Between the Devil and Desire (7 page)

She'd have thought Jack—no, she couldn't think of him as Jack—would have preferred the shadows as well.

J
ack stood at the window in his library, gazing out on his well-manicured garden.
His
garden, viewed through
his
window from
his
library. He'd planned to study his ledger further, but he'd been unable to concentrate.

He'd been unprepared for the way the sound of his name rolling off the widow's tongue had made him feel. He'd wanted to ask her to say it again. He'd wanted to move closer to her and talk in hushed tones so the servants couldn't hear. He wanted to know why she truly objected to a dog. He wanted to ask what she knew of broken hearts.

Mesmerized by the play of sunlight dancing over the red in her brown hair, he'd remembered the way it had felt unfurling in his hand. He welcomed her disdain because it kept his own desires leashed.

He pressed his shoulder against the sharp corner of the window casement, ignoring the cutting bite. She'd bristled at his mocking use of
Duchess
, but her tone was no different. He heard the censure in her voice every time she called him
Mr. Dodger
. She knew what he was as well as
he
did: the bastard son of a whore, his father
unknown to him, probably a stranger to his mother.

He heard the door open, but he stayed where he was. Her light footsteps grew louder as she neared, until he smelled her wispy fragrance. He didn't want to consider the joy that might be found in discovering the other secret spots where she applied it. She came to stand across from him, the damnable sunlight again catching her hair in ways that made him want to touch it, plow his fingers into it, and not be nearly as careful as he'd been the night before when removing the pins.

“Do you really not know who your father is?” she asked quietly.

That discussion was conversations ago, and he saw no reason to return to it, although it did occur to him that she might have been thinking about him as much as he'd been thinking about her since leaving the breakfast room. He suspected, however, that her thoughts focused on his faults, while he was reluctantly beginning to recognize her merits.

“I think we would do best to stick with the business at hand. What do you know of the nanny?”

Her golden eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Helen? She comes highly recommended. Both the duke and I have been incredibly pleased with her service. Why do you ask?”

“The boy seems far too quiet.”

“Children are supposed to be quiet and well mannered—”

He laughed softly at the memories of his own childhood. “Not the children I knew.”

“You grew up in the streets, Mr. Dodger. My son grows up in a home.”

“Yet he is fearful, while I was not.”

“He is simply reserved, as his father was.”

Jack bit back the need to ask if he'd held on to that reserve when he'd taken her to his bed. Why was he so curious about the intimate details of their lives?

She looked out the window. “Last night you said that you barely knew Lovingdon. How was it that you knew him at all? Did he go to your club?”

“On occasion. What do you know of my club?”

“That it's a place well suited to scoundrels.”

He hitched up a corner of his mouth. “You say that as though I force people to partake in scandalous behavior. I don't.”

“You provide them with the opportunity.”

“You see? There again, your tone implies it's a bad thing. Those who enjoy being wicked can't be stopped. They will go into the darkest alleys to find a gambling den, or liquor, or women. If it's a dishonest game, even if they win, everything will be taken from them, possibly even their lives. When they purchase a bottle, they don't know what's in it. Sometimes it's nothing more than piss.” He held up his hand to stop the protest at his language that he was certain she was about to issue. “And the ladies: from the ladies they can get all sorts of ailments, some that will make them go blind or rob them of their sanity.

“And so, yes, I provide gentlemen with a safe haven, where the games are honest, the liquor is the best to be made, and the ladies are clean.”

“I'm left with the impression you somehow consider your actions noble.”

“As I said, you can't stop someone who is deter
mined to enjoy wickedness. Why should I not profit from others' weaknesses? I've become very wealthy, and whom have I harmed?” Damn it all. Why was he standing there explaining his life, his choices, his actions? He'd always known others found fault with his endeavors, but he didn't, and that was all that mattered to him. He'd never cared for others' opinions.

“I suspect you harm without realizing it,” she said.

That was the problem when arguing with the righteous: they didn't listen to the merits of the argument. “Be that as it may, I have no intention of harming your son.”

She glanced over to the corner where yesterday a table had been covered with an assortment of clocks as though the duke had been trying to collect time. Now a variety of bottles and decanters were beautifully arranged and within easy reach of his desk.

“You've already brought spirits into the house,” she said, and he heard the censure in her voice.

“But I won't force you to drink them.”

“I never would.”

“No doubt.”

“What did you do with my husband's clocks?” she asked tartly.

For some reason, he preferred it when she was brisk with him. Maybe it was the spunk that he liked or the relief that it indicated she favored him not at all. It could prove unfortunate if an easy camaraderie developed between them. While she was no doubt aware they were not equals on one level, he was acutely aware they were not equals on many.

“They are
my
clocks. They are listed on page seven
of my ledger. I told the servants to distribute them all over the house, however they wished.”

“A collection cannot be a collection if it's spread hither and yon.”

“I don't give a damn about the bloody clocks. I care about my damned whiskey! Besides, their infernal ticking was driving me mad.” Maybe they'd done the same thing to the duke, only they'd succeeded where he was concerned.

Jack inhaled a deep breath to rein in his temper, but it failed to work because it only served to bring her fragrance forward so he could smell it more deeply. He didn't want her enticing him. He wanted her married.

“Let's get to business, shall we?” He strode over to
his
desk and sat in
his
chair.

She hesitated before squaring her shoulders and marching over to take a chair opposite him. If he were a lesser man, her glare would have been intimidating. She certainly was determined to hold her own against him. He had to give her credit for that—that and the fact she cared so much for her son.

“Let me be honest—” he began.

“Are you implying you've not been up to this point? In my world, Mr. Dodger, a person is assumed to be speaking honestly, so his words need no clarification.”

