In Bed With the Devil (24 page)

Somehow, they managed to get back into bed, mouths locked, arms and legs in a tangle. He wanted to forget what she thought it was crucial he remember. Yet, she couldn't deny him a few moments of solace. If she could, she'd give him a lifetime of comfort in her arms.

His mouth was hot, desperate, eager. She was more than ready for him when he drove himself into her, like a man possessed, a man running from his past, a man unable to see his future. He pumped fast and furious. She met his eagerness with her own, digging her fingers into his firm buttocks, riding him as he rode her.

His powerful thrusts had the headboard knocking the wall, the pleasure rippling through her in undulating waves. There was madness here, and she didn't care. She cared only about him losing himself in her, and her losing herself in him.

She expected each time they came together for it to be the last—each time was a gift: a giving, a joining, a receiving, a taking. They were equals. If she could have given him more, she would have. Instead she rode the waves until they crested, calling out his name, aware of him growling hers, aware of his violent shudders, his face buried in the curve of her shoulder.

Holding him close while their breathing slowed, she relished the weight of his body. She'd wanted to know what it was to lie with him. Now she had to find the strength to give him up, to give him to another, to give him to Frannie.

She felt the tears sting her eyes because she wouldn't be the one to share his joys or his troubles. She wouldn't bear his children. She wouldn't be the one who stood beside him as he left his mark on the world. And she had no doubt that he was a man capable of leaving behind a magnificent legacy. He'd been forged in the fires of hell—and the man emerging, all of London would soon learn, was one to be reckoned with.

 

It was dark when the coach finally reached London. Catherine was still dressed in the clothes of a servant, and Luke didn't look much better. He knew he should go home first, make himself presentable, but he had a matter that he needed to see to—urgently. He'd told his driver where to go, and as he recognized the buildings signaling that they were nearing their destination, he felt the fury raging within him.

“Aren't we going home?” Catherine asked.

The coach came to a halt.

“Stay here,” Luke ordered. He opened the door and leapt out of the coach before his footman could assist him. He strode into Dodger's, a man with a purpose. He spotted Jack straightaway.

The man known as the Dodger turned away from a gaming table and smiled brightly. “Ah, there you are. Have you put matters—”

Luke smashed his balled fist into Jack's face, sending him tumbling to the floor, overturning the table in the process. There were gasps from the gentlemen customers, squeals from the ladies who were trying to entice them up to their rooms.

“Get up!” Luke demanded.

Jack wiped the blood from his mouth, looked at the back of his hand, before peering up at Luke. “I'm not quite certain—”

“Get. Up.”

Jack pushed himself up until he stood straight, and Luke punched him in the stomach. Jack staggered back, and Luke pounded his fist into his chin, snapping his head back and sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Luke!” Frannie cried from somewhere behind him. “What are you doing?”

She knelt beside Jack and looked up at Luke, horror in her eyes.

“It's all right, Frannie,” Jack said. “I'm sure he has a good reason for punching the bloke who saved his arse on more than one occasion.”

Luke took a step forward, taking satisfaction in Jack's flinching. “You found me hiding behind that garbage in the alley, because you followed me. You followed me from where my parents were attacked. All these years, you knew the truth. You knew I was the old gent's grandson, but you held your silence because to do otherwise would reveal your part in the murder of my parents. You knew my torment and yet you left me to suffer with my doubts. I should bloody well kill you.”

It was as though a veil had dropped from Jack's eyes. Luke saw the truth there, saw that what he'd remembered was exactly what had taken place.

“Please do,” Jack snarled. “By all means. Ever since that night we were in gaol and I offered myself up to those blighters so they'd spare you, I've prayed for death. So do it. You killed your uncle. So kill your friend! I bloody well dare you!”

Luke was suddenly aware of the cane in his hand, the sword unsheathed. He'd not remembered bringing it with him, but it would serve him well now. He took another step forward, felt a hand squeezing his arm, looked back—

Catherine. With tears swimming in her blue eyes. “You're not a murderer.”

“I killed my uncle. Let there be no doubt.”

“He took a young girl's innocence. But you are not a murderer.”

He pointed at Jack. “He led us to the alley. He was the urchin who claimed his mother was dying. He's the one—”

“I'll not let you give up the last bit of your soul. I will stand in front of you if I must.”

But it was enough that she stood beside him. He looked back at Jack. “What did he pay you?”

Jack just glowered at him.

“Damn you! Answer me.”

