Find him. Catch him.

She wanted him to go after the hideous thing he'd made with that greedy, vengeful slut. She wanted him to look at it and touch it and...

"No!" The word exploded from him, a roar of denial, and with it, Dain's mind turned black and cold.

The small, dark face he'd looked into had turned his insides into a seething pit of emotion it had wanted every iota of his will to contain. His wife's words had sent the lava spilling through the crevices.

But the frigid darkness had come, as it always did, to preserve him, and it smothered feeling, as it always did.

"No," he repeated quietly, his voice cold and controlled. "There will be no finding. She had no business having him in the first place. Charity Graves knew well enough how to get rid of such 'inconveniences.' She'd done it countless times thereafter, I don't doubt."

His wife was staring at him now, her face pale and shocked, just as she'd looked when he told her about his mother.

"But wealthy aristocrats don't come Charity's way very often," he went on, telling this tale in the same coldly brutal way he'd related his mother's. "And when she found she was breeding, she knew the brat was either mine or Ainswood's. Either way, she imagined she had a ripe pigeon to pluck. When the brat turned out to be mine, she didn't waste a minute finding out the name of my solicitor. She wrote to him promptly enough, proposing an allowance of five hundred a year."

"Five hundred?" Jessica's color returned. "To a professional? And not even your mistress, either, but a common trollop you shared with your friend?" she added indignantly. "And one who had the babe on purpose- not a respectable girl got in the family way- "

"Respectable? Did you imagine, even for an instant, Jess, that I- gad, what? I seduced- lured an innocent- and left her breeding?"

His voice had begun to rise. Clenching his fist, he added levelly, "You know very well I had managed to avoid entanglements with respectable females until you exploded into my life."

"Certainly I never imagined you would go to the bother of seducing an innocent," she said crisply. "It simply hadn't occurred to me that a trollop might have a babe through pure greed. Even now I have difficulty imagining a woman being so wrongheaded. Five hundred pounds." She shook her head. "I doubt even the Royal Dukes support their by-blows in such luxury. No wonder you are so outraged. And no wonder, either, there is so much ill feeling between you and the boy's mother. I had a suspicion she went out of her way to embarrass you. She must have heard- or seen- that you had your wife with you."

"If she tries it again," he said grimly, "I'll have her and the guttersnipe she spawned transported. If she comes within twenty miles of you- "

"Dain, the woman is one matter," she said. "The child is another. He did not ask to have her for a mother, any more than he asked to be born. She was exceedingly unkind to use him as she did today. No child should be subjected to such a scene. Still, I strongly doubt she considers anybody's feelings but her own. I noticed that she was far better dressed than her so-called 'lovey.' Dirt is one thing- little boys cannot remain clean above two and a half minutes- but there is no excuse for the child to wear rags, when his mother is garbed like a London high-flyer."

She looked up at him. "How much do you give her, by the way?"

"Fifty," he said tightly. "More than enough to feed and clothe him- and let her spend all she makes on her back on herself. But I daresay the rags were all part of her game: to make me appear the villain of the piece. Too bad I'm accustomed to the role, and that what other fools think does not concern me in the least."

"Fifty a year is more than generous. How old is he?" Jessica demanded. "Six, seven?"

"Eight, but it makes no- "

"Old enough to notice his appearance," she said. "I cannot excuse his mother for dressing him so shabbily. She has the money, and ought to know how a boy of that age would feel. Mortified, I don't doubt- which is why he annoyed Joseph. But she does not consider the child, as I said, and all you have told me only convinces me she is an unfit mother. I must ask you, Dain, to set aside your feelings toward her, and consider your son. He is yours by law. You can take him away from her."

"No." He had smothered feeling, but his head had begun to pound, and his useless arm was throbbing. He could not freeze and smother physical pain. He could scarcely think past it. Even if he could have reasoned coolly, there was no explanation he could give for his behavior that would satisfy her.

He shouldn't have tried to explain, he told himself. He could never make her understand. Above all, he didn't want her to comprehend, any more than he wanted to himself, what he'd felt when he'd looked down into that face, into the devil's mirror.

"No," he repeated. "And stop fussing about it, Jess. None of this would have happened if you hadn't insisted on coming to the bedamned wrestling match. By gad, I cannot seem to stir a foot when you are by without"- he gestured wearily- "without things going off in my face. No wonder I have a headache. If it isn't one thing, it's another. Women. Everywhere. Wives and Madonnas and mothers and whores and- and you're plaguing me to death, the lot of you."

