Between the Devil and Desire (21 page)

He reached the dwelling he wanted. The door was a challenge to open because it wasn't secured to all its hinges. Inside was dark and dreary, the stench of decay even thicker. He started up the stairs, knowing which steps were broken, which squeaked, which to avoid. Nothing improved in this area of London. He discovered a new hole had formed in one of the steps when his foot went through it. Cursing, he worked his boot free and continued on up, albeit a bit more carefully. At the top of the stairs, he turned down the blackened hallway, treading carefully over what he couldn't see but knew was garbage.

Once he left this place, he'd burn the clothes he wore. It was the only way to ensure he brought back with him no disease or infestations. Lice, fleas, crawling things. He'd always hated the feel of tiny bugs.

When he reached the door at the end, he tapped three times, waited a second, tapped two times, waited, tapped thrice. He heard a shuffling movement on the other side of the door. It slowly creaked open. A grimy, wrinkled face appeared. What had once been vibrant hair, as red as Frannie's, was now pale, almost white. The long, scraggly beard was white as well. Rotting teeth formed a smile framed by cracked and bleeding lips.

“Well, if it's not me dodger.” With bent and gnarled fingers, he urged Jack inside. “Come on in, boy. Let's see wot ye got for ol' Feagan.”

Jack stepped into the squalor and he was transported back to a time when he'd slept on the floor like a dog, spooning around whoever slept beside him, offering and receiving warmth. He'd seldom gone to bed hungry.
Feagan had always been good about feeding his crew. A sickly child wasn't of much use to him.

“Wot ye got? Wot ye got?” Feagan asked, making his way to the rickety chair at the scarred table where a single burning candle standing upright in the mouth of a brown bottle provided the only light in the room.

Jack could see the milky-white film that now hampered Feagan's vision. He moved the sack off his shoulder, set it on the table, and unveiled four bottles: two each of whiskey and rum.

Feagan cackled again. “Oh, me dodger. Ye was always good to Feagan.”

Jack's mentor had always been in the habit of referring to himself as though he were another person in the room. It was one of the reasons Jack had never been convinced Feagan was his real name—it was as though he was always having to remind himself, remind others who he was. It wasn't unusual for people in the rookeries—after they'd been arrested—to move to another section of London and change their names. Only once had Feagan reminisced about his past, and it was a story Jack intended to take to the grave.

Jack opened a bottle of whiskey and poured it into the dented tin cup Feagan extended with a shaking hand, a hand that had taught so many how to slip into tight places without being detected. “You should let me move you into a flat at Dodger's.”

Feagan took a gulp, then his tongue darted around his lips, determined not to let any drops go to waste. “Wot good would that do Feagan, I ask ye?”

Jack took the chair across from him. “You'd have
food, warmth, company. I'd even give you a gambling allowance.”

“Ye was always kinder than anybody give ye credit fer.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. I don't like trudging through the filth to get to you when I need you.”

“Yer the only one wot comes to see me.” He leaned forward. “'ow's me darlin' Frannie?”

“Doing well.”

“Married?”

“No.”

He shook his head sadly. “I shoulda taken better care of 'er.”

“We all should have.” She'd been forced into the white slave trade at the age of twelve. Luke had taken it upon himself to kill the man responsible. Olivia might consider him a murderer; Jack didn't. Some dogs needed to be put down.

“But she ain't the reason yer 'ere.”

“No.” He sighed heavily. “I had my locket picked.”

Feagan guffawed, coughed, sounded like he was choking with merriment. “Ye? Ye was me sharpest.”

“I was distracted.”

Feagan gave him a crafty look. “That's not like ye. She must be a fancy piece.”

Jack wasn't going to comment on Olivia. She was too fine a lady for him to even have thoughts of while he was in this cesspool. “I know you're not running boys anymore, but you know who is, and I suspect you still have your finger on the fence trade. I'll pay you a hundred pounds if you locate it for me.”

It was an ungodly amount, but the locket was Jack's most precious possession, perhaps the only thing that mattered more to him than coins.

Feagan rubbed his hand over his mouth. “That's a lot of gin. I'll put the word out.” He narrowed his eyes. “Anyone else I'd ask fer half up front.”

