Excerpt
From the Journal of Lucian
Langdon
They say my parents were
murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians. I have no memory of
it, yet it has always seemed to me that I should.
After all, I was
supposedly there, but only if I truly am who the world recognizes me to
be.
The Earl of Claybourne.
It is not a pleasant thing
to always doubt one's identity. I often study the portrait of my father
hanging above the massive fireplace in the grand library of my London
residence and catalogue the similarities in our appearance.
The hair—black as the soot
that lined the inside of a chimney.
The eyes—the shade of
pewter that brought a fair price from fences.
The nose—a slender
knife-like shape, a fine-honed blade, aristocratic. Although that
similarity might be merely wishful thinking on my part. It's difficult to
tell if our noses are truly the same as mine was severely broken at an
early age, the result of an encounter that left me nearly dead. I have
always attributed my escape from death's clutches to Jack Dodger, who
offered himself up as a target for the abuse being delivered to me. Things
went much worse for him. Not that we ever speak of it.
When you grow up on the
streets of London you learn about a great many things of which people
never speak.
It's my eyes that
convinced the old gent who called himself my grandfather that I was indeed
his grandson.
"You've got the Claybourne
eyes," he'd said with conviction.
And I readily admit that
looking into his was very much like looking into a mirror at my own, but
still it seemed a rather trite thing upon which to base so grand a
decision.
I was fourteen at the
time. Awaiting trial for committing murder. I must confess it was a rather
fortuitous moment to be declared a future lord of the realm, as the
judicial system was not opposed to hanging young lads who were considered
troublesome. I'd developed quite a reputation in that regard. Considering
the circumstances of my arrest, I have no doubt I was traveling a swift
path straight to Newgate and then the gallows. Having a fondness for
breathing, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to escape the
hangman's noose.
Because I was brought up
under the tutelage of Feagan, the kidsman who managed our rather notorious
den of child thieves, I was adept at deceiving people, at pretending to
remember things of which I truly had no memory. During a rather intensive
inquisition, observed by inspectors of Scotland Yard, I was quite the
showman, and the old gent not only declared me to be his grandson, but
insisted I be tried by my peers in the House of Lords, as was my right as
his heir.
It never came to that,
however. The old gent appealed to the Crown to take the unfortunate
circumstances of my life into consideration and to show extreme leniency.
After all, I'd witnessed my parents' murder, been stolen and sold into
near slavery. Certainly it was understandable that I'd engage in a bit of
misbehavior. If returned to his keeping, he vowed to set me back on the
righteous path to being a proper gentleman. His request was granted.
And I found myself
traveling a far different—and more difficult—road than I'd expected,
always looking for the familiar, the evidence that I truly belonged where
I now resided. By the time I grew to manhood, by all appearances, I was an
aristocrat.
But beneath the surface .
. . I remained a scoundrel at heart.
Chapter
1
London
1851
It was common knowledge
that one never spoke of the devil for fear that in so doing one would
attract his ardent attention. So it was that few among the aristocracy
spoke of Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne.
Yet, as Lady Catherine
Mabry stood in the midnight shadows near his residence, she couldn’t deny
that she’d been fascinated with the Devil Earl ever since he’d dared to
appear at a ball uninvited.
He’d danced with no one.
He’d spoken with no one. But he had prowled through the ballroom as though
taking measure of each and every person within its confines and finding
them all sadly lacking.
She’d found it
particularly distressing when his gaze had settled on her and lingered a
second or two longer than was proper. She’d neither flinched nor looked
away—although she’d dearly wanted to do both—but she’d held his gaze with
all the innocent audacity that a young lady of seventeen could muster.
She’d taken some
satisfaction in his being the first to look away, but not before his
strangely silver eyes had begun to darken, to appear as though they were
heated by the fiery depths of the very hell from which he was supposedly
spawned.
Few believed him to be the
rightful heir, but none dared question his status. After all, it was well
known that he was quite capable of committing murder. He’d never denied
that he’d killed the previous earl’s remaining son and heir.
That night at the ball, it
had been as if the entire throng of guests had taken a solitary breath and
held it, waiting to see where he might strike, upon whom he might vent his
displeasure, because it had been quite obvious he was not one to exhibit
gaiety. And it could only be assumed that he’d arrived with some nefarious
purpose in mind, for surely he was aware that no lady in attendance would
dare risk her reputation by dancing with him nor would any gentleman have
his respectability questioned by openly and willingly conversing with
Claybourne in so-public a venue.
