The Bride of Devil's Acre (26 page)

“I say, what are you doing? Let her go!” An unfamiliar voice called out, and suddenly Jacqueline was free, a violent shove between her shoulders knocking her onto her hands and knees.

Carver, cradling his bleeding hand to his chest, bent down. “This isn’t over,” he hissed, eyeing the young man hurrying toward them. “
We’re
not over!”

Jacqueline watched Carver slip between the trees. He was gone before her savior reached her side.

“Are you all right?” The young man knelt down, reaching for her.

Jacqueline jerked away before he could touch her. “I’m fine,” she panted, gulping in great gasps of air. Her heart was pounding, a drumbeat that echoed in her head. All around her was the sick smell of stale blood.

The man retracted his hand, holding it palm-up. “Can I help you?”

Jacqueline glanced from his hand to his face. He was young, certainly younger than her, but only by a few years. His face was soft, the baby fat of youth barely faded despite his best efforts to appear the gentleman about town with his top hat and walking stick.
 

All of this she took in between one heartbeat and the next, her mind registering friend and not foe.
 

“Where do you live?” he asked, shifting onto his haunches. “Is there someone I can fetch for you?”

“No,” Jacqueline said, tentatively slipping fingers that shook into his waiting hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. “No, I’m staying just across the way.”

“Please, allow me to escort you.”

Jacqueline nodded, grateful for the arm he lent her. She leaned on him, her legs unsteady as he led her out of the park and across the street to Marcus’ townhouse.

He waited silently, not asking any questions as she gained the front steps and let herself in. Without ever asking his name, Jacqueline closed the door, her eyes avoiding his curious and concerned gaze.

Upstairs, Jacqueline trembled and struggled out of her dress. There were small drops of blood on the front of it—
his blood—
and the sour musk of fear permeated the fabric. Sweat stained the pits, and made it impossible to pull the dress down her arms.
 

Jacqueline sobbed and wrestled with the fabric. Delicate lace ripped as she tore at the dress, her movements becoming desperate and frantic.

Carver was alive.

Tears burned twin trails down her cheeks, falling on her heaving chest. Having got her arms free, Jacqueline quickly pushed the dress off her hips and kicked it free.
 

She could still smell him.
 

Moving to the wash table, she poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin, wetting a washcloth and scrubbing at the skin of her neck and chest. Her eyes in the mirror were wild and bright, the pupils enlarged to the point that little of their hazel color remained.
 

Pain registered, and Jacqueline realized she’d rubbed her skin raw. Dropping the washcloth, Jacqueline pulled her chemise over her head and stripped out of her underclothes, adding them to the pile with her dress. Quickly, she hurried to her closet, pulling out a cotton nightgown and tossing it over her head.

In bare feet, she gathered the expensive dress and discarded underthings, taking them to the hearth and adding them to the fire that was ready to light. She didn’t wait. Striking a match, Jacqueline set flame to the logs, watching as the delicate fabric caught fire and started to burn.

Walking backward to the bed, Jacqueline crawled up onto the mattress, pulling up the covers and tucking a pillow to her chest. As she watched the fire, and her dress burn, only one thought mattered: Carver was alive.

Devil was bone-weary, his footsteps dragging at the heels as he walked the short distance home from Purgatory.

It had been a long night. Eddington’s visit had been just the beginning.

Everyone was out of sorts, the tension of the past few days working their nerves and shortening tempers to an explosive level.

Devil had found himself using his fists to break up a fight, and Finn was shouting at the whores. Finn rarely yelled, and never at the whores.

That’s when Devil decided it was time for everyone to go home.

Eight hours of sleep, that was the order. It was an order Finn agreed to follow only after extracting the same from Devil.
 

Eight hours of sleep, at home.

God, he didn’t want to go home. The house was empty, and there was no place for him to sleep that didn’t remind him of his wife.

