Dark Fires (16 page)

29

Now that he had glimpsed her once, he had to see her.

He dared not question why. And the old burning rage was back.

He had stayed abed late, unusual for him, because he had not even entered it until dawn. He had a headache from the whiskey he’d consumed, and he blamed it on the blue-eyed blond witch they called Angel. How appropriate, he thought with a grimace as he buttoned up his shirt, the Lord of Darkness and the Little Angel.

“What time is it, darling?” Amelia asked, sitting up and baring her large breasts. She yawned, knowing he was watching her in the mirror, posturing for him.

He grimaced again. He had fucked her savagely last night, with no consideration for her feelings. Of course, he did not give a damn about her feelings, and she liked rough sex. He turned, leaning against the bureau, openly studying her. Amelia smiled with lazy invitation, stretched again, and let the sheets fall to her plump thighs. She spread them slightly.

She was getting fat, he thought with disgust. Or had she always been overripe? She reminded him of a cow in that moment, and he could not dispel a mental image of Jane. He had only seen her from afar, but she had been slender and impossibly sensual, a siren beckoning all from the stage. He tried to remember why, after breaking it off with Amelia two years ago, he had ever bothered to renew their relationship. She had run after him the next time he had been in London, that fall, and he hadn’t much cared who was warming his bed that night. Convenience, he supposed, summed it up then, and summed it up now.

“Come here,” Amelia purred, stroking the bed by her thigh.

He turned and left abruptly, not bothering to close the door.

“You are a boor,” she shouted after him, frustration in her voice. “More boorish than ever!”

He ignored her. If she didn’t like it she could leave; in fact, he hoped she would leave. He ordered his carriage brought around as he sipped strong, hot coffee, suddenly too tense to eat anything. He was going to see Jane. But first he would have to find her.

He was regretting the decision he had made almost two years ago when he had undertaken to support her financially, through Robert Gordon. Then he had made it clear he did not want to do more than provide the monthly allowance, that under no circumstances did he want to be bothered with any details about Jane
at all
So during the past two years he had written the checks and had not heard a single word from Gordon. The bottom line was that he did not even know where she lived. And now he would have to waste time finding out.

The earl’s first stop was Mayfair. Thinking about Lindley in her dressing room brought back the anger he had felt when he had found him there. He intended to confront Lindley, but he had already left for the day and was not expected back until after tea. Nick wasn’t sure Lindley knew where Jane could be found anyway. It depended on the question that was arousing his ire: Just how well did they know each other? Were they lovers?

He would kill Lindley if they were.

He calmed himself as he trotted down the steps of the big brick town house Lindley had recently built for himself. He told himself he would not kill Lindley for being seduced by that little hussy. She had probably climbed into his bed when he was asleep and drunk, as she had done to him. No man could resist in such circumstances. Besides, it was not his affair. She was his ward, yes, but only technically. She had chosen her life—one without him. So be it. He provided money and she could damn well fuck whomever she pleased, Lindley included.

He was not calm.

He knew where Gordon lived, but he was also not at home and not expected back until after the theater that night. The earl did not leave a message.

No one at the Criterion knew where she lived, and the earl was sure they were all telling the truth. He realized that she hid the location of her residence. It seemed a bit odd, but recalling all her fervent admirers the night before, he decided it was reasonable.

The trail was dead, for now. He debated hiring a detective who could, within a few days, find out all the details he wanted to know. This was a waste, and he dismissed the notion immediately. He would return to Lindley’s at five to see what he knew. If this proved fruitless, he would catch Jane before her evening performance.

She would not escape him again.

The two men stared at each other.

Tension filled the room.

Finally Lindley spoke. He looked Nick in the eye. “I don’t know where she is.”

The earl stared back. “Are you seeing her?”

Lindley hesitated. “She is just a friend.”

The earl was angry. “Then you must know where she lives.”

“I do not,” Lindley said firmly, too firmly.

“You’re lying.” Nick was incredulous. “You’re lying to me.”

Lindley didn’t answer, grimmer now.

