“So much movement will pull—”
“Oh, love, let me show you a way.” He took her hand and led her over to the bed where he started working the fastenings of her dress.
“I’m thinking you are only after my money.”
The gleam in his eyes darkened. “Yes. I’m a fortune hunter.” Her bodice loosened and fell. “And I’ve found my fortune.”
She chuckled. “With this treasure you’ll thrive.”
“Yes.” He nuzzled her neck. “And… into bed we will dive.”
She tugged out his shirt tails and eased the shirt over his head. “No diving, husband. Not until you’ve healed.”
He helped her step out of her dress and went to work on her stays. “Well then, with this treasure we’ll bide.” He sat down on the bed. “And into bed we will slide. And—”
She pressed her lips to his, and eased him down, kissing him for long moments before bracing herself above him. His eyes had gone dark and no blood stained his bandage.
“You’re a treasure, Paulette.”
“And you’re my treasure.” Her fingers shook as she fumbled with his trousers.
“And I’ll bring you great pleasure.”
He would. He did. She blinked back tears.
“What’s this?” Bink swiped a thumb across her cheek.
She ran a hand through his flaming hair. “I’m happy, Bink.”
“So am I, my jolly Polly. So am I.”
The End
If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a review at Amazon or Goodreads.com.
A Note from the Author
Readers may recognize Bink Gibson from my 2014 novel, Bella’s Band, and my 2016 novella, The Marquess and the Midwife. I knew Bink would have to have his own story some day, and here he is! I hope you’ve enjoyed his and Paulette’s love story, set in the turbulent post-war year of 1819.
As usual, all historical errors are mine alone. One of the major events of that year was the Peterloo Massacre, on August 16, 1819. I must beg the indulgence of historical purists, because that date was actually a Sunday, a bit off from the timeline of my story.
The legalisms involving Scottish divorce were a topic of discussion among members of The Beau Monde, the chapter of Romance Writers of America devoted to Regency romance, inspired by the colorful life of Henry Paget, 1st Marquess of Anglesey.
Many thanks go to the generous authors of Romance Writers of America for advice and encouragement, with special thanks to authors and beta readers Tari Lynn Porter-Jewett, Linda Phan, and Jenny Hansen; to my fellow chapter-mates from East Valley Authors RWA; and to my daughter, Alicia, for some marketing suggestions. Thanks also to Editor Tessa Shapcott, and to Cami Brite for the amazing cover design.
And, as ever, I’m grateful to my husband for his unfailing support and enduring patience.
I love hearing from readers! You can contact and follow me on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Pinterest, and at my website AlinaKField.com. For special notices about sales and other news, please consider signing up for my occasional newsletters here.
I promise I won’t spam you or sell your email address!
Best regards, and happy reading!
Alina K. Field
Also By Alina K. Field
The Marquess and the Midwife
A 2017 RONE Award Nominee
Havenlock Press
Uncovering a lie drives a new marquess back from a self-imposed exile at Christmas to find the only woman he’s ever loved. Finding her turns out to be easy, uncovering her stunning secrets, a bit harder. But winning her back will be the greatest challenge of all.
Chapter One
IN THE GREAT SPRAWL OF London, where would he find her?
Virgil Radcliffe, Marquess of Wallenford, pushed open the coach door himself and swung out on his good leg.
Hackwell House rose before him, all gleaming windows and freshly painted trim. Last year Steven Beauverde, the latest Earl of Hackwell, had uncovered his own brother’s killer. Surely he could help discover a woman gone missing in London.
If she were here. If she still lived.
As the coach wobbled around a corner, Ameline Dawes braced her heels and locked each child to her. “Very soon, girls,” she said, infusing her voice with loud cheer.
“Move out of the bloody—“
At the curse from outside she covered their small ears and pulled both little heads tight against her.
“And you’ll see Thomas and Robby again,” she cried, hoping to drown the coachman’s shouted rebuke at whoever had cursed him.
It wouldn’t do for those words to fly out in an earl’s nursery.
Outside, the streets were just as dank and dreary and dirty as she remembered from her confinement here three years before. London in late December was no place for a lady to bring a babe into the world, and no place for a lady—well, a former gentlewoman—to bring the two squirming souls Ameline had tucked on each side of her, her bright, beautiful girls.
She squeezed her eyes and took a deep breath—fatherless they were, but still the lights of her life.
She’d rather have spent Christmas at their cottage in the grounds of the children’s home at Longview, where she worked as a teacher and general healer to the children served by Lady Hackwell’s charity, and midwife to the local women. Still, the journey had been uneventful, if one could discount twin tantrums, a bout of motion sickness, and assorted disputes over best access to the windows.
