London
1851
The devil had come to call. Sitting beside him in her library, Olivia Stanford, the Duchess of Lovingdon, didn’t know whether to be appalled or fascinated. He was an interesting creature, and while she’d heard many of the sordid tales regarding him, she’d never actually set eyes on him before that night.
His black, unruly hair, curling teasingly across his broad shoulders, spoke of a desire to rebel against societal constraints. The harsh lines of his face had been carved by a life of decadence, misbehavior, and excess. Yet, he was beautiful in a rugged sort of way, like the manner in which a jagged coastline at dawn could steal one’s breath with its magnificence.
She lowered her gaze from a profile that had held her enthralled from the moment she’d walked into her library and met the deliciously wicked Jack Dodger.
His gambling den provided entertainment for many men of the aristocracy. Sisters, wives, mothers heard slurred references to the debauchery that occurred within Jack Dodger’s domain when their brothers, husbands, sons returned home in the early hours, three sheets in the wind. The women, of course, discreetly exchanged stories over tea, and so Dodger’s reputation, as well as that of his establishment, had grown among proper ladies who weren’t supposed to know about such improper things. Women detested his existence and the opportunity he provided for the men in their lives to stray from all that was good and respectable, yet none could deny their ceaseless fascination with a man so devoted to sin.
Sitting near him, Olivia became increasingly aware of the raw sexuality emanating from him. She imagined women followed him into his bedchamber without a single word being uttered. She could smell the tobacco and whiskey fragrance that permeated him and, to her everlasting shame, found herself relishing the darkly masculine scent. Everything about him spoke of forbidden indulgences.
He was truly the work of the devil.
He even carried the devil’s mark. The brand was clearly visible on the inside of his right thumb, because he didn’t possess the good manners to wear gloves and his long fingers were splayed across the arm of the chair. While marking criminals was no longer a practice, Olivia knew what the T burned into his flesh signified: he’d spent time in prison for thievery. She had little tolerance for those who took what did not rightfully belong to them.
In spite of his questionable past and occupation, she could not fault the quality of his attire. It had obviously been sewn by the finest tailor in London, but the red brocade waistcoat beneath his black jacket was entirely inappropriate for this somber occasion: the reading of her late husband’s will.
Why Lovingdon had insisted the notorious Jack Dodger be in attendance was beyond the pale. How did he even know the blackguard? As far as she knew he’d never visited Dodger’s Drawing Room. However, her brother, the late Duke of Avendale, had frequented it quite often, providing her with the enviable opportunity to add greatly to the repertoire of scandalous tales circulated amongst the ladies.
But Lovingdon had been as pious as they came. The man hadn’t even kept liquor in the house, and to her knowledge, wine had never touched his lips. She knew the same could not be said of Jack Dodger’s. He had the fullest set of lips she’d ever seen on a man, a dark, dark red, as though they’d been soaked in fine wine, and she had little doubt they were accustomed to tasting all pleasures. His mouth was designed to lure the most virtuous of women toward forbidden passion. Why else would she find herself inappropriately wondering what it might be like to have him kiss her? She’d long ago stopped pondering the delight of kisses—perhaps because Lovingdon had been so dead-set against them. Yet there she was, imagining those lips playing over hers, enticing her in ways that Lovingdon never had.
Again she wondered why he had wanted Jack Dodger at the reading of his will.
Yet Mr. Beckwith, the duke’s solicitor, positioning his papers at the desk across from her, had insisted it was not only so, but that Olivia was to be in attendance as well. So there she was, as always, honoring her responsibilities, no matter how distasteful they might be. From the moment she was born, a devotion to duty had governed her life. It was the reason that, at nineteen, she’d married a man more than twenty-five years her senior—because her father had arranged the marriage, and a respectful daughter did not go against her father’s wishes, regardless of her own passionate yearnings.
Lovingdon had been honest from the beginning. Getting up in years, he was in dire need of an heir, and while marriage to him had not been all she’d hoped for, it was not as bad as it might have been. She’d earned his respect and had supreme reign over his household. And he’d given her a precious son, even if he’d been unable to give her his heart.
