Surrender to the Devil (15 page)

Once they arrived, he walked her up the stairs to her flat.

“Thank you for sharing the evening with me, Miss Darling. Your little hellion is now quite safe from being arrested.”

She took her key from her reticule and unlocked her door. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she said, “Quite honestly, Your Grace, I suspect he was always safe from that fate.”

Before he could confirm or deny the truth of her words, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. It was long moments before she heard his tread on the stairs, very long moments when she almost opened the door and invited him in.

He’d given her an extraordinary gift tonight. Her feelings toward him had deepened. If anything more had happened, she wasn’t certain how she would have managed to close the door on him.

As she prepared for bed, her skin felt more sensitive. Before she got into bed, she reached into the pocket of the dress she’d been wearing at the Great Exhibition and removed the handkerchief that she still needed to wash and iron. She crawled into bed, turned out the lamp, and rolled to her side, pressing the handkerchief against her nose, inhaling Greystone’s scent. It was no doubt the closest she’d ever come to being with him through the night.

Sadly, as comforting as it was, it wasn’t enough.

“Your Grace, how splendid of you to visit,” Lord Millbank said as he strolled into the parlor where Sterling was waiting to be announced.

“My lord.”

“I say, I’ve been wanting to catch up with you to hear about your travels. Please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable, and tell me everything. I have a servant fetching tea—”

“I fear this isn’t a social call.”

Millbank brushed what little hair he had back over his balding pate. “No?”

“No. I attended the opera last night.”

“Ghastly business that. I do believe it was designed by women to torment men.”

“Be that as it may, your daughter was also in attendance.”

“Which one?” He narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t quite trust Sterling to know his daughters.

“Lady Charlotte.”

“Ah, yes, she was no doubt there with Mr. Marcus Langdon. I do believe he fancies her, but if you have an interest”—he winked—“she should be back any time from making her morning calls. Her mother would be most delighted to accompany you as you take Charlotte on a turn about the garden.”

“My interest in your daughter stems only from the fact that she insulted the lady on my arm, which is no different from insulting me. I do not take kindly to insults.”

His eyes widened. “Of course not. I don’t know what Charlotte was thinking.”

“Please inform her that should our paths cross again, she is not to approach me.”

He bobbed his head. “I’ll have a word with her. Yes, thank you.”

“Good day, Millbank.”

He’d taken three steps toward the door before Millbank asked, “Might I inquire as to who the lady was?”

Sterling didn’t stop or look back as he said, “All that matters is that she is my lady.”

Which—he mused later in his coach as he traveled back to his residence—were rather bold words, considering that Frannie had indicated he wasn’t to call on her again. He would have to do what he could to change her opinion on that matter, because he fully intended to finish what he’d only begun last night.

When he arrived home, he was surprised to find Catherine and her husband awaiting him in the library. He could tell by their stern expressions they hadn’t come to make a social call. Unfortunately for Sterling, Claybourne had taken up a post near the window with his arms crossed over his chest, as though he were there to provide support for Catherine regarding whatever matter she’d come to address. She stood in front of his desk. In her usual style, she got straight to the heart of things.

“Sterling, I’ve heard a rumor that you were seen accompanying Frannie to the opera last night.”

Taking the chair behind his desk in a negligent pose as though he couldn’t be bothered, Sterling looked at Catherine, which meant losing sight of Claybourne. Damnation. Without repositioning himself he couldn’t keep both within his sight, and distancing himself so he could properly see them would seem odd. He was fairly certain that his father had never told his sister about the condition that his father had deemed “an embarrassment and disgrace on the family heritage,” as though Sterling had purposely taken measures to diminish his vision. He was like a horse wearing blinders. Why would he wish that disadvantage upon himself?

“Shouldn’t you be in the country by now?”

“The estate manor was involved in a fire. Until the repairs are completed, we’re staying in London.”

