Unlacing Lilly

A glimpse of Olney returning along the garden path ended Devlin’s interview of Miss Lillian O’Rourke rather abruptly. Alas, it would never do to run into the cub. As doubtful as it was that Olney would remember Devlin after twenty years, it was a risk Devlin was not willing to take.

A pity his interview had been cut short, though, since he’d been quite amused by his conversation with Miss O’Rourke. And quite drawn by her natural appeal. There was something compelling in those unusual blue-green eyes of hers. Something hidden and mysterious. Alas, that had to be his imagination. Miss O’Rourke was far too young and far too gently born to have a “past.”

He resumed his position behind the ancient willow, wondering what verdict Rutherford had given. Yea? Or nay? Was the lovely Miss Lillian about to become the Marchioness of Olney? Soon, if Olney had been telling the truth, to be the Duchess of Rutherford? Though she couldn’t know it, Devlin’s own future hinged on the answer.

“I am to ask you if you wouldn’t be content with a generous sum settled upon you and your family to make yourself available to me for as long as I pleased.”

A mistress? How would the proud minx answer that?

She blinked. Several times. “Lord Olney, you cannot mean what I think you meant. You cannot be suggesting…”

Olney shrugged. “I told him you would not consent, but I promised I’d put the proposition to you.”

So, Olney considered Miss O’Rourke inferior, but knew she would not consent to an illicit liaison. And he obviously wanted her for more than his usual single conquest, else he’d have forced her, as he’d forced others against their will, if the whispers were true. Better and better. A plan so devious that it would pierce Olney’s pride for the rest of his life and embarrass Rutherford began to take shape in Devlin’s mind.

“You may tell him that you made that insulting offer, and that I refused. In fact, I refuse you, your lordship.”

“What? But why?”

“That you could even make such an offer tells me that the ‘tender regard’ you have professed does not extend to my best interests. Only yours.”

“Here now, Miss Lillian! Did I not say that my father bade me to ask? Have I not been willing to wed you all along?” Olney’s smile betrayed his father’s verdict. He sat beside Miss O’Rourke and took her hand. “I will not say that my father was pleased, my dear, but pending your refusal to what he termed ‘a more suitable arrangement,’ he gave his consent.”

“Then…then he was disappointed in my dowry?”

The cub laughed. “My dear, the dowry was less a consideration than your…ah, humble origins. Father had pinned his hopes on a merger with a more prominent family.”

Even from his position, Devlin could see Miss O’Rourke’s deep flush. That, at least, he could understand and sympathize with. He’d spent a lifetime with an even worse taunt than “humble origins.”

Devlin grinned when Miss Lillian contrived to look mollified, though the outcome had never been in doubt. No chit would refuse a marriage offer from the Rutherford heir. In fact, he was considered by those who did not know his true nature to be a stellar catch for any ambitious miss.

“What else did your father say?”

“Come, Miss Lillian. You may call me Edward now that we are betrothed.”

“Are we betrothed?”

“We shall be on the morrow. Lord and Lady Vandecamp are shut in the library with Father at the moment, discussing the details. They are your sponsors, are they not? Lady Vandecamp said she would put the offer to your mother tomorrow. And, if all is agreeable, the first banns will be read as soon as can be. Just think! We should be married by the eighteenth of next month.”

“S-so soon?”

“Come. Do not go all missish on me now, Miss Lillian. In just over three weeks’ time, you will be the Marchioness of Olney. We shall have such a wedding night as the gods would envy. You will lack for nothing, my dear.”

Then why did she not look happier, Devlin wondered. She had dropped her gaze and would not meet the cub’s eyes. More coyness? No doubt Olney had expected her to sigh and swoon into his arms to seal their bargain with a kiss. Miss Lillian, it would seem, knew how to keep her suitor eager to advance.

“Yes. Yes, of course…Edward.”

“Three endless weeks. How shall I wait that long, Lillian?”

