by Sawyer North
When she swept inside, all conversation ceased. Suitors and guests alike locked her in their respective gazes, expectant. James was the first to break the spell.
“So, you have decided to join us after all.” He gave her a wink. “Very prudent. A good quality in a dutiful wife.”
She tried not to glare, but instead dropped a faint curtsy. “The time for me to choose has come. Any last words?”
She glanced at Sir Hugh and waited for him to end the charade. To produce an arrest warrant and lead her away. He simply stood with a drink in one hand and dipped his forehead toward her. Mildly surprised, she faced Lord Garvey. “So, how is this to be done?”
He motioned to his sheaf of documents spread atop a serving table. “Very simple, Lady Margaret. You choose a suitor. If the suitor accepts, I will note the details and ask for your respective signatures. The reading of the banns will commence on the morrow.”
“Thank you,” she said. She clasped her hands at her waist and faced the knot of suitors, who all waited expectantly. Lord Canterfield, who saw her merely as a stepping stone to power. Lord Rayleigh, who would fund his gambling with her dowry. Lord Jeffrey, who would forsake their marriage bed the first chance he got. Lord Warwick, who had humiliated her before learning how she could end his family’s financial duress. The Earl of Ravensheugh, who had broken Henry and now sought to do the same to her, brazenly confident that he had already won. And Sir Hugh, come at Henry’s bidding, present only to…well, she still did not know. A bag of rotten apples from which to choose. Should she select the man least likely to reject her when Sir Hugh inevitably revealed her shameful secret? Or the man in the best position to help her? No choice made sense. She considered how many steps it was to the ballroom door, and how far she could run in a ball gown before they caught her.
“Stop!”
Henry’s shout spun her around. He leaned with one hand against the doorframe, out of breath and with flushed face. He locked her in his wild gaze while refilling his lungs. “Have you chosen?”
His question came plaintively, desperately.
“I have not.”
Relief swept his features, and he exhaled loudly. He straightened his jacket and cravat, and strode toward her. Before she could react, he captured her hands in his. Heat emanated from his eyes.
“Lady Margaret,” he said in the voice of a cello. “I am unworthy to occupy the same world as you, let alone the same room. I am unfit to look upon you, let alone hold your hands. Yet here I stand, sorry for every time I doubted you, underestimated you, or failed to recognize you for the miracle you are. And from here onward, regardless of what happens, I vow to fight for you every minute, every hour, every day until your honor is restored.” Her hands began to tremble as he drew in a deep breath. “And though I am your inferior in every way, I would begin by offering you the only thing of value I have to give. My hand in marriage.”
Words failed Lucy. She simply stared into his smoldering eyes, unmoored. Henry. The man who had raised her up only to knock her down again. When the intensity of his gaze wavered, she saw through his determination to the fear beneath. Fear that she would reject him, as she rightly should.
“Nonsense!” The exclamation from James broke the stalemate and drew her attention. He stepped to Henry’s shoulder and leaned in to his ear. “In addition to your many failings, you do not even own a title.”
When Henry released her hands and leveled a deadly glare at his brother, Lucy knew. Henry had a plan. Her heart fluttered with something resembling hope.
“Tell him, Lord Garvey,” said Henry.
“It seems,” said Lord Garvey with great dramatic cadence, “That Mr. Beaumont is a knight of the Portuguese court, as evidenced by the medal awarded him by the King of Portugal for his service to the royal family of said country.”
James faced Lord Garvey, his face painted with incredulity. “Portugal? Portugal, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“No.” James lifted a finger at him. “The will requires a British title.”
Lord Garvey smiled wickedly and waved a hand over the document. “The duke’s will requires British suitors. It makes no such claim over the title, so long as it is royally bestowed. And the King of Portugal is, as you may know, royalty, so I declare Mr. Beaumont’s claim as a suitor to be valid.”
Lord Garvey slapped the sheaf of papers to make his not-so-gentle point. James seemed ready to argue before turning to Lucy, lifting his chin, and extending a hand. “Step away from my worthless half-brother, if you know what is good for you. Take my hand.”
Lucy locked her spine and lifted her chin to match his. “No.”
James stared at her with astonishment before his features grew hard with anger. “You bird-witted chit. You miserable country trollop. I can ruin you with a word.”
“Do it, then. Follow through with your threat, if you are man enough to do so. I am weary of the lies. I stand ready.”
His nose twitched with rage. He lifted his finger toward her and addressed the room. “This woman is a thief. She is wanted by the authorities. I sought to save her that disgrace, but she has made her disastrous choice.”
The collected guests grew expressions of shock and mumbled to one another in confusion.
“Please explain,” said Lord Garvey. “And if this is a fabrication, Ravensheugh, I will strike you down myself.”
James smiled with self-righteousness and explained the circumstances of Lucy’s upbringing, from her capture by Steadman to her association with criminals to her part in the robbery at Shooter’s Hill. Upon finishing, he stood with arms folded and features locked in cold satisfaction. Lord Garvey faced Lucy with alarm.
“Is this true?”
