An Earl the Girl and a Toddler Read online

The young man looked deflated but held it open. “Yes, sir. Where to?”

  “To my aunt. I think she and her women should’ve returned from Bath. My aunt . . . she’ll know what to do.”

  His footman peeked at the child who still clutched Daniel’s buttons. “She’s mighty attached, sir. Suppose your legal work never ends?”

  Anthon’s deep brown eyes narrowed; his dark hand clutched the mantle he proudly starched. “Let’s hope, your aunt, Lady Shrewsbury, will solve this little one’s problem. Nothing has changed for abandoned Blackamoors since you or I were young.”

  It hadn’t.

  Didn’t Daniel see that every day in court? It was only when he personally aided others, much like his beloved aunt, did things change.

  He shifted the babe in his arms and watched Anthon adjust the horse’s reins.

  The young man was a street urchin turned pickpocket who Daniel reformed. He had a feeling, with encouragement, this footman would become one of his most faithful servants.

  It struck him, Mr. Anthon’s wisdom, deep in his soul. Daniel had found a way to honor Phoebe.

  “Head to Finchely instead. I think I know what to do.”

  “Very good, sir. We can send for Shrewsbury later.”

  Much later, after Daniel had everything done to protect Phoebe’s surprise.

  He settled into the carriage and looked at this sweet girl’s eyes.

  They were open and very brown like wheat.

  “Phoebe loves you. I can tell. So I must love you too.”

  The little thing reached up and knocked his spectacles and clamped a hold of his nose, the wide, flat thing he used to sniff out baked treats.

  Eighteen months courting Phoebe and no word of this girl.

  How could she not talk about her daughter? How could she not tell him he’d be a stepfather?

  The baby puckered and drooled but didn’t cry. He took a small piece of bread from his picnic basket and put it to her tongue. The child gulped, but except for a swallow, she uttered no sound.

  His wife, like all women, had her reasons for her secret. That felt better than thinking Phoebe couldn’t trust him to love her and another man’s child.

  As an officer of the court, he’d investigate to see if there wasn’t a brokenhearted family looking for this little one, but as the lieutenant said, no other Blackamoor showed. This child had to be Phoebe’s girl.

  Looking at the way the babe trusted him eased the pain tightening about his chest. He hadn’t lost all. He still had something. He had hope.

  “I like my surprise, Mrs. Thackery.” His voice had become a wet throaty whisper. “I’ll raise this child, our . . . Hope. Yes, Hope, to be wonderful.”

  With both fists clasping his buttons, the wee girl drifted to sleep in his arms.

  CHAPTER 3

  JEMINA ST. MAUR

  Two years later, June 2, 1814

  London, England

  It was a universal truth that a widow in need of saving had lost the man and the means to be rescued. In my case, it was up to me to save me.

  Miserable.

  Miserable was such an ordinary word. It didn’t convey enough feeling, not the highs and lows of the moment. I was miserable because my elbow throbbed. Banging it on the chimney of our last mission left a gash, very black and blue and bloody. Shouldn’t I be better with all the practice the Widow’s Grace’s secret gambits afforded? I suspected I might’ve always had a problem with heights. I don’t remember.

  Miserable.

  Miserable because the roasted pheasant served for dinner was dry. The bird on my Wedgwood plate deserved a better way to die. The lack of a decent sauce added to the cruelty. Our hostess, Lady Bodonel, should have more charity if she insisted on throwing weekly dinners, that I and her daughter-in-law, Patience, must attend. My dearest friend, the new Duchess of Repington, was in demand, but I mustn’t let Her Grace suffer an overdone bird alone. Maybe I was a cook once. I don’t recall.

  Miserable.

  My new fancy slippers were stiff and tight. I’d begged off from dancing all night, but the gossip about my being the heiress of the Season made everyone—well, almost everyone—try for my hand. Other than a legal paper with plenty of zeros, I didn’t know why I had this twenty thousand pounds, or if it was deserved. I couldn’t say.

  Miserable because he looked at me, then turned away. Daniel Thackery, the only man not to ask for my hand, sat across the table chatting with Lady Shrewsbury, his aunt.

  What was he telling her? What was his complaint this time?