“Damn her!” Nick exploded. “Will she come between us again, destroy the one friendship important to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Lindley said. “Damn it! She made me promise not to tell! How can I break my promise?” His gaze was imploring.

The earl paced. He turned. “I will find out. Keep your promise. Are you fucking her?”

“No.”

The earl knew his friend well enough to know when he was telling the truth. He felt it then, the relief.

“Why do you care?” Lindley asked softly. “Not because she is technically your ward.”

“I don’t care,” the earl stated flatly. “I only wanted to know the facts.”

“Well, I do care,” Lindley said. “I care about Jane. She is warm and special and she deserves to be happy. Leave her alone, Shelton. For some damn reason she doesn’t want to see you. Just leave her alone.”

The earl turned his back on Lindley, his strides hard and long, exiting the room, the house.

“I wish I could come with you to Charing Cross, darling, but I can’t,” Jane crooned, hugging Nicole. Anxiously she looked at Molly. “You have everything? Money, the extra blanket, sweaters?”

“I have everything, mum, don’t worry,” Molly said, reaching for Nicole. They stood outside on the front stoop of Jane’s house. A hired hansom waited in the street to take them to the depot at Charing Cross. To avoid the scrutiny of her neighbors, an elaborate hat and veil hid Jane’s face and hair.

Jane hugged Nicole again. “Good-bye, darling, it’s only for a week.” She gave her daughter to Molly, kissing the woman’s plump cheek. “Send me a telegram when you arrive, and every day as well. Just don’t mention Nicole, only that everything is fine.”

“Yes’m. Don’t worry, mum, everyone goes to Brighton.”

“Yes, yes,” Jane said nervously. She kissed them each again, then watched Molly and Nicole, small valise in hand, heading through the gate to the cab. She felt a sense of loss, her anxiety acute, but knew she was only being a foolish mother parting with her baby for the first time.

And she would not think about tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would confront the Earl of Dragmore.

30

He waited outside the theater, across the street, in plain sight but shielded slightly by the many passersby and the shadows of the awning over a pharmacist’s. He guessed she would arrive from the side street instead of Picadilly Circus, and he was right. What he had not guessed was that she would be protected by bodyguards.

Stunned, furious, the earl watched Jane exit the coach accompanied by three men, all big and burly with revolvers and clubs, clearly detectives. They disappeared into the back entrance of the theater. Gordon was with them.

At least Lindley was not.

He had not a single doubt that she knew he was after her and that the guards were there to protect her from him.

What was she so afraid of? Did she think he would hurt her? Almost two years had passed since she had crawled uninvited into his bed. He grew grim. Uninvited? Hah! He had wished her there the entire short time she had been at Drag-more and he damn well knew it! She might have seduced him, but he had been a willing victim, and he had not a doubt that had she seduced him while he was wide awake and sober as a judge he’d have been willing then too.

But two years had passed. Why was she afraid of him?

What was she hiding?

This was not the Jane he had known, who was open and honest and direct and guileless. This was a woman keeping secrets. A desperate woman—he had heard the fear in her voice last night before she had fled from her dressing room.

His curiosity, his suspicions, were aroused.

Patiently he waited.

And when she left hours later, still accompanied by the guards, he followed on foot discreetly. The earl was in magnificent form, and he had no trouble keeping up. In fact, he enjoyed the hunt, the chase. He kept to the shadows and out of the streetlamps, trotting tirelessly. His years growing up in the wilds and his Comanche blood were paying off.

His glee was savage when she alighted from the coach at a town house on Gloucester Street. He had not a single doubt that this was where Jane lived. This was her kind of home, cozy and cheerful, honeysuckle creeping along the iron fence, the shutters painted yellow, the door a royal blue, purple pansies spilling from the window boxes. She entered the house and her escort remained outside, bidding her good night. The detectives returned to the coach, Gordon with them, and the carriage pulled away.

The earl could not believe his good fortune.

He strode impatiently up the walk and knocked on the door. A moment later it opened, Jane saying “Robert?”

And their gazes locked.

