Dark Fires

by Brenda Joyce

  And she would not think about tomorrow.

  Tomorrow she would confront the Earl of Dragmore.

  30

  He waited outside the theater, across the street, in plain sight but shielded slightly by the many passersby and the shadows of the awning over a pharmacist’s. He guessed she would arrive from the side street instead of Picadilly Circus, and he was right. What he had not guessed was that she would be protected by bodyguards.

  Stunned, furious, the earl watched Jane exit the coach accompanied by three men, all big and burly with revolvers and clubs, clearly detectives. They disappeared into the back entrance of the theater. Gordon was with them.

  At least Lindley was not.

  He had not a single doubt that she knew he was after her and that the guards were there to protect her from him.

  What was she so afraid of? Did she think he would hurt her? Almost two years had passed since she had crawled uninvited into his bed. He grew grim. Uninvited? Hah! He had wished her there the entire short time she had been at Drag-more and he damn well knew it! She might have seduced him, but he had been a willing victim, and he had not a doubt that had she seduced him while he was wide awake and sober as a judge he’d have been willing then too.

  But two years had passed. Why was she afraid of him?

  What was she hiding?

  This was not the Jane he had known, who was open and honest and direct and guileless. This was a woman keeping secrets. A desperate woman—he had heard the fear in her voice last night before she had fled from her dressing room.

  His curiosity, his suspicions, were aroused.

  Patiently he waited.

  And when she left hours later, still accompanied by the guards, he followed on foot discreetly. The earl was in magnificent form, and he had no trouble keeping up. In fact, he enjoyed the hunt, the chase. He kept to the shadows and out of the streetlamps, trotting tirelessly. His years growing up in the wilds and his Comanche blood were paying off.

  His glee was savage when she alighted from the coach at a town house on Gloucester Street

  . He had not a single doubt that this was where Jane lived. This was her kind of home, cozy and cheerful, honeysuckle creeping along the iron fence, the shutters painted yellow, the door a royal blue, purple pansies spilling from the window boxes. She entered the house and her escort remained outside, bidding her good night. The detectives returned to the coach, Gordon with them, and the carriage pulled away.

  The earl could not believe his good fortune.

  He strode impatiently up the walk and knocked on the door. A moment later it opened, Jane saying “Robert?”

  And their gazes locked.

  His held triumph, hers recognition, then shock, then fear. She tried to slam the door in his face, but he was too fast. He rammed his shoulder into it, then effortlessly barreled through. Jane cried out in despair, his force knocking her back against the wall. He straightened, his heart pounding as if he’d run a race. Her blue eyes were wide and riveted on his. “What do you want!”

  With an outward display of calm, he closed the door. He turned back slowly. His ears were ringing, his breath short. He looked at her.

  God, she was beautiful.

  “What do you want!” she cried again.

  “I don’t know.”

  She stood frozen against the wall, like a hare cornered before the hounds.

  His gaze slipped from her white face. She had changed, filled out, become lush with maturity. Her bosom was fuller, straining against her low-cut gown and spilling over it. Her waist seemed tinier, perhaps in contrast. Her hips were rounder, softer. Before she had been coltish. She was still slender, but so perfectly curved his groin began raging.

  He hated his lust.

  He hated her for what she did to him.

  “Maybe,” he said, sneering, “I want what Lindley wants.”

  She stiffened. Her chin came up, her eyes blazed. “Get out!”

  He smiled, a dangerous, mean smile, and stalked past her into the parlor. His gaze swept it. He heard her coming up behind him. He moved away, down the corridor, opening the door to a back room, which obviously belonged to the maid.

  “What are you doing?” Jane demanded. “You can’t just come into my home as if you own it!”

  He shot her a look. “But I do.” He moved past her, to inspect the small dining room and kitchen.

  She followed, furious. “What do you mean, you do! I pay the rent, this is my house, and if you don’t leave I’ll call the Peelers on you!”

