Pure Temptation (14 page)

Moira squared her narrow shoulders, knowing full well what Lord Mayhew wanted. He was getting even. It was too late to run now. She had to face the music and pray for a sympathetic judge. “I’ll be right down, Mr. Pettibone. Would you tell Jilly to unpack my bag? I won’t be going anywhere now.” Except to prison, she silently ruminated.

Pettibone kept Lord Mayhew and the constables cooling their heels in the foyer. As Moira came down the stairs, all four men turned to watch her. Of them all, only Mayhew looked at her with anything but appreciation. He still bore the knot on his head where the little hellion had bashed him, and he wasn’t one to forget or forgive. He had contemplated his revenge while he spread the rumor that Moira was not who his peers thought she was. He had hoped to ruin Black Jack at the same time, but fate had intervened and placed a dukedom in his hands.

While society might look down their collective noses at Moira, they would be more forgiving of a duke. When Mayhew learned that Jack had made posthaste for Cornwall, he decided to strike while Moira was temporarily without a protector. After careful consideration, Mayhew had confided his plan to Lord Renfrew, who had complained bitterly and with resentment at the way Moira had scorned his wellintentioned proposal of marriage.

“It’s about time,” Mayhew sneered when Moira reached the bottom landing. “Did you think you could commit theft and not be caught?” Moira remained mute. “I’ve brought two constables with me. Once I identify you as the thief who purloined my mother’s valuable necklace, you’ll be arrested and taken to Newgate to await trial.”

“I’m sure there is some mistake,” Pettibone intervened. “Lady Moira is no thief.”

“Lady Moira is no lady at all. She’s a common strumpet who worked in my home as a maidservant. She tried to seduce me but failed.” He turned to the constables, who were looking profoundly uncomfortable. “This is the woman, all right. Arrest her.”

Loyal to the bone, Pettibone stepped in front of Moira, trying to protect her with his skinny frame.

“Out of the way,” one of the constables ordered. “Interfering with the law is a crime.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Pettibone,” Moira said, stepping around him. The last thing she wanted was to make trouble for Jack’s faithful servant. Pettibone was so loyal, he’d probably expire when he learned that Black Jack was cut from the same cloth as Lords Mayhew and Renfrew.

“But milady,” Pettibone protested, “His Lordship isn’t going to like this. I promised to look after you.”

“His
Lordship
can go straight to hell.” Mayhew laughed as he grasped Moira’s arm and hustled her out the door.

If Lord Mayhew hadn’t brought the law, Moira wouldn’t have gone without a struggle. But she knew defeat when it stared her in the face. She turned back to look at Pettibone, who stood in the doorway looking profoundly stricken.

The dark, clammy passages of Newgate stank of urine, feces and mildew. Moira shook like a leaf, cold, miserable and frightened.

“This is it,” the turnkey said as he stopped before a sturdy oak door and fit a large key into the lock. “It ain’t exactly plush accommodations, but the straw gets changed every six months and the slop buckets emptied every other day.”

Moira cried out in panic when he opened the door and pushed her into a dark, dank cell lit by a single candle. She watched in horror as wraithlike figures detached themselves
from the shadows and moved toward her. Before the door closed behind her, Moira sent Mayhew a pleading look. As he turned away from her, he sent her a malicious smile.

To Moira’s dismay, her cloak was wrested from her by one of the dark shadows that had materialized from the dim recesses of the cell. “That’s mine!” Moira cried as a pock-faced slattern with lank hair and wild eyes placed the cloak around the tattered remnants of her clothes.

“It’s mine now,” the slattern cackled. “Look at me! I’m a bleedin’ lady.” She pranced around the cell, lording it over the other occupants.

“You’ll never be a lady, Birdie.” Moira watched in alarm as another woman sashayed into the circle of light.

“Aw, hell, Min, jest because yer prettier than me and get special treatment fer playin’ whore don’t make ya a lady,” Birdie said plaintively.

Moira stared at Min, acknowledging the woman’s beauty despite the dirt and grime befouling her face and body. Her rags were somewhat less tattered than Birdie’s, and at one time might have been considered flamboyant. Suddenly a woman she hadn’t noticed before crept out from the shadows, eyeing her dress greedily. Divining her purpose, Moira backed away. But there was nowhere to go, no place to hide. Birdie and Min stood aside as the large, rawboned woman advanced on Moira.