His held triumph, hers recognition, then shock, then fear. She tried to slam the door in his face, but he was too fast. He rammed his shoulder into it, then effortlessly barreled through. Jane cried out in despair, his force knocking her back against the wall. He straightened, his heart pounding as if he’d run a race. Her blue eyes were wide and riveted on his. “What do you want!”

With an outward display of calm, he closed the door. He turned back slowly. His ears were ringing, his breath short. He looked at her.

God, she was beautiful.

“What do you want!” she cried again.

“I don’t know.”

She stood frozen against the wall, like a hare cornered before the hounds.

His gaze slipped from her white face. She had changed, filled out, become lush with maturity. Her bosom was fuller, straining against her low-cut gown and spilling over it. Her waist seemed tinier, perhaps in contrast. Her hips were rounder, softer. Before she had been coltish. She was still slender, but so perfectly curved his groin began raging.

He hated his lust.

He hated her for what she did to him.

“Maybe,” he said, sneering, “I want what Lindley wants.”

She stiffened. Her chin came up, her eyes blazed. “Get out!”

He smiled, a dangerous, mean smile, and stalked past her into the parlor. His gaze swept it. He heard her coming up behind him. He moved away, down the corridor, opening the door to a back room, which obviously belonged to the maid.

“What are you doing?” Jane demanded. “You can’t just come into my home as if you own it!”

He shot her a look. “But I do.” He moved past her, to inspect the small dining room and kitchen.

She followed, furious. “What do you mean, you do! I pay the rent, this is my house, and if you don’t leave I’ll call the Peelers on you!”

He paused once again in the foyer, leaning against the wall negligently, arms crossed. “Do you pay the rent, Jane? Or did Gordon set you up here?”

She flushed. “It’s none of your damn business!”

“The kitten has grown claws,” he said.

“This kitten would like to spit in your face!”

“Gordon set you up here,” the earl said calmly. “I pay him a monthly allowance—for your rent and keep.”

She stared, shocked.

He lost his negligent stance, standing, looming over her. “What? No thank yous? Oh, how could I forget? A woman who skulks away in the dark of night without a good-bye would not be the type to say thank you. The one thing,” he said viciously, “that I know is my duty. Did you forget, Jane, who your guardian is?”

“You have been giving Robert money?”

“Since the day you left.”

She turned away, distraught. “How much? How much do I owe you?” “Nothing.”

She whirled. “How much, damn you! How much do I owe you!”

He was shocked because she was crying. “Two thousand pounds at the end of this year.”

Jane gasped. Two thousand pounds was a fortune —and had she known, she could have lived in a much more lavish place than this house.

As it was, she earned just enough to pay the rent and provide the necessities to maintain Nicole and herself. Robert was always trying to give her a few extra pounds, and always buying her the luxuries she could not afford. No wonder he had been able to be so generous—it was with the earl’s money! She was certain that Robert hadn’t told her about the allowance because he knew she would refuse it. Jane had no doubt that by now he had put away a tidy nest egg for Nicole and herself.

She bit her lip. She did not have the money to pay the earl back. Not now. Not yet. Maybe, in another year, she would be making such a sum. But not this year. “I don’t have it,” she said woodenly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter!” she flared. “I don’t want anything from you—do you understand?”

“Once you said you loved me.” He laughed. The sound was harsh. “Now you hate me.”

She didn’t refute him. She just stared, eyes glazed with tears.

He felt it then, the terrible stabbing pain. Once, when he had been about to marry her, he had told himself he would be indifferent to her hate, should she one day detest him. But he was not indifferent, oh no. He touched his chest, rubbed it. The pain did not go away.

“Why have you come?”

“Curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Have no fear, I will not come again.”

“Good,” she flung. “Because you are not welcome here. Your curiosity is satisfied, I presume. So—leave.”

He tore his gaze away from her with difficulty. Yet his feet would not move to the door. Instead, he stood unmoving, his gaze going past her to the open door of the parlor. He was strangely unwilling to leave.

And he could see Jane’s touch everywhere. The parlor was warm and cozy, bright and cheerful. The walls were a fresh yellow, the drapes cream. The rug was a bright floral. The couch was spring green, comfortably upholstered, and even the baby’s shirt she was knitting was a pretty pink. There were wildflowers in the vases, not roses, but …

Baby’s shirt?