Then he’d sauntered out,
as though he’d been searching for someone, and failing to find him—or
her—had decided the rest of them weren’t worth the bother.
That
irritated Catherine most of all.
To her immense shame,
she’d desperately wanted to dance with him, to be held within the circle
of his arms, and to gaze once more into those smoldering silver eyes, that
even now, five years later, continued to haunt her dreams.
Bringing up the hood of
her pelisse, covering her head in an attempt to warm herself as the damp
fog thickened, she studied the earl’s residence more closely, searching
for some clue to indicate that he was home. She wasn’t certain that her
fascination with him was entirely healthy. As a matter of fact, she was
fairly certain it wasn’t.
She couldn’t say exactly
what it was about him that drew her; she knew only that she was
irrevocably drawn. Clandestinely, unknown to her family, she’d even dared
to have invitations to her balls and dinners hand-delivered to him by a
faithful servant. Not that he’d ever bothered to acknowledge her overtures
or attend her social functions.
As far as she knew, save
for that one night, he’d never made an appearance at any other soiree. He
was not openly welcomed in the best of homes, and she was quite insulted
that he’d rebuffed her attempts to include him in her life. Although she
had to admit that her reasons for wanting him there were quite selfish and
not entirely respectable.
She no longer had the
luxury of trying to entice him nearer with gilded invitations. She was
quite determined to have a word with him, and if not within the safety of
a crowded ballroom, then she would do it within the privacy of his own
residence.
An icy shudder skittered
down her spine, and she tried to attribute it to the chill of the fog,
rather than her own cowardice. She’d been standing in the shadows for
quite some time and the dampness had seeped into her bones. If she didn’t
approach soon, she’d be a shivering mess and that would hardly suit her
purpose. She had to appear as though she had no qualms whatsoever about
approaching him, otherwise, she’d no doubt garner his disdain and that
wouldn’t do at all.
Cautiously she glanced
around. It was so very late, and the night was so very quiet. Ominously
so.
No one was about to
witness her approaching his door, no one would be aware of her scandalous
midnight visit. Her reputation would remain unscathed. Still she
hesitated. Once she set foot on this path, there would be no turning back,
but she didn’t see that she had any other choice.
With renewed resolve, she
stepped into the street and began marching forward, fearing that, before
this night was done, her reputation would remain the only thing untouched
by the Devil Earl.
***[new scene begins here]
None would ever dare claim
that Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, was a coward. Yet as he sat
at the gaming table, he knew the truth of it. He was there only because he
hadn’t the courage to press his suit with the lovely Frannie Darling. He’d
come to Dodger’s Drawing Room with the specific intent of finally asking
Frannie for her hand in marriage, and just before he’d reached the door to
the office where she kept track of Jack Dodger’s accounts, he’d decided to
take a quick detour by the gaming tables. Just to give his hands an
opportunity to stop quaking and his mind the chance to rehearse once again
the words he’d been practicing.
That had been six hours
ago.
He could blame his delay
on the fact that he was winning. But then he always won.
The next set of cards was
dealt. He gave his a passing glance. It wasn’t the cards he was dealt that
assured his victory, but rather his ability to accurately determine what
the other gents were holding.
The Earl of Chesney’s eyes
bugged slightly when he received a nicely matched set of cards, as though
he were taken by surprise by his good fortune. This round, his eyes
remained noticeably un-bugged. Viscount Milner kept re-arranging the order
of his cards, never finding satisfaction there. The Earl of Canton always
took a sip of his brandy when he was pleased. His glass remained
untouched. The Duke of Avendale sat forward as though ready to pounce upon
the winnings when he thought they would be his. He lounged back when the
outcome was doubtful. Presently, he looked as though he were in danger of
sliding out of his chair onto the floor. A monstrously bad hand that he no
doubt thought he could bluff his way through.
The game continued, with
each man betting or passing. When this particular round of Brag was
completed, with all the other lords groaning and moaning, Claybourne took
his winnings and added them to the stack of wooden chips already resting
in front of him.
“I believe, gentlemen,
that I shall call it a night,” he said, coming to his feet.
A young lad, dressed in
the purple livery for which Dodger’s was so well known, rushed over with a
copper bowl. He held it at the edge of the table while Claybourne slid his
abundant winnings into it.
“See here, Claybourne,”
Avendale said, “you’re hardly being sporting about this. You should at
least give us an opportunity to win it back.”