She did discount them, as best as her patience would allow. Between the girls’ antics and the muddy winter roads, she was fair wrung out. Well, in truth, she was fair wrung out most days, so why should this one be different?
And from the contents of Lord Hackwell’s last express, she could plan on a full night ahead and more stuffed-down worry.
She glanced at her twins and couldn’t help smiling. She was rightfully proud that she’d been able to provide for them, and grateful for her benefactress. The trials of the journey were small compared to what Lady Hackwell had done for her. And in spite of her impending confinement, Lady Hackwell had promised a celebration of the girls’ Christmas birthday.
Because of her confinement, Ameline could be certain any guest list would be limited to the one old army friend of his lordship who Lady Hackwell had said would be visiting. There’d be no chance she’d run into someone from her past life, before she’d become Mrs. Dawes, teacher and midwife.
“I’m hungry.” Dee said in the throaty voice that made people mistake her for a boy.
“Me too.” Em echoed her larger twin.
“Soon, little ones.”
Outside, crowds bunched and mingled at the edge of the traffic, all that humanity crowded together so a woman could barely breathe. London had never been her favorite destination. And London in a dismal December, the days so short one had scarcely five hours of grey daylight, and so abominably moist one could barely feel any warmth and—
“Look.” Dee pressed her nose to the window.
Ameline peeled back her dark mood and forced a smile, reminding herself that London was also a place that could be filled with wonders, especially in the week before Christmas. They’d passed shop windows hung with pine boughs and red ribbons, seen girls hawking tied bundles of mistletoe, and outside, here on the edge of the park, was a swarthy street peddler turning the crank on a hand organ while his uniformed monkey danced.
“That is a monkey,” Ameline said. “Like the picture in the book at home.”
“Mukkey.” Dee bounced against the padded leather of Lord Hackwell’s traveling chaise, tossing off the rug that had warmed them, sending Em into a howl.
Ameline rescued the blanket from the floor. As her head came up, the chaise turned a corner into a square lined with massive townhouses.
She settled both girls and tucked the warm wool back around them.
“I want to see,” Em moaned.
“Go back,” Dee said.
Ameline took in a breath. What with tending
to Lady Hackwell and assisting her teacher, Mrs. Crawford, with a birth expected to be difficult, there would be little time for looking at shop windows and monkeys. No time actually. “He was a frightfully funny sight, wasn’t he?” They’d turned into Berkeley Square where, please God, they’d soon find worthier distractions.
Dee squawked and Em started up with her, the way cats did when a fight was underway.
“Look, Dulciana, Emma. We’ve stopped.”
They had indeed. The door opened and a young man in livery set down the coach stairs. A dark patch covered one of his eyes and part of the scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw.
In the three-and-a-half years since Waterloo, England had been filled with displaced and often permanently maimed soldiers, some who’d served under the earl when he’d been mere Major Beauverde. This was another of Lord Hackwell’s veterans, the sharp livery making him look as if he’d rejoined his regiment.
The earl and his lady were ones to take in wounded strays, and didn’t Ameline know it.
The footman handed her out and the scents of the city rushed into her lungs—coal smoke and damp, and a flavor one didn’t want to think too much about. Why Lady Hackwell had chosen to have her baby in London, instead of her country estate, she couldn’t fathom.
Dee and Em jostled each other at the coach door, but both pink mouths opened at the sight of the young man’s mangled face. He grinned and whisked them up into strong arms. “There now, little misses, we have a few muddy steps to walk, so I’ll just carry you, shall I?”
Dee frowned and put a finger into the deep scar.
Ameline pulled out her instrument bag and followed the footman past two noble townhouses, to the gleaming door of Hackwell House. Another coach had blocked the way of their chaise, and servants unloaded baggage from it.
The hair on her neck fluttered. The coach was black with a burgundy trim, large and comfortable…
No. It could not be his. There were many such coaches about. This one, as grimy as it was, might even be hired.
The coach must belong to the friend Lady Hackwell had written about, the army friend who’d returned from roaming the Continent and begged a room with them. He’d be no bother to the ladies, she’d said.
The guest wouldn’t be him. He’d never mentioned Lord Hackwell’s name, and besides, he had his own grand house in town.
Strange that a man would visit during his hostess’s lying in, and stranger still that the Hackwells would allow it. He must be a very good friend, indeed. And perhaps he might keep his lordship distracted during the worst of the labor.
In any case, it was none of Ameline’s affair. She was no more than a special kind of servant in this business.