Jack tapped a bottle. “I brought you something you value more.”

“That ye did.”

Shoving back his chair, Jack stood. “I'll be seeing you.”

“That ye will, me dodger, that ye will.”

Jack took one last look around the squalor, remembering a time when his goal in life had been to be a more successful kidsman than Feagan. It irked him not to know who his anonymous benefactor was. If not for him, even with the teachings of Luke's grandfather, Jack knew he would have returned to this foulness and lived a life only marginally better than Feagan's.

J
ack was teaching Henry to be slippery, nimble, quick…in essence, to be a dodger.

Sitting on the terrace and watching her son dash across the lawn, Olivia wasn't certain how she felt about that development. She supposed no harm would come of it, as long as Jack wasn't instructing Henry on the proper way to slip his hands into pockets without being detected.

In this particular game a ball was involved, but Olivia couldn't determine what the object was or how the game was played. She wasn't certain the players even knew. They were content to grab the ball, run with it, and avoid getting caught. It was a rather undignified game for grown men to be involved in, especially when one was an earl. The Devil Earl, to be precise.

Olivia had never met him before this afternoon. With his dark hair and silver eyes, he was almost as devilishly handsome as Jack.

“It must be something they played on the streets,” Catherine, the Countess of Claybourne, said. Dressed in somber black, still mourning her father, she sat at the table with Olivia. She and her husband had arrived
shortly after Jack had taken Henry outside for what was becoming a daily afternoon ritual. Within minutes Claybourne had followed Jack's example and discarded his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat; then he rolled up his sleeves in order to gallivant over the lawn unhindered and give chase to Henry, who would run from one end of the lawn to the other carrying the ball and avoiding capture.

Coming to a stop, he'd jump up and down, hold the ball high, and crow, “I won! I won!”

Then they'd start at it again. The puppy was also involved, following Henry, darting in and out, sometimes tripping up the men—who laughed. Olivia couldn't remember a single time that so much merriment had been exhibited in their garden.

“Do you think that's how they learned not to get caught when they stole something?” Olivia asked, imagining the ball symbolizing a loaf of bread or a melon.

“Possibly.” The countess laughed lightly, then quieted. “Probably.”

She didn't sound at all disturbed by the idea. Her voice carried a bit of wistfulness, as though she thought about her husband's earlier life and wished it had been different. A time existed when many of the aristocracy weren't convinced he was the true heir, but something had happened to change their minds, although Olivia was unsure as to the particulars. “I never doubted for a moment,” Lovingdon had mentioned to Olivia in passing. “Resembles his father too much not to be.”

“We came to visit several days ago, only to learn you were ill,” Catherine said quietly now. “I'm glad you've recovered.”

“Thank you. I'm feeling much better.” She was acquainted with Catherine, although they'd never been dear friends, and she certainly wasn't going to confess that she was well enough to go to the Great Exhibition.

“I suppose some of your ill health may be attributed to the shock of learning Mr. Dodger was to serve as your son's guardian.”

Olivia shifted her gaze over to Catherine. She saw no censure, only a need to reassure. Two weeks ago, Olivia might have welcomed the reassurance. Now, she hardly felt any need for it. Jack was proving his suitability as guardian quite admirably.

“If it's any consolation,” Catherine continued, “he'll serve as guardian of our children as well.”

Olivia felt her jaw drop. “Not your brother?”
Not the Duke of Greystone?

Catherine shook her head. “Sterling was gone for some time. Since he's returned, he seems very different. I can't explain it. And Claybourne doesn't know him at all, so he's not comfortable with the notion of Sterling serving as guardian. Jack Dodger he trusts. Mr. Dodger saved his life on more than one occasion.”

Olivia sipped her tea, wondering how all that had come about. Had it happened in prison? Why hadn't he shared that story? She'd not ask Catherine for an explanation. Strange how Olivia suddenly felt uncomfortable remembering all the afternoon teas and speculations the ladies had made regarding him, each one eager to share the latest bit of unsavory gossip that had come her way. They'd treated him as a curiosity, not a man. In retrospect, it had been quite rude.

