by Connie Mason
He slammed out the door carrying his boots, pulling them on as he raced down the stairs. When Moira heard the carriage roll down the gravel drive, she collapsed on the bed, aching for Jack’s touch and knowing she could never have him. Even if she dared think of Jack and love in the same breath, it would be wishful thinking. She had no idea what evil Lord Roger planned for her now that he was back in London. Whatever befell her, she had to protect Jack at all costs.
Chapter Ten
The clock on the mantel struck midnight as Moira eased out the kitchen door. Jack hadn’t returned yet from Vauxhall, and she supposed Lady Victoria would keep him occupied until dawn. Though it pained her to think of him with another woman, it was for the best, Moira thought as she crept toward the back gate leading into the alley where Lord Roger had said to meet him. No matter how frightened she was, she had to find out what he wanted from her. She feared he would use his knowledge of her past to ruin Jack, and she couldn’t allow that to happen.
The hackney was waiting just beyond the back gate. Moira approached it with trepidation, noting that the driver was hunched over the reins, looking neither right nor left. Lord Roger must be paying him well to mind his own business, Moira thought dimly. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Roger, and she had no intention of entering the hackney, but the choice was taken from her when the door swung open and a hand reached out, hauling her inside. Moira cried out in dismay as she sprawled across the seat in a flurry of swirling skirts. The door slammed shut and the hackney rattled off. Moira righted herself with difficulty, pushed down her skirts and glared at the man lounging in the opposite seat. Neither Moira nor Roger saw Jilly watching from the rear door. The little maid couldn’t sleep and had gone to the kitchen for a snack when she saw Moira creeping out the back door. Jilly stared in disbelief when she saw the dim outline of a man’s face through the window of the hackney.
“You were wise to show up,” Lord Roger said with quiet menace.
“Where are we going?” Panic gnawed at the edges of Moira’s control. She recalled with rising panic what had happened the last time she was alone with Lord Roger. She had nearly been killed jumping from his coach.
“To rooms I keep for occasions like this. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you haven’t allowed your lover to do. And I’m not taking you to Newgate. I have other plans for you.”
“You’re despicable. You know I didn’t steal that necklace. Why don’t you tell your parents the truth?”
“Not bloody likely. They’re already angry with me for letting you go and for leaving London without a word of explanation. I had to borrow passage money to France. I won’t come into my inheritance for another fortnight, and my father keeps me on a tight budget. Damn bloody sod.”
They had gone but a short distance when the coach rolled to a stop. “We’re here. Come along. We’ll continue this conversation inside.” Grasping her arm, he hauled her from the coach, instructing the hackney to wait. A frisson of fear slithered down Moira’s spine when she realized Roger intended taking her into the most disreputable inn she had ever seen. A weathered sign hung askew over the door, and despite the late hour, boisterous laughter could be heard coming from within the dimly lit interior.
Moira balked when Roger tried to drag her inside. “I’m not going in there.”
“You will if you know what’s good for you. Pull your hood over your head. You’re not the first whore I’ve brought to my rooms at the Hen and Rooster, and you won’t be the last. The riffraff that frequents this place pays little heed to a doxy plying her trade.”
When Moira continued to resist, Roger jerked viciously on her arm and hauled her through the door. The sound of ribald revelry assaulted her ears. The nauseating odors of stale liquor and unwashed flesh gagged her. She flinched away from curiosity seekers and burrowed deep within her hood as Roger pulled her up the rickety stairs.
“Here we are,” Roger said, opening a door and pushing her inside. “Take off your cloak and make yourself at home.”
“No, thank you,” Moira demurred as she gave the dingy room a cursory glance. “I’m not staying long. What did you wish to discuss?”
“You know damn well what I want. What happened to you after you jumped from my coach? I was certain you were dead; that’s why I fled London. You can’t imagine how shocked I was when I saw you at Vauxhall tonight. When I was told you were the daughter of an Irish baron, I was nearly overcome with laughter. Then I learned that you were Jackson Graystoke’s ward, and I wanted to expose you for a felon immediately. But after considering the situation, I changed my mind. I decided that keeping your little secret might better serve my purposes. I still want you. Seeing you in the trappings of a lady tonight whet my appetite for a taste of what you denied me weeks ago.”