Devil’s steps slowed as he turned the last corner. The sun wasn’t up yet, its light still just a promise that eased the shadows and made it easier to see. His house rose up in the sky, the blue—black of night giving way to the bruised purple of twilight.
 

Devil passed through the iron gate, shutting it silently behind him. Turning to the house, Devil froze.

She had been left on his doorstep. Naked, she was a macabre gift with no wrapping.

Devil’s heart beat hard. He was unaware of the quiet groan of protest that slipped from his lips.

Laid out on her side, her head resting on one outstretched arm, she faced away from him, her thick mahogany hair spilling across the porch beneath her. There was no blood that he could see, but he knew if he turned her over, her throat would be slit.

Would he have carved new symbols into her skin, or were the old ones enough to satisfy Carver’s sick lust?

She was naked. Devil traced with his eyes the gentle curve of her shoulder, the graceful dip of her waist, and the generous flare of her hip. Her legs were bent at the knees and crossed at the ankles.

But it was her bare feet that snagged his attention. Her delicate toes were turned away from him.
She would be cold
, he thought, and he had the absurd notion to fetch her slippers.

His fault. This was his fault.

Devil forced himself to step forward, to approach the body of his wife and gently turn her over onto her back.

Not Jacqueline.

The realization slammed into him, knocking Devil backward and sending him scurrying across the porch where he crashed into the rail.

“Not her. It’s not her,” Devil panted, sliding down onto his arse and staring at the dead woman. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, Devil squelched the flow of words, but the litany silently continued in his head.
 

It’s not her, not his Jac.

Whoever she was, she was young. Her face was round and soft. Had he seen her from the front, Devil would have known immediately that the body wasn’t that of his wife. But the hair was the same, or close enough to fool in the dark light of very early morning, and the curves were reminiscent of Jacqueline.

Carver had wanted Devil to think, to fear, even for just a moment, that the dead woman was his wife.
 

Carver.

Devil’s eyes dropped to the now-familiar symbols carved into the woman’s stomach. This was definitely Carver, and he had wanted him to know that while Devil stood around waiting, doing nothing, Carver was out there killing women, women that looked like Devil’s wife.

Carver was going after Jacqueline.

Devil bolted to his feet, running past the dead woman and into the house. He couldn’t help her now, but maybe he wouldn’t be too late to save his wife.
 

“Dillon! Dillon!” Devil hollered, panting in the foyer. He needed to get to Jacqueline. “Dillon!”

“Sir?” Dillon came running down the stairs, hastily tying his bathrobe.

“There’s a dead woman on the porch. See that she’s covered, and send for Andrew.” Devil barked orders as he headed into his study. Circling the desk, he pulled the picture hanging behind his chair off the wall and quickly opened the safe.
 

“Sir?” Dillon had dealt with a number of strange things for his employer over the years, but this was certainly a first.

“So stupid,” Devil muttered, admonishing himself. “I’m sorry, Dillon. I didn’t think to warn you.” He had tried to keep the situation with Carver contained, trusting his abilities to deal with the man himself before anyone else got hurt.

His failure had cost another young woman her life. She hadn’t been a whore, Devil realized. Her face still held a touch of youth, and her body had been soft before Carver’s savagery.
 

“There isn’t time to explain,” Devil said, pulling two pistols out of the safe and another knife. “Please, just take care of the girl, and I will tell you everything when I get back.”

“Of course, sir.” Dillon watched as his employer slipped one pistol into the small of his back and the other into the pocket of his coat. The knife went into his boot. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“No,” Devil said, slamming the safe closed. “I’ve got this.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jacqueline didn’t tell Marcus about Carver, and she didn’t wait for Henry. The morning after the attack in the park, Jacqueline rose early, gathered her maid and her things, and headed back to her father’s house.

The ride home was tense, her eyes darting out the window, waiting for an attack that didn’t come. It wasn’t until she was back inside her childhood bedroom, the door locked firmly behind her, that Jacqueline took her first easy breath.