Suddenly Moira had had enough. If this woman wanted her dress, she would have to fight for it. She braced herself as the woman fell upon her. In the end it was no contest at all. Outweighed and inexperienced, she was soon overpowered and stripped to her shift. When the women would have removed her shift, Min stepped forward.

“Ya gonna strip her naked, Alice? Ya know damn well the dress ain’t gonna fit ya. Ya aughta at least leave her shift.”

Alice sat back on her heels. “Damn it, Min, I can trade the dress and shift fer a blanket if they don’t fit me.”

“Leave her shift,” Min repeated. “It ain’t right to strip a
body naked. And give her back her cloak, Birdie. Ya want her to freeze to death?”

To Moira’s surprise, Alice desisted immediately, complaining bitterly as she crept back to her moldy pile of straw, hugging the dress to her sagging breasts. Even Birdie complied as she returned the cloak to Moira, albeit somewhat less than charitably. Moira pulled it around her, sending Min a grateful look.

“Thank you,” Moira said. It was obvious the other women considered Min their leader.

“Don’t thank me, honey, I’m merely protectin’ myself. One look at you in yer shift and the guards will stop askin’ for my favors and look to you for easin’. I ain’t about to give up the privileges I earn on my back, so don’t get no ideas about cozying up to the guards.”

Moira recoiled in horror. “I would never do such a thing!”

Birdie laughed derisively. “Wait till yer here a while. Ye’ll be more than happy to oblige a randy guard if it gets ya a warm blanket or extra food. I’d do it, only I ain’t pretty like you or Min. Even Alice earns a few extra privileges when the guards are horny enough and there ain’t no one else available.”

“What’s yer name?” Min asked.

“Moira O’Toole.”

“Irish. I thought so. What’s yer crime?”

“Theft, but I didn’t do it.”

Alice hooted with laughter. “ ‘Course not, none of us are guilty.”

Min ignored her. “Ya already know our names. When’s yer trial?”

“I don’t know. This is all new to me. Have you been here long?”

“Long enough to give ya a word of warnin’. Don’t cross Alice or Birdie—they’re dangerous. Both women have killed
and would do so again without remorse. If one of the guards want ya, oblige ‘em. Life is a hell of a lot more comfortable if ya know when to spread yer legs. Just don’t take any of my personal favorites or ya’ll be sorry.”

“I don’t want any men,” Moira said with feeling. “There’s not a man in this world save for my brother who is worth a fig.”

Moira thought of Jack and how completely he had fooled her. She suspected from the beginning that he was debauched, but his charm and guile had seduced her into believing that he cared, as she was beginning to care for him. Actually, “care for” were mild words compared to how she really felt about Black Jack Graystoke. But after learning he was a disciple of the Hellfire Club, she would never trust him again.

Conditions at Newgate were deplorable. Everything Moira had heard about it was true. The food was barely edible, the dank, cold cells cesspools of pestilence and disease, and the sadistic guards the dregs of humanity. The foul stench of sickness and death turned her stomach. During the four days she’d resided within the walls of Newgate, Moira experienced gnawing hunger, bone-chilling cold and verbal degradation. She thanked God that she hadn’t been physically abused. But in her heart she knew it was only a matter of time before the guards looked on her with lust. For some unknown reason, Moira suspected that Min was protecting her. Every time a guard looked speculatively at her, Min turned his attention to herself, flaunting her charms before him and goading him to lust.

Moira curled up in her pile of straw, sick at heart and body. Was Jack home from Cornwall? she wondered. Did he know of her fate? Did he even care? She scratched absently, recoiling in horror when she encountered a flea. What did she expect? Everything and everyone in the cell was crawling
with vermin. How had she fallen so low? Housed with murderers and prostitutes, she felt as if the entire world had conspired against her.

Suddenly she heard the key turn in the lock and looked toward the door with trepidation. The turnkey, holding a light aloft, searched the room. His eyes settled on Moira with greedy anticipation.

“Come along with ye, mistress. Yer wanted.”

Moira’s heart beat frantically as she stared fearfully at the turnkey. “What for?” Had the guards decided she was fair game?

“Ye’ve got some powerful friends, that’s all I’ll say.”

Moira rose shakily and followed the turnkey, her heart soaring. Had Jack learned of her fate and come for her? Hope blossomed in her heart.