“Duchess, you do try my patience,” he ground out.

“Then send me and my son to the country.”

He wasn't half tempted. “Not on your life.”

“It would make things easier all the way around.”

“I find ‘easy' boring. Therefore, back to the matter at hand. At my club, I have more than two dozen people in my employ. I manage them and my business without
a great deal of bother. As a matter of fact, my business is run quite effectively and efficiently. Unfortunately, I know nothing at all about managing a household.”

He watched as a subtle shifting in her expression took place, and he realized he may have given too much away and in so doing, granted her power he was not willing to relinquish.

“Whereas I,” she stated with a calm reserve that caused everything within him to tighten, “know
everything
about managing a household.”

“I thought you might. Therefore, I'll leave the management of the household to your discretion.”

She smiled and it was the most mesmerizing thing he'd ever seen. It transformed her into someone who was young and carefree. It made him want to skim his thumb over her mouth. It made him want to get up, circle the desk, and take her in his arms.

“Not. On. Your. Life.”

The want and desire crashed around him. Had she somehow managed to read his thoughts? “I beg your pardon?”

She rose with all the confidence of a woman who had just inherited an empire. “I will not manage the household.”

She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

“Then you're welcome to warm my bed.”

Even as Jack threw out the challenge, he wasn't certain what had possessed him to offer that alternative, although it certainly had appeal. If she brought half as much fire to his bed as she brought to her words, he thought they might have an incredible and unforgettable night.

Very slowly, she turned around. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm not a man with a charitable bent. Today, you have a roof over your head, clothes on your person, and food in your belly. The roof and the food are mine, the clothes are still questionable as I've yet to locate them in my ledger. You're taking from me, Duchess, without giving anything in return. To let it continue is a poor business practice. If you wish to remain in residence, you must earn your keep.”

“Earn my keep? As though I'm a servant or, worse, your whore?” She felt the fury shimmering through her. “You are a bastard.”

“According to the law, yes.”

“How can you be so callous? I've just lost my husband, my home, and, for all legal purposes, my son. Have you no kindness in you at all?”

“There is no profit to be made in kindness.”

“Is that all you care about? Your gains?”

Jack cursed harshly beneath his breath. Why was she making this so damned difficult?

She'd angled her head accusingly as though she could intimidate him into changing his stance. Her hair was a rich brown with just enough red in it to make it interesting. He wondered what she'd look like dressed in red. Black made her appear too pale. But red, or purple, a deep purple—like royalty…

He shook his head. He never envisioned women in clothes—imagined them out of them but not in them. What was wrong with him?

The door clicked open to reveal the butler. Because the library was large, with several sitting areas ar
ranged between the door and the desk, it took a few seconds for Brittles to cross the expanse, his footsteps eerily silent. It made Jack suspicious, the way the servants moved around so quietly. It wasn't natural unless a person intended to rob someone.

Brittles stood at attention until Jack looked at him, then he bowed slightly. “I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but an Inspector Swindler from Scotland Yard wishes to speak with you. Are you home?”

“Of course, I'm home, man. I'm sitting right here.”

Before Brittles could respond, the duchess cleared her throat and stepped into the fray. “Saying you're not at home is a polite way to inform someone you don't wish to see him.”

“Didn't think they
lied
in your polite world.”

“They're not rude in my world.”

Jack wanted to argue further, but he didn't want to keep Swindler waiting. He'd take the matter up with the duchess later. He suspected they were going to spend a good deal of their time arguing about what each of them considered proper. He gave his attention back to the butler. “Of course, I'll see him.”

As soon as the butler had left the room, the duchess advanced. “What have you done?”

“I chose not to lie and tell him I wasn't home. I thought you'd applaud my honesty.”

“No, I mean, why is an inspector from Scotland Yard here? Did you rob someone? Kill someone?” She took another step nearer. “What have you done that would require Scotland Yard to come to this household? If you're arrested—”

Before she could finish delivering what Jack was
certain was going to be a dire threat that involved her running off to tell Beckwith, the door was once again opened. This time James Swindler strode into the room. It had always irritated Jack that Swindler had the uncanny knack to give the impression he belonged, regardless of the surroundings. He'd probably look comfortable strolling through Buckingham Palace.

He wore a beige wool jacket, cream-colored waistcoat, and a dark green cravat that brought out the green hue of his eyes, causing them to become his most striking feature. He often dressed plainly in order not to be noticed. Today wasn't one of those occasions.

Olivia was studying Swindler as though trying to decide if he was the lesser of the two evils presently occupying the library. Because he knew Swindler would demonstrate impeccable manners, Jack brought himself to his feet, suddenly not in the mood to be found lacking. “Duchess, allow me the honor of introducing James Swindler, from Scotland Yard.”

“Inspector.”

“Swindler,” Jack said, “allow me to introduce the Duchess of Lovingdon. Recent widow.”
And royal pain in my backside.

Swindler bowed, no doubt impressing the widow with his courtly graces. It was surprising that a man as tall and broad wasn't clumsy. He had an inch or two on Jack in height as well as in the width of his shoulders. “Your Grace,” he greeted her formally, irritating Jack in the process, for reasons he failed to understand. What did he care if the widow was charmed?

Swindler turned his razor-sharp green gaze to Jack. “Your missive said it was urgent.”

“You sent for him?” the duchess asked.

Jack took a great deal of satisfaction in her shocked expression. “Sorry, Duchess. You'll be disappointed to learn he's not going to cart me away. And now that the formalities are over with, Swindler, do you want whiskey or gin?” He walked to the table where he'd had his lovely bottles of indulgences set up. No ticking.