By this time, Roland Vawtry had relieved Ainswood and the others of responsibility for Charity Graves and was marching her into the inn where she claimed to be staying.

She was not supposed to be staying at an inn in Devonport. She was supposed to be where he'd left her two days earlier, in Ashburton, where she'd said nothing about Dain or Dain's bastard. There, all she had done was sashay into the public room and settle at a table nearby with a fellow who seemed to know her. After a while, the fellow had left, and Vawtry's comrades having departed for assignations of their own, he had found himself sharing the table with her and buying her a tankard of ale. After which they had adjourned for a few rollicking hours of what Beaumont had claimed Vawtry badly needed.

Beaumont had been right on that count, as he seemed to be on so many others.

But Beaumont didn't have to be here now to point out that what Charity Graves badly needed was to be beaten within an inch of her life.

The inn, fortunately, was not a respectable one, and no one made a murmur when Vawtry stomped up after her to her room. As soon as he'd shut the door, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"You lying, sneaking, troublemaking little strumpet!" he burst out. Then he broke away, fearing he would kill her, and certain that he did not badly need to be hanged for murdering a tart.

"Oh, my," she said with a laugh. "I fear you're not happy to see me, Rolly, my love."

"Don't call me that- and I'm not your love, you stupid cow. You're going to get me killed. If Dain finds out I was with you in Ashburton, he's sure to think I put you up to that scene."

He flung himself into a chair. "Then he'll take me apart, piece by piece. And ask questions later." He raked his fingers through his hair. "And it's no use hoping he won't find out, because nothing ever goes right when it comes to him. I vow, it must be a curse. Twenty thousand pounds- slipped through my hands- I didn't even know it was there- and now this. Because I didn't know you were there- here- either. And the brat- his bastard. Who knew he had one? But now everyone does- thanks to you- including her- and if he doesn't kill me, the bitch will shoot me."

Charity approached. "Did you say 'twenty thousand,' lovey?" She sat on his lap and drew his arm around her and pressed his hand against her ample breast.

"Leave me alone," he grumbled. "I'm not in the mood."

Roland Vawtry's mood was one of black despair.

He was mired in debt, with no way of getting out, ever, because he was Dame Fortune's dependent, and she was capricious, as Beaumont had so wisely warned. She gave a priceless icon to a man who already had more than he could spend in three lifetimes. She took away from a man who had next to nothing, and left him with less than nothing. She could not even give him a tart without making that female the author of his demise.

Mr. Vawtry truly believed himself to be at the last stages of desperation. The modest stock of common sense and self-confidence he'd once possessed had been ruthlessly vandalized in a matter of days by a man whose primary delight in life was making other people miserable.

Vawtry was incapable of recognizing that his situation wasn't half so catastrophic as it appeared, any more than he recognized Francis Beaumont as the insidious agent destroying his peace of mind.

His mind poisoned, Vawtry believed that his friendship with Dain was the source of his troubles. "'He must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil,'" Beaumont had quoted, and Roland Vawtry had promptly realized that his spoon had been too short for dining with the likes of Dain, and that his own case was the same as Bertie Trent's. Association with Beelzebub had ruined them both.

Now, Vawtry was not only ruined, but- thanks to Charity- in imminent danger of a violent death. He needed to think- or better yet, run for his life. He knew he couldn't do either of those things properly while his lap was filled with a buxom trollop.

All the same, angry as he was with her, he felt disinclined to push her off. Her luxurious bosom was warm and soft, and she was stroking his hair back, just as though he had not nearly killed her minutes earlier. A woman's touch- even that of a brazen whore- was very comforting.

Under the comforting touch, Vawtry's mind softened toward her. After all, Dain had done Charity an ill turn as well. At least she'd had the courage to confront him.

Besides, she was pretty- very pretty- and exceedingly jolly company in bed. Vawtry squeezed her breast and kissed her.

"There now, you see how naughty you've been," she said. "As though I wouldn't look after you. Silly boy." She ruffled his hair. "He won't think anything like what you say. All I have to do is tell people how Mr. Vawtry paid me..." She considered. "Paid me twenty pounds to keep out of the way and not bother his very dear friend, Lord Dain. I'll tell 'em how you said I wasn't to spoil the honeymoon."

How clever she was. Vawtry buried his face in her plump, pretty bosom.

