An Earl the Girl and a Toddler Read online

  Books by Vanessa Riley

  A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

  An Earl, the Girl, and a Toddler

  AN EARL, THE GIRL, and A TODDLER

  Vanessa Riley

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3 - JEMINA ST. MAUR

  CHAPTER 4 - DANIEL—OUTED BY THE GOSSIP

  CHAPTER 5 - JEMINA—UNEXPECTED WOMAN

  CHAPTER 6 - DANIEL—THE FAMILY BUSINESS

  CHAPTER 7 - JEMINA—END OF JUNE, BACK TO WORK

  CHAPTER 8 - DANIEL—BREAKING AND ENTERTAINING

  CHAPTER 9 - JEMINA—DEBATING A BARRISTER

  CHAPTER 10 - DANIEL—THE GENTLEMEN

  CHAPTER 11 - JEMINA—RESTLESS AND QUESTIONING

  CHAPTER 12 - DANIEL—A LETTER FROM A DETERMINED WIDOW

  CHAPTER 13 - JEMINA—VISITING SUITORS

  CHAPTER 14 - JEMINA—USEFUL, TERRIBLE BARRISTER

  CHAPTER 15 - DANIEL—THE DANGER OF A KISS

  CHAPTER 16 - JEMINA—BARRISTER SURVEILLANCE

  CHAPTER 17 - DANIEL—WAITING FOR PAPA

  CHAPTER 18 - DANIEL—TEA WITH LADY SHREWSBURY

  CHAPTER 19 - JEMINA—A DINNER WITH SASS

  CHAPTER 20 - JEMINA—AN OFFER AND A GENTLEMAN

  CHAPTER 21 - DANIEL—DANGEROUS LIAISONS

  CHAPTER 22 - JEMINA—PLAN B

  CHAPTER 23 - DANIEL—NO PLAN

  CHAPTER 24 - JEMINA—BURGLARY AND A BARRISTER

  CHAPTER 25 - DANIEL—IN THE RAIN

  CHAPTER 26 - JEMINA—CAPTURED

  CHAPTER 27 - DANIEL—THE STAIRS

  CHAPTER 28 - JEMINA—A LITTLE HOPE

  CHAPTER 29 - DANIEL—AMBROSIA

  CHAPTER 30 - JEMINA—OLD BAILEY FRIENDS

  CHAPTER 31 - MARKET DAY

  CHAPTER 32 - JEMINA—THE WIDOW’S BALL

  CHAPTER 33 - DANIEL—JUST LIKE HIS FATHER

  CHAPTER 34 - JEMINA—A BABBLING EARL

  CHAPTER 35 - JEMINA—RESCUING THE EARL

  CHAPTER 36 - DANIEL—THE HORRIBLE, NO GOOD HANGOVER

  CHAPTER 37 - DANIEL—IN THE FAMILY WAY

  CHAPTER 38 - JEMINA—WEDDING JITTERS

  CHAPTER 39 - DANIEL—WEDDED DISCLOSURES

  CHAPTER 40 - JEMINA—THE WEDDING NIGHT

  CHAPTER 41 - DANIEL—LADY ASHBROOK WHO

  CHAPTER 42 - JEMINA—WHAT DOES HE KNOW?

  CHAPTER 43 - DANIEL—THE CLOSET

  CHAPTER 44 - JEMINA—CRAZY LOVE

  CHAPTER 45 - JEMINA—WHICH HEART BREAKS

  CHAPTER 46 - DANIEL—OUT THE WINDOW

  CHAPTER 47 - JEMINA—CLANDESTINE OPERATIONS

  CHAPTER 48 - DANIEL—CHASING AFTER WIFEY

  CHAPTER 49 - JEMINA—ANY TRUTH WILL DO

  CHAPTER 50 - JEMINA—NOT WITHOUT MY DAUGHTER

  CHAPTER 51 - DANIEL—THE MARRIED ROUTINE

  CHAPTER 52 - JEMINA—THE FAMILY TRIP

  CHAPTER 53 - DANIEL—THE PORTSMOUTH MISSION

  CHAPTER 54 - JEMINA—THE MEANING OF HOME

  CHAPTER 55 - DANIEL—DEFENDING FINCHELY

  CHAPTER 56 - JEMINA—RUN AWAY

  CHAPTER 57 - DANIEL—WE SURRENDER

  CHAPTER 58 - JEMINA—NO BETTER PLACE

  CHAPTER 59 - DANIEL—AN OUTING TO TONBRIDGE

  CHAPTER 60 - JEMINA—TRUTH OR DARE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  RECIPE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A DUKE, THE LADY, AND A BABY