“Ah, that’s right.” He turned his head to the side to give Claybourne a raised brow. “Avendale died in that fire, as I recall. What I can’t understand is the reason he would visit you in the first place. It was no secret that he did not believe you were the true heir to the Claybourne title, and advocated for it to be given to Marcus Langdon.”

“We’re not here to discuss Avendale,” Claybourne said. “We’re here because of the rumor regarding Frannie.”

Sterling glared at him, then gave his attention back to his sister with an impatient roll of the eyes. “This rumor—did it come from someone reliable?”

She pursed her lips. “Lady Charlotte.”

He should have known. Making her morning calls, indeed. In spite of the late hour, Sterling should have visited Millbank immediately after he’d delivered Frannie to her door.

“I do hope you don’t consider that rather unpleasant woman your friend.”

“Is it true then? Whisperings are going about that she’s your mistress, because you were there with her without benefit of a chaperone.”

Damnation. He didn’t like hearing that, although truth be told, he suspected the rumor had more to do with their disparate places in society than the lack of a chaperone. He would have to find a way to stifle the rumors. He wanted her, but not at a cost that embarrassed her or ruined her reputation. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Catherine or her husband.

“It’s my understanding that she’s near thirty, the arbitrary year, as far as I can tell, when a chaperone is no longer required.”

He could see that he had her there. It was a silly bit of etiquette, but there it was.

“But Sterling, you’re only twenty and eight.”

“Are you implying I’m the one in want of a chaperone?”

“Don’t be obtuse. You’re younger than she is.”

“I don’t see that my youth is of any significance.”

“Men don’t generally look to older women with matrimony in mind. Hence, further fodder for the gossipmongers.”

Another bit of silliness. He was well aware that men tended to take an interest in women younger than themselves, but it wasn’t the law. Hearing the clinking of glass, he jerked his head around to where his liquor cabinet stood. Claybourne was standing there pouring whiskey into two tumblers. “Do feel free to make yourself at home.”

Claybourne prowled over to the desk, very much reminding Sterling of a panther he’d once witnessed taking position right before it struck its prey. Holding one glass, Claybourne set the other in front of Sterling and sat on the edge of the desk. “Drink up. You may have need of it.”

Sterling might not have been hardened by the streets, but he’d had some harrowing experiences during his travels and come close to death a time or two. They tended to make a man develop a keen understanding of his limits and a profound respect for his strengths.

“Did you slip in some poison? I assure you the threat is quite unnecessary. I’ve already received warnings from Dodger and Swindler.”

Claybourne tapped his glass against Sterling’s—which he had yet to touch—and downed the whiskey. Sterling could see both his sister and his brother-in-law now. Catherine looked as though she was tempted to interfere. What she did instead was turn her back on him and walk beyond his field of vision, which worked well because Sterling wanted to concentrate on Claybourne. Marrying Catherine didn’t make him immediately trustworthy.

Claybourne leaned forward, his forearm pressed against his thigh. “Did you ever wonder why I killed the Earl of Claybourne’s second son—a man I didn’t realize at the time was my uncle and now refuse to openly acknowledge as such?”

There it was. Confirmation for what most of London believed to be true, but as the man had never actually endured a trial and been convicted, in some corners of London, doubts lingered. Did anyone want to welcome a murderer into the ranks of the aristocracy?

“I assume a dead man’s possessions are easier to pluck.”

“He brutally raped Frannie.”

The words couldn’t have been delivered with more force if they’d been accompanied by a swift kick to his gut. What little vision remained to Sterling threatened to blacken completely.

“She was twelve,” Claybourne went on, his voice flat, but the fury still simmering just beneath the surface. “Sold to a house of ill repute, one known for specializing in virgins. He was her first. As far as I know, her only. So yes, the four of us circle around her the way one might an injured butterfly, never touching it for fear of damaging it more, forever hoping that a day will come when it will again fly. If you harm her, in any manner, no matter how slight, you will answer to us. And while Graves might not have stopped by to issue a warning, don’t underestimate him. With that scalpel of his, he could slice out your heart and you’d never feel it.”