"But I come- came- anyhow, because I'm a wicked, lying whore," she continued. "And you was- were- that vexed with me, you beat me." She kissed the top of his head. "That's what I'll say."

"I wish I had twenty pounds," he mumbled to her bodice. "I'd give it to you. I would. Oh, Charity, what am I to do?"

She, possessing an innate skill for her profession, showed him what to do, and he, having a knack for misconstruing the obvious, interpreted professional skill as feeling for him. Before many hours had passed, he'd confided all his troubles to her, and for hours after, while he lay asleep in her arms, Charity Graves lay awake planning how to make all her dreams come true.

Chapter 16.

Half an hour after he'd stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door, Dain stood upon the threshold of Jessica's dressing room. He bent a frigid stare upon Bridget, who was taking the pins from Jessica's hair. "Get out," he said very quietly.

Bridget fled.

Jessica stayed were she was, upon the chair at her dressing table. Spine stiff, she lifted her hands and continued removing the pins. "I am not going to quarrel with you about this any longer," she said. "It's a waste of time. You refuse to listen to a word I say."

"There's nothing to listen to," he ground out. "It's none of your bloody business."

That was how he'd responded during the drive home to her efforts to make him understand the problem...because one short scene with a female from his past had cancelled all the progress Jessica had made with him. They were back to where they'd been when she'd shot him.

"You are my business," she said. "Let me put it to you simply." She turned in her seat and met his gaze squarely. "You made the mess, Dain. You clean it up."

He blinked once. Then his mouth curled into the horrid smile. "You are telling me it is my duty. May I remind you, madam, that you- that no one- tells me- "

"That boy is in trouble," she said. "His mother will be the ruin of him. I have explained this to you every way I could, but you refuse to listen. You refuse to trust my instincts about this, of all matters, when you know I have brought up, virtually single-handed, ten boys. Which includes having to deal with dozens of their beastly friends as well. If there is one thing I understand, my lord, it is boys- good ones, horrid ones, and all the species in between."

"What you can't seem to understand is that I am not a little boy, to be ordered about and told my curst duty!"

She was wasting her breath. She turned back to the mirror, and took out the last of the pins.

"I am tired of this," she said. "I am tired of your mistrust. I am tired of being accused of manipulating and patronizing and...bothering. I am tired of trying to deal with a consistently unreasonable man as though he were a reasonable one. I am tired of having every effort to reach you thrown back at me with insult."

She took up her brush and began drawing it through her hair with slow, steady strokes. "You don't want anything I have to offer, except physical pleasure. Everything else is a vexation. Very well, then. I shall cease vexing you. There will be no more attempts at that laughable thing, a rational adult discussion."

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Certainly not. There will be the icy silence instead. Or the reproachful silence. Or the sulking. The same pleasant manner, in short, to which you treated me the last ten miles to Athcourt."

"If I was disagreeable, I beg your pardon," she said composedly. "I shall not behave so again in future."

He came up to the dressing table and set his right hand down upon it. "Look at me," he said, "and tell me what that's supposed to mean."

She looked up into his rigidly set countenance. Emotion churned in the depths of his eyes, and her heart ached for him, more than ever. He wanted her love. She'd given it. Today she'd declared it, in no uncertain terms, and he had believed her. She had seen that in his eyes as well. He had let the love in and- though he hadn't been sure what to do with it, and probably wouldn't be sure for months, years maybe- he hadn't tried to thrust it away.

Until Charity Graves made her spiteful entrance.

Jessica was not about to spend more weeks working on him, only to have her efforts flung in her face the next time someone or something set him off. He would have to stop viewing the present- and her especially- through the warped spectacles of the past. He would have to learn who his wife was and deal with that woman, not the general species, Female, he viewed with such bitter contempt. He would have to learn it all the hard way, because she had a more urgent problem to spend her energy upon at present.

Dain was a grown man, ostensibly able to look after himself and presumably capable of sorting matters out rationally...eventually.

His son's situation, however, was far more perilous, for little boys were entirely at the mercy of others. Someone must act on Dominick's behalf. It was all too clear that the someone must be Jessica. As usual.

"What it means is that you win," she said. "It goes your way from now on, my lord. You want blind obedience. That is what you'll get."

He treated her to another mocking laugh. "I'll believe that when I see it," he said. Then he stalked out.

It took Dain a week to believe it, though he saw it and heard it every day and every night.

