In Bed With the Devil (25 page)

T
he missive went out to three of them. There was a time when it would have gone to four.

They slipped into Luke's library as quiet as the night, coming into the residence through their various preferred entrances. Bill entered through the kitchen. Jim climbed a tree and came in through a bedchamber window. Frannie preferred slipping in through a door that led off of the terrace.

Catherine was there. She'd come in through the front door as though she no longer had a need to hide what they were doing. But Luke knew the truth of it. What they were about to do they would have to carry with them to the grave.

They all sat in chairs in a circle.

“Let's begin,” Luke said.

“Shouldn't we wait for Jack?” Bill asked.

“He's not invited.”

Bill looked at the others, as though he expected someone to object, to defend Jack, and when no one did, he settled back. He was the healer among them. He always wanted to fix things, make them right. But some things, once broken, would never be the same.

“As you're aware, I set up an opportunity to confront Avendale at Heatherwood. Presently, he is my prisoner, being kept in the manor's cellar. The man is a danger. To his wife, his son, Catherine, and me. If it were only me, I'd let it go and deal with him one on one, but I'm not willing to risk the others.” He especially wasn't willing to risk Catherine.

“So what's the plan?” Jim asked.

“If any of you have doubts, you should walk out now.”

They all stayed seated.

Luke felt the tightening in his chest, cleared his throat at the demonstration of their faith in him. Apparently Jim wasn't the only one who would follow him into hell without asking why they were taking the journey. “Thank you for that.”

Taking a deep breath, he gave his attention to Bill. “We need a body. A man, recently buried, would no doubt be best. We'll want him dressed in these items, as well as the two rings. I've included a note that tells which ring goes on which finger on which hand.” Luke took a bundle from where it rested beside his chair and extended it to Bill. He'd taken Avendale's clothing and jewelry before leaving Heatherwood.

Bill took the parcel without hesitating. “It's been
a long while since I've done any grave robbing, but it's a skill once learned, never forgotten.”

“After he's dressed, we'll want him burned beyond recognition.”

Bill nodded. “I'll see to it.”

“Take comfort in the fact that his final resting place will be very grand indeed.” Luke turned to Jim. “I'm looking for someone being transported to a penal colony for life. Age doesn't matter, as long as the documents can be changed to reflect a man of thirty-four.”

Jim nodded somberly. “A boy of fourteen was recently sentenced to transportation to Tasmania. I believe it was for life, for picking pockets.”

“Bloody hell, that could have been any of us,” Bill said. “Whose pockets did he pick? Prince Albert's?”

“That was my thought—but for the teachings of Feagan, there go I.” Jim looked at Frannie. “Can you make a fourteen look like a thirty-four?”

She grinned cockily. “In my sleep.”

“I'll get his papers to you.”

“We'll also want to arrange respectable employment for the lad,” Luke told her.

She gave him an odd look before nodding. Probably because that would have been Jack's job, to see that the lad was placed somewhere safe.

“I'll take care of it,” Frannie said.

Luke looked at Catherine, sitting beside him. He wanted to take her hand, but it seemed wrong with Frannie sitting there. “Now then, here's the hard part.”

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Whatever it is, I'll do it.”

“I never questioned for a moment that you wouldn't.” Still, he knew it would be difficult for her. He sighed. “You need to inform the Duchess of Avendale that her husband died in the fire at Heatherwood, a fire that was started when an ember jumped out of the fireplace unobserved, until it was too late.”

“But that's not what happened.”

“Which is why I said yours is the hardest part. You're going to have to lie to her, Catherine, to everyone. Once we've all seen to our tasks, it'll be as though what you told her is the truth. We'll present her with an unrecognizable burned body wearing Avendale's clothes and rings. And she will never see him again.”

“I don't understand why I can't tell her the truth.”