Moira sent him a scathing glance. “You disgust me.”
Roger laughed nastily. “Unless you wish to be jailed for theft and Jack Graystoke reviled and ostracized by his peers, you’ll do exactly as I say. Rumor has it that Graystoke needs to marry money and he’s set his sights on Lady Victoria Greene. I’ve had her. She’s a hot little piece,” Roger observed. “What do you think will happen when Lady Victoria learns you’re no more Graystoke’s ward than you are mine? She’ll think the worst, of course. Marriage to an heiress will be out of the question for Graystoke once society learns how he hoodwinked them. Is that what you want for the man who saved your life? He did save your life, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t leave me lying at the side of the road to freeze to death or die of injuries,” Moira charged. “He has compassion, something you lack.”
Roger sneered derisively. “Whose idea was it to pass you off as a lady? Sounds like one of Graystoke’s brilliant ideas.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll ruin Graystoke. Society has little use for him anyway. He’s called Black Jack with good reason.”
“What do you want from me?” Moira asked, rounding on him in fury. “Whatever it is, leave Jack out of it.”
Roger gave her a sly grin. “Perhaps. If you do as I say. I think you know well enough what I want. You cheated the disciples once, but you shan’t again.”
The Hellfire Club. The man was truly evil. “No! I’ll never agree.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. If you refuse, I’ll turn you over to the magistrate and inform him that Graystoke was your accomplice in the theft. Did you know there’s a reward for your capture? Your choices are limited. It’s either Newgate or the Hellfire Club.”
Never had Moira hated a man more. Rage scorched the edges of her temper. “I’d rather die than be debauched by you and your vile friends. I’ve heard that few women survive a night with those Satan worshipers. If I live through the ordeal, I swear I’ll go straight to your parents and expose you as a member of the Hellfire Club.”
“Oh, you’ll survive. I’ll see to it. Afterward, arrangements will be made to place you in a brothel. You may even like what the disciples do to you. Most prostitutes we hire seem to enjoy it. Graystoke has been a member for some time. I’m surprised he didn’t bring you to our rituals before this. The bloody bastard probably wanted to save you for himself.”
“Blessed Virgin help me!” Moira cried. “You’re lying. Jack would never become a member of a vile organization like the Hellfire Club.”
“Pray all you want, sweet Moira, it will change nothing.” Roger congratulated himself for his cleverness. Planting seeds of doubt in Moira’s mind about Black Jack’s involvement with the Hellfire Club was a stroke of genius, even if it was a lie. “Newgate is an unpleasant place, I’m told. Disease, pestilence, filth, starvation—you’ll experience all of those and more. It won’t be difficult to name Black Jack your accomplice. I could easily get someone to swear that he talked you into stealing Mother’s necklace. ’Tis common knowledge he is always in need of blunt.”
Moira blanched. “Not even you could be that reprehensibl
e.” Was he lying about Jack? Her mind said he was not, but her heart utterly denied that Jack could be involved with a group dedicated to evil. Yet it made sense. No doubt he had earned his nickname.
Roger smiled thinly. “I could and I am. As a disciple of the Hellfire Club, I learned that nothing is more important than gratification of all the senses. Whatever it takes to get what we want is acceptable. Evil is exciting. Ask Black Jack if you doubt me. Or Lord Renfrew. They are all disciples. All dedicated to pleasure.”
Color leeched from Moira’s face. Lord Renfrew, too? “If your parents knew the kind of man you were, they’d disown you.”
“Father is a pompous ass who constantly berates me for my wicked ways, though he doesn’t know the half of it. He’s threatened to disinherit me in favor of my younger brother, a self-righteous twit if I ever saw one. No one will cheat me out of my inheritance. The title belongs to me.”