  He paused once again in the foyer, leaning against the wall negligently, arms crossed. “Do you pay the rent, Jane? Or did Gordon set you up here?”

  She flushed. “It’s none of your damn business!”

  “The kitten has grown claws,” he said.

  “This kitten would like to spit in your face!”

  “Gordon set you up here,” the earl said calmly. “I pay him a monthly allowance—for your rent and keep.”

  She stared, shocked.

  He lost his negligent stance, standing, looming over her. “What? No thank yous? Oh, how could I forget? A woman who skulks away in the dark of night without a good-bye would not be the type to say thank you. The one thing,” he said viciously, “that I know is my duty. Did you forget, Jane, who your guardian is?”

  “You have been giving Robert money?”

  “Since the day you left.”

  She turned away, distraught. “How much? How much do I owe you?” “Nothing.”

  She whirled. “How much, damn you! How much do I owe you!”

  He was shocked because she was crying. “Two thousand pounds at the end of this year.”

  Jane gasped. Two thousand pounds was a fortune —and had she known, she could have lived in a much more lavish place than this house.

  As it was, she earned just enough to pay the rent and provide the necessities to maintain Nicole and herself. Robert was always trying to give her a few extra pounds, and always buying her the luxuries she could not afford. No wonder he had been able to be so generous—it was with the earl’s money! She was certain that Robert hadn’t told her about the allowance because he knew she would refuse it. Jane had no doubt that by now he had put away a tidy nest egg for Nicole and herself.

  She bit her lip. She did not have the money to pay the earl back. Not now. Not yet. Maybe, in another year, she would be making such a sum. But not this year. “I don’t have it,” she said woodenly.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter!” she flared. “I don’t want anything from you—do you understand?”

  “Once you said you loved me.” He laughed. The sound was harsh. “Now you hate me.”

  She didn’t refute him. She just stared, eyes glazed with tears.

  He felt it then, the terrible stabbing pain. Once, when he had been about to marry her, he had told himself he would be indifferent to her hate, should she one day detest him. But he was not indifferent, oh no. He touched his chest, rubbed it. The pain did not go away.

  “Why have you come?”

  “Curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Have no fear, I will not come again.”

  “Good,” she flung. “Because you are not welcome here. Your curiosity is satisfied, I presume. So—leave.”

  He tore his gaze away from her with difficulty. Yet his feet would not move to the door. Instead, he stood unmoving, his gaze going past her to the open door of the parlor. He was strangely unwilling to leave.

  And he could see Jane’s touch everywhere. The parlor was warm and cozy, bright and cheerful. The walls were a fresh yellow, the drapes cream. The rug was a bright floral. The couch was spring green, comfortably upholstered, and even the baby’s shirt she was knitting was a pretty pink. There were wildflowers in the vases, not roses, but …

  Baby’s shirt?

  His gaze flew to the knitting left on a chair. The shirt was pink and finished except for one tiny sleeve. His heart had constricted; now it began to slam forcefully
against his ribs. He strode within, lifted the knitting. “What’s this?”

  It was a demand. He turned, saw that she was whiter than a ghost. His gaze pierced hers. “It’s Molly’s,” she said. “Molly has a child.”

  He stared at her. His first thought was to wonder if the child was his, but the odds were low, as Molly had a lascivious appetite. Then his gaze narrowed, his heart slamming again. “Molly, your maid, sits in your parlor knitting for her child?” And he thought about her fear and the secret he’d known she was hiding.

  Jane flushed. “Why not?” She shrugged gracefully.

  She was lying, he knew it. For the first time since he’d stepped within her house, she was calm and composed. “I want to see the child,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Why? The brat could be mine.”

  She flushed again. “You know Molly. She has— er—a fondness for men. Trust me, it’s not yours.”

  Her voice was very firm. His smile was cynical. “Humor me.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “Oh? Then you won’t mind if I look around.”

