Lady of Desire

by Gaelen Foley

  Truro was still a tall, broad-shouldered man, but he looked rather gaunt and ill. Perhaps he couldn’t eat anymore, only drink, he thought bitterly. His aquiline face was more deeply lined, harder than Blade remembered, his brown wavy hair and goatee beard gone nearly all gray.

  Beneath his open cloak, his red woollen waistcoat brought out the dissipated ruddiness of his skin, but his bloodshot green eyes, the color of tainted copper, still held that piratelike intensity that once upon a time had made a young boy quake in his shoes.

  Blade met the marquess’s gaze in defiance and thought he detected a flicker of pain in the depths of the bleary eyes. The man’s mouth curled in a mocking, world-weary smile that stuck like a splinter in Blade’s heart.

  He looked away. The silence was excruciating. For a moment, Truro lowered his head, thoughtfully fingering the lion-headed walking stick that he probably didn’t remember having used as a club on his younger son after three bottles of brandy on any given evening, but when he looked up again, his gaze homed in on the small, undeniable scar on Blade’s forehead in the shape of a rough star.

  Whatever doubts he may have had about the identity of the man in the cage, the sight of the scar that he had made on his son’s face clearly laid them to rest. Perhaps it was more shame than hauteur that made the marquess drop his gaze, inclining his head in a cursory nod. “So. You are alive.”

  “Yes, for the moment, so it would seem,” he answered tautly.

  “Lord Lucien says they will hang you.”

  “Quite.”

  His father’s marveling gaze ran over him, taking in the tough, sinewy lines of the man he had become. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes—not pride, certainly, but perhaps the recognition that if he ever hit him again, he was going to be hit back very, very hard.

  “Try to contain your euphoria, Father,” he drawled, staring dully at him, but his heart was pounding.

  The marquess stared at the lion-carved head of his walking stick. “Your brother is dead. Tuberculosis.”

  “I know.”

  Truro shot him a look of surprise, then frowned warily, brooding upon the revelation that his younger son had been alive all this time, aware that he had become the heir to a rich marquisate, yet had made no claim on his heritage. A muscle clenched in the marquess’s jaw. “What, then?” he asked acidly. “Am I to kill the fatted calf for you?”

  Blade bit back a sharp retort and looked away, leaning his shoulder into the bars as he slid his thumbs loosely into his trouser pockets. “Hardly. I know you take no more joy in this than I do. I had not intended to do this, you see. Ever. I wanted to make you suffer the only way I could.”

  “By standing back and allowing our line to be obliterated.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But now…why, it seems you’ve got yourself into a spot of trouble, haven’t you?”

  Blade checked his temper at his father’s taunting, superior tone and prayed God to help him bear the scourge to his pride. The whoreson was gloating. “I don’t give a damn for your money or your title,” he said hotly. “The only reason I called you here was for the sake of my friends. They’ve been more family to me than you ever were.”

  “What exactly do you want, William?”

  He reined in his temper by sheer dint of will, his nostrils flaring as he drew a deep, steadying breath. “Use your power and influence and whatever sort of bribery it takes to get my men freed and, in exchange, I will come back and do…whatever you say.”

  His father stared at him, unperturbed. “It seems to me you are in no position to be making demands.”

  “Refuse me, then, and walk away. I am not afraid to die.”

  Lord Truro began laughing slowly at his fiery bravado. He turned and paced on the other side of the bars. Blade watched him keenly, his heart pounding. He willed himself to be still.

  “By God, if I take you back, you will toe the line.” His father pivoted to face him. It was only then that Blade read the profound emotion in the depths of his eyes, noticed the slight trembling in his voice and hands. “You will sever all ties with these ruffians. You will leave this criminal life without looking back, do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Moreover, I will expect you to marry—promptly! Aye, at once. An appropriate girl, of good family. I will not have you flout me on this. Our bloodlines have been imperiled for too long. You will wed and begin breeding immediately. I don’t know how I shall ever present you to Society. I shall have to think of something, some story to tell them about where you’ve been, but in the meantime—look at you. You look half wild.”

