Between the Devil and Desire

by Lorraine Heath

  “Thank you, Mr. Beckwith,” Livy said, squeezing Jack’s hand as though she thought he needed reassurance.

  “We appreciate your making time for us in your busy schedule, Beckwith,” Jack said. “As we’re also quite busy, let’s get this matter taken care of as quickly as possible, shall we?”

  “Of course. If I may?” Beckwith indicated the desk.

  “Absolutely. Whatever hastens your visit.”

  Olivia slapped his arm. Jack scowled at her. “What?”

  “You’re being inhospitable. Mr. Beckwith, would you care for some tea?”

  Beckwith gave her a faint smile. “No, thank you. This matter won’t take long.”

  He went to the desk and began arranging things to his satisfaction, removing items from his satchel. Jack and Olivia took the chairs they’d sat in the night Beckwith had read the will. The only difference was that now they held hands. Jack brought hers to his lips and kissed her fingers. As soon as Beckwith left, Jack was taking her back to bed. Or perhaps to the desk and then to the bed. Livy would no doubt be scandalized to know that Jack had placed the servants on notice: they were never to enter any room without knocking and receiving permission.

  Jack could hardly fathom all that had happened in so short a time. He’d always wanted to be in charge of his life, but he couldn’t deny others were somehow influencing its course. If Lovingdon hadn’t named Jack guardian, he’d have never met Livy. For that alone, Jack owed Lovingdon his eternal gratitude.

  Beckwith laid out several documents and a small velvet pouch. He folded his hands on top of the papers and cleared his throat. “The conditions of the will as originally stated have been satisfied with your recent marriage. Therefore, I shall read the portion of the will that has been kept from you.” He picked up a sheaf of paper and once again cleared his throat.

  “To Jack Dodger, christened Jack Dawkins, beloved son of Emily Dawkins, I leave my most treasured possession, my gold pocket watch—handed to me by my father, who received it from his.”

  Jack stared in stunned silence as Beckwith opened the velvet pouch, removed its contents—a gold watch and heavy gold chain—and set them very carefully at the edge of the desk in front of Jack. Even from this distance, Jack could see the fine craftsmanship, could hear the quiet ticking away of time.

  Jack tightened his fingers around Olivia’s and with his free hand he reached for the timepiece—

  And stopped within inches of grasping it. Shaking his head, he lounged back in the chair and held Beckwith’s gaze. “He should not have left it to me. He should have left the watch to his son.”

  “I believe he did, Mr. Dodger.”

  Jack heard Livy’s sharp intake of breath, felt as though his chest were collapsing on itself, as though all the air had been sucked from the room. He was aware of Olivia’s fingers squeezing his almost painfully, her gaze on him, but he couldn’t look at her, not yet.

  He worked his hand free of her grasp. In spite of his best effort to control the tremors, his hand was shaking when he took the watch. Hesitantly he opened it. Nestled inside, opposite the clock face, was a familiar miniature. In disbelief, he looked at Beckwith, then at Olivia, whose brow was furrowed in concern. “It’s my mother.”

  His voice was hoarse, as hoarse and rough as it had been when he’d screamed for her not to leave him.

  Beckwith stood to indicate his job there was done. “The duke trusted me with all his secrets.” He darted a quick glance at Olivia before looking back at Jack. “I hope you understand you may do the same. Had I realized you were going to marry, I would have brought this matter to your attention sooner. But whatever you decide, what has been learned today will go no farther unless you wish it so.” He picked up an envelope and extended it toward Jack. “This I have not read, but it is addressed to you.”

  Jack took the offered envelope.

  “Mr. Beckwith, out of curiosity, I would very much like to know who Lovingdon named in the second will,” Olivia said.

  For the first time, Beckwith seemed uncomfortable. “I fear there was no second will. The duke insisted I say one existed. Perhaps he knew his son better than one might think.”

