very uncomfortable. Jack supposed it was one thing to have suspicions, another to have confirmation.

“We should probably just handle it ourselves,” Swindler said quietly. “It's not as though we haven't done that before. I'm sure there's someone scheduled for a hanging who doesn't deserve it.”

“You'd switch prisoners? You don't think anyone would notice?”

“You could beat him until he was unrecognizable. I'm certain you'd find some satisfaction in that.”

Jack nodded. “I would indeed.”

The door suddenly opened and Thomas Lark, one of the older boys who helped out in the gaming room, rushed in.

“Thomas, you're supposed to knock,” Jack said.

“Yes, sir, I know, but this was just delivered by a gent who said it was of the utmost importance.”

Jack snatched the envelope Thomas extended. Inside he found a message that caused his heart to thunder.

“Thank God you've arrived sir,” Brittles said in a rush as soon as Jack walked into the residence, Swindler at his side.

“What's the trouble, man?”

“It's the duchess, sir. She's gone missing.”

“Is that all? She was going to take Henry to the country. I'm assuming she couldn't wait until the morning to be rid of me—”

“No, sir, Henry's here.”

Everything in Jack stilled. “She'd not leave Henry.”

“Exactly, sir. She and her son were walking in the garden when someone apparently came out of the shadows, according to the young duke. He escaped, but by the time we realized what he was trying to tell us—he was stammering something fierce, sir—the duchess was gone.”

“Where's Henry now?”

“In the day nursery, sir.”

Jack bounded up the stairs, aware of Swindler and Brittles following behind him. For the first time, Brittles's steps were not silent. Jack took no comfort in that.

He barged into the day nursery. Ida was sitting in a rocker, Henry in her lap holding his dog. Henry scrambled out of Ida's lap, Pippin leaping to the floor. Before Jack could react, Henry had rushed across the short distance separating them and wound his arms tightly around Jack's legs.

“I d-did wh-what you t-taught me, sir. I d-dodged away,” Henry said, his words muffled, his face pressed against Jack's thigh.

Jack crouched, hugging Henry tightly. “You were a good boy, Henry.”

“I think h-he t-took Mummy.” Henry leaned back, tears coursing down his cheeks. “You should have t-taught Mummy how to dodge.”

“Yes, I should have. Do you know who took her?”

Henry bobbed his head quickly. “Cousin Rupert. Father told me t-to n-never go any-anywhere with Cousin R-Rupert.”

Had Lovingdon known what Jack now did? Was Rupert Stanford the one Jack was supposed to protect Henry against? It all made sense, if Lovingdon had seen how Jack protected the boys who worked for him. Couldn't he have left a bloody message?

“Did he hurt you?” Jack asked.

Henry shook his head emphatically. “But when I ran off, I heard Mummy scream. I think he might have hit her. I shouldn't have r-run.”

“No, you did the right thing, because now I only have to worry about your mum and not you.”

“You'll save her?”

“Absolutely.” Although he hadn't a bloody clue where to start. Thank goodness, Swindler was there.

“Sir, I don't mean to interrupt,” Brittles said, holding out an envelope with Jack's name on it. “This was delivered a short while ago.”

Jack snatched it from him and tore into the envelope. The missive was short and to the point.

Jack knew the address written at the bottom of the note. It was in the rookeries.

 

“Where are we?” Olivia asked.

She was sitting on the floor in a shadowed corner, her hands tied behind her. She was fighting not to be terrified. She'd taken a blow to the head and woken up here. Her mouth tasted of laudanum and her thoughts were fuzzy. She wanted to go to sleep but she knew there was a reason she shouldn't.

“The rookeries.” The hoarse whisper came from another dark corner, near the window, the man's silhouette swallowed by the gloom. A solitary lantern was no help against it. It served to illuminate her more than him. “It's easier to handle improper things here. I've instructed Mr. Dodger to bring me a hundred thousand pounds or you'll die.”

Olivia heard in his voice that he was deadly serious. A fissure of dread threatened to overwhelm her.

“If he doesn't deliver, I'll carry out my promise, then I'll return for your son.”

“Not Henry.” She remembered Henry had been with her. “Where is he?”

“The little bugger eluded me.”

Relief swamped her. She had a vague recollection of him darting away. Jack wouldn't part with his precious money for Olivia, but she had no doubt that he would protect Henry.

“Dodger won't come,” she said.

“He'll come.”

She released a bitter laugh, fighting to control it so she didn't sound hysterical. “You've asked him for money. It's the one thing with which he will not part.”

“Then that will be most unfortunate for you.”

Suddenly he moved quickly, crouching before her. She felt something eerily cold against the underside of her chin. “Is that a pistol?” she whispered.

“It is indeed, and I'm very accurate. I've given him until dawn.”

Then, to her astonishment, she recognized him. “Stanford? Rupert Stanford?”

“I'm surprised you remember me. Your husband did not welcome me in his home very often.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because your son's guardian has been making inquiries about me and things are coming to light that I wished to remain in the dark. I need to make a hasty departure and I haven't the funds needed to do so.”

“So you kidnapped me?”

“I saw the way he looked at you when he brought you to Dodger's. You see, I, too, was in the shadows. He has some lovely boys working for him, but he and his staff watch them as though they were the Crown Jewels. And they all have so much confidence that they aren't easily swayed. But I'm certain wherever I go that I can find what I need.”