Page 27 of The Devil in Her Bed
And the memories of his childhood often threatened to pull him beneath a tide of pain too strong to fight.
Indeed, Mont Claire had been his salvation. Coming from the dregs of despair as he did, even the little cupboard behind the kitchen stove in which he slept had seemed like a lord’s lodgings.
Every kind word of paternal encouragement from the butler had glowed in his chest. Every extra treat from the cook or diverting story from the Romani woman who often kept their company had kissed his dark young heart with hope. Those little moments of respite were like the pinpricks of stars on a moonless night. Glittering points of light and warmth… unfathomably far away.
Then there had been Ferdinand and Pippa, the surrogate siblings he’d yearned for. They’d taught him what joy looked like. What fun was. They accepted him into their fold like he’d been born into their litter of pups, scooping him into a wriggling pile of giggles, imagined adventures, and ridiculous romps.
And Francesca…
Coming from a world so hard and unmerciful, she had been this brilliant splash of color and kindness. He’d sometimes not been able to bring himself to touch her because he was afraid his common fingers would stain her pure, unadulterated loveliness.
How a girl like that could meet her end with such savage violence. How she’d become nothing now but ash and rubble.
His heart became a lead weight in his chest, returning him to the present.
The current Countess of Mont Clairecouldn’tbe Francesca Cavendish.
He knew it.
She knew it.
And he’d do what he’d have to do to find out just who the fuck she really was.
He’d get her naked. He’d check every inch of her. He’d find the other marks, the other proof. There was plenty to be had. If she was a liar, he’d expose her lies.
After he plundered what pleasure he could.
After he’d given the pleasure he’d promised.
Yes, they’d both glimpse paradise together before he dragged her down to hell. He’d make certain this was a lie she’d always regret. The temptress couldn’t lick the bottom of Francesca’s boots, let alone occupy the void her death had left in this world.
Fixing his cravat, he went to the balcony to smoke his pipe and take in the night, biding his time until the appointed hour.
He’d almost made his way through the first smoke before a vision drove him to his feet. He gripped the railing tight enough to take chunks out in his claws.
Brendan Murphy helped the Countess of Mont Claire into his carriage, and they clopped away into the London night.
Fucking hell.She’d never intended to meet him.
Her secret was safe, for now.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Two Weeks Later
Telephones were the worst inventions known to man, Francesca decided as she paced the length of her study in her Belgravia terrace. One could have a frustrating conversation with someone else, and it was impossible to throttle them through the wires.
Not that she could get her fingers around Lord Ramsay’s thick throat.
“Don’t be obtuse, Ramsay,” she snipped. “Just get me in the door of the Secret Services holding house, and I’ll do the rest.”
“I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s too risky for us both.” Francesca didn’t have to imagine Ramsay’s fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. “I’m not even supposed to know about the holding cells and safe houses. Also, ye’re asking me to find ye the former Lord Chancellor, for Christ’s sake. Do ye not think he’s untouchable whilst in custody? If ye wanted to interrogatehim, ye should have figured out how before he was arrested.”
“We none of us knew of his ties to the Crimson Council then!” She slapped the edge of her desk. “Come on, man. Just leave a door open for me. Better yet, tell me where he is, and I’ll do it all myself. You owe me that, at least.”
“I. Owe. Ye?” His dangerous tone would have sent any number of men scampering away, but Francesca had never scampered in her entire life, and she wasn’t about to start.
“Remember two weeks ago when I gave you Lord Colfax? That was a career-making indictment, and do not pretend otherwise.”