She was quite confident that Henry, as the legitimate heir, would inherit everything of importance. She had hopes the will would stipulate that the London residence was to become the dower house, because she loved it so. But it was rather grand, and usually the dower house was a smaller residence. Lovingdon, however, had never purchased any other London homes. If this residence was not left to her, then the decision regarding where she would reside in later years would rest with her son—when he was old enough to care about such things. But at present he was five and cared only that she read him a story before he went to sleep.
The solicitor finally folded his hands on top of the papers and lifted his gaze to his audience of two. His dark hair was peppered with silver. His blue eyes seemed larger because of his spectacles, and he gave the impression they allowed him to see a great deal more than the average man. “Mr. Dodger, I want to thank you for finding time in your busy schedule to be with us this evening,” he said solemnly, as befit the occasion.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we? I’ve a business to get back to.” Jack Dodger’s voice was rough, as though he spent a good deal of his time screaming until his throat was raw. Yet, it also reverberated with a pleasing quality Olivia couldn’t quite explain. She could imagine him whispering near a lady’s ear, tempting her toward disgraceful behavior.
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Beckwith said. He picked up a long sheaf of parchment. “The will contains quite a bit of legal terminology which, with your permission, I shall not bother to read.”
“Just tell me why the bloody hell I’m here, so I can go.”
Olivia gasped. Jack Dodger gave her a disdainful look, the first time he’d bothered to give her any attention at all since they’d been introduced and taken their seats.
“Good God, don’t look so appalled.”
Considering the manner in which he was suddenly studying her, Olivia had a strange desire to check her buttons and make certain they were all properly done up. “I must insist vulgar language not be used in my home. I can’t remain if you’re going to be blasphemous.”
“I don’t give a damn if you remain or not.”
“Mr. Dodger,” Mr. Beckwith interrupted emphatically, an edge to his voice indicating he, too, might have reservations about the present company, “the duke insisted you both be in attendance. I shall get to the matter at hand, posthaste, before your patience deteriorates any further.” He cleared his throat and began to read: “I, Sidney Augustus Stanford, Duke of Lovingdon, Marquess of Ashleigh, and Earl of Wyndmere, being of sound mind and body, do bequeath to my legitimate son and heir to my titles, Henry Sidney Stanford, all my entailed properties, as well as the assets and income derived from them.”
Olivia nodded with satisfaction. She’d expected as much. It was only a bit of formality to state so in the will.
“To my devoted wife, Olivia Grace Stanford, Duchess of Lovingdon, mother of my heir—”
Blinking back the tears stinging her eyes, she wished Jack Dodger wasn’t present to witness this portion of the reading. Her husband’s last words regarding her were private and personal.
“—I bequeath a trust that if properly managed should provide her with two thousand pounds per annum as long as she lives. To Mr. Jack Dodger—”
Olivia barely had time to acknowledge the disappointment he’d not left her the residence, before her attention was snagged by the fact that at long last, the reason for the ridiculous summons of Jack Dodger would come to light.
“—I bequeath the remainder of my worldly assets, save one item, on the condition he serve as guardian and protector of my heir until the child reaches his majority or my widow marries and her husband assumes the role. When either of the stated conditions are met, Mr. Dodger will receive the final item—its value immeasurable.”
From a seemingly great distance, Olivia became aware of a rushing sound between her ears, like the beating wings of a thousand ravens fleeing the tower of London and signaling Great Britain’s downfall. She was vaguely aware of paper crackling, as Mr. Beckwith laid down the will. She couldn’t have possibly heard correctly. Her temples had begun to throb the moment her husband had tumbled down the stairs and taken a mortal blow to the head. The grief she was experiencing at the unexpected loss was playing havoc with her mind, causing words to jumble and lose their true meaning. As she tried to comprehend how that could be, how she could force them back into signifying what they were supposed to, Mr. Beckwith picked up a black leather-bound book and extended it toward Jack Dodger. “This ledger contains a listing of all the non-entailed assets which will become—”
While Olivia watched in stunned horror, Jack Dodger snatched the book from Mr. Beckwith’s grasp before he’d finished speaking, opened it, and began quickly scouring the pages, each turn of the page a rasp against her brittle nerves. Mr. Beckwith lifted another ledger and extended it toward Olivia. “For your review, a listing of the entailed assets which go to your son.”