Now, Olivia didn't want gossip. She wanted to know the truth of his life, from his own lips. They'd settled into an easier camaraderie of late. They had breakfast every morning with Henry. In the evening, she dined with Jack alone. He asked her questions about herself: what she enjoyed reading, her theater preferences, how her day had gone. He gave away very little of himself. It occurred to her one night that he was striving to create a mental portrait of her so that he could better determine whom she might marry.

“What's
your
opinion of Mr. Dodger?” Olivia asked.

Catherine turned her gaze back to the men and boy lumbering over the lawn. “Quite honestly, when I met him, I didn't like him. He was insolent and has an exceedingly low opinion of the nobility. But I trust Claybourne and his judgment. Of course, it could also be that I don't believe anyone will ever raise his children other than him, so I don't really worry about it. It seems when a person has such a rough life in his youth that his later life should be filled with nothing except pleasantries.”

Catherine glowed with the radiance of a woman madly in love with her husband.

Olivia felt a spark of envy. She couldn't imagine anything more wonderful than being married to a man you loved—unless it was being married to a man who also loved you.

She watched Jack loping over the lawn. He possessed an athleticism she'd expected. She was quite mesmerized watching him, and hoped her company didn't notice how he garnered her attention.

He caught Henry and with a joyous laugh lifted him over his head. Henry guffawed with delight and Olivia smiled. She'd grown up in and married into a very staid household. She'd never questioned the quiet, the reserve, the constant proper behavior. Only now was she beginning to realize that laughter was as intoxicating as brandy.

She also realized she had an opportunity here to learn more about Jack without bombarding him with questions that he'd astutely avoid answering.

“I know this is entirely inappropriate, since I'm in mourning and shouldn't be issuing invitations”—she glanced, embarrassed, at Catherine—“but would you and Claybourne care to dine with us tonight?”

“As I'm in mourning as well, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to accept.”

“Of course. I'm so—”

With a twinkle in her blue eyes, Catherine reached across and took her hand. “I would be absolutely delighted. To be quite honest, I find all our rules regarding mourning to be rubbish.”

Olivia released a short burst of laughter. It seemed Claybourne had been as bad an influence on Catherine as Jack was on Olivia.

“I have an even more inappropriate notion. As we're all friends, and the dinner will be small and private, let's dispense with the mourning attire, shall we?” Catherine asked.

“Are you certain?”

“Who will know except us? And quite honestly, I'm so dreadfully tired of black.”

Olivia smiled. “All right then.”

 

Jack could hardly believe that Olivia had invited Luke and Catherine to dine with them.

“It's not as though I sent a gilded invitation,” she said petulantly when he'd given her a questioning stare.

It seemed the little duchess wasn't opposed to dispensing with proper etiquette as long as it was her idea. Now that she was fully recovered, he'd work to convince her it was her notion to come to his bed. He was looking forward to the challenge, although his patience had been sorely tested as he waited for her to regain her strength. He should be considered for sainthood, considering the forbearance he'd shown.

“So what are you drinking?” Jack asked Luke.

He and Catherine had only just arrived. They'd returned home to prepare for the evening. Jack felt rather underdressed next to Luke in his dinner attire. He had never invested in formal evening clothes because he wasn't invited to balls or dinners, which suited him just fine. He was a curiosity, but one preferred from a distance.

Catherine wore an emerald green gown. Olivia was likely to go into a conniption when she walked in and saw Catherine out of her mourning clothes. He smiled at the thought of at last not being the only one on the receiving end of Livy's scathing rebukes.

“Whatever you're having,” Luke said. “I know you serve only the finest.”

Jack glanced at Catherine. “Countess?”

“None, thank you.”

Luke reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth, placing a kiss on her fingers. The man looked
so ridiculously besotted. Jack would never let a woman have a hold on him like that.

“Not everything is agreeable to her these days,” Luke said.

Jack poured port into two goblets. “You might have Graves take a look at her, make certain she's not coming down with whatever Olivia had. Nasty stuff, that.”

“Have you not told him?” Catherine asked.

“I knew you didn't want people to know, not yet, anyway.”