Removing a crown from his
pocket, Claybourne took the bowl from the lad, flipping him the coin as he
did so. The boy, who was probably no more than eight, touched his fingers
to his brow and dashed off.
“I’ve given you most of
the night, gentlemen. Trust me when I assure you that you’ll come out
ahead if I leave now.”
The gentlemen did a bit
more grumbling, but Claybourne knew they weren’t sorry to see him go. He
made them uncomfortable. No more so than they made him. But that was his
secret. Unlike them, he never allowed his emotions, thoughts, or feelings
to rise to the surface. Not even when it came to Frannie. He doubted that
she had any idea how deeply his affection for her ran.
As he strode through the
gaming establishment, he realized that she’d no doubt already retired for
the evening, in which case, he’d have to wait until tomorrow to proclaim
his feelings. But as he neared the back, he saw the door to her office was
open. Most likely he’d find Jack inside. The man gave fewer hours to sleep
than Claybourne did. But what if it wasn’t Jack? Claybourne could get this
bothersome matter over with. So he walked down the hallway, peered around
the doorframe . . .
And there was Frannie.
Lovely Frannie. Her red hair pulled back and tucked neatly into a tight
bun, the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks barely visible
beneath the glow from the lamp on the desk behind which she sat,
diligently marking numbers in a column. Her dress had a high collar, every
button, all the way up to her chin, securely in place. The long sleeves
left only her hands visible. Her delicate brow was pleated. When she
became his wife, she’d have no worries.
She glanced up, released a
tiny squeak, jerked back, and pressed a hand to her chest. “Dear God,
Luke! You gave me quite a start. How long have you been standing there
spying on me?”
“Not nearly long enough,”
he said laconically, striding into the room with a confidence he didn’t
quite feel. He set the bowl on the desk. “For you and your children’s
home.”
The home was a small place
she was in the process of establishing with hopes of making life easier
for orphans. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Are these
ill-gotten gains?”
“Of course.”
Snatching up the bowl, she
smiled at him. The impish upward curve of her lips hit him as it always
did, like a powerful punch to the gut. “Then I shall take them gladly and
do good works with them to absolve you of your sins.”
Her voice held a bit of
teasing, but a sadness marred her eyes.
“No one can absolve me of
my sins, Frannie, you know that.” With a wave of his hand to stop her from
even attempting to argue with him on the matter, he sat in the thickly
padded chair in front of her desk. “You’re up rather late.”
“The amount of work
necessary to keep track of Jack’s finances is unbelievable. His profits
are astounding.”
“He’s always said if you
wish to die rich, invest in vice.”
“Well, he shall no doubt
die rich, and in a way that’s rather sad. He should spend the money on
something that brings him pleasure.”
“I think he finds his
pleasure in taking money from rich blokes.” His accent dipped at the end
to reveal his street origins. It was always so easy to slip around
Frannie, because they shared the same origins.
“But is he happy?” she
asked.
“Are any of us?”
Tears welled in her eyes—
“Dammit, Frannie—”
She held up her hand.
“It’s all right. I’m in one of my moods is all, and while I can’t claim to
be happy, I do believe I’m content.”
Now, now was the perfect
opportunity to promise her unending happiness. But her office suddenly
seemed like such a ghastly unromantic place. Whatever had he been thinking
to consider asking her here? The setting for the proposal should be as
memorable as the proposal itself.
Tomorrow. He would ask her
tomorrow. Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “Well, it’s rather
late. I’d best be off.”
She gave him another
impish smile. “It was kind of you to stop by and visit.” She touched the
copper bowl. “I thank you for your contribution.”
“I’d give you
more—legitimate funds—if you’d take them.”
“You’ve done more than
enough for me, Luke.”
Again, it seemed like the
perfect opportunity to tell her that he’d not done nearly as much as he
planned to do for her. But the words lodged in his throat. Why was he
always so tongue-tied around her when it came to speaking from his heart?
Was it because as he feared, he truly had no heart, just a black hole that
reflected the darkness of his soul?
Telling her anything at
all should come easily. After all, they knew the worst of each others’
lives. Why was that so much easier to share than what should be the best?
He took a step back. “I’ll
probably see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll let you know then
exactly how I plan to use this money you’ve given me.”
“Use it however it pleases
you, Frannie. It comes with no attachments. You owe me no explanations.”
“You’ve never been
comfortable around orphans, have you?”