Olivia shook her head. “I must beg your forgiveness, but I don’t quite understand the meaning of all this.”
“From the moment the titles passed to him, your husband kept precise records indicating which properties and assets were part of the entailments—”
“No, no. I’m referring to the will; you misread it. You indicated that Mr. Dodger is to serve as guardian.”
“Yes, that was the duke’s wish.”
“No, Henry is my son. I am his guardian.”
“The law recognizes only the father as guardian. Upon the father’s death, if the child has not yet obtained the age of one and twenty, the father must appoint the guardian in his will.” With no emotion whatsoever expressed, Mr. Beckwith sounded as though he were reading from a parliamentary document. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but your husband’s decision cannot be challenged.”
“Not be challenged?” Olivia came to her feet in such a rush that she almost lost her balance. Mr. Beckwith also rose, while Jack Dodger remained seated, hungrily devouring the contents of the ledger. Obviously the man hadn’t a clue regarding proper behavior when in the presence of a lady, but then she suspected the women who normally provided him with company would hardly be considered ladies. “Have you lost your mind? Somehow you managed to misunderstand my husband’s intent. He can’t possibly have meant to let this scoundrel—”
“It says here this residence and everything within it is mine,” Jack Dodger suddenly announced, and Olivia’s composure came almost completely unhinged. Not this residence, not the one place she had worked so hard to make a home.
Jack Dodger unfolded his long, lean body, dropped the ledger on the desk with a loud thump, and leaned ominously toward Mr. Beckwith. “Is this some sort of prank?”
Mr. Beckwith, to his credit, stood valiant against the devil’s advance. “I assure you, Mr. Dodger, this is no prank.”
“You’re telling me a man I barely knew is leaving me”—he jabbed the ledger with a blunt-tipped finger—“all of this?”
“You knew my husband?” Olivia asked, stunned by the revelation.
He had the audacity to wave his hand at her as though she were insignificant, to be dismissed with no more thought than one might give a beggar pleading for coins.
“Yes, Mr. Dodger, it appears that is in fact the case,” Mr. Beckwith said.
“And what of his debts?” he asked caustically. “I suppose I inherit them as well.”
“There are no debts. The duke didn’t believe in credit. He paid as he went.”
That seemed to give Mr. Dodger pause, before he splayed his long, slender fingers over the ledger. “And the final item is more valuable than all of this?”
“As indicated in the will, its value cannot be measured.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“I do. It’s to remain in my possession until such time as it’s to be handed over.”
“He trusted you with something of immeasurable worth?”
“He trusted me with everything, Mr. Dodger.”
Mr. Dodger seemed to consider that. “An item the value of which cannot be measured could be worth nothing.”
“If I had to measure its worth, I would declare it the most valuable item the duke ever had the pleasure to possess.”
“Bloody hell,” Mr. Dodger said quietly in that raspy voice he possessed. “I need a drink.”
In spite of the ludicrousness of the entire situation, Olivia felt all her appropriate upbringing and her need to be the perfect hostess shoot to the fore. “Shall I have a servant bring you a cup of tea? Or some lemonade perhaps?”
Mr. Dodger glared at her with eyes as black as his unredeemed soul. “I was thinking whiskey, gin, rum. All three if you have them.”
“We don’t keep spirits in the residence,” Olivia said sharply, her indignation suddenly very much alive.
“Of course you don’t.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, sir.”
“As though I give a damn what you appreciate.”