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Vanessa Riley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-5225-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5226-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-978-4201-5226-2 (ebook)

  To Frank, Gerald, Marc, Chris, David, Jamil, Jimmy, the strongest men I know.

  To my cousins and uncles and friends, peace be unto you, know I pray for you all.

  CHAPTER 1

  1812

  A Dark Room, Somewhere on Dry Land

  It was a universal truth that when the world was dark, it was time to rest.

  A light shined in my eyes. The sleep I desperately sought on the lumpy cot was stolen again. The smell of sulfur, the horrible rotten egg smell came from a plaster preparation to someone two cots away. Twenty beds in this forsaken place.

  “Ma’am, if you can’t tell me your name, I’ll have to remand you to custodial care.”

  This man and his minions had stripped me of my clothes like I was a ragamuffin. The ring, the band that left a light circle about my finger was ripped from my hand. I was lucky to have a chemise on my shaking limbs.

  The fool pried at one eyelid and waved the candle again. “Who are you? Answer me.”

  How was I supposed to respond to such a rude request? I told him and everyone who’d listen: I didn’t know. A hundred times I said this and sobbed until my throat was raw. A hundred and one utterances wouldn’t make it different.

  No one listened.

  All was gone.

  Nothing rattled in my head but the sharpest sense of loss.

  My arm bent beneath me, under my bosom like a bad habit. I should be holding something close, something precious, something mine.

  Gone.

  I was angry and wanted to sleep.

  The tall man tossed up his hands. “I give up. She’s gone mute.”

  His footsteps echoed like I was trapped in a bottle. The hospital door opened. Light crept in, blinding me, hiding the shadowy faces, the men making decisions.

  Didn’t care anymore. Ol’ Jancros. The thieves. The thieves took everything.

  “Are you sure she’s Jemina St. Maur?” the physician asked.

  A mumbled voice answered him.

  “She’s in shock. We can’t put her out, not like this.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Bedlam.” Those words were clear. The Ol’ Jancros were set to send me away. The name didn’t sound like home. Nothing did.

  “That place is for the lunatics, sir. She’s just come from a wreck. She’s lost everything. She needs more time to grieve.”

  Footsteps. Footsteps echoed. Outside of this room, it all disappeared. I was left with people more hurt than me. Some died. I heard the gasps. That I remembered.

  I needed to be gone.

  Where? I was too angry to choose. A nap would make things clearer. If I could close my eyes, I could make it all go away.

  The old man returned and shined that awful light one more time. “This is your last chance. Who are you? Defend yourself or you’ll be sent to Bedlam. You don’t want to go there. It will take a miracle to get out.”

  Raising up on my elbow, I stared him down, through his smudged spectacles and breath of rancid coffee. “I lost everything. Does it matter?”

  The old prune frowned and wrote something on paper.

  Turning away, I balled up into my ratty blanket. No more answering questions when no one would answer mine.

  I’d lost everything, everyone who mattered. I’d rather be a lunatic than to live without ’em.

  CHAPTER 2

  October 18, 1812

  Portsmouth, England

  The blue and purple flowers of the ironwood tree he’d pinned to his waistcoat had flattened and almost lost their scent. P. Daniel Thackery stood on the docks, awaiting his turn. Dozens of people were ahead of him hoping to talk with an officer of the HMS Belvidera. He’d already lost four hours holding his place in the slow, snaking line.

  Daniel traced the buds of the lignum vitae—as these flowers were called in Jamaica—from stem to stamens; he kept breathing, kept sampling the concentrated honeyed fragrance. It lulled the dull panic stirring in his chest.