“Good luck,” Min called softly behind her.

When Moira was called to the warden’s office, she dared to hope the horror of her existence had come to an end, to believe that she had been exonerated and free to leave. She had never been more wrong.

“In you go, missy,” the turnkey said as he rapped on the warden’s door, opened it and shoved Moira inside. Moira stumbled through the opening, righted herself and gaped at the two men inside the room. She groaned in dismay, seized by a sense of doom so sharp she could taste it.

“You’re a lucky woman, Miss O’Toole,” the warden said, frowning at Moira in disapproval. “The Mayhews have dropped the charges against you and are willing to take you back into their household. Few people are given a second chance. Use it well, though I hold out little hope. Once a thief, always a thief, I always say.”

Moira looked from Lord Mayhew to the warden, too stunned to speak. As much as she wanted out of this hellhole, she didn’t trust Lord Mayhew. “The Mayhews have dropped the charges?” she repeated numbly. “Are you sure?”

“Lord Mayhew said it is what his parents wish. They no longer want to prosecute. You are free to go with Lord Mayhew.”

Mayhew’s smirk filled Moira with dread. She wanted nothing to do with the diabolical demon. “If I’m free to go, I prefer not leaving with Lord Mayhew.”

Mayhew took a step in her direction, more menacing than friendly. “Would you prefer going back to your cell? I can always refile the charges.” Moira stared at him speechlessly. “I thought not.” He grasped her arm. “Come along, my dear.”

Forcing herself to take that first step, Moira was pulled
along in Mayhew’s wake. Only when the doors of Newgate closed behind her did she resist in earnest. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Let me go!”

“Not bloody likely,” Mayhew ground out as he dragged her toward his waiting coach. “I thought that after cooling your heels a few days in Newgate, you’d be more than willing to participate in one of the disciples’ orgies. Clever of me, wasn’t it?” His expression darkened. “Perhaps I didn’t leave you there long enough.”

Moira dug in her heels, resisting his efforts to place her in his coach. By dint of superior strength, he subdued her, tossing her inside like a sack of grain. He followed close behind, slamming the door as he shouted orders to his coachman. Moira slid away to the farthest corner of the vehicle, unaware that her cloak had fallen open in the struggle. Mayhew gaped at her, then gave a bark of laughter.

“I see you didn’t fare too well in prison.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “If Black Jack saw you now, I doubt he’d give you a second glance. You look like a filthy street whore. Your stench offends me. Even I wouldn’t touch you in that condition.”

“Where are you taking me?” Moira asked, suddenly glad of her grimy appearance and flea-infested body.

“You’ll know when we get there. Relax. We’ve a long ride ahead of us. And don’t think about throwing yourself from the coach; I’ll be on my guard this time. You’re not cheating me again. You deserve to be punished for what you’ve put me through. My parents were so upset with me for leaving London without a word or explanation that they no longer trust me.”

Moira sank back against the squabs, saving her strength for what was to come.

Weary to the bone, Jack stepped from the coach bearing the Ailesbury coat of arms. It had been a long two weeks since
he’d last seen Graystoke Manor. He had taken Will’s body to the Ailesbury country estate in Dorset, where it was interred in the family burial plot. The service was conducted in the small chapel by the village parson. People from the village and surrounding farms filled the church to overflowing, and even Jack was impressed with the moving service. Afterward, he had stayed to greet the mourners and meet his staff.

It seemed irreverent to think of himself as the Duke of Ailesbury, but like it or not, the title was his. A great number of people now depended on him for their livelihood; the responsibility was awesome to a man who had spent his days and nights drinking, gambling, wenching. Strangely, those idle pursuits hadn’t appealed to him in a very long time. Not since…

Moira.

Lord, he missed the little hellion. The depths of his emotions where Moira was concerned seared him. She had lied to him consistently, until he had no idea what was truth and what was fiction. It had hurt him deeply when she accused him of being a member of the Hellfire Club. She’d acted as if she expected to be recruited by him for one of their orgies. He wondered about her association with Lord Mayhew and why she chose to believe his lies. All these questions and more ate at his conscience, strengthening his determination to learn the answers.

“Milord, thank God you’re home!” Pettibone met Jack at the door, more rattled than Jack had ever seen him. Jilly hovered behind Pettibone, clearly distraught. Alarm shuddered through him.