“All of it, sir. Although my involvement with the robbery was under duress and quite unintended.” She motioned to the fuming James. “His revelation comes too late, though. Bow Street already knows this information, which is the reason for Sir Hugh’s presence.”
Lord Canterfield, who had gone white as a sheet, cocked his head far to one side. “This cannot be true.”
“It is,” she said. “And I am glad the lie is over. All of you deserve to know the taint of what I would bring to your name. I expect to leave this place in custody to face the consequences of my actions—consequences that may cost me everything. I beg your forgiveness for my deceit and offer you this opportunity to withdraw your interest to preserve your honor.”
Lord Canterfield took a step backward, as did most of the other suitors, a symbol of their collective retreat. A hollow began opening inside her chest when Henry reappeared before her and recaptured her hands.
“I do not withdraw, Lucy. I will fight for you as promised. I will begin by finding Steadman again and not failing as before.”
She blinked rapidly as the details of his statement circled her brain. “Again? As before?”
Henry closed his eyes and nodded before reopening them. “When I left you, I tracked Steadman to a tavern in Twickenham and begged him to take actions to absolve you. When my persuasion failed, I told your story at Bow Street and convinced the magistrate to send Sir Hugh here for the purposes of writing a favorable report that might clear your name.”
Lucy stared at Henry with realization. He had already begun fighting for her! He had taken a desperate chance, but he had done it for her. Not for his long-sought redemption. However, her fate now relied on the whim of the Bow Street magistrate, a man she had never met. She engaged Sir Hugh.
“How will your report read?”
“Extremely favorably, my lady.”
“And the magistrate. Will he accept your recommendation?”
Her blood ran cold when Sir Hugh frowned. He sighed. “Sir Nathaniel is a rigid man. I wish I could give you assurance, but I just don’t know.”
Lucy’s heart fell further before a voice called out from her left. “I d
o know. And he already has.”
She and Henry spun as one to face none other than Steadman as he sauntered into the ballroom. Her jaw went slack. The arrival of the king of the fairies could not have left her more surprised. When Steadman reached her, he produced a letter from his coat pocket and waved it overhead for all to see. “I hold in my hand a letter from Sir Nathaniel Conant, magistrate of Bow Street, who is responsible for the investigation of the robbery at Shooter’s Hill.”
He handed it to a startled Lord Garvey to examine.
“Seems authentic,” the old man said. “The magistrate’s seal remains intact.”
Lord Garvey returned the letter to Steadman. Her former ward opened the letter and read the contents in silence while Lucy watched with pent breath, wondering what this meant for her. Was it an accusation? An arrest warrant? Steadman finally began reading a portion of the letter aloud.
“Sir Nathaniel writes, ‘After a thorough interrogation of many witnesses and parties knowledgeable of Lady Margaret Huntington’s presence at Shooter’s Hill on the day in question, the office of Bow Street has determined that she was a prisoner of the gang and otherwise uninvolved in the crime. As such, this office absolves her of any wrongdoing in the unfortunate event, and instead commends her courage for surviving the ordeal and holds her up as the very model of noble fortitude.’”
A wave of deliverance washed over Lucy, threatening to buckle her knees. Henry caught an elbow to steady her. Charlotte and the duchess beamed while the remaining guests erupted into surprised chatter. All except James, who stood as a simmering volcano with arms crossed. Lucy shook her head to free it from fog and gaped anew at Steadman.
“How did you get this letter?”
“An interesting story,” he replied. “I’ll bore you with the details later. However, suffice it to say that young Henry’s efforts to gain my cooperation succeeded. Though seemingly futile, his insistent request lit a fuse that blew apart my blasted pride.” His voice caught and he paused before flashing a smile. “So, imagine my surprise when I surrendered to Bow Street, confessed my crimes, and negotiated your innocence.”
Lucy shook her head in disbelief. The Beau Monde Highwayman had turned himself in after fifteen years. For her. And Henry had instigated the entire event. For her. Tears of gratitude threatened. “I owe you both a debt.”
Henry shook his head and gently cupped her chin. “No, Lucy. It is I who owes you. I am the one who is saved.”
James’s volcano erupted. “You are beyond salvation! You are a fiend who has trampled our family name in the dust for too long. You are…”
“Shut up, James!”
Lucy’s eyes went wide as she stared at Charlotte. The eternally joyful sister glared at James with gritted teeth. “Henry possesses more character than ten of you. You are the one who sullies our parents’ names, and I will bear witness to it no longer. I insist you leave my home at first light and do not bother to return.”
James returned Charlotte’s glare, though with some uncertainty. After a silent stalemate that sucked the air from the room, he spun about and departed the ballroom. Silence held in his wake until Steadman chuckled.
“Odious man. Now, Mr. Beaumont, you were preparing to extol Lucy’s virtues?”
Henry laughed. “I was.” His eyes met hers again, lit with strange fire. “From the moment we met on the road, my life has become a chaotic run of madness and passion. Each passing day revealed your magnificence like a sculpture emerging from a block of marble. Your courage. Your determination. Your wit and intelligence. Your ability to sift the absurd from the rational. I rise each day with only one thought. What will Lucy do today? What will she say to me today? But mostly I have come to believe what you seem to doubt. That you are beautiful in face and form and in here.”