  Phoebe had to be alive.

  Looking up in Portsmouth’s cloud-filled sky, he wondered how much time he had before the rain fell upon the throngs of people coming for news of the lost ship, the Minerva.

  More left the line.

  Daniel took a few steps forward. He could clearly see the officer—a lieutenant, by the braiding on his onyx jacket—mouthing words that made the hearers weep. That wouldn’t be him, sent away with nothing, no dreams, no proxy bride from Jamaica.

  The salty breeze stole one of Daniel’s petals. Like a purple feather, it fluttered, the air carrying it to the edge of the dock. It hung there, teetering.

  Closing his eyes, he remembered the jig he’d done this morn preening in front of his dress
ing mirror. A pile of discarded waistcoats sat at his ankles—lavender, indigo, purple. He’d driven his valet ragged going in and out Daniel’s legendary closet to bring him the different hues and different buttons—from brass to silver to pearl wanting to match the lignum vitae, Phoebe’s favorite.

  Vanity was a dangerous luxury for a wealthy man who’d built his fortune from careful investments. Yet, a man valuing a good tailor wanted to look perfect. It wasn’t every day one met their wife.

  All his plans couldn’t be lost because of the sea.

  Another couple wept and departed from the lieutenant.

  Daniel looked away, down to his dusty boots. The gloss his man-of-all-work, Marc Anthon, put on them seemed wasteful now.

  “The cursed sea did it!” An old man stormed away. He was right to blame it.

  The sea ferried folks near and far. Yet, it had been forced to swallow the souls beaten by war, killed by piracy, or discarded by the slave trade.

  Perhaps that’s why the water revolted. Every so often it became violent like a drunk, punching at anything—innocent or guilty.

  Why else would the Minerva, a peaceful ship porting innocent passengers go down?

  “Phoebe Dunn is alive. She’s alive.”

  He repeated this like a chant and clasped the flowers—a love token inspired from the letters they’d exchanged over a courtship of eighteen months. At times, she’d send two at a time. Daniel devoured each.

  Dragging his feet with the forward movement of the crowd, he hoped to God when it was his turn, he’d receive a miracle.

  He opened his greatcoat. He’d grown miserably warm witnessing a woman, fifteen or twenty people ahead, sob. Blinking, he couldn’t look away, until he jabbed his palm with his dulled cravat pin. The prick hurt but drew no blood. Bottle it all—all the disappointments, the despair, all the pain.

  That was his motto since age six. Sorrow changed nothing. It didn’t repair his mother’s heart, didn’t bury a wayward father. It definitely didn’t restore the Minerva to the harbor.

  White sails should billow and flap, anchored to its strong mainmast. The ship couldn’t be a smashed derelict hull left adrift until the HMS Belvidera floated by and picked up the pieces.

  His new bride—the darling woman who’d won his cautious, hesitant heart—should walk down the gangplank with the surprise she said she’d bring tucked under her arm. She should be where the lieutenant stood, searching for Daniel, a man with wilted lignum vitae.

  Her eyes—he’d discover if they were the deepest brown, the color of harvest wheat, or darker like the leather spines of his trusty law books.

  Anything would be beautiful.

  He merely needed to see her, alive.

  Twelve people stood between him and answers.

  A man lunged at the lieutenant. “Someone will pay,” he said before sailors dragged him away.

  Someone would pay. Daniel.

  He always did, but this time, it was his fault.

  Hadn’t his desperation to be with Phoebe made him insist she come to England now during the island’s wet season? The British were to impose a blockade. Once in place, the Royal Navy wouldn’t allow any crossings. They did this to halt American aggressions in this War of 1812.

  An old woman stumbled into Daniel.

  He stooped and helped her up. Tears flooded her sunken cheeks. “My daughter, sir. My poor girl is lost.”

  He reached into his coat and handed her his handkerchief, one of his treasures with initials embroidered in silver thread.

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but it’s too fancy for me.” She started to walk away but turned back. “There’s two survivors, sir. Just two. Hope you’re lucky. My daughter . . . she’s at the bottom of the sea. I can’t get to her.”

