Lounging on a couch in the library, Jack drank his whiskey, grateful he’d had the foresight to bring a couple of bottles from Luke’s. He’d planned to return to his new residence to discuss the arrangements with the widow, and he’d decided they’d both need a good shot of the devil’s brew to fortify themselves for what was certain to be an arduous process of working out the particulars regarding the care of her son. He didn’t expect her to agree with anything he suggested.
He’d been quite surprised when he’d arrived and discovered the coach being readied for the duchess’s hasty retreat. It had been a long time since the devil had possessed him, and he was not in the habit of frightening women, but he’d not been able to refrain from settling himself in the coach and awaiting her arrival. Unfortunately, he’d not taken into account that she’d have her son with her. Irritating her was one thing. Terrorizing the child was another matter entirely. He didn’t hold with the notion of harming children. They lost their innocence all too soon as it was.
Damnation, he should just let her take the lad to the country. Simply pretend he was the guardian. He’d spent a good deal of his youth pretending one thing or another in order to swindle someone out of something. When he picked pockets, he’d often dressed in fancy stolen clothes so when he walked among wealthy folks he appeared to belong with them—someone’s child just meandering about. All of Feagan’s children were skilled at mimicking their surroundings, appearing to fit in, even when they didn’t.
Was Beckwith going to check up on him, make sure he saw to his duties? Not bloody likely. He’d survived the delivering of his message, seen that the proper forms were signed. He’d earned his coin. Jack certainly had no plans to give him any more. He was out of their lives. At least until the time came for him to hand over the final item. Its value immeasurable. The words echoed through Jack’s mind as though sung by a chorus of angels. All of this and then something more.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel, and then shifted his attention to a table where an assortment of clocks was arranged. The duchess had been reading to her son for almost an hour. What in the hell was she reading? One of Dickens’s novels?
Then a horrid thought took hold. She was a clever wench, as she’d proven by sizing him up rightly enough. He’d cut off one avenue of escape. Perhaps she’d found another.
“Damnation!” he rasped as he surged to his feet, spilling good whiskey on his favorite waistcoat. He cursed the waste, and then downed the remaining contents of the glass before storming out of the library.
A footman lounging against the wall in the hallway came to attention, fear of reprisal over his lack of discipline evident in his expression. Jack cared little about how straight a man could stand. He cared only that a man furnished results and was there when needed.
“Have you seen the duchess since she went upstairs?” Jack demanded.
“No, sir.”
He cursed again. Escape was definitely a possibility. Jack remembered seeing enormous trees near the house. She could open a window, leap across to one, and shimmy down it with no trouble at all. Jack had done that often enough when he’d lived at Claybourne’s. The old gent had forbidden them to visit with Feagan if they slept beneath his roof. Jack had always assumed what the old gent didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And he’d refused to totally abandon Feagan. So he’d straddled both worlds. In many ways, he still did.
He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. No other servants were about. He strode to the nursery, opened the door, and paused…
She had escaped—they both had, she and her son—into slumber. Jack’s stomach knotted as the vague memory of sleeping nestled against his mother fought to become more vivid. He didn’t want to think about her tonight, didn’t want to consider everything a mother might sacrifice for her child, didn’t want to wonder about what the duchess might sacrifice. Her devotion to her son had taken him by surprise. He’d somehow always assumed the aristocracy was above emotion. It wasn’t often he misjudged a situation or people. But in this instance, he may have.
He glanced quickly around the room. The nanny was asleep on a small bed on the far side. He didn’t know if that was common practice or just another example of the overprotective nature of the boy’s mother. He wasn’t familiar with a great deal concerning the particulars of a household. Lovingdon had set him a daunting task. He was baffled by his determination to see it through. He gave his attention back to the duchess.
She was sitting up on the bed, her head at an awkward angle, the open book on her lap. The boy was curled on his side, sucking on his thumb, snoring softly. One of his mother’s hands rested on his head, her fingers lost in his blond curls, as though she could protect him with so simple a touch.
Yes, he should let them go. What did he know about boys? Oh, he’d protected a few in his time and had the scars to show for it, not all of them visible. But he was accustomed to teaching boys how to survive when they had no one to protect them. Several boys worked at his club: running errands, fetching drinks for gentlemen, carrying their chips for them. Jack wondered if Lovingdon had observed the confidence growing in the lads he hired. They were always fearful, not trusting their good fortune, suspicious of his motives when he first took them in. But in time they came around: began to walk with a swagger, speak without hesitating, understood their worth. Was that the reason Lovingdon had come to the club and not partaken of its offerings—to watch, to learn, to decide who could best prepare his son for the world?
A scoundrel like Jack Dodger?