Oh, the man was infuriating. Then he did the strangest thing. He slowly prowled the room, hungrily glancing around as if about to pluck and tuck everything into his pockets. Although now he no longer had a need to pilfer anything. It had all been handed to him on a silver platter.
After several long moments, he returned to the desk and stared intently at Mr. Beckwith. “Everything within this residence is mine?”
“Everything,” Mr. Beckwith said somberly, as though he felt the weight of that single word on Olivia’s heart. “On the condition that you—”
“Yes, yes, serve as the heir’s guardian. Unlike the duchess, I have no difficulty comprehending the simplest of terms when they’re laid out for me.”
She couldn’t let the insult pass, but for the life of her, she could think of no retort that might effectively put him in his place. She did feel like a dimwit. How could Lovingdon do this to her? More important—do this to their son? Did he care not at all what sort of man he would become?
Jack Dodger turned around slowly, looking at everything once more, as though he were feasting his eyes on a magnificent creation. “Was the duke a raving lunatic?”
The crack of Olivia’s palm hitting Jack Dodger’s cheek echoed through the room. Since she’d never in her life struck anyone, she hadn’t realized how much her palm would sting. It took everything within her not to yelp or give any indication that she’d probably hurt herself more than she’d harmed him. “My husband was only recently laid to rest and you speak of him with such disrespect. How dare you, sir!”
Jack Dodger presented her with a slow, calculating smile that caused her stomach to plummet clear down to her toes. “The duchess has spunk. Who’d have thought?”
She wanted to toss him out of the house, back into the streets from whence he’d come. She turned to Mr. Beckwith. “His language is vulgar, his manners are atrocious. I simply will not allow this man to be responsible for the upbringing of my son.”
“That’s easy enough to remedy, Duchess,” Jack Dodger drawled. “Find yourself another husband.”
“It seems to have failed your notice that I’m in mourning. I can’t accept suitors.”
“Then you don’t want me out of your life badly enough, Duchess. Trust me. There isn’t anything a person won’t do if he wants something badly enough.”
Every time the word Duchess slithered mockingly off his tongue, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled and her palm itched to slap him again. Before she followed through on the barbaric urge, she forced herself to address the solicitor. “Mr. Beckwith—”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but there is no prospect for negotiation on this matter if Mr. Dodger agrees to serve as guardian.”
“Can you explain to me my husband’s thinking?”
“I have served the duke for many years, Your Grace. It has never been my place to question his decisions. He seldom revealed his reasoning, and I cannot know everything that influenced him, but I’m certain in this matter he did what he deemed best.”
If she’d not been raised to be a lady, she would shriek at the unfairness of it all.
“And if I don’t agree to the guardianship part?” Mr. Dodger asked.
A momentary spark of relief gave Olivia renewed hope that this hellish nightmare would come to a satisfactory end. Apparently the man had the good sense to have misgivings about accepting the responsibilities thrust upon him.
“The first will shall be nullified and a second shall come into play,” Mr. Beckwith said.
Olivia dared not ask, but she had to know. It seemed unlikely her husband could have made a worse choice than Jack Dodger, but if he was her husband’s first who would serve as his second? The devil himself? “Who is appointed as my son’s guardian in that will?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” Mr. Beckwith stated calmly. “Mr. Dodger’s decision must be made without any influence.”
“Without any influence? What do you call giving him everything? If that’s not influence, I daresay I don’t know what is.”
“I merely meant that your husband did not wish who would serve as guardian to influence Mr. Dodger’s decision.”
“But surely it is someone more appropriate, someone familiar with the strictures of society. What does Mr. Dodger know of the nobility, our duties and responsibilities?”
“I know a good deal, Duchess,” Mr. Dodger said. “After all, I am a longtime friend of the Earl of Claybourne.”
She spun around at the mention of Lucian Langdon. “Another criminal? A man who committed murder? How in God’s name is that supposed to reassure me? You can’t possibly believe you are qualified to guide my son along the proper path to manhood.”
“The proper path is often determined by where you’re standing.”