To his surprise, Jack didn't avert his gaze in shame. “Sixpence.”

Luke slammed his eyes closed.

“I didn't know what he had planned,” Jack said quietly. “You have to believe that, Luke, I didn't know.”

Luke opened his eyes. He'd been blind with rage, and only now did everything around him come into focus. Chesney and Milner staring at him, mouths agape. Other lords and common gentlemen—vice made them equal.

Frannie staring up at him as though she didn't know him.

“Did you know what he'd done?” Luke asked quietly.

She slowly shook her head.

Catherine clinging to his arm as though she alone had the power to stop him from doing something rash and irrevocable. Catherine, dressed in the clothing of a servant, her hair askew. Catherine who'd not stayed in the coach as he'd ordered. Catherine standing in the midst of a gaming hell.

What had he been thinking to come here first? What had she been thinking to follow him inside? Was there a chance in hell that no one would recognize her?

He felt a need to do something, to say something, to bring this moment to a deserving end. But there was nothing inside him, nothing except grief and loss. The past twenty-five years of his life had been filled with lies. And the truth offered no comfort.

 

It terrified Catherine how quiet Luke was in the coach. He'd walked out of Dodger's without another word being spoken. She sat beside him, holding his hand, a hand that was so cold it was as though he'd died.

“You shouldn't be alone tonight,” she said.

“I am who I'm supposed to be, and suddenly, inexplicably, I feel so unworthy. I have been an imposter all these years, but not in the way I thought.”

“You've not been an imposter.”

“I thought I was a scoundrel masquerading as a lord; instead I was a lord masquerading as a scoundrel. I thought I was one of them, I thought I was one of Feagan's children. I thought we had the streets in common.”

Her heart was breaking for him. “You did. For a while you did.”

He looked at her with a gentleness in his eyes that she'd feared had been lost forever. “Do you think there is any chance that any of the nobles in Dodger's tonight did not recognize you?”

She sighed. “A small chance perhaps.”

“You shouldn't have tried to stop me, Catherine. Your reputation is not worth the scandal that will erupt.”

“Let's see. My father lies at death's door, my brother is traipsing around the world. I have no husband, no children. My reputation matters only to me, and you mean a great deal more to me than it.”

He cupped her face, brushed his lips over hers. The passion between them had cooled, as it should have. When all of this was behind him, he'd once again return to Frannie's side. She had no doubt of that.

“We need to get you home,” he said quietly. “And I need to determine what I'm to do about
Avendale.” They'd left him in his cellar prison at Luke's estate until everything could be arranged. Luke sighed deeply. “I'd have never thought that remembering would bring with it far more trouble than forgetting.”

C
atherine was drained as she slowly made her way up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She wanted desperately to see her father, but she didn't want him to see her dressed like a servant, looking as though she'd spent a few days being ravished. Which she had, but still. He didn't need to know that.

Jenny prepared the bath and Catherine sank into the steaming water. She was sore and miserable. And that was the good news. While nothing would remain of her reputation, she would deal with that problem later. Right now, her main concern was Claybourne. She didn't want him to be alone tonight.

But she was so exhausted that it was all she could do to continue breathing.

When she was finished with her bath, Jenny began drying her. “Shall I help you prepare for bed?”

“No, I want to visit with my father for a while, and as he's not seen me in a few days, I think a simple dress would be appropriate.”

She felt a little more herself as she walked down the hallway to his bedchamber. His nurse rose as Catherine stepped into the room.

“How is he?” Catherine asked.

“Doing well, my lady.”

He couldn't speak coherently, he couldn't move about on his own. He had to be fed and bathed—how in the world could he be doing well?

But he lifted his withering, shaking hand, and Catherine could have sworn that a welcoming light appeared in his fading blue eyes. Sitting in the chair beside the bed, she took his hand and pressed a kiss to his fingers. Then she combed her fingers through his thinning silver hair.

“Did you miss me?”

He gave her the barest of nods.

“Tomorrow, if the sun favors us, we're going to go out to the garden. I have it on good authority that it won't harm your health at all. As a matter of fact, it might improve it.” She felt the tears sting her eyes. “Oh, Papa, I've done something terribly silly. I've fallen in love with someone, and he loves another. The strange thing is, as much as it hurts, I only want him to be happy. And if she'll make him happy, I want him to have her.”

He squeezed her hand. She moved up and laid her head on his chest, felt his hand come to rest on her hair. “I think you'd like him.”