If the boy were a street urchin, perhaps. But the son of a lord? Jack hardly knew where to begin. So why had he not accepted the easy way out of his dilemma when the duchess had offered it to him? Take everything and let them go. It made no sense to force them to stay, and yet he was reluctant to release them.
Jack shifted his attention back to the lady in question. In repose she possessed an unexpected, ethereal beauty, as all her worries faded away while she drifted into dreams. He wondered briefly what it was like to dream. He never did. Possibly because he so seldom slept. He was obsessed with obtaining all the wealth he could, burning the midnight oil as often as possible. He knew the true value of money. It protected a person from having to do things he didn’t want to do.
Usually. He didn’t particularly want to serve as the lad’s guardian, and if the boy wasn’t sucking his thumb, if he hadn’t screamed louder than his mother, Jack might not have questioned the need for him to remain. A boy shouldn’t be that frightened. No one should. What had caused him to have fears? And how did Jack begin to give him the confidence he required to honor his title? With late night talks before a coal fire, while gin warmed his belly and a pipe warmed his lungs? He didn’t think the duchess would approve of that—which made the idea worth considering. Pricking her temper could become his latest vice. She irritated him for reasons he didn’t understand. He was aware of her in ways he’d never been with other women.
The duchess was crammed into the small child’s bed, her shoes resting nearby. Although she wore stockings, he could see that she had small, delicate feet. They made her seem vulnerable, and he had a sudden irrational urge to protect her. He could well imagine she’d object to that notion. She’d probably purposely remained there until she fell asleep, hoping to avoid another encounter with Jack. Silly woman. Eventually everyone had to face the devil and give him his due.
Tomorrow she’d learn that lesson; for tonight, he’d let her rest in innocence—but not in this bed. Waking up after an uncomfortable night would only serve to keep her out of sorts and make her more difficult to deal with, and she was difficult enough. He doubted they’d ever agree on anything.
With care he slid his arms beneath her, one at her shoulders and the other at her knees. His back would no doubt protest the abuse, but when he lifted her, he discovered she was as light as his own touch when he slipped his hand into another man’s pocket in order to relieve him of his possessions. She made a little mewling sound as her head rolled into the nook of his shoulder. A scent wafted up that he recognized: laudanum. Maybe she slept no easier at night than he did.
Jack looked back at the boy, who was staring up at him. He mustered a smile, winked, and said in a low voice, “Go back to sleep. I’ll hold the monsters at bay tonight.”
The boy closed his eyes. Jack walked from the room and down the hallway to the door that led into the duchess’s bedchamber.
Please don’t go into my bedchamber.
He released a rough curse. What did he care about her wants and desires? What was she hiding in there? Her not wanting him to see it made him want to all the more. And why shouldn’t he? The residence was his, which meant that legally her room was his. He had every right to open that door—
He cursed again and walked to the door that led into the master’s bedchamber, a room that had once belonged to her husband and now belonged to Jack.
Bending his knees slightly, he managed to reach the knob, turn it, and shove open the door. The room was cast in shadows. The light from the lamps in the hallway and coming in through the window—from the gas lamps that lined the front drive—provided him with enough illumination to make out the silhouette of the large bed. He walked over to it and very gently laid her down.
She whimpered and mumbled, “I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
Jack crouched down. “For what, Duchess?”
Her response was only a soft breathing. One hand rested near her hip, the other curled on the pillow. She’d removed her widow’s cap—a silly bit of frippery—and he had a clearer idea regarding her hair. It was not as brown as he’d originally deduced but more a shade of auburn. A bit of the devil visited him again. Using deft fingers and the light touch of a pickpocket, he located a hairpin. Very gingerly, he pulled it out. Then found another and another and another, until her hair was free of its constraints, thick and heavy in his hand. Soft and silken. He rubbed several strands between his fingers. He didn’t know why he felt this overwhelming compulsion to know the texture of her hair.
And to know something more.
He lowered his face to the curve of her neck and slowly inhaled the heady fragrance of her perfume. The scent was stronger there, as though a secret spot rested just behind her ear. Where else might she seek to tease a man? For she would tease—of that, Jack had no doubt.
Unfolding his body, he stared down on her. He wondered how many nights she might have lain in this bed, replete and sated. Had the duke held her afterward? The women Jack had bedded didn’t require any special care, but he thought it would be different with a woman who wasn’t bought. She’d expect more when coins didn’t fill her palm. She’d require courtesies that filled her heart.
He backed up a step. There was something very pleasing about the sight of a woman in bed, especially when it was now his bed. For all the women he’d pleasured and been pleasured by, he’d never watched one sleep. Even in slumber, a woman was seductive and alluring.
He spun on his heel and headed for the door, refusing to be seduced, even by one as lovely as the Duchess of Lovingdon.