  Blade smiled rather cynically at him.

  They stared at each other.

  “Damn you,” his father uttered after a long moment. “If Percy were alive, I’d leave you here to rot, by God, I would.”

  “Yes, Father, I do not doubt it.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve put your mother through?”

  Leaning against the bars, Blade just looked at him.

  “I will see what can be done.” With a huff, the marquess marched back up the stairs to consult with Lord Lucien.

  Blade closed his eyes and only allowed himself to exhale after he had gone, but the one burning thought that emerged from the chaos like a fiery star was the fact that if this worked—if his father indeed took him back, acknowledged him as his heir—he would enter Jacinda Knight’s lofty circles, as eligible a bachelor as any haughty Society debutante could want, no more to grovel at her feet, but to make her his own—provided, of course, that Lord Lucien didn’t object.

  Pacing in his cell, rubbing the back of his neck in irritation, he waited as patiently as possible for his father to return so he might hear his fate. When the massive door scraped and creaked open again, he strode to the bars of his cell and saw that Truro and Lucien had returned with Sir Anthony Weldon, the magistrate.

  A shrewd former attorney, Sir Anthony was a short, middle-aged, pugnacious-looking man with piercing eyes and russet-colored side-whiskers. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied Blade as he neared his cell.

  “Ah, the illustrious Billy Blade, scourge of the West End, hero of the rookery. At last we meet.”

  Blade looked at him uncertainly, but his father would have none of it.

  “Sir Anthony, allow me to present my son, William Albright, the earl of Rackford,” the marquess clarified, using the courtesy title that had once been Percy’s but that now belonged to him.

  “Hmm,” the magistrate said in a noncommittal tone.

  “I have explained the situation to Sir Anthony, Lord Rackford,” Lucien broke in smoothly. “I have told him of the vital help you have provided in the past to me and to my family.”

  “All the same,” Sir Anthony said, “I cannot simply open the cages and set your associates free—”

  “Then we have nothing to discuss,” Blade said.

  “Let me finish, if you please,” the magistrate curtly rebuked him. “There are three points on which I must have your full cooperation before I will agree to hand you over to His Lordship’s custody.”

  He met Lucien’s encouraging gaze, then gave Sir Anthony a taut nod. “Go on.”

  “First, if you are indeed to become the earl of Rackford, Lord Truro and I both agree that Billy Blade must die.”

  “Sir?”

  “You must cut all ties with your past associates, and to aid you in doing so, we will let it be said that ‘Blade’ was hanged privately to avoid any rioting of the mob. Secondly, I will be lenient to your fellows. I will send them to hard labor in New South Wales, but under no circumstances will I set them free.”

  “Hard labor?” he cried angrily. He was to go live in a mansion with servants and fine clothes, while his friends worked the fields and quarries of Australia?

  “Take it or leave it, young man. The lot of you were caught red-handed. They work or they hang. I am a reasonable man, but I cannot be bought.”

  Nostrils flarin
g, Blade checked his temper and swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. Your third point?” he growled.

  “Information,” he said, edging closer to Blade’s cell with an intense look in his eyes. “You could be most useful to us. Names, locations, details about various individuals we have been hunting, criminal rings we have long sought to break.”

  Bloody dangerous, he thought, regarding him warily. If any of his past criminal associates learned that “Blade” was actually alive and informing on them, his father would have to find another heir, after all, for he wouldn’t live long.

  “With your inside knowledge of the underworld’s workings, Bow Street can make great strides in cleaning up this city.”

  Blade flicked his tongue nervously over his lips, his heart pounding, but maybe, he thought, a change of sides was in order. He thought again of those ragged children playing in the gutter. The knowledge had long nagged at him, that the moral decay of the rookery was as much to blame for their condition as the harsh laws handed down by Parliament. With his help, maybe things could change. Perhaps Bow Street could actually do something to tame the lawless streets that provided the perfect environment in which monsters like O’Dell could thrive. He considered for a heartbeat, then gave a stiff nod.