She heard a low rumble in his chest. “I know you don't think he's good enough for me, but then you don't think any man is good enough for me.”

She sat up. “Avendale has been beating Winnie, Papa. Some friends and I hid her away, so he couldn't find her. But I want to go see her tonight.
I don't want you to worry. I think I have an inspector from Scotland Yard watching over me. So I'll be fine. And tomorrow we'll go into the garden, and I shan't stop reading to you until we've finished Oliver's story.”

Leaning up, she kissed her father's forehead and whispered words she'd never be able to say to Claybourne, “I love you, with all my heart.”

 

The portrait of his father hadn't changed, but it seemed that it had. Or perhaps it was only he who had changed. Or maybe it was because he looked at it through a drunken stupor, his first bottle of whiskey drained, the second dangling between his fingers. He'd have to find a new supplier.

Strange how different
everything
looked. Things that had once seemed foreign, no longer did. After he'd returned home, he'd walked through every room, looking at things through different eyes, through the eyes of the Earl of Claybourne. He remembered how the lion's head on the fireplace poker had frightened him as a child. He remembered riding the wooden rocking horse in the nursery.

Usually when he looked at the portrait for too long, cataloging the features, his head would begin to hurt. But not tonight. Tonight there was nothing except the calming liquor swirling through his blood. Even that was unusual. Normally, he sought oblivion. Tonight he just wanted peace.

His hand ached from striking Jack. His heart ached from Frannie's defending Jack. Why had Luke thought she'd unquestionably side with him? Frannie's reaction was natural, though. Luke had
come in like a madman, and unlike Catherine, Frannie didn't know everything that Luke had remembered. She hadn't witnessed the pain his memory had brought.

Luke had lived in the squalor and wretchedness of that one small room with Feagan and his band of child thieves, and he'd felt safe. They'd shared their clothing, their food, their beds. They'd taught him how not to get caught. They'd taught him how to hide. And more than anything, in the beginning, he'd wanted to hide. Hide from his uncle, from the yells of his father dying, from the shrieks of his mother begging for mercy. When he'd walked through Feagan's door, he'd done so willingly, wanting—needing—to leave his terrifying other life behind.

Nothing was more frightening than knowing that someone for whom he'd drawn a picture of a pond, someone who'd given him a small wooden carved horse, someone who had tucked him into bed once when visiting, kissed the top of his head, chuckled with his father, danced with his mother—could stand by laughing while others murdered his family. But his uncle was deeply ensconced in all those memories.

Luke heard the door open, heard the light footsteps. He twisted around in the chair, looking back toward the door. He hated the joy that filled him at the sight of Catherine. Despised more the relief that swept through him because she was here. She made him feel weak, because his need for her was so great. He needed her gone from his life and to accomplish that, he needed to take care of Avendale.

Luke swallowed more whiskey and settled back into his chair. “You shouldn't be here.”

She knelt on the floor beside him, placed her hands on his knees. “I told my father I was going to see Winnie, but I didn't. I just told him that excuse knowing full well that I was coming here. I didn't want you to be alone tonight.”

“Catherine—”

“I'm here only as a friend.” She turned her face toward the portrait and rested her cheek on his thigh. “I can see the similarities so easily now.”

“I remember so little about him.”

“I think he would have been proud of his son as a man.”

Luke chuckled low. “Where do you find your faith in me, Catherine?”

“From coming to know you.”

She stayed with him, just as she'd promised. In his bed. Doing nothing more than holding him, allowing him to hold her. Something more than friendship, something less than lovers. But it was comforting. And while Luke didn't sleep, neither did he drift into the realm of memories. Rather he concentrated on how it felt to have her in his bed: the feel of her, the fragrance of her, the sound of her breathing.

Before dawn, he escorted her home with the promise of seeing to her problem posthaste. He returned to his residence for breakfast and to read the
Times
. He was grateful to discover that the front page did not announce that Lady Catherine Mabry had been spied at a gaming hell, even more grateful to discover no tidbit of news whatsoever
about all that had transpired last night. It would come, though. Surely it would come.

 

It was late morning by the time Luke arrived at Marcus Langdon's residence. Luke was dressed in his finest, and he knew, with no doubts, that he appeared every bit the lord that he was.

The butler told him that the master and his mother were in the drawing room. Luke found them there. Marcus was reading a book. His mother was concentrating on her embroidery. What a harsh life they led.

Mrs. Langdon put down her needlework, obviously disgusted that Luke had made an appearance in her sanctuary. Marcus closed his book.