With those last words, Henry touched his chest. Hearing such praise from the man who was once her adversary threatened to unlock her heart and send it soaring. However, a final doubt held flight at bay. “But what of your destiny? What of your belief that you are a doomed man?”
He smiled and stroked her chin. “I was wrong. How can a man who loves you so deeply ever be lost? You are my destiny. You are my hope. And I would have you as my wife, now and forever, if you would have me.”
He winced slightly, apparently expecting the worst. But she knew her answer before he finished speaking. She had known for weeks. “I love it when you admit you are wrong. Almost as much as I love you. And I will be your wife.”
His wince transformed into a speechless sunbeam. The duchess clapped and radiated a smile at Lucy before turning to address the guests. “I thank you for your participation in our gathering and consider all of you friends who may call on me at any time. As of now, however, the matter of matrimony is settled.”
As chatter over the startling events exploded around them, Henry pulled Lucy from the room and through the sprawl of the house to the rear entrance. He took a lantern from a sconce and led her onto the moonlit back patio. Her senses reeled as she considered the events of the past hour and how her future had bloomed as a result. In the moonlight, Henry smiled at her, seemingly unable to speak. She forged a path into the silence.
“You realize, Henry, that you are likely the only wet nurse in the world with a title because of it.”
He laughed deeply. “And a medal. Do not forget my medal.”
“Oh, yes. How could I forget the medal? I believe it would terrify small children if left lying about.”
He chuckled and touched her cheek. “Then I shall keep it locked away to spare our children the horror.”
Her breath caught with those last words. Our children. She gripped his hands tightly and beamed up at his shadowed face. He grinned back, unabashedly as an addled schoolboy. He leaned his forehead toward her and whispered. “Thank you, my lady.”
The whisper melted into a wonderfully inappropriate kiss, long, slow, and full of promise. He released her hands to encircle her waist, and she stretched upward. Her trembling hands climbed his shoulders to reunite in the unruly locks behind his neck. His musky fragrance invaded her senses, igniting pleasure that stirred her body and soul. In the throes of joy, she wondered how she could truly live without a lifetime of moments like these.
“Kiss her well, boy.”
Steadman’s voice pulled her from Henry’s lips. She found him standing with the duchess on the patio, both of them wearing bemused smiles. She faced them with mild embarrassment before a nagging thought came into focus.
“Steadman. You said you surrendered to Bow Street. How is it that you are here? Did you escape?”
He laughed. “This is where the story twists as a willow in the wind. After I spent three nights in irons, Sir Nathaniel approached me with an intriguing proposition. A reprieve offered by the Crown in exchange for my service.”
“Your service?”
“I could remain free so long as I served the Bow Street magistrate in the role of bringing criminals to justice. He explained that my connections and reputation uniquely qualified me for the job. Furthermore, the Crown wishes to rehabilitate me. You see, rogue sons of noble houses undermine the claim of the ruling class that we are superior to common folk.”
Lucy blinked, stunned by the explanation. “And you accepted the offer?”
“Of course. What other choice did I have? Besides, criminals hail from all classes, even noble ones. I asked only that my first assignment be to clear your name. Sir Nathaniel agreed and gave me the letter proclaiming your innocence. I rode hard to get here in time.”
She stared in amazement. “Then you are not to hang?”
“Not today, anyway. We will see what happens next.”
“I…” she stuttered, “I am pleased. The thought of you in a noose brings me nothing but distress.”
“Do not be distressed, then. I am on the right side of the law for now.” He gently took her hand.
“And I am truly sorry.”
She blinked. “Sorry? For what?”
“For everything. For what you lost because of my actions. Your father. Your freedom. Your life.”
The apology surprised her. It was not in Steadman’s nature to admit fault. As she considered his request, she found an odd emotion welling in her breast.
Forgiveness.
She dipped her head to him and squeezed his hand. “I accept your apology. And who knows? If you had not taken me that day, I might have been lost at sea with my father. I thank you for taking responsibility for me, and for loving me enough to make me strong.”
His chin trembled briefly and his eyes grew bright before he withdrew his hand. He cleared his husky throat. “But come now. I am no longer your protector. You take care of yourself now. I come to offer my blessing for your matrimonial bliss.”
“As do I,” said the duchess. “And not a moment too soon.”
Henry swept Lucy into a joyful embrace.
“Did you hear, Lucy?” His whispered question tickled the confines of her ear. “We are to be wed!”
She giggled, unrestrained. “Yes, we are.”
When he set her down, Steadman shook his head and chuckled. “Lucy. Henry. It seems you two are better thieves than I ever was.”
“How so?” she asked.
“I stole gold and silver. You, on the other hand, have very clearly stolen each other’s hearts. With such skill I cannot compete.”
“Did you hear that, Mr. Beaumont?” she said. “You are apparently a master thief.”
“Of course. I learned from the best. And I learned so well that I stole the love of a woman quite above my station.”
“It took you entirely too long to realize that. I was beginning to wonder…”
His lips abruptly and passionately found hers, and she very quickly forgot what she was going to say.