Suddenly You (9 page)

“Coffee, then, with sugar and a pot of cream.” Gemma's red lips—their lush color skillfully enhanced by rouge—curved in a sweetly appealing smile. She waited until the maid had left before speaking.

“I suppose you want an explanation of how the whole thing came about. Well, it was strictly by chance that you came to see me just a few hours after Miss Briars's visit. You happened to mention the book that you had acquired, and your desire to meet Miss Briars, and then the most delicious idea occurred to me. Miss Briars wanted a man, and I had none who would suit her. I could have sent Ned or Jude, but neither of those pretty-faced, empty-headed boys would do for her.”

“Why not?” Jack asked darkly.

“Oh, come, now. I was not about to insult Miss Briars by sending over some lack-brains to divest her of her virginity. So as I was pondering the situation, and wondering how to locate the appropriate man for her, you arrived.” She shrugged gracefully, more than pleased with herself. “It was no trouble at all to arrange things. I decided to send
you,
and since I've received no complaint from Miss Briars, I assume that you performed to her satisfaction.”

Perhaps it had been the novelty of the situation, or his compulsive fascination with Amanda Briars, but for some reason, Jack had not considered until now that he owed Gemma Bradshaw his gratitude. She could easily have sent some arrogant pup who would not have appreciated Amanda's quality and beauty, and would have taken her innocence with no more thought than he would have picked an apple from a tree. The idea of that, and his reaction to it, were no less than alarming.

“You might have told me of your plans,” he growled, both furious and relieved. Good God, what if some other man had unexpectedly arrived at Amanda's house that evening, instead of himself?

“I couldn't take the chance that you might refuse. And I knew that once you met Miss Briars, you would not be able to resist.”

Jack was not about to give her the satisfaction of admitting that she had been absolutely correct. “Gemma, what gave you the idea that thirty-year-old spinsters are to my taste?”

“Why, the two of you are exactly alike,” she exclaimed. “Anyone could see it.”

Mildly startled, he felt his brows tugging upward toward his hairline. “Alike in what way?”

“To begin with, the way you both seem to regard your hearts as if they are clock mechanisms that need repair.” She snorted in amusement, and continued in a softer vein. “Amanda Briars needs someone to love her, and yet she thinks her problem is easily solved by paying for a single night with a male prostitute. And you, dear Jack, have always done your utmost to avoid getting the thing you need most—a companion. Instead, you are wedded to your business, which must be cold comfort when you're in your empty bed at night.”

“I have all the damned companionship I need, Gemma. I'm hardly a monk.”

“I'm not referring to mere sexual intercourse, you obtuse man. Don't you ever wish for a partner, someone you could trust and confide in…even love?”

Jack was annoyed to realize that he had no answer. Acquaintances, friends, even lovers, he had seemingly unlimited supplies of these. But he had never found a woman who was capable of satisfying his physical and emotional needs—and the blame rested on himself rather than on any lady in particular. There was something lacking in him, an inability to give of himself in anything but the most superficial ways.

“Miss Amanda Briars is hardly the ideal partner for a selfish bastard like me,” he said.

“Oh?” She smiled provocatively. “Why don't you give it a try? You may be surprised by the results.”

“I never thought you would try to play matchmaker, Gemma.”

“Every now and again I like to experiment,” she replied lightly. “I shall view this one with great interest to see if it takes.”

“It won't,” he assured her. “And if it did, I'd go hang before I let you know about it.”

“Darling,” she purred, “would you be so cruel as to deprive me of a little enjoyment when my intentions are so good? Now, do tell me what happened between the two of you that evening. I've nearly expired of curiosity.”

He kept his face completely expressionless. “Nothing happened.”

She let out a peal of delicious laughter. “You should be more clever, Jack. I might have believed you, had you claimed there had merely been a bit of flirtation or even an argument…but it is clearly impossible that
nothing
happened.”

Jack was not in the habit of confiding his true feelings to anyone. Long ago, he had learned the art of chatting easily without revealing anything. It had always seemed to him that there was no point in sharing secrets when most people were so damned unable to keep them.

