I guess it’s a fair exchange.
She was perfectly aware that things might have gone in the opposite direction, with the Quality shunning her establishment in a bid to punish her for daring to set her sights on one of theirs.
She could feel her mother hovering like an anxious hummingbird, never far from her. But she was not ready for a reconciliation.
Not yet.
She still needed some time. Not only to sort out her feelings but to understand what had happened with Percival and make a decision on what was to happen next. No damage had been done…yet. Nobody knew that they had spent the night wrapped up in each other’s arms. So there were no obligations to be had…yet.
This is all so confusing.
* * *
Percival happened by the club to find his cousin Henry, and a note from Mr. Sinclair, waiting for him. He decided to answer the note first, feeling guilt at leaving Abigail’s mother and Mr. Sinclair in the dark.
Mr. Sinclair,
Apologies for the delay in informing you of this but I have located Miss Thorne. She is safe in St. John’s Wood and not willing to return home just yet. I shall see that she is safe until such a time as she is ready to return to you. You may trust me to observe all proprieties.
Sincerely
Percival, Duke of Northcott
He gave the note to the steward to be delivered at once and then went in search of his cousin, having no idea why Henry would seek him out.
“Henry, this is a surprise,” he said, as he located him in the drawing room of the club.
“I suppose it is.”
“What brings you?” Percival asked, sitting opposite him.
“I…wanted to find out how you were. Mother informed me of your latest troubles.”
“How kind of you.”
Henry shrugged. “You know full well of my tendresse for Lady Rosaline, and I will not pretend that it has not been difficult to see you with her. But I do understand the conflicting feelings that arise between heart and head.”
“Humph.” Percival looked away.
“I understand from Mother that this girl is a criminal?”
Percival glared at him. “She is no criminal,” he snapped.
It was Henry’s turn to look away, “I am sure you would like to think so. But why would Lady Rosaline lie?”
Percival’s mouth twisted. “I think we both suffer from the same affliction. Letting our emotions rule our heads. You believe Lady Rosaline without reservation and I do the same for Miss Abigail Thorne.”
“Miss Abigail Thorne? Is that her name?” Henry grinned.
“Yes, that is her name and I love her without reserve.
Chapter 17
Facing the Music
Percival could not stop thinking about Abigail—how soft she had felt, how pliant, how sweet-smelling. He could not wait until he could hold her in his arms again. Feeling like this, he knew for certain that he had to break his engagement to Lady Rosaline.
He grabbed a page of his monogrammed stationery and wrote a note to her.
Dear Lady Rosaline,
I hope my message finds you well. I write seeking permission to call upon you on the morrow, at three p.m., as I have a pertinent issue that I need to discuss with you.
I look forward to your response and bid you a lovely day.
Sincerely yours,
Percival, Duke of Northcott
He read it through one time before ringing the bell to summon the butler. He folded the note carefully, fastened it securely with his family seal in wax, before handing it over to Forbes.
“See that this is delivered to Lady Rosaline Hoskins. And have your footman wait for a reply.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Forbes said, with a customary bow before turning to leave the room. Percival leaned back with a sigh, his stomach churning with nerves.
No doubt this would cause a stir among members of the ton, especially considering how well regarded both Lady Rosaline and her mother were.
There was nothing that he could do about that, however. The repercussions of his actions were inevitable and Percival was ready to shoulder them with fortitude.
He had some holdings in the Americas, a tobacco plantation in Trinidad, as well as a winery in France. Save for his work in the House of Lords, there was nothing, in particular, keeping him in England. Should matters get too hot, he and Abigail could leave for a while.
Having her all to myself might even be quite invigorating.
* * *
Rosaline read the Duke’s note, her brow furrowed with worry. She had been informed that his footman was awaiting a reply, and so she hurried to get one of her own pieces of monogrammed stationery.
She hesitated, feather pen dripping with ink, creating splotches on the page and causing her to discard it in favor of another. She was surprised to see that her hand was shaking a little.
“How curious,” she murmured to herself as she stared at it before dipping her quill in ink again. She composed the note, beautifully written—which the Duke would not fail to admire.
My Dear Duke
I write to graciously accept your request to visit with me. I shall be waiting for you at the agreed time. Indeed, my heart cannot wait to see you again.
She paused, staring at the note, wondering if the last bit was too much. She shook her head, putting the notepaper aside and reaching for another.