  She ran after him. “Stop! This is my home! I shall call the Bobbies!”

  He ignored her, pulse pounding, and pushed open the door to Molly’s room. He turned on a lamp. As he’d thought, there was no crib within, not even another cot for her baby. “Where does the child sleep?”

  Jane was white. She did not answer.

  He wanted to strangle her.

  Furious, he ran up the stairs. This time she remained frozen below. He threw open the first door on the left, turned on a lamp, and saw that it was Jane’s room. Just for a moment he stared at the bed, covered in a white, lace-trimmed quilt. Then he strode across the hall. He heard Jane scream, pounding up the stairs like a madwoman. He reached for the door. With a savage cry, like a female warrior, she grabbed his hand with both of hers, her nails tearing into his flesh. “No! Leave! I want you out of here now!”

  He found her wrists, making her release her clawlike grasp, and he pushed her against the wall. She was panting, bosom heaving, her face red with fury. When he released her she attacked him. With her nails poised like talons, she went for his face, and succeeded in scratching him from temple to jaw.

  He exploded. He wrestled her arms behind her back, pinning her to the wall. To his dismay, and fury, he was huge and erect against her belly. She writhed wildly, once, inflaming him further. Then, abruptly, she went still.

  Tears filled her eyes. She was panting. His own breathing was harsh. He felt a tremor assail his body. He still wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any other woman. His face was close to hers, and he leaned closer to kiss her.

  “I hate you.”

  He froze, then smiled, baring even white teeth. “Well said.” His smile was gone. He yanked on her, pulling her harder against him, wanting her to feel his aching, agonized tumescence. She began to tremble. He decided he’d enjoy her fear. Let her think he’d rape her, the bitch! The lying deceitful two-faced philandering bitch! “What are you hiding, Jane?”

  She stared and said nothing.

  He held her for a second more, waiting for her fear to grow, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt her stiffness fading, and as she relaxed, she looked at his open shirt, at the dark, wet skin of his chest, inches from her mouth.

  She was a temptress, a woman of wiles, attempting now to distract him. He heaved away from her. He heard her choke. He entered the room, flicked on a lamp, and stared.

  A nursery.

  He took it all in, the clowns on the wallpaper, the rocking horse, the dolls, the pretty painted headboard. The bed was empty.

  She had a child.

  He turned, slowly, heart clamoring. “Who is the father?”

  She stood in the doorway, a pale wraith. “Robert.”

  He had thought it might be his, hoped it was his, and the pain of her having another man’s child struck him with such force he staggered backward. “You’re lying.” But even as he spoke, he knew that the odds of his being the father from one time in Jane’s bed were minute. The pain increased.

  “It’s Robert’s,” she said, and tears spilled from her lashes. She began to cry.

  “Where is he?”

  “Robert lives—”

  “Where is the child?”

  For one moment she looked at him, her eyes filled with despair, and then she crumbled against the door jamb, weeping. “God forgive me,” she cried. “I can’t do this, I can’t! Robert isn’t the father, you are.”

  31

  Stunned, he did not move.

  She wept, hugging herself.

  A child. He had a child, Jane’s child. The shock faded. Understanding flared. The enormity of her deception—her lies. He wanted to kill her.

  She sensed it, because she stopped crying and took a step back.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  Jane did not answer. It was answer enough. The earl came toward her, reaching for her, his temper raging. She didn’t move. If she had, he probably would have gone after her and hurt her. But her frozen fear made him sane, or was it her desire for punishment? He stopped, letting his hands fall to his sides. “God!” he cried, the sound agonized.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He whirled. “Where is he?”

  “She is in Brighton with Molly.”

  It was a daughter—his child was a daughter. Jubilation soared, mixing with the pain of her betrayal. “A daughter,” he said softly. “What is her name?”

  Tears filled Jane’s eyes. “Nicole.”