Amanda Briars was a beautiful woman masquerading as a plain one…she was funny, intelligent, brave, practical, and, most of all,
interesting
. What troubled him was that he didn't know what he wanted from her. In his world women had clear uses. Some were intellectual companions, some were entertaining lovers, some were business associates, and most were either so dull or so clearly meant for matrimony as to be avoided altogether. Amanda fit into no precise category.

“I kissed her,” Jack said abruptly. “Her hands smelled like lemons. I felt…” Finding no words to explain what had suddenly become inexplicable, he fell silent. To his dawning surprise, that quiet evening at Amanda Briars's home had assumed the form of an upheaval in his mind.

“That's all you're going to say?” Gemma complained, clearly annoyed by his silence. “Well, if that is the extent of your descriptive powers, it's no wonder that you've never written a novel.”

“I want her, Gemma,” he said softly. “But that's not a good thing, for her or for me.” He paused with a grim smile. “If we had an affair, it would end badly on both sides. She would come to want things I can't give her.”

“And how do you know that?” Gemma mocked gently.

“Because I'm not a fool, Gemma. Amanda Briars is the kind of woman who needs—and deserves—more than half a man.”

“Half a man,” she repeated, laughing at the phrase. “Why do you say that? From all the reports I've heard of your anatomy, dear, you're extremely well accounted for.”

Jack abandoned the subject then, understanding that Gemma had no wish or ability to discuss problems that had no concrete solution. In fact, neither did he. He turned to smile at Gemma's maid, who had entered the room with a cup of heavily creamed and sugared coffee. “Ah, well,” he murmured, “there are other women in the world besides Amanda Briars, thank God.”

Following his lead, Gemma mercifully let the subject drop. “Anytime you desire the company of one of my girls, just say the word. It's the least I can do for my dear publisher.”

“That reminds me…” Jack paused to drink the hot coffee, then continued with a deliberately bland expression. “I received a visit from Lord Tirwitt at my offices this morning. He was displeased by his portrayal in your book.”

“Really,” Gemma said without much interest. “What did the old wind-guts have to say?”

“He tried to skewer me with a spear-point cane.”

The comment sent the madam into a torrent of laughter. “Oh, dear,” she gasped, “and I did try to be kind. Why, you wouldn't believe the things I omitted, things that were simply too distasteful to print.”

“No one is accusing you of an excess of good taste, Gemma. Including Lord Tirwitt. If I were you, I would advise your staff to be vigilant, in case he should call on you after his stay at the Bow Street holding room.”

“He wouldn't come here,” Gemma said, wiping a stray tear of mirth from her kohl-smudged eyes. “It would only serve to confirm the nasty rumors. But thank you for the warning, darling.”

They talked comfortably for a little while, about business and investments and politics, the kind of conversation that Jack could have had with any seasoned businessman. He enjoyed Gemma's tart humor and utter pragmatism, for they shared the same unscrupulous view that allegiance to any particular person or party or ideal was to be avoided. They would support either liberal or conservative causes according to what would best serve their own selfish purposes. Had they found themselves on a sinking ship, they would have been the first pair of rats to abandon it, and stolen the best lifeboat in the bargain.

Finally the pot of coffee had turned lukewarm, and Jack recalled other appointments he had scheduled for the day. “I've taken enough of your time,” he murmured, standing and smiling as Gemma remained on the chaise. He bent and kissed her outstretched hand, his lips connecting not with skin, but with a mass of jewels that flashed and clicked beneath his mouth.

They exchanged friendly grins, and Gemma asked with seeming idleness, “Shall Miss Briars be writing for you, then?”

“Yes, but I've taken a vow of chastity where she is concerned.”

“Very wise of you, darling.” Her voice carried a note of warm approval, but there was a glitter of merriment in her eyes. As if she were laughing at him inwardly. Jack was perturbed to recall that his manager, Oscar Fretwell, had looked at him with the same secretive amusement this very morning. What the devil did people find so damned funny about his dealings with Amanda Briars?