  “He went to a lot of trouble for something that might have never come to pass,” Jack growled, not at all surprised by the anger he heard seething in his voice. The icy shock of what he’d just learned was beginning to thaw and in its place was a savage fury.

  “He knew it would come to pass, sooner than he wished,” Beckwith said solemnly. “The duke was dying—a cancer for which there was no hope of a cure. If you will not think me callous, the fall gave him a quick death, which quite honestly, I think he preferred. At least he maintained a bit of dignity that his illness was certain to have stripped from him.”

  “He never said anything,” Olivia murmured, and Jack heard the regret in her voice that Lovingdon had chosen to endure his pain alone.

  “He didn’t wish to trouble you,” Beckwith responded.

  “But I was his wife.”

  “I truly believe he meant to spare you of any worry. As he told me on numerous occasions, he was quite fond of you.”

  But fondness was not love. Silence permeated the air. Jack could only imagine what Olivia was feeling. His rage at Lovingdon was increasing with each tick of the timepiece. Lovingdon had not appreciated what he’d possessed. Jack reached out and squeezed her hand, hoping she understood with that simple touch that their marriage would hold no secrets, that every aspect of their lives would be shared.

  “If you have no further need of me, I bid you both good day.” With a quick bow, Beckwith took his leave.

  The silence did not dissipate. If anything it grew heavier, thicker. Finally Olivia turned her palm over and threaded her fingers through Jack’s. “I feel as though I’ve been hit by a carriage. I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling. You had no idea he was your father?” she asked quietly.

  “No.” He roamed his gaze over her beloved face, certain he knew the answer before he asked. “Did you?”

  She slowly shook her head. “I hadn’t a clue. I was married to him for six years and I knew him not at all. I want to be angry and lash out at him for not telling me all this. He was dying and I had no idea. But that was so typical of our relationship. He never truly shared anything with me. I may as well have been a broodmare.”

  “Don’t say that, Livy. The man was a fool not to have recognized what he had in you.”

  She smiled softly. “Here you are comforting me when you must be more than devastated by this news.” She indicated the envelope. “Are you going to read it?”

  He swallowed hard and nodded. “But not here. I need to be alone. I will share it later—”

  Reaching out, she cradled his cheek, touched her thumb to his lips. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Jack Dodger.”

  He stood, bent down, and kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Livy,” he whispered.

  He strode from the library, down the hallway, to the door that led outside. He enjoyed the gardens because he always felt closest to his mother there. He made his way to the bench nestled among the roses and sat. Very slowly, he opened the envelope and removed the letter.

  My dear son,

  I always had grand expectations where you were concerned. The fact that you are now reading this letter is proof I judged your character correctly.

  You took after your mother in that regard. She possessed all the fine attributes I lacked. Your sweet mother was a servant in this household when I fell in love with her. She was only fifteen when she discovered she was with child, my child. While I was seventeen, young and foolish. And weak, so incredibly weak. I did not have the courage to go against my parents’ wishes, and perhaps far more unforgivable, I did not have the courage to stand beside my precious Emily as she faced society’s censure with her head held high in order to bring you into the world. To protect my name, she never told anyone who fathered her child. Such was her admirable strength. She was turned out of
the household, to make her way as best she could—and I did nothing to stop the injustice of it all.

  The day I met you at Claybourne’s I could hardly believe my fortune, that fate had brought you back to me. I was older then, wiser. I couldn’t let such an opportunity pass. From afar, I watched your impatience with Claybourne’s teachings, and I knew you would not remain with him for long, that you were far too independent and would quickly strike out on your own, and so I became your anonymous benefactor—anonymous because I still lacked the courage to face you and the sins of my past.

  It was my greatest desire to embrace you as my son. On a few occasions I went to your club with that purpose in mind. But in the end, fearing the deserved disgust for my abhorrent behavior that I might see reflected in your eyes, I remained true to my character, I remained a coward.