“Because the fewer who know, the better. Laws are being broken here, Catherine. We're all at risk. And while it's possible she could hold her tongue on this matter, he was her husband. With distance and time, she may forget what marriage to him was like or she may decide she prefers marriage to a beast over widowhood. She may try to find a way to bring him back. It would have been easier all the way around if I'd left him in the fire, but I didn't, so we must make the best of it and leave no doubt that the Duke of Avendale is dead so his son might inherit.”

“But shouldn't we at least let them know how the fire really got started? The things he said, the things he did—”

“His son will live with the legacy of his father's actions, Catherine. It will be easier not knowing
the kind of man he was. If you doubt me, ask my cousin.”

Nodding, she tipped up her chin, showing her resolve. “I shall do better than speak with Winnie and Whit. I shall help them arrange the funeral.” She looked at Bill. “And it shall be very grand indeed.”

“Very good.” Luke looked around the circle. “Are there any questions?”

“I have one,” Catherine said.

Luke arched his brow.

“What task is left to you?”

“The best one of all. I have the honor of arranging Avendale's delivery to the ship for transportation to his new life on the far side of the world.”

 

Catherine insisted on going with him. Luke had known she would.

The fog was thick and heavy, chilling the bones. The great ship creaked and moaned against its moorings, as though she were anxious to be off, but she had to wait for her guests to finish shuffling aboard, their leg irons clanking in the pre-dawn stillness.

“How did the duchess take the news of her husband's demise?” Luke asked.

“She actually wept. I'd not expected that.” She peered up at him. “You don't seem surprised.”

He shook his head. “People fear loneliness. They prefer living with an unpleasant person to living alone.”

“I don't know if this is enough. It seems as though he got off rather easily, after all he's done.”

“He's a man accustomed to someone tying his neckcloth for him. He'll be down on his knees scrubbing the deck. His hands will blister, his feet will toughen, and I suspect before the journey is done, he'll find himself flogged on more than one occasion. I don't know if there is hell after death, but I do know there is hell in life. I have waited in its antechamber. It is not a pleasant place. Avendale will rue the day he was born. He will be punished, Catherine. Every day, for as long as he lives.

“Although he's actually managed to do a bit of good with his life, switching places as he has with Thomas Lark, giving the lad an opportunity for a better future.”

“One lad. It seems so little when there are so many.”

“We can't save them all, Catherine, so we take satisfaction in saving those we can.”

They watched the two hundred and thirty prisoners march up the gangplank and onto the deck of the ship.

“There he is,” Luke said quietly. “The one in the gray coat, with the shoulder so badly torn.”

“I thought he'd resist more.”

“Bill gave me something to pour down his throat to make him as gentle as a lamb.”

“Still, I'm surprised he's not yelling out his name and rank.”

“Bit difficult to do with a broken jaw.”

She snapped her head around to look at him. He shrugged. “He wasn't being cooperative.”

They stayed until the last prisoner took his place aboard the ship, until the ship set sail.

Luke heard Catherine breathe a sigh of relief. “I can't believe it's over.”

“Believe it.”

 

Dawn was just beyond the horizon when Claybourne's coach pulled to a stop in the alley behind Catherine's residence.

Claybourne
. She didn't think he'd yet grown comfortable with the realization of who he was, but she had no doubt that he would in time. He was the proper earl. She wished she could help him, reassure him, stand by his side as he truly took his place among the aristocracy, but she wasn't the one he wanted at his side. She knew that. Had accepted it before she ever entered his bedchamber at Heatherwood.

They'd talked of nothing personal since the night of his revelation. That, too, was how it should be.

The coach door opened. Claybourne climbed out, then extended his hand to her.

For the last time, she placed her hand in his, felt his strong fingers close over hers. For the last time, she stepped out, inhaling the masculine scent that was his alone. For the last time they walked side by side to the gate, speaking not a word, as though too much remained to be said and so little time remained to say it.

She cleared her throat. “I'll arrange a tea for Frannie, begin introducing her into society.”