To Amanda's surprise, the contract from Jack Devlin was not brought to her house by an errand boy, but by Oscar Fretwell. The manager was as engaging as she had remembered, his turquoise eyes warm and friendly, his smile sincere. His polished good looks seemed to impress Sukey to no end, and Amanda had to suppress a grin as the little maid inspected him with brazen thoroughness. Amanda was certain that Sukey did not miss a detail, from the well-cut blond hair that shone like a new-minted gold coin, to the tips of his gleaming black shoes.

Sukey made a great show of bringing Fretwell to the parlor with the deference she might have accorded to visiting royalty.

At Amanda's invitation, Fretwell sat in a nearby chair and reached into the brown leather satchel at his side. “Your contract,” he said, extracting a heavy sheaf of paper and giving it a triumphant rustle. “All it requires is your inspection and signature.” He smiled somewhat apologetically as Amanda received the thick stack with raised brows.

“I've never seen such a long contract,” she said wryly. “My lawyer's doing, no doubt.”

“After your friend Mr. Talbot was finished with all the details and stipulations, it turned out to be an unusually thorough document.”

“I shall read it without delay. If all is well, I will sign and return it on the morrow.” She set it aside. She was surprised by her own feeling of anticipation, something she would not have expected to feel at the prospect of writing for a scoundrel like Jack Devlin.

“I am to give you a personal message from Mr. Devlin,” Fretwell said, his blue-green eyes glinting behind his highly polished spectacles. “He said for me to tell you that he is wounded by your lack of trust in him.”

Amanda laughed. “He is as trustworthy as a snake. In the matter of contracts, I would not leave a single detail open to question, or he would take certain advantage.”

“Oh, Miss Briars!” Fretwell seemed genuinely shocked. “If that is truly your impression of Mr. Devlin, I can assure you that you are mistaken! He is a very fine man…why, if you only knew…”

“If I knew what?” she asked. She raised an eyebrow. “Come, Mr. Fretwell, tell me what you find so admirable about Devlin. I assure you, his reputation does him no credit, and while he possesses a certain slippery charm, I have so far detected no signs of character or conscience. I would be intrigued to hear just why you call him a fine man.”

“Well, I will concede that Mr. Devlin is demanding, and he sets a pace that is difficult to follow, but he is always fair, and he gives generous rewards for a job well done. He has a temper, I'll admit, but he is also quite reasonable. In fact, he is more softhearted than he would want anyone to know. For example, if one of his employees is ill for a prolonged period of time, Mr. Devlin will guarantee that his job is waiting for him when he returns. That is more than most employers will do.”

“You've known him for quite some time,” Amanda said with a questioning lilt in her tone.

“Yes, since we were boys at school. At graduation, I and a few of the other fellows followed him to London when he told us that he intended to become a publisher.”

“You all shared the same interest in publishing?” she asked skeptically.

Fretwell shrugged. “It didn't matter what the profession was. Had Devlin told us he wanted to become a dockmaster, butcher, or fishmonger, we still would have wanted to work for him. If it weren't for Mr. Devlin, we'd all be leading very different lives. In fact, few of us would be alive today if not for him.”

Amanda tried to conceal her astonishment at these words, but she felt her jaw go slack. “Why do you say that, Mr. Fretwell?” To her fascination, she saw that Fretwell was suddenly uncomfortable, as if he had revealed far more than he should have.

He smiled ruefully. “Mr. Devlin places a great value on his privacy. I should not have said so much. On the other hand…perhaps there are a few things you should understand about Devlin. It is plain that he has taken a great liking to you.”

“It seems to me that he likes everyone,” Amanda said flatly, recalling Devlin's ease with others at Mr. Talbot's party, the great number of friends that had eagerly sought his attention. And he certainly got along well enough with the opposite sex. She had not missed the way the female guests at the party had fluttered and giggled in his presence, excited by the smallest attentions from him.

“That's a facade,” Fretwell assured her. “It suits his purposes to maintain a wide circle of social acquaintances, but he likes very few people, and trusts even fewer. If you knew about his past, you would not be surprised.”