Carver slipped through the shadow cast by the great house. A full moon lit the way, offering him an easy path through the kitchen garden. It was early yet, but this time of year the days were growing shorter and the nights longer.
 

That suited his purposes just fine.

He didn’t have any experience with how a lord’s house was run. But he knew enough to time his entry to coincide with the setting sun.

The servants’ entrance was unlocked. Carver eased the door open, quickly slipping inside and easing the thick panel of wood closed. Even here everything was shined and polished, the door hinges not making a sound less they risk offending his high-and-mighty.

“His lordship has requested another bottle of wine be opened.” Footsteps bounded down the stairs, and a liveried footman hurried into the kitchen.

“That makes four.”

“They’re dining with Mr. Gates.”

“Then don’t bother with the red Bordeaux.”

“It doesn’t suit the course.”

“Enough! Benson already has two more bottles selected. Open one while I get the decanter.”

Carver eased back beneath the stairs and listened as the servants bantered back and forth. It would appear his lordship was entertaining. No matter. Carver enjoyed a captive audience.

An hour later things started to slow down. The servants remained downstairs longer, and the stream of food going upstairs stopped.
 

“Has the port been served?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“And her ladyship?”

“Remaining with the gentlemen.”

“It’s good that she’s home.”

“Not for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way I hear it, Lady Jacqueline is getting an annulment, and then she’s off to marry Mr. Gates.”

So, Devil couldn’t keep his bride. Carver smirked, and an unfamiliar sense of pride swelled his chest. No woman had ever given him such a chase, and he thrilled at the idea of running down his prey. She was unlike any woman Carver had ever met, and Devil certainly didn’t deserve her!
 

Pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the servants sitting down to their meal, Carver eased out from under the stairs. They had their backs to him, and he was careful, sliding along the wall. It wouldn’t do to be seen and risk raising an alarm.
 

Upstairs, he followed the low murmur of voices to the dining room, listening at the door. Two distinctively male voices could be heard, interspaced with the musical tones of his lady.
 

Even her voice, with its husky undertones, thrilled him. So cultured, the precision with which she spoke belied the warrior spirit he’d seen inside.
 

She was the perfect match for him, the only woman worthy of his attentions.
 

It was a shame she wouldn’t live through it.

Jacqueline listened as Henry and her father discussed the latest
on-dit
over their port. She had chosen to remain with the men, suffering through their cigars rather than retire to the library to wait, alone.
 

She didn’t like being alone.

Jacqueline still hadn’t told them about Carver. How was she supposed to explain the man’s continued existence without speaking of her husband? And why was she still so reluctant to do so?

The door to the dining room swung open. The man who slipped inside was the same from her nightmares, and Jacqueline thought perhaps she’d let her fear get the better of her, conjuring him and breathing life into him.
 

The abrupt need to flee lifted Jacqueline half out of her chair. She stopped only as the pistol appeared in Carver’s hand, the muzzle pointed at the back of her father’s head.
 

With their backs to the door, neither her father nor Henry had seen the intruder.

“Jacqueline? Jacqueline, are you all right?”

Her father’s voice sounded hollow, as if it had traveled over a great distance and lost some of its power.
 

“Jac—” Lord John’s voice cut off abruptly. Following his daughter’s gaze, he turned and came face to face with a pistol. “Who the hell are you?”

Carver smiled slyly. “Would you care to tell him, my dear, or shall I?”

“You know this man?” Henry’s eyes darted back and forth between Jacqueline and the newcomer.

“Yes,” Jacqueline admitted quietly.

“Don’t bother sitting down,” Carver said, gesturing with the pistol. “All of you, up.”

Jacqueline reached for her father’s arm, urging him ahead of her as Carver herded the three of them out of the dining room and into the study.
 

With equal parts hope and dread, Jacqueline’s eyes darted left and right in search of a passing servant. Unfortunately, they didn’t encounter anyone along the way. Most of the servants were downstairs finishing their meal, and those who weren’t knew to make themselves scarce during evening hours, remaining out of sight unless called.