He nodded. She swallowed. “So we're in agreement there'll be no more evening lessons.”

He nodded. She extended her hand. “Then, thank you, my lord. Our arrangement has been…gratifying—”

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, almost savagely, as though this moment was as painful for him as it was for her. Of their own accord, her arms wound around his neck. She didn't want to let him go. She didn't want another woman in his bed, in his life, in his heart.

She almost told him that she'd do anything, anything he wanted if he'd only choose her, but she loved him too much not to grant him the fulfillment of his dreams—and Frannie, not Catherine, was part of those dreams.

He broke away, stepped back, breathing harshly in the pre-dawn stillness. “Our bargain is complete. Nothing else is required of you.”

He spun on his heel and strode to the coach. She stood as she was while the driver cracked the whip, setting the horses into motion, and the coach rumbled by. When she could no longer see it, she opened the gate and walked inside.

After closing the gate behind her, the pain of lost love overtook her and she dropped to the cool grass and wept.

Nothing else is required of you.

He was mistaken there. One more thing was required of her: to survive the breaking of her heart.

I
t was a lovely day for sitting in the garden, and Catherine took advantage of it, having her father brought down and settled in a chaise longue while she sat in a chair beside him.

It had been nearly a month since Catherine had stood in the pre-dawn with Claybourne and watched as Avendale boarded what was certain to be a ship bound for hell. She should have slept well, knowing that Winnie and Whit were safe for all time. It wasn't guilt that kept her from peaceful slumber. It was worrying over her father, whose health was diminishing rapidly now.

And it was longing for Claybourne to be there to ease the burden that was weighing on her.

Catherine scoured the papers every morning searching for the announcement of Claybourne's betrothal to Miss Frannie Darling, but she had yet to see it. No matter. It would come, and when it did, it would be like a knife through her heart.

One morning she'd told her father the tale of the Earl of Claybourne. He'd seemed as entertained by the story as he was by
Oliver Twist
. As feeble as
he seemed, she suspected he was well aware that Claybourne was the man she'd been silly enough to fall in love with. But she saw no condemnation in his eyes.

The focus of her life had narrowed to her father, enjoying his company as much as possible during what she was certain were his final days. She'd written to her brother, beseeching him to return home. Lord only knew if the letter would find him in time.

Now she read the final words of
Oliver Twist
and very gently closed the book. She smiled at her father. “So Oliver found a home. I'm glad of it.”

He blinked slowly. She combed her fingers through his hair. “My heart did go out to the Artful Dodger, though. I was sorry he was transported. I hear it's a very harsh life, although I suspect there are those who deserve it.”

His gaze shifted past her, and his eyes seemed to fill with gladness. She glanced over her shoulder where he looked, halfway expecting to see Sterling there. Instead, she saw a beautiful white lily.

“Where did that come from? I'd not realized the gardener had planted lilies. It's rather late in the season for one to bloom.” She turned her attention back to her father. “Would you like me to pluck it for you, bring it nearer so you might enjoy it a bit more? I know they're your favorite.”

He gave her a very small nod. She rose, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Papa. I'll be right back.”

She walked to the table where she kept her slender cutters. She was often nipping off blossoms to
share with her father. In a way she hated to cut the lily, knowing it would wither that much sooner, but she was willing to do whatever would bring her father joy.

“I do believe this is the most perfect lily I've ever seen,” she said, turning back to her father. Her heart caught, tears welled in her eyes. Even from this distance she knew. And she was left to wonder if it was truly the lily that had caught his eye or if he had seen something more divine.

She walked back to where he was, kissed his cheek again, and knelt beside him. “If I'd known you were going to leave, I'd have not left you to take that final step alone. Sleep in peace, Papa. Your journey is done, and I have a feeling mine is just beginning.”