  “Very well. I will do it.”

  Lucien’s silvery eyes flickered with sly approval; Truro nodded slowly.

  “Mind you, we will be watching you,” the magistrate warned.

  He lifted his chin in guarded insolence. “Anything else?”

  “Only that you look like a savage, Lord Rackford,” Sir Anthony wryly replied. “I suggest you cut your hair.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rackford. William Spencer Albright, Earl of Rackford.

  Will Rackford.

  Three weeks later, Rackford stared at himself at close range in the mirror, taking one final moment as he buttoned his mother-of-pearl cuff links, to ensure that his new name was adequately drummed into his head. Alas, Billy Blade was no more—privately hanged in the courtyard of Newgate, dying young and unlamented, to the surprise of none.

  In the looking glass, he thought himself barely recognizable in formal black evening clothes, his hair cropped short. It looked darker, with all its sun-streaked lengths cut off. His face was closely shaved, his hands impeccably groomed, though his old calluses showed no signs of going away. He had sat through the manicure as best he could, but had quickly lost patience with his valet’s attempts to lighten his complexion to a gentlemanly pallor with an assortment of potions and lotions. Beneath his chin, his starched cravat chafed like a collar one might put on a particularly nasty dog to keep it tame. He flicked a glance downward over his clothes—fine white linen shirt, smooth black trousers held up by suspenders that made a Y in the back, well-shined black shoes.

  Ah, well. Inside, he was the same man. But if he looked more civilized on the outside, the truth was he felt even less so, surrounded by people he dared not trust, in a world where he was uncertain of the rules.

  His loyal mates had all been transported to hard labor in Australia. What was happening now in the rookery, he barely wanted to imagine, but he intended to find out very soon. O’Dell no doubt thought that he had won, but it was far from over.

  A slight movement behind him swiftly drew his gaze, but it was only his valet, Filbert, a slight-framed, balding, efficient little man who stood at a respectful distance, patiently holding up his white silk waistcoat. Behind him in the reflection lay his opulent apartments in his father’s redbrick mansion on the square at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  The walls had gilded pier glasses and panels of damascened French silk, the ceiling a painted medallion. The two symmetrical windows were hung with heavy blue velvet curtains with gold tassels. Lovely, but a cage, nonetheless.

  “Your vest, my lord?” Filbert prodded.

  Rackford slipped his arms through the armholes and let the little man put the elegant waistcoat on him and button it. He had finally begun to understand that he was not to lift a finger in anything unless it was absolutely necessary. He played along without comment because he strongly suspected that Filbert was his father’s spy. He dared trust no one in this new life of his, not even his mother, who still wept every time she looked at him.

  He had spent two of the past three weeks with his irritating parents at his father’s secondary estate in Surrey. There he had been fitted up for a new wardrobe, put through a refresher course on basic manners, interviewed almost daily by Sir Anthony and his pair of Bow Street investigators, and advised on what traits he was to look for in a wife—the acquiring of which, he gathered, was not unlike buying a milch cow at market.

  Still, in spite of the myriad dangers he had to watch out for here, it was good to be in London again. He had hated the country. Too bloody quiet. Back in Town again, his first forays into Society had gone smoothly, though there had been a dangerous few minutes the first time he had been formally introduced to Acer Loring. Fortunately, the dandy had not recognized him as the wild man he had mocked in Hyde Park.

  Beyond the meeting with the leading dandy, the buzz of curiosity he had aroused in the ton merely amused him. Indeed, he thought as he allowed his valet to put his black tailcoat on him, he was perfectly poised at this moment to ensnare Jacinda Knight.

  She had been absent from Town since his arrival, but he had heard she was expected at the Devonshire ball this evening. He could not wait to see her face when she laid eyes on him. In the mirror, a faint smile of perverse anticipation twisted his lips as he pulled on his pristine white gloves. Ah, tonight he would have some fun. Entice her, torment her, shake her up a bit. Toy with her pretty head as she had toyed with his.