“What’s amiss, Pettibone?”

“’Tis Miss Moira, milord. The most dreadful thing has happened.”

Jack’s alarm turned to panic. “Spit it out, man! What in bloody hell are you trying to tell me?”

“She’s gone, milord. Taken away by force. Woe is me,” the faithful servant lamented. “I promised to take care of her, but it was taken out of my hands.”

Jack grasped his shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “Stop your blubbering, man, and tell me what happened.”

“Lord Mayhew came with the constabulatory and took her away,” Jilly volunteered.

“Took her where?” Fear lanced through Jack. If only he had dragged the truth from Moira before he left this might have been avoided.

“To Newgate,” Pettibone supplied once he gained control of his wits. It was a rare occurrence for him to become emotionally distraught, alerting Jack to the seriousness of the situation. “That cur Lord Mayhew accused her of theft, and the constables carried her off to prison.”

“How long ago?” Jack asked tersely. His weariness fell away, replaced by fear and rage.

“Five days,” Pettibone said. “I went to the prison with some articles of clothing and food the next day, but they turned me away. Seems Miss Moira isn’t allowed visitors until after her trial. Only the good Lord knows when that will be. You have to do something, milord. How long can she survive in Newgate? She’s much too fragile to endure the abysmal conditions existing in prison.”

Jack’s jaw firmed with grim determination. “I’ll get her out, Pettibone, never doubt it.”

“Bless you, milord.” Jilly sniffed, wiping tears from her eyes. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to the mistress.”

“Nor I,” Jack allowed. “I’m off to Newgate as soon as I refresh myself and change clothes. Did you hire sufficient staff, Pettibone?”

“I’ve been too upset to give it my full attention. Young Colin is the new assistant coachman, and there are two new maids and a full-time cook. I’ve not had time to interview housekeepers yet.”

“Take your time,” Jack said. “I imagine we’ll be living part of the time at Ailesbury Hall in Dorset. I intend to refurbish Graystoke Manor immediately. See to my bath and lay out my clothes, Pettibone. And Jilly, ask Cook to fix me something to eat.”

Jack took the steps two at a time. If Moira had been in Newgate five days, there wasn’t a minute to lose.

Two hours later, Jack gained entrance to Newgate and demanded to see the warden.

“I’m sorry, Lord Graystoke. The woman you’re inquiring about is no longer an inmate.”

Jack fixed the warden with an icy glare. “Are you telling me she’s been released, or are you hinting at something else? She hasn’t,” he caught his breath and asked fearfully, “expired, has she?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” the warden assured him. The new Duke of Ailesbury wasn’t a man he cared to lie to. “The charge against her was dropped, and she was released just yesterday. Her stay with us was short, indeed.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow and asked coolly, “What charge?”

“Theft. Miss O’Toole was accused of stealing a valuable piece of jewelry from her employer. Lord Mayhew came by yesterday and asked that the charges be dropped. His father the earl is a forgiving man. I released Miss O’Toole into Lord Mayhew’s custody. His parents have generously offered to reinstate her in their employ.”

Jack tried not to show his dismay, but it was difficult. Obviously, Moira had kept knowledge of that ridiculous theft charge from him for reasons known only to herself. He scoffed at the implication. Moira might be a liar, but she was no thief. He sensed some kind of chicanery and suspected Mayhew was the culprit. And now Moira had fallen into his unscrupulous hands. The thought was far from comforting.

“Thank you, Warden. I’ll call on the Mayhews immediately. It’s most urgent that I speak with the young lady.”

Twenty minutes later, Jack stood in the Mayhews’ foyer, awaiting the earl. He appeared ten minutes later and invited Jack into his study. The old man seated himself in a wing chair and indicated that Jack was to take the chair opposite him.

“What can I do for you, Lord Graystoke? Terribly sorry to hear about your cousin.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, liking the man on sight. How could such a dignified man produce a son like Roger? He came directly to the point, finding no reason to waste time in useless chitchat. “Do you have a maid by the name of Moira O’Toole in your employ?”

The earl looked askance at Jack. “What is your interest in the girl?”

“It’s personal. Is she here?”