Jack strode into his gentlemen’s club and relished the sights, smells, and sounds. The well-dressed men at the gambling tables. The rich aroma of good whiskey and expensive cigars. The clack of dice and the click of wooden chips. Piano music wafted from another room, where his girls danced with the gents, sometimes ushering them off to a corner for an enticing kiss, sometimes leaving the room for something a bit more illicit. Jack paid the girls well for entertaining the gents with dance and conversation within that room. Anything they earned on the other side of those doors was theirs and theirs alone. He didn’t provide whores, but neither did he judge if a girl wanted more—as long as it was her choice. Everyone knew Jack Dodger didn’t look the other way if his employees were mistreated.
He walked around the perimeter, studying the tables, the players, how the games seemed to be progressing. He noted the volume of noise. Rowdy men tended to spend more freely. He passed by one of the card tables where a game of brag was being played. A time existed when Luke spent a good deal of his evening there—not only because he was a partner but because he enjoyed a good game of cards. Since he was married, however, he was spending his nights with his wife. Not that Jack could blame him for that. She was quite a delectable piece.
As Jack passed by the cage where chips were bought, the man inside gave him a nod and quick grin, which meant business was good. He neared the room where women offered solace to the gentlemen who’d not been so lucky at the tables—or perhaps a woman was their choice of sin for the night. Standing in the doorway, he gave his eyes a moment to adjust. The room was dimly lit on purpose, to offer the illusion of secrecy. But no true secrets resided there. If Jack was of a mind, he could blackmail every man within these walls—but his business acumen was sharper than that. He provided a safe haven for men to indulge their whims. He’d learned at an early age that a person would pay almost anything for a safe haven.
A woman sitting on a gentleman’s lap caught his eye. Prudence had been with him the longest. Youth was beginning to fade from her features, but a good deal could be said for experience. She whispered to the man, then unfurled her lithe body and sauntered enticingly over to Jack. She wore her blond hair loose and flowing down her back. Having always lacked modesty, she wore little more than silk draped over her body.
“’ello, love.” She greeted him saucily. “Lookin’ fer me?”
Jack gave her a long look mixed with appreciation for what she offered physically as well as regret. It was always a good idea not to let a woman know that he didn’t desire her. Let her think it was something else that turned him away. “Not tonight, Pru.”
She frowned. “It’s been a while, Jack. ’aven’t found someone else, ’ave ye?”
“No, just distracted. How are things going with the other girls?”
Prudence oversaw the girls who worked here, made certain they understood the rules, stayed clean, weren’t abused. “Things are good, but I think yer goin’ to lose Annie. One of the lords offered to set ’er up as ’is mistress.”
“Does she want it?”
She nodded. “’e’s a good bloke.”
“Make sure she understands he’ll never marry her.”
“She knows, Jack. ’ell, we all know what we are.”
“What you are, Pru, is a bit of wickedness. Every now and then a man needs that.”
She winked at him. “Well, let me know when you need some. I’m still yer girl.”
With a flourish, she returned to where her gentleman waited for her. Lately Pru was the only working girl Jack availed himself of. He didn’t need jealousy among his girls. He paid Pru very, very well—not because she was particularly good, but because she never expected more from him than he was capable of giving.
He turned away from the room where men enjoyed the company of women.
Strolling back through the gaming room, he acknowledged a few of the gents. It was long after midnight, but still the room was crowded and spirits were high. Sin possessed no timepiece, which suited Jack well as he required little sleep.
He shoved open the door that led to the back rooms where his business was managed. He stopped by an open doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and watched as Frannie Darling made precise notations in his ledgers. She’d been one of Feagan’s children as well—the only one whose skillful hands had matched Jack’s. No one had ever brought in as much booty as the two of them had.
Her red hair was pulled back into a bun, but it didn’t seem to draw the skin tautly across her cheeks the way the duchess’s had. Like the duchess, she also wore black, not because she was in mourning, but because she didn’t wish to draw attention to herself. Jack had once bought her a dress of emerald green. He preferred bold colors and had thought she’d look beautiful in it. She’d blushed and thanked him profusely, but as far as he knew, she’d never worn it. She didn’t like for gents to notice her, but notice her they did. Jack didn’t think a single one of Feagan’s lads hadn’t fallen in love with her at one time or another. Even he wasn’t immune to her charms.
Looking up, Frannie gave him the impish, shy smile that had won many a lad’s heart. “There you are. You were gone a rather long time.”
“The meeting turned out to be far more complicated than I expected.”
“Did you want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly, but you need to be aware of some changes that are likely to occur.”
“I’m not certain I like the sound of that.”
Stepping inside, he glanced around. Unlike the residence he’d just left, this room was sparsely furnished with a desk and three chairs. The walls were plain. One set of small shelves held the ledgers that provided a history of his business. Against another wall was a couch. He wasn’t certain what she used it for. She certainly didn’t sleep there. Her bed was in an apartment accessed through an alley and stairs at the back of the building. He had his own apartment there as well, as did most of his employees. Cost him a bloody fortune, but a happy worker didn’t take from the till.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Frannie said.