My Dear Duke
I was heartened to receive your request to visit and I am happy to inform you that I shall be waiting at the stated time.
With all my love,
Lady Rosaline Hoskins.
She stared at the note, reading it again before nodding.
Yes, that will do nicely.
She folded it up neatly, sealing it with her father's crest, before passing it to the butler to give to the Duke's footman. Once it was done, she stood up and began pacing up and down, wringing her hands, as she wondered if she had worded it appropriately.
Perhaps I should not have said ‘all my love’. She fretted. I should have left it at sincerely yours.
She whirled around, almost chasing after the footman.
“Rosaline?” Her mother's voice stopped her short. She turned to see Lady Huntington standing at the top of the stairs. “Is something the matter?”
Rosaline shook her head frantically, turning away to return to her father’s study. She picked up her discarded stationery, crossing out the notes to the Duke, and penning another to his aunt.
Dear Lady Stanley,
Your nephew has asked to see me. Might you have any inkling of what he would like to discuss with me?
My very best regards,
Lady Rosaline Hoskins.
She sealed it, again with her father's crest and called for one of her own footmen.
“Deliver this to Lady Martha Stanley forthwith.”
“Yes, My Lady,” he bowed before turning and leaving.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait.
* * *
The darkening of the doorway caused Joan to look up. Her daughter stood as if hesitating, unsure of her welcome. Joan straightened up holding her palms out to her daughter, entreating her wordlessly to come in.
Abigail stepped closer, clearing the doorway and coming closer to her mother. She stopped in the middle of the room and they stared at each other, eyes wide with fear and hope.
“Abigail” Joan’s voice was tentative.
“Mama,” Abigail replied and that was all the encouragement her mother needed to rush forward and envelope Abigail in her arms. They stood like that for a while, simply holding each other, before pulling back and searching each other’s gazes for answers they hadn’t the questions for.
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten? Are you all right?”
Abigail smiled affectionately, “I’m quite all right mother. Just...a little tired. The last few days have been fraught.”
Joan nodded, her lips trembling in the smile even as her eyes watered, “For a
ll of us.”
Suddenly Abigail sobered up, “Mother, you must tell me everything. Everything, Mother. No more lies.”
Joan nodded again. “Of course, Abigail. I will tell you anything you want to know.”
“Good. Then tell me about my father.”
Joan laughed, “Well, I see that we are not going to ease into things. Let me make you hot chocolate and tell you about Reggie Sinclair.”
Abigail and her mother were in the back of the shop and she sat obediently where she was bid, hands on her knees, waiting. Her mother put the pan of milk to heat, making hot chocolate and warming the honey cakes, before placing them on a tray and bringing them to Abigail.
“Eat up,” she said, “I’m not really sure how many meals Claudette could feed you but I am sure they were not enough.”
Abigail opened her mouth to tell her about Percival but then closed it again, not sure just how her mother would take her little tryst. She did intend to tell her—she had meant it when she said they should have no more secrets—but she did not want to distract her mother from telling her the story of her father.
She picked up a honey cake and took a bite in order to satisfy her mother's need to take care of her. But then she pushed the food away and folded her hands in her lap, uncompromising eyes on Joan.
“I've eaten, now tell me.”
Joan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Before we moved to London, we lived in Brighton. Do you remember that?”
Abigail nodded but didn't speak, not wanting to interrupt her mother's thoughts.
“I don't know if you remember why we had to leave.”
“There was some sort of trouble?”
Joan nodded her head shakily. “The worst kind of trouble. The townspeople somehow found out that I was the wife of a notorious criminal and you were his daughter. Our shop was prosperous, you see, and a man was envious. He wanted the property for himself, but we would not sell to him. So he dug up salacious details about our lives, including the identity of your late father. His exploits were well-known in those days, because they had spilled from the streets into the homes of noblemen. He was known as a villain, a murderer, a thief, a cad. And we were the same by association. They ran us out of town.”
Abigail nodded. “I remember fear and haste and a need to get away. I don't remember why I felt like that.”
Joan smiled sadly. “You were likely picking up my emotions. It was a fraught time.”
“You have told me what happened to us in Brighton, thank you for that, but let us go farther back. Who was my father, really? Who were you? How did you meet? How did he die? Did he know of me? Did he want me? Am I a by-blow child or an orphan?”
Joan laughed shakily, “Those are a lot of questions. But I will try to answer them all.”
Abigail nodded. “I am listening.”