“Not now. The girl stole a valuable piece of jewelry from my wife. After it was found in Moira’s possession, she was locked in her room to await the arrival of the constable. Unfortunately, my son Roger felt sorry for her and let her go. I must say I was disturbed. That’s why he left so abruptly for the Continent, I suppose, to escape my anger. Moira seemed to disappear into thin air, but I felt duty bound to file charges against her.”

“Did you know Moira was arrested and taken to Newgate prison several days ago?”

The earl looked startled. “My word, no. Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Your son handled the arrangements. A few days later, Lord Roger returned to the prison and asked that the charges be dropped. He told the warden that you had a change of heart and were willing to give Moira another chance.”

“My word,” the earl repeated. “Whatever was Roger about? I haven’t seen him in days. He has taken private quarters now that he has come into his inheritance from his grandmother.”

“I was hoping to find Moira here. But if you haven’t seen her, then obviously Lord Roger has taken her elsewhere. Do you know where that could be?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. I knew he fancied her. Perhaps he set her up someplace as his mistress, though it would surprise me. I thought about this for a long time after Moira disappeared and decided that she might be a thief, but she isn’t a whore like Roger intimated.” He shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I don’t understand my own son. There’s a streak of wildness in his blood that frightens me. I hope you find the young lady. My wife has her necklace, so I suppose no harm was done. I’m willing to give her a second chance if she wishes to return to my employ.”

“That’s generous of you, milord, but Moira won’t be returning after I find her, and I will, you know. If you see Lord Roger tell him…Never mind, I’ll tell him myself.”

Jack’s fears piled one on top of another after he left the Mayhew townhouse. If Moira wasn’t at the Mayhews, then Roger had taken her someplace for purposes he didn’t even want to think about. Yet the obvious answer pounded against his brain with painful intensity.

The Hellfire Club.

Had Mayhew taken her to the Dashwood estate? Was Moira destined to become a victim to the disciples’ evil appetites during their next orgy? Or had she already become a victim of their rites; an innocent among a nest of vipers?

No matter how hard she tried, Moira could not stay awake. Exhausted in mind and body, she fell asleep slumped against a far corner of the coach, as far away from Lord Mayhew as she could get. She didn’t know how long she had slept, but when she awoke the coach was slowing. She jerked upright and stared out the window.

Dusk was approaching, and she could see a sliver of moon
rising above a large brick manor of palatial dimensions. The dim light showing through the windows was not inviting. Something about the manor was disturbing, almost eerie.

“Where are we?” she asked as Lord Roger grasped her elbow and shoved her from the coach the moment it ground to a halt.

“I doubt you’d know if I told you. Have you ever heard of the Dashwood estate?”

Moira shook her head. “ ’Tis the home of Sir Francis Dashwood of Medmenham in Buckinghamshire,” Mayhew told her. “The disciples gather here in limestone caves behind the property every fortnight for their rituals. You’ll be Sir Francis’s guest until the next gathering two days hence. Come, he’s expecting you.” He pushed her toward the front entrance.

A surly servant answered Mayhew’s summons. “Sir Francis is expecting you,” he said, looking down his long nose at Moira. “Follow me.”

Dashwood was sprawled in a wing chair, contemplating a goblet of brandy. He looked up when Mayhew entered, dragging Moira behind him. “Ah, Mayhew, is this the chit who’s to provide our next entertainment? Not much to look at, is she?”

“She’s not much to look at now, but after she’s cleaned up you’ll be well pleased. She’s a damn sight better than those prostitutes we usually hire, or the timid little mice with no fight in them we steal off the streets.”

Dashwood took a pinch of snuff, sneezed several times and fixed Moira with a speculative look. “Can’t you talk, wench?”

“I can talk very well. I wish to leave.” Her bravado was commendable but not well taken.

“I thought you said she’d be willing,” Dashwood said sourly. “We can’t afford problems with the law. There’s already been trouble over the women we take off the streets, even though most of them are prostitutes who enjoy a good time and the money we give them.”

“Don’t worry, Moira won’t get a chance to talk to the law. I have plans for her after our next gathering.”

“Very well,” Dashwood allowed. “It will be rather refreshing to have someone other than whores to entertain us. Is she a virgin?”

Moira gasped, mortified by Sir Francis’s question.

“Are you?” Mayhew asked, squeezing Moira’s arm painfully.

Despite her precarious situation, anger exploded inside Moira. “None of your damn business! I want to leave, and I want to leave now!”