 

Luke thought he'd always known the comings and goings in London, but since the night he'd gone to Dodger's and confronted Jack, it seemed he was privy to a good deal more. Fitzsimmons had to purchase a larger bowl for the table in the entry hallway, a bowl large enough to hold all the invitations that Luke was suddenly receiving: to balls, dinners, and afternoon recitals—as though he cared whether or not a man's daughter could play the pianoforte. People acknowledged him on the streets now. Women asked his opinion on the selections they were considering in the shops if he happened to be in there perusing possible gifts for Frannie.

And they shared their gossip.

So it was that he knew Lady Catherine Mabry had spent the past month in seclusion with her
ailing father. He also knew, within hours, when the dukedom had passed to her wayward brother.

Not calling on Catherine had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but he'd not risk her reputation further. Speculation was rife that Lady Catherine Mabry had been spied in Dodger's gaming hell. Conflicting rumors also abounded—that no indeed, it had simply been Claybourne's latest mistress, a woman he had so little respect for that he dressed her as a servant. Luke never commented on either argument, in hopes that in time both would die a quiet death.

Marcus had assured him that was the best approach. Lord knew their family had suffered enough scandals that the man was fairly an expert on how to lessen the damage.

But still, Luke couldn't ignore the death of her father.

The shades were drawn when he arrived at her residence late that evening. The butler led him to the withdrawing room where the casket rested. Catherine sat on a chair near it. Several people were there. He recognized a few of the lords, the others he assumed were family, paying their respects. Catherine was dressed in black, her face haggard. She looked as though she'd lost weight.

He realized how hard the past month had been on her, and he cursed himself for caring more about society's expectations than hers. In striving to protect her, he'd failed her. He'd never known a deeper regret.

She rose as he approached and he took both of her gloved hands in his.

“My Lord Claybourne, it was so kind of you to come.”

“My condolences on your loss. I know your father meant a great deal to you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “He died in his garden, surrounded by the flowers he loved so.”

“I suspect you were the blossom he loved most of all.”

She released a tiny bubble of laughter, and quickly covered her mouth while those surrounding them raised brows. “My lord, I'd not realized you were a poet.”

“When the situation warrants, I can rise to the occasion.”

He held her gaze for longer than was proper. He didn't want to leave, but he knew that etiquette dictated that he go.

“Truly, Lord Claybourne, thank you for coming. Your presence here means more to me than you'll ever know.”

“I wish I could do more.”

She smiled softly. Something must have caught her eye, because she turned her attention elsewhere. Her eyes widened, and she grew pale, as though she'd seen the ghost of her father. She pulled her hands free of Luke's and took a step away from him. “Sterling?”

Luke turned to see an impeccably dressed man with blue eyes as hard as stones standing near. His hair and thick beard were a dark blond, the bronzed hue of his skin reflecting a man accustomed to the outdoors.

Suddenly out of the corner of his eye, Luke saw Catherine's head loll back, her eyes roll—

As her body went limp he caught her and swept her into his arms.

The man took a step forward. “I'm her brother. I'll take her.”

“I think not. Simply show me to her room.”

“That, sir, would be inappropriate.”

“I don't give a bloody damn.”

Luke edged his way past him. In the hallway he found a servant whom he dispatched to fetch Bill and another whom he ordered to show him to Catherine's room. His legs were feeling so weak that he wasn't certain he'd make it up the stairs.

All these weeks of striving to preserve her reputation, and he'd managed to undo it all in a matter of seconds.

But it didn't matter. All that mattered was Catherine.

 

Catherine thought she should have been embarrassed being examined by someone she knew as other than a physician, but Dr. Graves had the uncanny ability to put her at ease.

One moment she'd been moving toward Sterling, and the next she was in her bed, staring at her canopy. Now she was resting on that bed, in the dressing gown Jenny had helped her change into.

“Lord Claybourne insists that you be examined,” Jenny had told her.

As though Claybourne had the authority to issue such a demand. Oh, her heart went out to Frannie. The woman would no doubt find him impossible to live with.