“Whatever are you about?
All my best friends are orphans.”
“Feagan’s merry little
band of ne’er-do-wells. We’re an odd assortment, aren’t we?”
“Only because we overcame
the circumstances of our youths and are all quite successful.”
“We have your grandfather
to thank for our change in fortunes. He lifted us all up when he lifted
you.”
“If he was my
grandfather.”
“How can you still doubt
it?”
He almost told her the
truth, but he didn’t think she’d approve of the lie he was certain he was
living. He gave her what he hoped was one of his more charming smiles.
“Goodnight, Frannie. Sweet dreams.”
Luke strode out of the
building into the fog-shrouded night. His bones immediately began to ache,
a reminder from too many nights sleeping in the cold. Now he kept the
rooms of his residences unbearably warm simply because he could. Having
spent his youth without many comforts, he indulged in all of them now.
He’d developed a reputation for being eccentric and extravagant, for
spending foolishly. But he could well afford to spend however he pleased.
Being in partnership with Jack ensured it.
Yes, investing in the
vices paid handsomely.
Before he reached his
coach, his liveried footman opened the door with a slight bow.
“Home straightaway,” Luke
said, as he climbed inside.
“Aye, m’lord.”
The door closed, and Luke
sat back against the plush seat. The well-sprung coach lurched forward.
Gazing out the window, Luke could see little save the gray swirling mist.
He didn’t care for it much as it had a permanent place in his dreams.
Not that he dreamed often.
In order to dream, one needed to sleep, and Luke seldom slept for any
great length of time. He wasn’t certain any of them did. Feagan’s
children. They were bound together by the things they’d done. Things the
nobility could never comprehend being desperate enough to do.
It was one of the many
reasons that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with his place in the world.
Shortly after the old gent’s demise, Luke had attended a ball to publicly
take his place as the new Earl of Claybourne, and a hush had descended
over the crowd as soon as he’d been announced at the top of the stairs.
He’d sauntered through the room, daring anyone to question his presence.
No one had been able to meet his gaze.
An image flittered at the
edge of his memory. One young lady had not only dared to hold his gaze,
but had fairly challenged him. He wasn’t certain why, but he thought of
her on occasion. She was nothing like Frannie. Standing there in her
elegant evening gown, with every strand of her blond hair tucked perfectly
into place, she appeared spoiled and pampered. It was one of the reasons
he abhorred the idea that he was now part of the aristocracy. They knew
nothing of suffering. They knew nothing of the humiliation of scrounging
for morsels of food. They weren’t familiar with the sharp bite of the cane
when begging didn’t bring in enough coins or slipping hands into pockets
didn’t acquire enough handkerchiefs. They didn’t know the fear of being
caught. Even children were sent to prison, sometimes transported on great
hulking ships to Australia or New Zealand, and on rare occasions, hanged.
The coach came to a halt,
the door opened, and Luke alighted. He always felt a tad guilty upon first
arriving at his London residence. Two dozen families could live there
comfortably. Instead it was only him and two dozen servants.
The massive front door
opened. He was surprised to find his butler still awake. Luke kept all
hours, came and went as he pleased, when he pleased. He didn’t expect his
servants to live their lives according to his late-night habits.
Fitzsimmons had seen after
the residence long before Luke ever came to live there with the old gent.
The butler had been fiercely loyal to the previous earl, and not once—as
far as Luke knew—had Fitzsimmons ever questioned the old gent’s contention
that Luke was his grandson.
Once the door was closed,
Luke removed his hat and handed it to the butler. “I’ve told you before
that you need not stay up until I return home.”
“Yes, my lord, but, I
thought it best to do so this evening.”
“And why is that?” Luke
asked, tugging off his gloves.
“A lady arrived earlier.”
Luke stilled. “Who?”
“She wouldn’t say. She
knocked at the servants’ entrance, said it was of paramount importance—a
matter of life and death were her precise words—that she speak with you.
She’s been waiting in the library ever since.”
Luke glanced toward the
hallway. “And you have no idea who she is?”
“No, my lord, although I
would venture to guess she is a lady of the utmost quality. She has that
air about her.”
Over the years a few
ladies of quality had sought out Luke’s bed. He lived a life of abundance
that many had wanted to embrace, but he always made it clear that he
offered nothing permanent. Some had simply wanted to play with the devil
for a time. But none had ever claimed visiting him was a matter of life
and death. How dramatic. The remainder of his evening promised to be
entertaining.
