Between the Devil and Desire (31 page)

I was born Jack Dawkins, beloved son to Emily Dawkins, bastard son of Sidney Augustus Stanford, Duke of Lovingdon, Marquess of Ashleigh, and Earl of Wyndmere—a man who cared more for the pristine lineage of his titles than he did for either my mother or me.

I've yet to forgive him for allowing my mum to be turned out, and I doubt I shall ever hold him in high esteem. I consider it a blessing not to have been raised under his tutelage. He was never a father to me. That honor was held by another.

Feagan was a criminal destined for the gallows. That he managed to escape and live to a ripe old age was his good fortune and mine. He taught me to steal without getting caught. He taught me to survive and to harm others as little as possible while doing it. He gave me a family and he made me feel safe. In all ways that are important, he was my father.

When I was five, my mum gave me into an
other man's keeping. I vaguely remember the last winter we were together, the winter that changed my life. She developed a deep, rattling cough that kept us both awake. She bloodied her handkerchiefs and ate little. I think she must have known she was dying, and she sought to provide for me as best she could—and she thought my father's cousin was the way to go. She died before spring and was buried in a pauper's grave, hopefully without ever learning the truth about the devil who'd taken me in.

It took a bit of work, but Feagan's brood is very skilled at ferreting out information. We discovered where my mum was buried, and Graves—a graverobber in his youth—saw to the matter.

My mum is now where she should have been all along, resting beside the man she loved. I cannot help but believe she loved him, because buried with her Graves found a locket similar to the one she'd given me. Inside was a miniature of the duke.

Because the Lovingdon crypt is at the family estate—which rightfully belongs to my young half-brother and stepson—I don't visit often. But I pay the gardener to deliver flowers to my mother every day. I built him a greenhouse so she has blossoms even in winter.

I remember my mum telling me once she sold flowers because it was the only way to have them in her life for a bit, and as sad as it was to have them taken from her, the joy they brought her while they were near was worth it.

No doubt I'm arrogant, but I like to think this could also be said of me: that while I was with her, I was a joy and not a burden.

In going through the duke's things, Livy found a journal. She says it chronicles the duke's love for a young servant—a love so deep it made it difficult for him to have another woman in his life. She thinks if I read it I will gain a better understanding regarding the strength and sacrifice required of the aristocracy, and that I will come to respect my father for his loyalty to duty and his desire to meet the expectations others had for him.

Perhaps she is right, but I am not yet ready. I believe a man must first look to himself to find the path he must walk, and that every man—from the poorest to the wealthiest—has difficult choices to make. I have known poverty, and I have known excess. Each brings its own troubles; each brings its own rewards. The men I respect are not influenced by their station in life or the amount of coin in their pockets. They remain true to themselves and those around them, regardless of how well—or poorly—life treats them. I am not altogether certain the duke could have survived the streets. We are all shaped by our pasts. I believe I am a better man because of mine. My children will no doubt live more grandly than I did, but I will see to it they look into the faces of the poor.

I suspect Henry will not become a typical lord—after all, he has me for a guardian. I have put the pocket watch away, to be given to Henry
on the day he reaches his majority. It seems only fitting. After all, he has fond memories of his father, which I do not possess.

Livy no longer believes I was the worst choice. She is content, more than content I would say, with the knowledge that her son—all her children—will always be loved and protected by me. If I have any good trait at all, it is this: I'm fiercely protective of what is mine.

I suspect I shall never publicly claim Lovingdon as my father. To do so may result in the legitimacy of my marriage to Livy being brought into question. And I will not give her up. Not for any man's name or any man's fortune.

I remember a time when I hungered for the next coin, when I would do anything—anything at all—to possess it. Now, all I long for are moments spent with my Livy. She is the true gold of my life. The one who owns my heart and my soul—and for all eternity, my love.