  The handsome man, always short in his speech unless offering corrections, stared at me again, or at the bandages wrapping my bruises. The doctor’s stitches couldn’t be hidden by my lacy tan sleeves.

  Fumbling with his dancing gloves, white linen with cherry-red threads at the cuff, my barrister frowned again. Such a waste for his smooth lips. I’d draw them well, if I sketched people. Though I was good with charcoal and paper, I don’t think I was an artist.

  Thackery hated when anyone working with his aunt hurt themselves. And we weren’t supposed to mention it to him. He wanted less and less to do with Lady Shrewsbury’s operations. It made him fussy.

  Yet, there were times, like now, on this third glance, when the all-knowing man didn’t see I’d noticed him until too late. Caught, our gazes tangled like there was no one else in the room, in London, or on the earth. This look, it was as if we enjoyed a juicy secret that was only ours to share.

  The tawdry tidbits would make us laugh. He’d offer a rare smile, one that showed the small gap in his teeth that made him look young and human and less jaded.

  But we have no such secret. Miserable.

  He turned away, and my thoughts scattered. I sipped from my glass of punch. Lady Bodonel’s horrid dinner was crowded, but the regulars—politicians and peers and pretty women—had become more familiar to me.

  “You don’t have to eat any more, Jemina,” Patience said. She was at my right in a wonderful gown of peach satin with a ripe orange banding of dyed silk beneath her bosom. “Pretend. Move things about. That’s what His Grace does.”

  The duke escaped again, some military thing or Wellington thing or cannon thing. He always had a thing to stay as far from his mother as possible.

  My dearest Patience suffered in his stead—the bad food, the bad guests who made sly jokes about her being foreign, and the bad music from showy fortune hunters like Lady Lavinia. The woman clad in gold, I’d heard she searched for husband number four.

  Nothing wrong with a woman looking to secure her position, but I hated that she exhibited herself, wiggling on the pianoforte bench in a bodice that barely covered her off-key lungs. That shouldn’t be necessary to gain a man’s attention.

  With a hand to her stomach, Patience slid her plate backward an inch. A server in silver dashed to the table and took it.

  Her warm-brown heart-shaped face looked so relieved. She leaned toward me. “Lady Shrewsbury says at month’s end she’ll have the informant’s whereabouts. We have time for your arm to mend.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “The widow Cultony needs proof. Her trial for theft is weeks away.”

  A footman in a cranberry-red mantle came to Thackery with a note. The barrister dropped a glove as he took the paper. His large coal-black eyes loomed behind his spectacles. They blinked fast. He sprang up. “Lady Bodonel, thank you for having me. A pressing matter—”

  “No. Sit, you should.”

  “No, ma’am, the Lord Mayor requests—”

  The lithe blond woman blew a heavy, breathy noise that shifted the peacock feather dangling from her headpiece. “You’ve been elevated. You’re an earl now. The new Lord Ashbrook. When will you give up this work business and assume your place in society?”

  The man bit his lip, bowed, and broke for the nearest exit.

  Dinner guests fluttered their fans, but the talk was on Mr. Thackery, well the new Earl of Ashbrook.

  Patience grasped my hand. “And here I thought His Grace’s mother, the old girl, had become more liberal inviting him. Mr. Thackery is a peer. He’ll be on everyone’s guest list now. Poor man, Lady Shrewsbury says he’s been a hermit since his wife died.”

  The pianoforte clanked. Lady Lavinia stretched her fingers and began another song, but her eyes were not on the keys. They were on the barrister’s exit.

  CHAPTER 4

  DANIEL—OUTED BY THE GOSSIP

  Trudging down the hall of Lady Bodonel’s Mayfair home offered the feeling of walls closing in. Daniel reached for his cravat, as if he were being strangled.

  What could the Lord Mayor want now? Had Daniel missed something in his aunt’s dealings. Had one of her widows exposed the Widow’s Grace organization? Did the clues lead back to him?

  “Daniel, wait.”

  The light, imperious tone made him stop midway. Flicking his finger, he motioned to a servant. “Have my carriage brought.”

  The fellow nodded and trotted down the gold carpet.