While Catherine was fairly finding it impossible to live without him.

“Well?” Catherine asked now, watching as Dr. Graves began putting instruments back into his bag.

“You swooned, which isn't unusual when one is dealing with grief.”

“And the unexpected arrival of my brother after so many years certainly didn't help,” she added.

“Quite so, but I suspect your fainting had more to do with your condition.”

Catherine swallowed. “Which is?”

“You're with child.”

Sliding her eyes closed, she unconsciously pressed her hand to her stomach. Then she opened her eyes and met his concerned gaze. “I feared as much,” she said. “No, that's not true. I rather hoped as much.”

With his arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the bedpost, no longer the physician, but a friend. “Are you going to tell him?”

“You say that as though you know who the father is.”

“I have my suspicions. He'll want to know.”

“There's no need for him to know.”

“You don't think he'll hear of it?”

Oh, he would. Claybourne knew everything that involved the aristocracy.

“Not until after he's married. I'll do what I can to conceal my condition until he's married.”

He nodded. Straightened. “Very well then.”

“Promise me you won't tell him.”

“I won't. Although he'll probably take a fist to me when he finds out. As Jack learned, Luke
doesn't take well to discovering secrets are kept from him.”

“Mr. Dodger was harboring a rather large secret.”

“And you don't think this is?”

“I'll not deny him his happiness with Frannie.”

“As you wish.”

A few moments after he left her, she wished she could call him back. Apparently Sterling had insisted that Claybourne take Dr. Graves's word for it—that grief had caused Catherine to swoon—and had refused Claybourne admittance to Catherine's bedchamber. She'd always known Sterling's absence had allowed her a measure of freedom she'd not have had otherwise. She simply hadn't realized exactly how much.

“That was quite the spectacle,” Sterling said now, pacing beside Catherine's bed.

Dr. Graves had insisted she remain there at least until tomorrow morning.

“After all these years, your first words to me are chastisement?” she asked, insulted, hurt, and infuriated.

“I'm afraid they're deserved, Catherine. I've heard that you were spotted at Dodger's gaming hell. That you danced with Claybourne, that you took a turn about the garden with him. And now this? Carrying you to your bedchamber as though he were accustomed to ravishing you at whim? Your reputation is ruined.”

“Are you saying you engaged in no mischief while you were out gallivanting around the world?”

“No man is going to take you to wife.”

“Which works out wonderfully well as I have no intention of taking any man to husband.”

“You will marry. I'll see to it. It shall be my first act as the Duke of Greystone, to secure you a proper husband.”

“I don't want a proper husband.” She wanted an improper one: Claybourne. And if she couldn't have him, she'd have none at all.

“I don't care what you want. I'm lord and master here.”

“You're not the young man you were when you left here. What happened to you?”

“We're not here to discuss me. We're here to discuss you and your abhorrent behavior.”

If she weren't suddenly feeling lightheaded again, she might have charged out of the bed and smacked him. Instead, she forced herself to calmness and leaned back against the pillows. “Father is dead.”

“I'm well aware of that.”

“Yet we don't seek to comfort each other?”

“We each grieve in our own way.”

“Are you grieving, Sterling?”

He did nothing except clench his jaw.

“Where have you been all these years?” she asked.

“That is not your concern.”

“How is it that you managed to hear about all these rumors in so short a space of time? How long have you been in London?”

He suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. “A while.”

“And you didn't come see Father?”

“There was much between us that you wouldn't
understand, Catherine, and none of it involves you.”

“But you're my brother.”

“Which is why I'll see that you're married.”

She grabbed a nearby pillow and flung it at him. “I'll not marry a man of your choosing.”

“Then you have six months to choose one of your own, before I do it for you.”

He strode out of the room, without so much as a backward glance.

Catherine flopped back on the bed and cursed him. Who the devil was that man? It seemed inconceivable that he was her sweet, generous brother.