Amanda did not usually attempt to employ charm to obtain information. She had always preferred a more straightforward approach. However, she found herself giving Fretwell the most sweetly appealing smile she was capable of. For some reason, she was very eager to learn whatever he had to tell about Devlin's past. “Mr. Fretwell,” she said, “won't you trust me a little? I do know how to keep my mouth closed.”

“Yes, I believe you do. However, it is hardly a subject for parlor conversation.”

“I'm not an impressionable girl, Mr. Fretwell, nor am I some delicate creature given to vapors. I promise that I will not swoon.”

Fretwell smiled slightly, but his tone was grave. “Has Devlin told you anything about the school that he—we—attended?”

“Only that it was a small place in the middle of the moors. He would not divulge the name.”

“It was Knatchford Heath,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it were a foul curse. He waited then, seeming to recall some long-ago nightmare, while Amanda puzzled over the words. The phrase “Knatchford Heath” was not unfamiliar to her—hadn't there been some ghastly popular rhyme that mentioned it?

“I know nothing about the school,” Amanda said thoughtfully. “Except I have the vaguest impression…didn't a boy die there once?”

“Many boys died there.” Fretwell smiled grimly. He seemed to distance himself from the subject even as he spoke, his voice compressing to a low monotone. “The place no longer exists, thank God. The scandal grew until no parents dared send their boys for fear of social censure. Had the school not been closed by now, I would personally burn it to the ground.” His expression hardened. “It was a place attended by unwanted or illegitimate boys whose parents wanted to be rid of them. A convenient way to dispose of mistakes. That is what I was—the misbegotten son of a married lady who cuckolded her husband and wished to hide the evidence of her adultery. And Devlin…the son of a nobleman who raped a poor Irish housemaid. When Devlin's mother died, his father wanted nothing to do with his bastard offspring, and so he sent the boy to Knatchford Heath. Or, as we fondly called the place, Knatchford Hell.” He paused, appearing absorbed in some bitter recollection.

“Go on,” she prodded gently. “Tell me about the school.”

“One or two of the teachers were relatively kind,” he said. “But most were fiendish monsters. It was easy to mistake the headmaster for the devil himself. When a student didn't learn his lessons well enough, or complained about the moldy bread or the slop they called porridge, or otherwise made some kind of mistake, he was disciplined with severe whippings, starvation, burning, or even worse methods. One of the employees at Devlin's, Mr. Orpin, is mostly deaf from having his ears boxed too hard. Another boy at Knatchford went blind from lack of nourishment. Sometimes a student would be tied to the gate outside and left all night, exposed to the winter elements. It was a miracle that any of us survived, and yet we did.”

Amanda stared at him with a mixture of horror and compassion. “Were the boys' parents aware of what was happening to them?” she managed to ask.

“Of course they knew. But they didn't care if we died. I believe they rather hoped we would. There were never vacations or holidays. No parent ever came to see his boy at Christmas. No visitors came to inspect the conditions there. As I told you, we were unwanted. We were mistakes.”

“A child is not a mistake,” Amanda said, her voice suddenly unsteady.

Fretwell smiled slightly at the futility of the statement, then continued quietly. “When I came to Knatchford Heath, Jack Devlin had already been there for more than a year. I knew at once that he was different from the other boys. He seemed not to fear the teachers and headmaster as the rest of us did. Devlin was strong, clever, confident…in fact, if there was such a thing as a school favorite among students and staff alike, it was he. Not that he escaped the punishments, of course. He was beaten and starved as often as the rest of us. More often, in fact. I soon discovered that he would sometimes take the blame for other boys' misdeeds and be punished in their stead, knowing that the smaller ones would not be able to survive the severe whippings. And he encouraged the other larger, stronger students to do the same. We had to take care of each other, he said. There was a world outside the school, he reminded us, and if only we could survive long enough…”

Fretwell removed his glasses and used a handkerchief to polish the lenses with scrupulous care. “Sometimes the only difference between life and death is the ability to retain the smallest scrap of hope. Devlin gave us that little bit of hope. He made promises, impossible promises, that he later managed to keep.”