  I have no doubt that under your guardianship my second son will learn to harbor the strength his father lacked.

  I do not expect you to think well of me. I do not expect you to think of me at all, but should I pass through your mind from time to time, I hope it is with the realization that I lived my life with nothing except regret—and perhaps that was punishment enough. It is my fervent hope, that God, in his infinite mercy, will grant me in death what my cowardice denied me in life: a place at your mother’s side. It is not what I deserve, but then that is the beauty of mercy. It allows even the worst of sinners to be forgiven.

  Respectfully yours,

  Lovingdon

  It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that even now, he hadn’t signed it “Father.” But then Jack recognized it wasn’t a title Lovingdon had earned, and tried to grasp some consolation in the fact he had not made a mockery of the term.

  “I can see the resemblance now,” Olivia said quietly.

  Jack looked up at her.

  “I think it’s more difficult to notice because you are so dark and he was so fair. But sometimes when I walked into a room and saw you, for the briefest of moments I thought I saw him.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t quite ready to talk about all this, didn’t know if he ever would be.

  “Are you all right?” Olivia asked. “You’ve been sitting out here for the better part of an hour.”

  It hadn’t seemed that long to Jack. It seemed as though no time at all had passed. “I suppose I should have brought one of your clocks.”

  “Or your father’s watch.”

  Jack shook his head. “He was not my father.” He shook his head again, trying to deny the truth. “My mother was only fifteen when she gave birth to me. All my life, I thought she was a whore. He did that to her. His cowardice, his lack of strength.”

  He flung his arm toward the residence. “Do you know what Beckwith was talking about in there?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “The law does not allow a man to marry his father’s widow.”

  She paled. “I’d not even considered that.”

  “The fortunate part is I have no desire to claim him as my father. I think he was more a bastard than I am.” He leaned forward, burrowed his elbows into his thighs, and buried his face in his hands, crumpling the letter against his jaw. “Beckwith indicated he would hold our secret, but what if someone finds out? Our marriage could be declared illegitimate, our children will be bastards. Is there no end to the damage Lovingdon has wrought?”

  She knelt before him, wrapped her hands around his, and pulled them away from his face. “Look at me,” she demanded.

  It was so hard to meet her gaze. It had been so much easier when he’d thought his father was a stranger, a man who had paid for the privilege to be intimate with his mother.

  “I don’t care,” Livy stated emphatically. “I don’t care if our marriage is nullified. As for our children, they will be loved and they will be taught to laugh at society’s rules when they don’t suit them. They will have your strength of conviction, Jack, and your mother’s strength of purpose. We will all honor her. She was a remarkable woman. I wish I’d had an opportunity to know her. She gave me something very precious. “I love you, Jack Dodger. I love you with all my heart and soul. If I must live with you without benefit of marriage, so be it. I shall do it with no regrets and with an amazing amount of pride that you’ve chosen me to stand at your side. And when I go to hell, I shall gladly dance with you.”

  Reaching out, he bracketed her waist and drew her up and onto his lap. He blanketed her mouth with his own, drinking deeply of her sweet nectar. How was it that this remarkable woman could love him, could want him, could look beyond his past—a bastard, an urchin, a thief—and appreciate him for the man he’d become?

  Drawing back, he held her gaze. “You’re all that matters, Livy. You and Henry.” He dropped his head back. “Good God, he’s my brother.” He released a brittle laugh. “That’s the reason Lovingdon named me guardian.”

  “I think our family tree will be more a maze than anything.” She wrapped her arms around him, laid her head against his shoulder. “It all seems so wrong.”

  “The only thing of importance is that I love you. And I love Henry. From the moment I met him, I recognized something in him that touched something in me.”

  She lifted her head. “I’d rather not tell him until he’s older. I think he’s too young to understand all the ramifications.”

  Jack nodded, agreeing with her. Besides, Henry was young enough he might even lose the memories of his father.