Joan straightened up her spine, looking around the room thoughtfully as if she was gathering her words.
“I was born in King's Lynn. My father was a farrier, my mother a mantua-maker—as you know. She began teaching me to sew as soon as I could hold a needle and not prick myself with it. When I was ten years old, we moved to London after my father's premises burned down, or was burned by enemies.
My father was seeking revenge and he knew just who could give it to him. His brother was a blacksmith you see, in High Garden. He had told my father of a man, young, reckless, ambitious, for whom he made lead balls. A man looking to make a name for himself.
My father sought out this man, and when he found him he was surprised to see that Reggie Sinclair was nothing as old as his reputation had led my father to believe. He was barely twenty years old, but he offered my father what he needed.”
Her mother looked up and Abigail saw that she had tears in her eyes.
“What did he need?” She asked softly.
Joan looked into her lap. “Protection. For his family.”
Abigail froze, eyes widening in surprise, “Your father sold you for his own protection?”
Joan's head shot up in shock. “No, of course not. He simply placed us under Reggie Sinclair’s care. He turned over to Reggie everything that he owned in exchange. My father was dying, you see, and he was afraid that his enemies would come for us after he was gone.”
“Oh,” Abigail said softly, her mind buzzing with more questions.
“Reggie promised to extract revenge and to watch out for us. He swore an oath and everything.” Joan gave a little helpless laugh.
“You should have seen him those days. As keen as mustard, confident that nothing could harm him, that he would attain every single thing that he ever desired at the tip of barking irons.”
Abigail leaned over with interest. She recognized some of her own recklessness in the description of her father. “Then what happened?”
Joan shrugged. “I grew up. He was always a knight in shining armor to me, your father. The man who saved us from the poorhouse. It was a small step to fancy myself in love with him. And I think he enjoyed my devotion. He certainly encouraged it.”
“So…you were wed?”
“If you can call it that. We went up to Scotland and got hand-fast at a time when London became too hot for Reggie. After Gretna Green, he moved his base of operations to Brighton. At that point, he was merely giving instructions from afar. I was pregnant then, you see, with our first child.”
Abigail frowned. “You mean me?”
Joan shook her head, leaning forward to hide her face in her apron. “You had a brother, Abigail. He was beautiful even though he lived but two days.”
Abigail gasped, “What? You never told me this before.”
“I do not like to think about him.”
“H-how did he die? W-was he sickly?”
The way her mother shook her head was slow and miserable. “He was not sick,” even her voice shook. “We were in a gig, returning from the docks. Reggie was checking on some goods coming in from France—smuggled goods. He wanted to show off his new babe, too, to his men—their future chief or some codswallop like that…” Joan bit her lip, seeming lost in thought for a moment. “It was brigands, Abigail. They attacked us for what they thought we had. Little Michael did not survive the encounter.”
Tears were running down Joan’s face, and Abigail could not help crying, too. What an absolutely tragic thing to happen.
“After that, we were more careful. When Reggie realized I was with child again, he sent me to Brighton with his brother, Philip. You were but a month born when we heard that he had died.”
“Oh, Mother,” Abigail flung herself to the ground at her mother's feet, clutching at her knees, trying to offer some comfort.
They held each other, swaying and crying over all the grief their family had endured.
Chapter 18
Aftermath
Percival knocked on the Earl of Huntington's door and then waited, looking around at the passing carriages. Years of practice had stilled all his nervous ticks, but his stomach still churned at the prospect of the conversation ahead of him. However carefully he chose his words, it was going to be difficult.
The butler opened the door and Percival handed him his hat and coat. The man bowed, moving aside for Percival to enter.
“Lady Rosaline is expecting you,” he said.
Percival nodded curtly, allowing the butler to lead him to the parlor, where he was announced with all proper pomp and ceremony. Lady Rosaline got to her feet and Percival almost lifted an eyebrow in surprise at her appearance. Though why he should be surprised at this juncture, he was not quite sure. She wore a gown of floaty yellow confection that gave her an otherworldly air. Her hair was primly knotted atop her head, her cheeks lightly colored with blush. She was the very picture of genteel elegance and all Percival wanted to do, was sigh tiredly.
He took two smart steps towards her, taking hold of her hand and placed a kiss in the air just above it.
“My Lady,” he murmured with a bow.
“Your Grace,” she replied
with a curtsey, voice wispy and delicate.
“I thank you for granting me an audience.”
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