Luke cleared his throat. This was harder than he'd thought it would be. “I wanted you to know that my memories have returned to me. If you continue your efforts through the courts, you will be wasting your money, for I am the Earl of Claybourne.”

“Quite convenient that they would return now, when your position is threatened,” Mrs. Langdon said. “But that will not stop us. My son is the rightful heir.”

“No, madam, he is not. My parents were murdered by your husband.”

She gasped, paled. “That's a lie!”

“I wish it were. I have a witness.” Jack. He'd drag Jack into court if need be in order to testify about what he'd done. “But I have no desire to bring more shame to this family than it has already experienced these many years. One murderer in the family is enough, and as I've never denied my
deed, I see no reason to cause you further embarrassment by revealing what your husband—my uncle, my father's brother—set into motion.”

“You were raised to lie, cheat, murder, and steal, to take that which does not belong to you—”

“You lost a silver necklace that had three red stones in it.”

She stiffened. “What do you know of my precious jewelry? It was a gift from Geoffrey, on the day we wed.”

Luke looked at Marcus, with his gaping mouth and the stunned look in his eyes that signaled he remembered the jewelry. He knew what was coming next. They were the only two who did.

“You'd read
Ivanhoe
to us, Auntie Clara,” Luke said quietly, rushing on before she could object to the intimate name he'd used. “Marcus and I took the necklace—”

“That's not true,” Marcus said, coming to his feet. “I alone took it. You were only six, I was eight.” He looked at his mother. “We embedded the stones in our wooden swords, but after Father got so furious and was questioning the servants about the missing piece, we threw away the evidence of what we'd done. He took the cane to me more than once. I wanted to avoid another blistering.”

“What does all this prove?” his mother asked.

Marcus looked at Luke. “It proves he's my cousin. I never told anyone what we did.”

“Neither did I,” Luke said. In truth, before yesterday, he'd not remembered. He turned his attention back to Mrs. Langdon. She seemed to be in shock. He could hardly blame her. “I have no
intention of revealing the true nature of your husband, but if you persist in trying to take from me what is rightfully mine, it will all come out. I will not give up easily what my father fought to hold, what my grandfather entrusted to my care.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “I shall talk with my solicitor this afternoon and see that our claim is removed from the courts.”

Luke nodded. “Very good.” He turned to go—

“Claybourne?”

He looked back at Marcus.

“May I have a word in private?”

“Certainly.”

“You can't possibly believe him,” Mrs. Langdon said.

“We'll talk when I get back, Mother.” He followed Luke into the hallway and studied him as though only just then really looking at him. “It truly is you. I think I knew, I think I always knew.”

“I didn't,” Luke admitted.

“I'll speak with Mother. She'll come around.”

“I appreciate it. It's been a difficult few years. I'd like to put all the difficulties behind us.”

Marcus licked his lips, darted his gaze around the hallway as though he expected danger to be lurking about. “That's what I wanted to talk with you about. You said you were attacked one night.”

“Yes.”

“It was Avendale's doing.”

Luke knew that, but how had Marcus known? Luke stared at him, suspicion creeping in. “Avendale? What would make you think that?”

“Apparently, he's lost a good deal of money to you. He's in financial straits and he's quite angry about it.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“Because he approached me and told me that he would help me regain my title if I promised to pay him what you'd stolen from him once I inherited.”

“Help you regain it by having me murdered?”

“I didn't know that was part of his plan. I told him that I wanted to do it legally through the courts. I thought he understood, but I learned too late that he is quite the madman.”

“And you didn't think I needed to know this when I came before?”

“I was ashamed that I'd become involved with him. And quite honestly, I was terrified. He indicated that he'd killed before, and I have little doubt he spoke the truth.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“For what it's worth, I always thought you were a decent chap—well, except for killing my father, of course.”

“He brutally raped a twelve-year-old girl. That's the reason I killed him. And while until recently, I had no memory of my parents' murder, maybe a part of me did recognize him—for I hesitated not at all in delivering what I considered justice.”

“You can't always tell from looking at a person what he's really like.”

Luke placed his hand on Marcus's shoulder. “I don't think you're like your father.”

“Thank you for that. I'd best get back to Mother.
While it's not obvious, I suspect she's taken all of this news rather hard.”

After watching his cousin disappear into the drawing room, Luke turned his thoughts to the problem of Avendale. He was going to take a great deal of pleasure in dispensing with the fellow.