His gaze flew to the knitting left on a chair. The shirt was pink and finished except for one tiny sleeve. His heart had constricted; now it began to slam forcefully against his ribs. He strode within, lifted the knitting. “What’s this?”

It was a demand. He turned, saw that she was whiter than a ghost. His gaze pierced hers. “It’s Molly’s,” she said. “Molly has a child.”

He stared at her. His first thought was to wonder if the child was his, but the odds were low, as Molly had a lascivious appetite. Then his gaze narrowed, his heart slamming again. “Molly, your maid, sits in your parlor knitting for her child?” And he thought about her fear and the secret he’d known she was hiding.

Jane flushed. “Why not?” She shrugged gracefully.

She was lying, he knew it. For the first time since he’d stepped within her house, she was calm and composed. “I want to see the child,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why? The brat could be mine.”

She flushed again. “You know Molly. She has— er—a fondness for men. Trust me, it’s not yours.”

Her voice was very firm. His smile was cynical. “Humor me.”

“They’re not here.”

“Oh? Then you won’t mind if I look around.”

She ran after him. “Stop! This is my home! I shall call the Bobbies!”

He ignored her, pulse pounding, and pushed open the door to Molly’s room. He turned on a lamp. As he’d thought, there was no crib within, not even another cot for her baby. “Where does the child sleep?”

Jane was white. She did not answer.

He wanted to strangle her.

Furious, he ran up the stairs. This time she remained frozen below. He threw open the first door on the left, turned on a lamp, and saw that it was Jane’s room. Just for a moment he stared at the bed, covered in a white, lace-trimmed quilt. Then he strode across the hall. He heard Jane scream, pounding up the stairs like a madwoman. He reached for the door. With a savage cry, like a female warrior, she grabbed his hand with both of hers, her nails tearing into his flesh. “No! Leave! I want you out of here now!”

He found her wrists, making her release her clawlike grasp, and he pushed her against the wall. She was panting, bosom heaving, her face red with fury. When he released her she attacked him. With her nails poised like talons, she went for his face, and succeeded in scratching him from temple to jaw.

He exploded. He wrestled her arms behind her back, pinning her to the wall. To his dismay, and fury, he was huge and erect against her belly. She writhed wildly, once, inflaming him further. Then, abruptly, she went still.

Tears filled her eyes. She was panting. His own breathing was harsh. He felt a tremor assail his body. He still wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any other woman. His face was close to hers, and he leaned closer to kiss her.

“I hate you.”

He froze, then smiled, baring even white teeth. “Well said.” His smile was gone. He yanked on her, pulling her harder against him, wanting her to feel his aching, agonized tumescence. She began to tremble. He decided he’d enjoy her fear. Let her think he’d rape her, the bitch! The lying deceitful two-faced philandering bitch! “What are you hiding, Jane?”

She stared and said nothing.

He held her for a second more, waiting for her fear to grow, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt her stiffness fading, and as she relaxed, she looked at his open shirt, at the dark, wet skin of his chest, inches from her mouth.

She was a temptress, a woman of wiles, attempting now to distract him. He heaved away from her. He heard her choke. He entered the room, flicked on a lamp, and stared.

A nursery.

He took it all in, the clowns on the wallpaper, the rocking horse, the dolls, the pretty painted headboard. The bed was empty.

She had a child.

He turned, slowly, heart clamoring. “Who is the father?”

She stood in the doorway, a pale wraith. “Robert.”

He had thought it might be his, hoped it was his, and the pain of her having another man’s child struck him with such force he staggered backward. “You’re lying.” But even as he spoke, he knew that the odds of his being the father from one time in Jane’s bed were minute. The pain increased.

“It’s Robert’s,” she said, and tears spilled from her lashes. She began to cry.

“Where is he?”

“Robert lives—”

“Where is the child?”

For one moment she looked at him, her eyes filled with despair, and then she crumbled against the door jamb, weeping. “God forgive me,” she cried. “I can’t do this, I can’t! Robert isn’t the father, you are.”