Sterling repeated to Claybourne what he’d told Dodger and Swindler. “It’s never been my intent to hurt her.”

Claybourne nodded. “Sometimes we harm without intending to. So be forewarned. She is more precious to us than the Crown Jewels are to the queen.”

Claybourne got up and began striding from the room.

“Claybourne!” Sterling called out, rising to his feet as Claybourne stopped in his tracks and faced him. “In my world travels, I saw a good many varieties of butterflies. They’re incredibly delicate creatures, but they shouldn’t be underestimated. Observing them as I did, I learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes if you surround a butterfly too closely, it couldn’t fly if it wanted to.”

Claybourne studied him for a moment as though searching for a compelling argument. Eventually he gave a brusque nod and turned his attention to the side, to await his wife, Sterling realized, who had approached Sterling. The room was large enough and Claybourne had walked far enough away that he’d be unable to hear whatever the brother and sister said to each other.

“She’s not of the nobility, Sterling.”

“I’m well aware of that, Catherine. You needn’t worry. I have very strict requirements when it comes to a wife, and Miss Darling doesn’t suit.” For his own sake. He didn’t want to see the disappointment in her lovely green eyes, as he’d seen in Angelina’s when the truth of Sterling’s situation came out. No, he needed a wife for whom he wouldn’t care if she went on her merry way.

“I just don’t want to see you—or her—get hurt. Frannie”—she glanced back at her husband briefly—“Claybourne first asked for her hand in marriage. She refused him. One of her reasons being that she had no desire to be part and parcel of the aristocracy.”

Sterling narrowed his eyes. “Do not ever think for one moment that he settled for you, Catherine. It’s obvious he adores you.”

She bestowed on him a radiant smile, reached out, and squeezed his arm. “I’m well aware of that, Sterling. I just felt the need to share with you what I knew. While you might not be considering her for a wife, I know that sometimes feelings can overcome all rational thought. I think the world of Frannie, but I also truly believe that if you pursue anything other than a platonic relationship with her you may both be miserable.”

“Your concerns are duly noted.”

She rose up on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek before going to join her husband. As they left, Sterling wondered if they’d expressed their concerns to Frannie. He doubted it. He was the one doing the pursuing, so they’d brought him a clear message. Stop the pursuit…or else.

He dropped back into his chair and, with a shaking hand, reached for the glass of whiskey that Claybourne had poured for him. He downed it in one long swallow. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and worked to control the tremors going through him. Not because of the dire threats Claybourne had made, but because of what he’d revealed about the man he’d killed and what that man had done to Frannie.

It had happened years ago, and she’d been a child—she’d been a child!

Coming out of his chair with such force that it nearly toppled over, he searched frantically for something to pound his fist into. He settled for grabbing a vase he’d brought back from China and hurling it into the hearth.

“Oh, God.” Dropping into a chair, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, Frannie, sweet Frannie.” He wanted to hold her. Her innocence stolen. He thought of the wonder in her eyes, the tears as he’s brought her pleasure…

He wanted to change her past, but even as he thought it, he realized it was her very past that had shaped her into a woman who fascinated him. Sweetness and steely determination. Even as he accepted that he couldn’t have even one night with her, he realized he wanted a thousand.

Sterling sat in his library, no lamps lit, only the fire in the hearth to provide any semblance of light. It had been nearly a week since the opera. He’d sent Frannie flowers, but had included no note. He hadn’t known what to say. She’d grown up in a world of violence that he couldn’t truly comprehend. Oh, he had troubles, but their lives were so very different that they couldn’t compare.

He should quit London, go to the country. Attend to his estates, make an appearance at a country party or two, look over the ladies…

He shoved himself out of his chair. It was after midnight. He was going to Dodger’s. Lose some money and think about Frannie counting it.

He strode into the hallway and staggered to a stop. Damnation. The lamps had been put out. Whose idea was that? He was about to return to the library where he could use a bellpull to wake the butler to light the damn place and ready a carriage, when he heard someone creeping around.