  Not only did he owe her for her arrogant cut that day in Hyde Park, but looked at a certain way, his loss of freedom was her fault. It was she who had angered him so deeply with her blatant scorn. She had provoked him into redoubling his efforts at crime, which, in turn, had led to his arrest. He was under his father’s thumb again, and it was all because of that maddening chit. If he had not been out of his head over her, he would have listened to Nate; he would have realized something was wrong instead of dragging his men into that disastrous robbery. Even the chosen victim that night had been the result of his talk with her. He had specifically targeted the Taylors because, as Jacinda had confided in him, their eldest daughter had routinely been cruel to her.

  Well, this was what it had got him, he thought. Nevertheless, he wanted her, and he intended to have her. His reasons were practical, in addition to simple lust. He needed to get control of her to ensure she kept silent about his past. When they were man and wife, her interests would be one and the same with his own, thus she would be bound to secrecy. Finally, he needed her savvy in negotiating his way through the ton. He knew he was out of his element; he needed an able and trustworthy guide in this strange world.

  She would resist him, of course. She was no doubt still angry at him for returning her to her family, but then, he also knew her weakness—the wanton nature that burned in her veins. She might think him a rough, low brute, but her desire for him had been very plain the night he had given her her first taste of pleasure, and he was not above using it against her.

  “Look all right, Filbert?” He smoothed his coat, then regarded himself critically in the glass.

  “Very smart, indeed, sir.”

  Rackford eyed his valet warily, then pivoted and strode toward the door. On his way out of his chamber, he plucked a carnation from the daily bouquet of fresh flowers that his mother ordered for nearly every room in the house. He snapped off the long stem and tucked the crimson bloom in his boutonniere.

  It was not to be borne! Some of her best flirting was going completely unnoticed.

  If Lord Drummond were a normal suitor, he would have been on his knees by now begging for her hand in marriage, Jacinda thought with a huff, but for such an astute and worldly-wise politician, the possibility that she might be in earnest with all her lavish attentions and sugary complim
ents seemed beyond his comprehension. Instead, he treated her like an amusing child.

  Grandchild.

  “Watch the fireworks, pet,” he chided when she begged him to dance with her. “I am too old for dancing.”

  She sulked; she pouted; then she tried beguiling him with a graceful attitude, leaning over the balustrade to pull a sprig of the cherry blossom tree closer, drinking in its sweet perfume. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he just went on talking with his aged cronies and a few foreign dignitaries, there on the lamplit veranda overlooking the lavish gardens of Devonshire House. He paid her no mind whatsoever. Clenching her jaw, she folded her high-gloved arms across her chest and watched the blasted fireworks.

  At half-past nine, the palace and Tower guns erupted with a roaring salute. Church bells began ringing in every direction, drowning out the pretty Haydn minuet that the orchestra was playing in the ballroom. All England was rejoicing tonight over the royal wedding of her fat, jolly, beloved Princess Charlotte to the handsome, bookish Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. By all accounts, their union was a love match.

  The thought tugged at her romantic’s heart and brought a soft sigh to her lips, but her mind was made up. The idea of her eventual freedom had taken hold, and she was determined to see it through.

  In the past weeks, up in the North Country and now back in London, an unlikely friendship had developed between the gruff veteran statesman and the sparkling young debutante. The earl’s physician, Dr. Cross, had privately informed her that she was the only person who had made Lord Drummond laugh in the past two decades. Indeed, she thought, her plan was going along swimmingly, if only he would realize her attentions were in earnest.

  And yet, listening to the joyous din, a mercurial wave of loneliness washed through her. She lifted her gaze above the gaudy fireworks to the cool white moon—again, full. It was hard to believe it had been one whole month since her adventure in the rookery. Wistfully, she looked out over the expansive gardens of Devonshire House as the last glimmer of light faded in the west. Of all the London mansions she frequented in the social rounds, this one had the best view—gorgeous, sculpted gardens as far as the eye could see. The Devonshire gardens bordered those of Lansdowne House, and beyond them lay the garden in the center of Berkeley Square.