“What? What have I missed here?” Jack asked.

“She's with child,” Luke said, and Jack was surprised the buttons didn't pop off Luke's waistcoat.

“How can you know already? You've only just married…ah.” That explained the quiet, hasty marriage taking place before she was out of mourning. He raised his glass. “My congratulations to you both.”

“What are we celebrating?”

Jack turned toward Olivia and froze.

Gliding into the room, smiling shyly, she wore a violet gown, and just as he'd predicted, she looked ravishing. Her throat, shoulders, and the barest hint of her bosom were revealed. Her hair was pinned up in an elaborate style with ringlets bouncing on one side.

As though suddenly uncomfortable, she averted her gaze from his. “Don't look so shocked. Catherine and I thought for an evening amongst friends, there was no harm in our putting aside our mourning clothes.”

“No”—Jack cleared his throat to make it so he didn't sound as though he were strangling—“no harm in it at all. You look lovely.” The words were grossly inadequate. He didn't possess Luke's societal charms. The
women Jack associated with didn't need fancy words, but dear God, Olivia deserved them. Every one that his feeble brain could dredge up.

She blushed becomingly. “Thank you. I remembered you'd asked me about violet. Anyway, it appears we're celebrating.”

“Yes.” Jack handed her his goblet and poured himself another one. He tipped his head toward Luke. “You do the honors.”

Luke smiled with satisfaction. “Catherine is carrying my daughter.”

“Your heir,” Catherine corrected him.

“Whichever, I'm immensely pleased.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Olivia said, and Jack could see the true joy in her eyes. Had she felt that delight when she'd discovered she was with child? If he married her off, would she be ecstatic when she learned she carried her new husband's child? Why did he suddenly want to smash something?

“I'm amazed you already know,” Olivia continued.

“Dr. Graves confirmed it,” Catherine said, and she was now the one to blush.

“Is he your physician as well?” Olivia asked. “He's wonderful. He saw to me when I was ill.”

“I'm surprised he had time, now that he serves at the queen's pleasure,” Luke said.

Olivia's eyes widened. “He's physician to the queen?”

“One of several.” Jack poured himself more port. “According to Graves she's a hypochondriac.”

“You mustn't speak of her that way.” Olivia's voice held chastisement.

She'd forever be correcting his manners. For some reason, it truly bothered him tonight. Could she not accept him, imperfections and all?

“Not to worry. When next I have an audience with the queen, I won't mention it.” Jack sounded surly, even to himself, but he was acutely aware that these three would be welcomed into Buckingham Palace, while he would not.

An awkward silence descended. He didn't want to ruin this dinner for Olivia, but he also wished Luke and Catherine would leave so he could have Olivia to himself.

“So, Luke, what do you think of Henry? He's quite the dodger, isn't he?” Jack asked, in order to get things going again.

“Indeed. I was very impressed. I didn't think I'd ever see anyone as skilled as you.”

“I intend to teach him to have nimble fingers next.”

“He's not going to become a pickpocket,” Olivia said sternly.

“I wouldn't dream of that. But nimble fingers have other uses.”

Before anything else could be said, Brittles walked in and announced, “Dinner is served.”

As Jack offered his arm to Olivia, he leaned near and whispered, “With any luck, I may demonstrate those nimble uses before the night is done.”

She gasped and Jack chuckled. “Don't look so shocked, Livy. Sooner or later you must pay the devil his due, and I'm of a mind to collect sooner.”

 

It seemed her reprieve had come to an end. Olivia was surprised to discover she wasn't nearly as disappointed as she probably should have been.

The appreciation that had lit Jack's eyes when she walked into the library had flattered her no end. He'd given the impression he desperately wanted to cross the room, take her in his arms, and bestow upon her a kiss that was likely to lead her into his bedroom.

Even now, Jack rarely took his eyes off her. He was being an abominable host, ignoring their guests, not bothering to even attempt to carry on any sort of conversation. Having his undivided attention was thrilling, although she was concerned that she might not be able to hold him at bay when their guests left. More fearful was the realization that she wasn't certain she
wanted
to hold him at bay.