Shaking his head, Jack took a step nearer and folded his hands around the top of the leather chair in front of her desk. “I spent too much of the night sitting.” He jerked his head toward the open books spread across her desk. Frannie was a genius when it came to ciphering. Perhaps because Feagan would sit her on his lap and let her count the handkerchiefs and coins that the others collected through the day. He might not have realized it, but he’d given her a skill that served them all very well. “Did we have a profitable night?”
“We always have a profitable night. You’re going to die a wealthy man, Jack.”
Her voice contained a sadness that he didn’t miss. He knew she objected to the importance he placed on money. He grinned. “Wealthier than I’d anticipated. The Duke of Lovingdon left me a fortune.”
Her green eyes widened. “Why?”
“Bloody hell if I know.” His fingers dug into the leather of the chair. “Did you ever speak to him?”
“Why would I?”
“He visited here on occasion.”
“You know I avoid the gaming area as much as possible.” Fine liquor made their customers friendlier than they might have been otherwise and caused them to misjudge their own appeal. The gaming area was not the place for a lady who wished to avoid the advances of men.
“He was also an acquaintance of Luke’s grandfather. I vaguely remember meeting him at the Claybourne residence, showing him the locket.”
“What locket?”
The locket contained a miniature of his mother. The night she’d sold him, she’d given it to him with the admonishment, “Never forget that I loved you, Jack.”
Loved. He’d never known what he’d done to lose her love. In time, he’d stopped trying to figure it out. He’d put all his mental abilities toward surviving.
The day he’d met Lovingdon, he’d been in Claybourne’s garden, studying his mother’s features as drawn on the miniature, trying to determine if she would be disappointed in him if he didn’t take advantage of all that the earl was offering him. He’d hated being in that fancy house. It had reminded him of another…
Jack shook his head. “It’s not important. I thought perhaps you’d spoken with him at Claybourne’s.”
“Not that I recall.”
“I don’t suppose it matters. What’s important is for you to know I agreed to serve as guardian of his heir, so I may not be around as much as usual.”
“Why you?”
“That seems to be the question everyone’s asking, and again, I haven’t a bloody clue.”
“I think you’ll make a remarkable guardian.”
Jack laughed. In spite of being raised on the streets, Frannie possessed a bit of innocence when it came to Feagan’s lads. She always believed some goodness resided in them, even when it was buried so deeply they couldn’t find it themselves.
“Are you going to tell Luke about your change in fortune?” Frannie asked.
“I already did. I saw him earlier.” He squinted. “I don’t think he’s quite forgiven me for my part in his parents’ death.” It had been only two months since Luke had learned the truth of that fateful day twenty-five years ago, a day that had changed all their lives.
“It’s not your fault. You were only a child. You didn’t know what the man had planned when he paid you to lure the family into the alley.”
That’s what Jack had claimed, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. He hadn’t known specifics, but he knew evil when it stared at him. He’d ignored his suspicions because he’d wanted the sixpence. He lived with the regret every day. He hoped the same wouldn’t be true of the bargain he’d struck tonight. He slapped the top of the chair. “I’d best get to my business, make sure all matters have been taken care of so I’m free in the morning to oversee arrangements regarding my new possessions.”
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Frannie said softly.
Jack couldn’t shake off an ominous sense of foreboding. “Condolences, most like.” He winked at her. “’Night, Frannie.”
He strode down the hallway, stopped in his office to gather up his tobacco and pipe, and continued on to the door that led outside. He stepped into the night. The fog had grown thicker, hampering visibility. He wondered if he’d find fog in the country. He might have to eventually look over his ward’s estates. Might prove interesting. London was all he knew, but he knew it very well.
Leaning against the wall, he stuffed his clay pipe, struck a match, lit the tobacco, and began puffing until the tantalizing aroma was swirling through him. It was a much richer blend than he’d had as a lad. Still, it took him back to a time when life had been simple, reduced to collecting a certain number of handkerchiefs per day. Jack hadn’t been content with the silk. He’d preferred watches, jewelry, and other sparkly items that brought a fair price from fences. He didn’t always take his stash to Feagan. He developed his own contacts. If Luke’s grandfather hadn’t taken him in, he had little doubt he’d have become a kidsman with his own den of thieves that would have eventually rivaled Feagan’s for notoriety. That had been his goal, anyway. To become the most famous, to be the one about whom ballads were sung and stories were written.
He’d planned to teach boys in the artful ways of thievery. And now he was supposed to train a lad to be honest and upstanding, to sit in the House of Lords and help to govern a nation.