  Those bottled-up feelings of hopelessness he’d tried to suppress doubled, ripping at his heart, pressing upon his lungs. He took his lignum vitae and handed them to her. “It’s not much, but maybe you can honor your daughter with these flowers.”

  Sobbing anew, the old woman took them and walked to the edge of the dock. Her head dipped in prayer. Then she cast his sentimental offering into the water.

  Six people ahead, a burly man cussed worse than a sailor. “That was my only son.”

  He spit at the officer, then disappeared into the crowd.

  The antics didn’t bother Daniel, not as much as the old woman standing alone.

  In court, when the judge hammered his dark judgments, the wailing of spectators in the gallery of the Old Bailey became riotous. Daniel was immune to the sound.

  But not to the look of a woman in pain.

  His hand stung. The pin this time drew blood.

  Three in line.

  Daniel wrapped his handkerchief about his palm. He fretted smearing the ink on the marriage license displaying his whole hideous name, Peregrine Daniel Thackery, and that of Phoebe Monroe Dunn.

  Lord in heaven this can’t be all he’ll have of her. He couldn’t be a widower, without memories of being married.

  “Step forward,” the lieutenant said.

  Daniel’s turn.

  He braced like he waited for the jurymen’s verdict.

  The lieutenant, with his rumpled bicorne, a half-moon-shaped hat, stared at him with a frown hinting of disgust. “Who are you here for?”

  “Phoebe Dunn.” His voice warbled a little but boomed upon her surname.

  “Unaccounted for, but—” The man harrumphed. “Well, with the boat coming from Jamaica, I reckon we found her.”

  “Reckon?”

  “Well, she’s not in the capacity to say.”

  Daniel’s heart pounded a double rhythm—his Phoebe was alive, but hurt?

  “Is she injured? Incapacitated? Mute?” Was that Phoebe’s surprise, that he’d be the only one to ramble on about their days?

  Didn’t matter.

  He wouldn’t love her any less. Nothing could stop the true communion of souls.

  The commander put his hands on Daniel, patting his shoulder. “Now calm down, boy. You wouldn’t expect her to be able to answer.”

  Ignoring the condescension, Daniel stepped back. Frankly he was used to it, and demanding his earned respect as one of the king’s barristers would change nothing. “Where is Phoebe Dunn?”

  “I’ll bring her to you. She has to belong to you. No one else colored has come.”

  Daniel buttoned his lips. Ends justified the means. He wasn’t here for a fight but for Phoebe.

  The lieutenant waved, and one of his reefers brought forward a bundle. The sailor shoved a beautiful Black baby into Daniel’s arms. “Here’s your Phoebe Dunn.”

  The child, a year or more old, latched on to his waistcoat, grabbing a pearl button.

  He didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t his bride.

  “Did anyone else survive?”

  “Just a woman. She was taken away by her family. Very bad shape.” The lieutenant folded up his papers with all the passengers’ names. “The gown the infant wore when we plucked her out of the sea was expensive. Should’ve known a fancy gent like you’d show.”

  Daniel was Phoebe’s family here, but this baby wasn’t his bride. “If I hadn’t arrived, what would happen to her?”

  “We’d give this baby to a dockworker or to one of your people working the brothels. The hospital and orphanages don’t want the Black ones. Glad you arrived. Saved me work. Next.”

  Shaking, angry, cheated, Daniel left the line, but he held the little girl tightly to his chest. He couldn’t hand her back, not to this lieutenant who’d be careless or evil with an infant.

  His man, Mr. Anthon, his newest employee, jumped down from his carriage. “Sir, where’s the missus?”

  Daniel’s throat closed as he shook his head. He couldn’t say Phoebe was dead.

  “Oh no, Mr. Thackery. They’re not keeping her! They can’t treat you like this. Let’s—”

  “Mr. Anthon, please. Normally I appreciate your outbursts. Not now. We must leave.” Daniel hated chastising the spirited young fellow, but they needed to be away.

  Daniel coughed; everything ached. “The door, Mr. Anthon.”