There was so much evil in his voice that Moira feared for the life of his father and brother. Revulsion speared through her. Corruption of this sort frightened her. “I can’t do what you ask, no matter the consequences.”
“I’m giving you no choice. Take off your clothes. I have a yen to sample you before the others take their turns with you.”
Moira took a step backward. “No.”
Roger reached for her, pulling her against him roughly. “I’m not a patient man.”
He bore her backward onto the bed. Panic raced through Moira, imbuing her with courage beyond her meager strength. She felt his hands on her breasts, felt him searching beneath her skirts, felt his hot tongue probing against her closed lips. She gagged and swallowed bitter bile. She couldn’t allow this abomination.
Roger’s lean, wiry body was hard as steel as he pinned her to the bed and ground his loins into her. His slobbering kisses tasted of sin and corruption. She fought valiantly, but when she realized Roger was enjoying the struggle, she went limp beneath him. Then she saw it, the crockery water pitcher sitting on the decrepit nightstand, barely within reach.
Roger had her skirts to her waist now and was momentarily distracted with the fastenings on his trousers and by the mesmerizing sight of the shimmering copper curls between her thighs. Driven by desperation, Moira stretched out her arm, offering a heartfelt prayer of thanks when her fingers curled around the pitcher’s handle.
Aroused to the point of madness, Roger grasped the obscenity between his legs and positioned it at the portal of Moira’s delicate petals. “Prepare yourself for a real man between your white thighs,” he said hoarsely as he flexed his hips for the plunge to sweet rapture.
Moira had other ideas. Even as Roger tightened his buttocks and flexed his hips, she lifted the pitcher and brought it crashing down on his head. He reared up, stared at her in disbelief, then slumped heavily against her as his eyes rolled upward in his head. Moira scrambled from beneath him, still holding the severed handle of the pitcher. She looked at it in horror, then let it drop from her nerveless fingers. Roger lay face down on the bed, utterly still, and she pushed him away from her. Sparing him but a single glance, she straightened her clothes, donned her cloak and ran from the room.
She thanked God that the inn was emptying for the night as she raced down the stairs and out the door. The hackney stood at the curb. Moira had nearly forgotten that Roger had told the driver to wait. Gathering her courage, she called to the driver in an authoritive voice, “Take me back to Hanover Square.”
The driver shook himself awake and peered down at Moira through bleary eyes. “Where’s the gent?”
“He decided to stay. You’re to take me home.”
The man scratched his head. “I don’t know, miss. I was paid to wait.”
“And so you did,” Moira said curtly. “You have your money, now take me home to Hanover Square. No need to climb down; I can get myself into the coach.”
The driver stared at her in confusion, then nodded agreement. Moira practically threw herself into the conveyance, keeping a sharp eye on the inn for any sign of Lord Roger. But she needn’t have worried. No sooner had she slammed the door shut than the hackney lurched forward. Moira leaned back and closed her eyes, still shaking from her close call. When Roger awakened he’d be furious with her. She had no idea what he’d do, but she held one trump card. She knew about his involvement in the Hellfire Club and had no qualms about informing his parents.
Jack let himself into the house and trod wearily up the stairs. Getting rid of Victoria after the ball had been no easy feat. She’d been angrier than he’d ever seen her when he refused her blatant invitation to spend the night in her bed. He couldn’t even recall the excuse he’d used this time, but it hadn’t satisfied her. She had given him an ultimatum: Unless he proved his devotion to her, she’d take herself and her money elsewhere. She did not lack for suitors, she’d told Jack in no uncertain terms.
Jack hadn’t even bothered to apologize for his lack of passion. He’d turned abruptly on his heel and left. Not long ago, marrying Victoria had seemed a good idea, given his desperate state of finances. It shocked him no end when he came to the realization that no amount of money could make up for lack of love in a relationship. Bloody hell! He found it difficult to believe he’d changed so drastically in the past few weeks. Where had the old dissolute Black Jack disappeared to? Where was the debauched rake he knew and loved?