He handed his gloves to
Fitzsimmons. “See that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
His curiosity piqued, Luke
strode down the hallway. No footman waited outside the door. He had no
reason to believe his services would be required at this ungodly hour.
Luke entered the library, slamming the door behind him, a grand entrance
to disarm his visitor.
The woman standing at the
window, gazing onto a garden hidden by darkness and fog, jerked around.
The hood of her pelisse lay against her shoulders, its clasp interfering
with what would have been a lovely show of skin from throat to bosom.
Beneath the cloak, she’d dressed to seduce and for reasons he couldn’t
fathom, he was suddenly very much in the mood for seduction.
“Lady Catherine Mabry, as
I recall,” he said, sauntering nearer until he could smell the expensive
perfume that wafted over her skin like the fragrance of a delicate rose.
Her blue eyes widened
slightly. “I’d not realized you knew who I was.”
“I make it my business to
know who everyone is.”
“You consider me your
business?”
“Ah, yes, Lady Catherine.
Isn’t that what you wanted when you challenged me that night at the ball?”
“Not particularly, no,”
she muttered.
Mesmerized, he watched as
her delicate throat moved ever so slightly as she swallowed—the only
indication she gave that she was having second thoughts about being there.
She was lovelier than he remembered—or perhaps it was simply that maturity
agreed with her—and she still possessed the courage to hold his gaze. Or
perhaps not. It wavered for a heartbeat as she glanced away while licking
her lips. An invitation for something more intimate.
He trailed his finger
along the soft flesh beneath her chin and her gaze jumped back to his.
Beneath his touch, he could feel her pulse quickening, fluttering like a
tiny moth that had dared to approach the flame and now realized it was
left with no means of escape. It was obvious she was a novice when it came
to the art of seduction, but no matter. He had enough experience to see
them through.
“I know why you’re here,”
he said, his voice low, provocative, a prelude to their lying beneath the
silken sheets that adorned his bed.
She furrowed her delicate
brow. Her features were exquisite perfection, carved by nature with
obvious care and never altered by the harshness of life.
“How—” she began.
“Do not think you’re the
first to try to trap me into marriage. I’m not easily caught.” He slid his
finger along her flesh, down to the clasp at her throat. “I have little
doubt your guardian stands just beyond the window, watching, waiting until
the perfect moment to make his presence known.” With nimble fingers, he
loosened the clasp and carefully slid the cloak off her shoulders until it
pooled on the floor.
His body tightened with
his unobstructed view of all she had to offer. He’d gone too long without
a woman beneath him. Even if he were snared by her trap he would escape it
easily enough. Cradling her face, he leaned nearer until his breath
mingled with hers. “But even if he witnesses my removing your clothing,
even if he sees you welcoming me with open arms and crying out in ecstasy,
I will not marry you,” he whispered.
He heard her breath catch.
“I will not restore your
reputation once tarnished.” He brushed his lips over hers. “If you get
with child, I will not give you respectability. The price you pay for
waltzing with the devil is residing in hell.”
He settled his mouth
firmly over hers, not at all surprised that she acquiesced so easily. Even
if she’d not come here to trap him, he knew what he was to her. A
curiosity, nothing more. A bit of misbehavior before she settled into a
respectable marriage with a lord whose lineage was never questioned behind
his back.
She didn’t resist when he
urged her lips to part. She moaned when he swept his tongue through her
mouth, leaving nothing unexplored. Her hands gripped the lapels of his
jacket, and he thought for a moment that she swayed. He reacted with a
need so strong that it almost brought him to his knees.
Even as he cursed her and
his own weakness, he recognized that he had no will to resist temptation.
He would have her. She’d brought this moment upon herself by arriving at
his doorstep. He was a man who always took advantage of opportunities
presented, and she was presenting him with an opportunity for passion. It
had been too long since he’d unleashed his desires. She would benefit from
all that he had to offer this night, but no more than that. In the
morning, she’d take nothing from him except the memories.
Tearing his mouth from
hers, he bracketed her face between his hands and held her gaze. “Be sure
this is what you want, my lady, for there will be no undoing once this is
done.”
Her breaths coming in
short gasps, she shook her head. “You misunderstand my purpose in coming
here.”
“Do I?” he asked
mockingly.
She nodded. “I want
someone dispensed with. And I hear you’re just the man to do it.”
********
Copyrighted
© 2007