  It was like a blow to his gut, and he could not breathe. Jane turned away from him, shoulders slumped. Defeat etched her posture. He forgot himself. In that moment he wanted to go to her and cradle her and comfort her against his big body. But he didn’t move. “I will go to Brighton and get her. Where are they staying?”

  Jane snapped around. “No! I will go! You wait here!”

  She was afraid of him still, and he did not understand why. Nor did he care anymore. He only wanted to see his daughter. “You perform tomorrow,” he said coldly. “You cannot go. I will leave immediately. Where are they staying?”

  “No, no, no!” Jane cried.

  He was tired of her games, and he moved past her and down the hall. Brighton wasn’t large and he would find them. She ran after him. “You can’t go at night!”

  He didn’t bother to reply.

  She stumbled on the stairs. “Can’t you wait until the morning? We can go together!”

  He paused in the foyer. “And what about tomorrow’s engagement?”

  “I will cancel it,” she said frantically.

  He took her chin in his hand and held her face immobile. He squeezed only enough to apply pressure that indicated his mood. Her lips parted on a breath.

  “Do you think I want your miserable company another minute?” He snarled. “Like all women, you are a selfish liar. I can’t stand the sight of you.” He released her. “Stay away from me,” he warned. “And I mean it, Jane.”

  He flung open the door and disappeared into the night.

  His words immobilized her.

  I am not selfish, I am not a liar, she thought, the tears falling again. She sagged against the banister, her strength suddenly gone. And then the truth of his words hit her with such force it was painful. She had lied, she had been selfish. She had cheated him of his daughter.

  “God forgive me,” she whispered.

  And then her urge to protect her daughter took over.

  She had to stop him. She had to stop him from finding Nicole. He would take her and she would never see her again—especially the way he felt about her now. There was the heartbreaking pain again, that he should hate her so, but she shrugged it off. He had never cared for her, not ever—in fact, if she collected all her memories it was as if he had always hated her. So what did it matter that he hated her still?

  Only Nicole mattered.

  Jane grabbed a cloak and ran outside. On
ce she was on the deserted street she realized her predicament. She would have to walk a good distance to a major thoroughfare to find a hansom at this time of night. And she was a woman, alone. At this hour only thieves and prostitutes were about, and the homeless. Her neighborhood was a decent one, with no such riffraff, but a few blocks away were the worst dregs of society. Jane hesitated only briefly.

  Her daughter gave her courage.

  As she walked, half running, she thought frantically of how to stop the earl. She must go to Brighton directly, take Nicole and run. But she did not have enough money, she needed help. She thought of Robert and dismissed him. Gordon would cave in to the earl easily. All along he had disapproved of her keeping Nicole a secret from him. Lindley. Lindley was big, strong, and not afraid of the Earl. And he was rich enough to help her.

  It was frightening traveling through London on foot at night. She passed prostitutes on street corners and beggars asleep or passed out on front stoops. She stopped once to hide from a gang of unruly, roughneck teenagers intent on vandalism, her heart in her throat. And she passed two burglars picking the lock of a mercantile shop.

  Where were all the Bobbies this night?

  Finally she found a cab, and an hour after she had left her home, she arrived at Lindley’s.

  Jane did not pause despite the fact that it was two in the morning. She banged on the massive front door, pulling the bell repeatedly, creating a racket. From around back, dogs started barking. Lights came on. First in an outer wing, then upstairs, then all around the house. Jane kept banging. She realized she was starting to cry. She prayed that Lindley was at home. The door was opened by a sleepy-eyed, consternated servant, his jacket unbuttoned as he’d shrugged on his clothes with haste.

  “I must see the earl!” Jane cried, barreling past him. And then she saw him, trotting down the stairs in a wine-colored, paisley men’s robe.

  “Jane!”

  “My lord, forgive me, this woman—” the servant began.

  But Jane had rushed to Lindley, and he swept her into his arms. She clung. “What is it? What’s happened?” Lindley cried.