When Jack reached the top landing, his thoughts turned to Moira. She had claimed a headache and the need for bed, and now his brow furrowed in concern. He knew he shouldn’t, but the urge to look in on her was too pressing to ignore. Pausing before her door, he turned the handle and eased it open. The dying fire in the grate spread a dull glow throughout the room, providing just enough light to see that the bed was empty. Jack went rigid. Where was she? After lighting a candle, Jack searched the room, feeling relief when he saw that all Moira’s clothes were in place except for a dark cloak. The next emotion he experienced was unbridled rage. Where had she gone—and with whom?
Charging down the stairs, Jack had the front door open and was ready to rush out when he heard a noise behind him. Whirling on his heel, he saw Jilly, her cowering figure a grotesque shadow against the wall.
“For God’s sake, Jilly, if you know where your mistress is, tell me!”
Jilly blanched, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life. Black Jack’s fierce expression made him appear every bit as dangerous as his infamous name implied.
Jilly’s fright must have gotten through to Jack, for his expression softened. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jilly. Did you speak with Moira? Did she tell you where she was going this time of night?”
“No, sir,” Jilly said in a trembling voice. “I saw Lady Moira leave the house through the kitchen door, but I don’t know where she went or who the man was in the hackney.” Jilly’s single sentence told Jack everything he wanted to know. He looked away, his silver eyes glowing with menace.
“Man?” That thought sent rage pounding through him. “Moira met a man and went off with him in a hackney?”
“Aye.”
“Who?” Jack asked tersely.
“I don’t know, sir. It was dark. I didn’t get a good look at his face. If it helps any, I don’t think Lady Moira went willingly.”
Jack’s features took on the consistency of granite. “Did she leave the house of her own free will?”
Jilly swallowed convulsively. She’d never willingly do a thing to hurt her mistress. If only Sir Jack wasn’t so frightening. “I…I don’t know.”
Jack’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Thank you, Jilly. You may go back to bed now.”
“But, sir,” Jilly began timidly, “I don’t think Lady Moira would…”
“Go to bed, Jilly. I’ll handle things.”
Unprepared to test the full extent of Black Jack’s ire, Jilly turned and fled. She pitied poor Lady Moira and did not envy her the task of facing Black Jack’s formidable temper.
Jack returned to his chambe
r to await Moira’s return, his thoughts in a turmoil. Why had she sneaked off in the middle of the night, and with whom? Once again he had been lied to, and rage built inside him. Unfortunately, the long wait for Moira to return did little to improve his temper.
Two hours later, he heard the unmistakable sound of a hackney rattling down the street. Watching from the window, he saw it stop and discharge its female passenger. Moira had returned from her rendezvous, and his expression turned grim. The urge to do her bodily harm burned deeply within him as he heard Moira let herself into the house and creep up the stairs. Two angry strides took him to his chamber door, but before he could throw it open to confront Moira, an apparition appeared before him, blocking his path.
“Bloody hell!” His violent outburst gave hint to his shattered patience. “I’ve no time for you now, milady. Moira is going to tell me who she was meeting or I’m going to wring her lovely neck. I was right about her all along. She’s nothing but a bed-hopping little tease. Once I took her virginity, she wanted to stretch her wings and try out new lovers. Damn it! I won’t stand for it, do you hear?”
Lady Amelia appeared disinclined to move. She seemed aware of Jack’s violent temper and wished to spare Moira the brunt of his anger.
“Go away! You’re nothing but a figment of my imagination,” Jack raged. “Don’t try to interfere. The little tart had an assignation with a man, and I’m going to find out who he was or else.”
Lady Amelia shook her head and stood firm.
“You’ve placed me in a hell of a fix, milady. My prospects for an advantageous marriage have flown out the window, and with it my reputation as a rake and womanizer. ’Tis your fault I no longer care to drink and gamble and chase women,” he accused sullenly. “ ’Tis your meddling that brought Moira into my home. I haven’t been the same since. Bedding the little Irish witch was a mistake. How could I know she was a virgin?”