  Then Daniel turned to face his aunt. “Yes, Lady Shrewsbury.”

  She wrapped her arm about his, surely part affection, part coercion. The woman was a force of nature, like the powerful sea. “Nephew, you haven’t replied to my missives.”

  “I’m busy in court. There are clients depending on me.”

  “Daniel, you know I need your assistance. My women—”

  With a gentle tug, he freed his arm. “I can’t do it anymore. The stakes are too high.”

  She crossed her arms about her impeccable silver gown with long sleeves, and he wondered if the silk hid wounds too.

  “Now that you’re an earl you wish to back away from the fight?”

  He shook his head. “I have to go to the Lord Mayor. He’s never happy with me. He’d speak out against my appointment if not for fear of the Prince Regent’s disapproval.”

  “You have favor, Daniel. You need to use it. This is what we planned.”

  “What we planned? Or what you planned?”

  “Yes, Daniel, I have plans for your life. I saw the promise in you early, and you’ve never disappointed me. You always do what is right. The Widow’s Grace is right.”

  He cleaned his spectacles, trying to think of a way to reason with a woman who was like his mother. “It’s not gone unnoticed that widows are winning more cases at the Court of Chancery. Or that my name is on too many documents for inmate release at Bedlam. It’s been linked to suddenly appearing evidence against powerful families. Questions are being asked.”

  “They need to question the laws, Daniel. You’re a peer; you can take it up in the House of Lords.”

  “I still sleep with one pillow since you told me the Black Duke of Florence was smothered by his cousin.”

  “Yes, but Alessandro de’ Medici actually died from a stabbing.”

  That technicality was to make Daniel feel better? He took a breath. “I won’t take my seat and become more of a target.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, nephew.”

  “My horrid uncle rarely took his seat. Perhaps later, when Hope is older and all is more settled, I might, but not now. She needs to know I’ll be home . . . on time.”

  Aunt’s sherry eyes popped wide. “My niece? She’s not doing well again?”

  “Her nightmares are worse. She wasn’t speaking for so long, and now that she is, she’s screaming from her dreams. She wants me to make it better. I don’t know how other than being at Finchely rocking her. That means I shouldn’t be hauled off to Newgate.”

  “That won’t happen. You’re too clever. Daniel, you’re a good father. She’s secure. She’ll be so proud of what you’ve done.”

  “Not if I’m disgraced. Not if every aspect of my life is scrutinized and destroyed.”

  “You sound as if you have something to hide. What is it, Daniel?”

  He did have a secret to keep, but his dear aunt was too busy getting her operatives hurt to be of help. Daniel looked to the doors, hoping Mr. Anthon would come with his carriage.

  “Nephew? What is it?”

  “Lady Shrewsbury, you haven’t time for my troubles. You need to spend your days finding replacements for your favorites, the Duchess of Repington and Mrs. St. Maur.”

  “Those women are very capable, but they haven’t fulfilled the Widow’s Grace promise. They must help other women, fivefold. They will serve a little longer.”

  “Oh, they are done. His Grace, the Duke of Repington will stop his wife once he learns of the risks she’s taking. And Mrs. St. Maur, the gentle but loud woman, will be whisked away by a suitor before you get her killed climbing roofs.”

  “Killed? You’re exaggerating.”

  “Mrs. St. Maur has a nasty gash on her arm.” He took Lady Shrewsbury’s hands in his. “We need to stop. We’ve done enough. You’ve done enough.”

  “We’re making headway. Women are getting their rights back.”

  “Don’t you understand?” He waited for a servant to walk past, then drew Lady Shrewsbury closer to a hall, one laden with Roman statues that looked like the awful ones the Duke of Repington had at Hamlin Hall.

  “Aunt, if it’s learned I’ve looked the other way, allowing widows to engage in burglary . . . all will be lost. My little Hope needs to know her father is coming home.”

  “You’re in trouble, Daniel? Has someone made threats? Tell me.”

  He bit his lip and bottled up the rage swirling inside. “I can fight my battles. It’s time to move forward. Let the duchess and Mrs. St. Maur and the others go on with their lives. You should too. Retire from your operations. A place in the country with me and Hope.”