His wife agreed with everything he said, regardless how imbecilic. She would dispute nothing, regardless how much he goaded her. She was perfectly amiable, regardless how obnoxious he was.

If Dain had been in the least superstitious, he might have believed that another woman's soul had entered Jessica's beautiful body.

A week with this amiable, blindly obedient stranger left him acutely uncomfortable. After two weeks, he was wretched.

Yet he had nothing to complain about. Nothing, that is, that his pride would let him complain about.

He could not say she was plaguing him to death when she never so much as hinted at disagreement or displeasure.

He could not say she was cold and unresponsive in bed, when she behaved as willingly and lustily as she had from the start.

He could not complain that she was unkind, when any hundred outside observers would have unanimously agreed that her behavior was nothing short of angelic.

Only he- and she- knew he was being punished, and why.

It was all because of the unspeakable thing he'd made with Charity Graves.

It did not matter to Jessica that the thing was as foul inwardly as it was hideous outwardly, that there was not a scrap of good it could have inherited from its depraved monster of a sire and its vicious whore of a mother. It would not have mattered to Jessica if the thing had two heads and maggots crawling out of its ears- which, in Dain's view, would make it no more repellent than it already was. It might have crawled on its belly and been covered with green slime and it would be all the same to Jessica: Dain had made it; therefore, Dain must take care of it.

It was the same way she'd viewed her brother's case. It didn't matter that Bertie was a through nincompoop. Dain had lured the fool in over his head; ergo, Dain must fish the fool out.

It was the same way she'd viewed her own case: Dain had ruined her; Dain must repair the damage.

And once again, just as in Paris, Jessica had devised his punishment with diabolical precision. This time, everything he'd insisted he didn't want, she didn't give. There was no plaguing, pestering, or disobedience. There was no uncomfortable sentiment, no pity...and no love- for never once, after hammering the words into his brain and heart in the burial ground in Devonport, did Jessica again say, "I love you."

To his everlasting shame, he tried to make her say it. During lovemaking, Dain tried everything he could think of to make the words come. But no matter how tender he was, or passionately creative, no matter how much aching Italian lyricism he poured into her ears, she wouldn't say them. She sighed, she moaned, she groaned. She cried out his name, and the Almighty's, and even, at times, the Fallen One's...but never the three sweet words his heart hungered for.

After three weeks, he was desperate. He would have settled for anything vaguely like affection: one "blockhead" or "clodpole"- a priceless vase hurled at his head- his shirts in shreds- a row, please God, just one.

The trouble was, he dared not goad her too far. If he rose to the truly heinous heights of which he was capable, he might provoke the row he craved; he might also drive her away. For good. He couldn't risk it.

As it was, Dain knew her patience wouldn't hold out indefinitely. Being the world's most perfect wife to the world's most impossible husband was a Herculean task. Even she could not keep at it forever. And when her patience snapped, she would leave. For good.

After a month, panic set in, as Dain perceived the first signs of strain in her flawless, angelically patient and amiable countenance. His own features bleakly composed, he sat at the breakfast table on a Sunday morning in mid-June, covertly nothing the fine taut lines that had appeared in her forehead and at the corners of her eyes. Her posture was taut as well, as stiff as the dutiful smile she wore during the gruesomely cheerful conversation about nothing in particular, and most certainly, about nothing that mattered to either of them.

I'm losing her, he thought, and his hand came up, instinctively, to reach for her and draw her back. But he reached for the coffeepot instead. He filled his cup and stared helplessly at the dark liquid and saw his black future there, because it was not in him to give her what she wanted.

He could not accept the monstrosity she called his son.

Dain knew his behavior was irrational in her eyes. Even to himself he could not explain it, though he'd been trying all this last hellish week. But he couldn't reason past the revulsion. Even now, panicked and heartsick, he could not reason past the bile rising inside, instantly, at the image in his mind's eye: the dark, sullen face with its hideous beak...the malformed, freakish little body. It was all he could do to remain quietly in his chair, pretending to be a civilized adult, while inwardly the monster raged and howled, craving destruction.

"I had better make haste," Jessica said, rising. "Otherwise I shall be late for church."

He rose, too, the polite husband, and escorted her downstairs, and watched while Bridget helped Her Ladyship into shawl and bonnet.

He made the same joke he'd made every previous Sunday, about Lady Dain's setting a good example for the community and Lord Dain's considerateness in keeping away, so that the church roof didn't collapse upon the pious souls of Athton.