Amanda was utterly silent, finding it impossible to reconcile her knowledge of the jaunty scoundrel Jack Devlin with the boy whom Fretwell had just described.

Evidently reading the disbelief in her face, Fretwell replaced his spectacles and smiled. “Oh, I am aware of how he must seem to you. Devlin paints himself as a reprobate. But I assure you, he is the most trustworthy and steadfast man I've ever known. He once saved my life at the risk of his own. I was caught stealing food from the school larder, and my punishment was to be tied to the gate all night. It was bitterly cold and windy, and I was terrified. But just after nightfall, Devlin sneaked outside with a blanket, untied me, and stayed until morning, both of us huddling under that blanket and talking about the day when we would be able to leave Knatchford Heath. At daybreak, when a teacher was sent out to retrieve me, Devlin had retied my ropes and vanished back into the school. If he had been caught helping me, I believe it would have resulted in his own death.”

“Why?” Amanda asked softly. “Why did he put himself at risk for your sake, and for the others? I would have thought…”

“That he would have been concerned only for his own welfare?” Fretwell finished for her, and she nodded. “I confess, I've never really understood what motivates Jack Devlin. But I do know one thing for certain—he may not be a religious man, but he is a humanitarian.”

“If you say so, then I believe you,” Amanda murmured. “However…” She threw him a skeptical glance. “I find it difficult to accept that someone who once took painful beatings for others should have complained and carried on so about a mere scratch on his side.”

“Ah, you're referring to your visit to the offices last week, when Lord Tirwitt attacked Devlin with that cane-sword.”

“Yes.”

For some reason, Fretwell began to smile. “I've seen Devlin tolerate a hundred times more pain that that without even blinking,” he said. “But he is a man, after all, and not above trying to gain a little feminine sympathy.”

“He desired
my
sympathy?” Amanda asked in astonishment.

Fretwell seemed ready to deliver much more of this highly interesting information, but he checked himself, as if suddenly doubtful of the wisdom of doing so. He smiled as he glanced into Amanda's round gray eyes. “I've said enough, I think.”

“But, Mr. Fretwell,” she protested, “you haven't finished the story. How did a boy with no family and no money eventually come to own a publishing business? And how—”

“I will allow Mr. Devlin himself to tell you the rest someday, when he is ready. I have no doubt that he will.”

“But you can't tell me only half a story!” Amanda complained, making him laugh.

“It's not mine to tell, Miss Briars.” He set down his teacup and carefully refolded his napkin. “I beg your pardon, but I must be about my business, or I'll answer to Devlin.”

Reluctantly Amanda sent for Sukey, who appeared with the manager's hat, coat, and gloves. Fretwell bundled himself in preparation for the brisk winter wind outside. “I hope that you will return soon,” Amanda told him.

He nodded, as if he were fully cognizant that she wished to learn more from him about Jack Devlin. “I will certainly try to oblige you, Miss Briars. Oh, and I nearly forgot…” He reached into his coat pocket and unearthed a small object in a black velvet bag tied with silk cords. “My employer bade me to give this to you,” he said. “He wishes to commemorate the occasion of your first contract with him.”

“I cannot accept a personal gift from him,” Amanda replied warily, not moving to take the velvet bag.

“It's a penholder,” he said matter-of-factly. “Hardly an object that one attaches great personal meaning to.”

Cautiously Amanda received the bag from him and emptied the contents into her open palm. A silver penholder, and a selection of steel nibs to be used with it, fell into her hand. Amanda blinked in uneasy surprise. No matter how Fretwell framed it, this pen
was
a personal object, as costly and fine as a piece of jewelry. Its heaviness attested to the fact that it was solid sterling, its surface engraved and set with pieces of turquoise. When was the last time she had received a present from a man, other than some Christmas token from a relative? She could not remember. She hated the feeling that had suddenly come over her, a sense of warm giddiness she had not experienced since girlhood. Although instinct prompted her to return the beautiful object, she did not heed it. Why shouldn't she keep the gift? It probably meant nothing to Devlin, and she would enjoy having it.