  “It’s probably an awful thing to say, because you’ve had such a hard life, but it’s shaped you into the man I love. And if Lovingdon had acknowledged you sooner, marrying you would not have been possible.”

  Jack smiled. “We’d have found a way, Livy. The wicked always do.”

  Epilogue

  From the Journal of Jack Dodger

  I was born Jack Dawkins, beloved son to Emily Dawkins, bastard son of Sidney Augustus Stanford, Duke of Lovingdon, Marquess of Ashleigh, and Earl of Wyndmere—a man who cared more for the pristine lineage of his titles than he did for either my mother or me.

  I’ve yet to forgive him for allowing my mum to be turned out, and I doubt I shall ever hold him in high esteem. I consider it a blessing not to have been raised under his tutelage. He was never a father to me. That honor was held by another.

  Feagan was a criminal destined for the gallows. That he managed to escape and live to a ripe old age was his good fortune and mine. He taught me to steal without getting caught. He taught me to survive and to harm others as little as possible while doing it. He gave me a family and he made me feel safe. In all ways that are important, he was my father.

  When I was five, my mum gave me into another man’s keeping. I vaguely remember the last winter we were together, the winter that changed my life. She developed a deep, rattling cough that kept us both awake. She bloodied her handkerchiefs and ate little. I think she must have known she was dying, and she sought to provide for me as best she could—and she thought my father’s cousin was the way to go. She died before spring and was buried in a pauper’s grave, hopefully without ever learning the truth about the devil who’d taken me in.

  It took a bit of work, but Feagan’s brood is very skilled at ferreting out information. We discovered where my mum was buried, and Graves—a graverobber in his youth—saw to the matter.

  My mum is now where she should have been all along, resting beside the man she loved. I cannot help but believe she loved him, because buried with her Graves found a locket similar to the one she’d given me. Inside was a miniature of the duke.

  Because the Lovingdon crypt is at the family estate—which rightfully belongs to my young half-brother and stepson—I don’t visit often. But I pay the gardener to deliver flowers to my mother every day. I built him a greenhouse so she has blossoms even in winter.

  I remember my mum telling me once she sold flowers because it was the only way to have them in her life for a bit, and as sad as it was to have them taken from her, the joy they brought her while they were near was worth it.r />
  No doubt I’m arrogant, but I like to think this could also be said of me: that while I was with her, I was a joy and not a burden.

  In going through the duke’s things, Livy found a journal. She says it chronicles the duke’s love for a young servant—a love so deep it made it difficult for him to have another woman in his life. She thinks if I read it I will gain a better understanding regarding the strength and sacrifice required of the aristocracy, and that I will come to respect my father for his loyalty to duty and his desire to meet the expectations others had for him.

  Perhaps she is right, but I am not yet ready. I believe a man must first look to himself to find the path he must walk, and that every man—from the poorest to the wealthiest—has difficult choices to make. I have known poverty, and I have known excess. Each brings its own troubles; each brings its own rewards. The men I respect are not influenced by their station in life or the amount of coin in their pockets. They remain true to themselves and those around them, regardless of how well—or poorly—life treats them. I am not altogether certain the duke could have survived the streets. We are all shaped by our pasts. I believe I am a better man because of mine. My children will no doubt live more grandly than I did, but I will see to it they look into the faces of the poor.

  I suspect Henry will not become a typical lord—after all, he has me for a guardian. I have put the pocket watch away, to be given to Henry on the day he reaches his majority. It seems only fitting. After all, he has fond memories of his father, which I do not possess.

  Livy no longer believes I was the worst choice. She is content, more than content I would say, with the knowledge that her son—all her children—will always be loved and protected by me. If I have any good trait at all, it is this: I’m fiercely protective of what is mine.

  I suspect I shall never publicly claim Lovingdon as my father. To do so may result in the legitimacy of my marriage to Livy being brought into question. And I will not give her up. Not for any man’s name or any man’s fortune.