  “It’s my life’s work, Daniel. Women need women to advocate.”

  “Well, I’m not a woman, just an overprotective, fretting nephew. I’m disqualified.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Think of tamping things down or—”

  “Or what?”

  She needed to see his concern, his unsaid fears; he looked straight into her eyes.

  “Or end the Widow’s Grace outright before someone dies or I have to choose between aiding you and coming home to Hope.”

  Not wanting to wait and give his aunt a chance to change his mind, he left, trudging his way down the hall of gaudy gilded mirrors and on to the portico. Then he stepped down to the circle drive, right into the path of the unusual, alluring Jemina St. Maur.

  CHAPTER 5

  JEMINA—UNEXPECTED WOMAN

  I surely startled him. Mr. Thackery, now the Earl of Ashbrook, with eyes the color of the night sky, stood before me. They could be mirrors, older ones with the silvered back worn to show the pure glass.

  “Mrs. St. Maur, what are you doing out here? Tell me you’re not on a mission for my aunt.”

  With a shake of my head, I held out his glove. “You left so quickly. You dropped this, Mr. . . . my lord.”

  He blinked away the small smile that bloomed. “Mrs. St. Maur, how did you make it out here? I was just in the hall.”

  “The Duchess of Repington and I have found many routes to escape Lady Bodonel.”

  He took the glove, fingered the soft lawn fabric before stuffing it into his pocket. “The Widow’s Grace business makes you all magicians, vanishing and appearing.”

  “At least you don’t call us witches.”

  “Never.” He clasped my hand for a minute, then released it.

  “Some are cruel when they don’t get their way.”

  Those secrets I knew he possessed sparkled in his eyes like a candle’s flame. I was helpless in a way, wanting to be drawn to his light.

  “It’s very wrong.” His tone wasn’t baritone. It definitely wasn’t pitchy or squeaky but something midrange, solid and dependable. “It’s wrong to call women protecting themselves names. You’re strong. You all are.”

  “The families who are against the widows curse us. They hate the information we find. Others hate our means.”

  That lip-biting thing happened underneath the glow of a torch. “Oh. You heard my words with Lady Shrewsbury.”

  “It’s hypocritical, don’t you think, to be selective in the means for outing truth?”

  “Are you calling me a hypocrite? I’m concerned for your safety.”

  Raising my bandaged arm, I only let out a small yelp as I folded it about my middle, about the bodice of my simple gown. “Lord Ashbrook, it’s lovely you’re concerned. But you are a hypocrite.”

  His mouth opened. Then shut, then opened. “If I must be insulted, at least you did it in a gentle way, not with your loud indoor voice.”

  “Since it is you usually adding correction, how could I miss the opportunity to dish some pompous platitudes back? Cack mowt kill cock.” I covered my lips. I’d let one of those phrases from my dreams slip.

  “Well, this cock’s mouth won’t kill me, ma’am.” His head dipped. “You win with your Jamaican turn of phrase, Mrs. St. Maur. It’s dark. Return inside and continue to enjoy Lady Bodonel.” He touched my arm, then pulled back immediately like I was flame.

  Couldn’t be that, for he was fire. Beneath his structure and lectures burned a passion for justice and a desire to protect everyone in his sphere. I’d seen it. Once Patience and I snuck into the Old Bailey to watch the proceedings for a member of our fellowship. Ashbrook was very good in his defense.

  “Don’t give up so easily, sir. I might be convinced if you confess.”

  “Confess? That would mean I’ve done something wrong, Mrs. St. Maur. Do you have something to accuse me other than this hypocrite business?”

  There were secrets in his eyes boiling beneath his skin. If I could goad it out of him I would. Maybe I should try.

  I stepped into his path. “You rescued me from Bedlam. I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

  “No thanks. You shouldn’t have been there. Never should’ve happened. Now, be a good girl and go—”

  “You never said why you found me. Typically, a widow’s blood family will come to Lady Shrewsbury. Did my family?”

  “Happenstance. It was happenstance that I came.”

  “Happenstance with paperwork? What do you know of my family? Who are the St. Ma—”

  “You are getting a bit loud now. Ma’am, my carriage will be here soon.”