“What the devil does that mean? Yours is a world of decadence, Mr. Dodger. You—”
The words abruptly died in her throat. He was suddenly near, so very near, a heat burning in his eyes that could only have been ignited within the depths of hell, a heat that caused unwanted warmth to swirl through her core, that made her knees weaken, her palms dampen, and her mouth go dry.
“You should visit sometime,” he said darkly, his warm, whiskey-scented breath wafting over her cheek.
“Pardon?”
“Visit my world of depravity. I would do all in my power to welcome you properly. You might even find it to your liking.”
His voice was as powerful as a caress, stirring her to imagine that his welcome would involve his mouth, his hands—
It was evident in his eyes, the wicked things he would do to her, things she’d never imagined with Lovingdon. She should slap him again, she knew she should, but all she seemed capable of doing was trembling with something akin to…God help her…Was she feeling desire? It wasn’t possible. It was only that it had been so very long since she’d felt a man’s touch. Once he had his heir, Lovingdon had made it plain he didn’t hold with the notion a spare was needed. One son was all he required. In that regard, she and Lovingdon had been well matched. They both put duty above all else. Regretfully, she’d come to discover that duty was a lonely taskmaster.
“Have you ever sinned, Duchess?” Jack Dodger asked in that strangely rough voice that hinted at passion barely tethered.
Only in my dreams hovered on the tip of her tongue. She wondered if Jack Dodger had fulfilled other women’s fantasies. She had no doubt he was fully capable—
A harsh clearing of a throat caused them both to jump. She saw irritation flash across Jack Dodger’s face as he moved back and slid his uncompromising gaze toward Mr. Beckwith. For a heartbeat, it appeared the solicitor was fighting not to retreat. He cleared his throat again, as though his courage resided in the deep rumble. “I believe, Mr. Dodger, your behavior toward the duchess is not at all warranted and certainly not what the duke envisioned when he named you in his will.”
“I didn’t think you knew what he envisioned.”
“I know he respected his wife, sir, and he would be very disappointed if you didn’t do the same.”
“The man is dead. I suspect he’s not likely to be disappointed in anything anymore.”
“You, sir, are despicable,” Olivia snapped before Mr. Beckwith could give him a proper tongue-lashing. “Have you no respect for my late husband?”
He turned toward her and she suddenly wished she’d kept silent. She truly didn’t want to spar with him. She couldn’t determine how to attain the high ground. Where he was concerned, she suspected it was impossible. He would always somehow manage to drag those around him into the gutter with him.
“I respect only those who have earned my respect. And they are few in number.”
“I can well imagine what a person must do in order to earn your respect.”
Some unidentifiable emotion—remorse?—shifted in his eyes. “Actually, Duchess, I suspect you can’t.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
Dare she hope he was taking his leave, and in so doing, turning his back on this ridiculous first will?
“Where are you going?” Olivia called out.
“I want to have a look around, determine what all I’ll gain by suffering through your presence.” He stormed from the room without a backward glance.
With a gasp of indignation, Olivia hurried after him. This house was hers—hers—until he agreed to the terms of the will. Whatever she could do to dissuade him from consenting, she would do. She’d show him who was willing to do anything.
Although she did have to give him credit for being correct about one thing: somehow, without her noticing, her husband had gone stark, raving mad.
Considering Mr. Dodger’s reputation, Charles Beckwith was inclined to follow the couple, but the duke had left specific instructions that he was not to interfere as they settled their differences. Only a fool would have expected the duchess to serenely accept so ludicrous a choice for guardian, and the duke had not been known for being a fool.
With a sigh, Beckwith leaned back in his chair to await their return and began to mentally prepare himself for the next round with Jack Dodger. He knew it had the potential to be challenging. He had to carry out the duke’s wishes without compromising his own integrity.
He was not in the habit of questioning those who paid so handsomely for his services, but he did wonder if the duke had truly understood the ramifications of his actions. To Charles Beckwith, they seemed to serve but one purpose: to pave the way for disaster.