And before she could answer, Olney took matters into his own hands. He pulled her against his chest and crushed her to him, pressing his lips to hers in an even more forceful manner than he had earlier. Miss Lillian twisted, her arms caught between them. Olney was more determined than last time and did not release her. The kiss deepened.

Devlin’s hands twitched. He longed to wrap them around the cub’s throat and squeeze. He’d heard of Olney’s cruelty to women from the demireps and courtesans who served the elite. Olney and his father were both infamous in those circles.

“Come now, have I not paid the price for a kiss? Give me another taste of what I might expect.”

She pushed herself backward, opening a gap between them. Olney, however, used the maneuver to his advantage. Tightening one arm around her waist, he used the other to cup her breast and squeeze. Devlin could hear the terror in her outraged squeal. His fingers curled into fists and he tensed to go forward.

Miss Lillian countered Olney’s ploy by bringing her slipper down sharply on his foot. “Release me! How dare you presume such familiarity?”

“’Twill not soon matter. Give over, Lillian.”

“If several weeks will not matter, then you can wait, my lord.”

“Or what?” He pulled her waist against him and pressed her hips into his groin. “Will you cut me? Refuse to marry me?”

Would she denounce him for his boorish behavior? Would she vow not to marry such a rough-handed brute? Could she even begin to see what life with Olney would be? A part of Devlin hoped she would recant, even though that would confound his own plan to use her. But a part of him was still disappointed when she answered.

“I…I only wish to do what is proper. We should wait until we are married for such intimacies.”

Olney leaned toward her, his hand still on her breast. “Very well, Lillian. I value your purity, so I will wait. But I expect you to be pristine on our wedding night.”

He released her and straightened the lapels of his jacket before offering his arm to take her back to the ball. With only the slightest hesitation, she took it.

Devlin watched them go, the clue into Olney’s thinking giving rise to a new and better plan in his mind. He’d need a bit of time to make the arrangements, but he could accomplish it all before the wedding. Oh, this rough justice would be everything he’d waited for, planned for. His game had begun at last.

Chapter Two

August 15, 1821

“Devlin Farrell! Just the man I wanted to see.”

Devlin heaved a deep sigh and looked to the side to find James Hunter had occupied a chair at the table next to his. This could not be good. Whenever a Hunter came to see him, it meant problems. “What is it, Jamie?”

“Good to see you, too, Dev.” Jamie took a deep drink of ale from his tankard before he spoke again, scanning the barroom as if looking for trouble. “But as it happens, I do need something from you.”

Devlin stood and tilted his head toward the back passageway. After he unlocked his office door, he left it ajar for Hunter, who he knew would follow in another minute or two. Hunter, it seemed, was no more anxious for people to know that he associated with Devlin than Devlin was. He took two glasses and a bottle of excellent rye whiskey from the cabinet behind him, poured a measure in each glass, then sat back to wait.

A few minutes later, Hunter slipped through the office door and closed it behind him. “You’re a complicated man to see,” he said. “I meet most of my contacts at their club.”

Devlin snorted. “I doubt I’d be admitted to one of your clubs unless I was carrying the coal scuttle. You have to go slumming if you want to see me, Hunter.”

Despite his excellent instincts for survival, Devlin liked James Hunter. The man worked for the Home Office as a clandestine operative, he was honest and straightforward, and he never interfered with Devlin’s business. But, as a younger son of an earl, he was certainly a member of the ton, and consorting with society could give Devlin a bad name in Whitechapel.

“Farrell’s is the best of the Whitechapel gin houses, Dev. At least I know I won’t go blind drinking what you serve. In fact, if it was in Holborn or Mayfair, it would be quite a respectable place.”

“Aye? Well, it’s not in Mayfair. And neither am I. I’m a Whitechapel gutter rat, and here I’ll stay. But did you not see the sign outside? I’ve changed the name to The Crown and Bear.”

Hunter shrugged. “It’s your business and your life.”