As she drew nearer the visitor’s coach, she could see the gold tip of a heraldic shield, the rest of the insignia lurking under a coat of road grime.
Her heart thundered, and inside her gloves, her hands heated and chilled. The crosses and poppies of the Wallenford arms had been burned into her memory, but surely they were not hidden there. And surely, this coach was too tired and beaten up to be that special, grand, and very comfortable coach commissioned by the last marquess.
Tears welled and she blinked them back.
Don’t be a ninny. It wasn’t him. The last mention of him had been a news item that’d put him in Vienna doing some fusty task for the Crown, a task entirely inappropriate to his character. And good riddance.
And she had her own work to do. Her heart quaked and she took a deep breath to settle it. She’d been in attendance with expert midwives at many births, but this was only the third she would manage, on her own, since Mrs. Crawford was down with her back. And the other new mothers had been farmers’ wives.
But…this was London, and if needs must, Lady Hackwell could call on one of Mrs. Crawford’s other apprentices as well as the best accoucheur. Ameline could have the coachman return in an hour with fresh horses and be on her way home with the girls.
Yes. That would be better entirely. Her ladyship would be in good hands, and Ameline could dodge this guest of the Hackwells, whoever he might be.
Heart clanging again, she stopped short and lifted her hand to hail her chaise, only to spot it pulling away. Another servant carrying her and the girls’ baggage all but plowed into her.
“Mrs. Dawes.” A young maid rushed down the steps and tugged Em from the scarred footman’s arms.
“Jenny.” Squealing, Em crushed herself against the maid, while Dee wriggled in the footman’s arms.
Ameline greeted the maid, a Longview girl who’d gone into service, and under the impassive gaze of the starched butler, Alton, they slipped in and handed over their cloaks.
Her breath eased. No handsome noblemen lurked in the hall, only servants, but a staircase loomed, shadowed at the top, daring her to risk the journey to her ladyship’s room.
“The pains are started, and her ladyship keeps asking after you,” Jenny said. “I’ll take these two. Thomas and Robby are waiting for ‘em.”
Thomas and Robby were Lord Hackwell’s young brother and nephew, respectively, both hellions.
Ameline hesitated.
Jenny grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the peace in the nursery, and the kitchen maid is there too. Mary’s with Lady H.”
Mary, Lady Hackwell’s longtime maid-of-all-work, now ran the nursery and could easily handle four boisterous children. But her steady hand in the birthing room would be a blessing.
“Don’t let them run about. They must stay in the nursery, out of the way of his lordship and his guest.”
“Yes, mum, and a great lord is ‘e, this guest. ‘E’s just arrived.” Jenny took both girls by the hand. “And ever so ‘andsome,” she whispered with a cheeky grin. “Now let’s go ‘ave a biscuit before Master Thomas eats ‘em all.”
Ameline watched them head up the stairs, swallowing her own smile. She had tried very hard, but there’d always be a touch of the Seven Dials in Jenny.
And perhaps the world was better for that.
A masculine throat cleared. “May I carry your smaller bag, Mrs. Dawes?”
The white haired butler already held her large traveling case in one hand. The scarred footman had disappeared with the children’s things. “I’ll carry this one,” she said. “Lead the way to her ladyship.”
“Would you not like to freshen up first?”
She checked the hem of her skirt. She’d mostly kept it out of the mud, but Mrs. Crawford said cleanliness must always be the first medicine applied. She had a fresh work dress in her bag, and it would be good to be able to wash.
“Yes, thank you, and I will be but a moment.”
“We are a bit short-staffed, but I can send up a kitchen maid to help—”
“No.” She’d long ago abandoned dresses that required a maid. “Best to put her to heating water.”
“Very well.” He led her up the richly carpeted stairs. “Your chamber is just this way.”
An Aubusson runner stretched from one closed door at the far left of the stairs to an opposing one at the other end. As she turned to follow Alton, she heard the click of a door latch and glanced over her shoulder. A man was exiting the far room, his form and face lost in the shadows. She turned quickly and entered her chamber.
Virgil struggled into a clean shirt and coat by himself. He’d left his own man in Dover, waiting for the rest of his crates and dealing with the infernal tedium of customs. In any case, Kimble was a secretary, not a valet. He’d dispensed with those ages ago in Vienna when he caught one out as a spy—for Austria, no less.
And there was little help to be found in the house because Hackwell had sent most of his servants off to have Christmas with their families.
He chuckled. Unconventional, Hackwell was, and his lady too, apparently, though Virgil had not had the pleasure of meeting her, and wasn’t likely to, under the circumstances.
The old butler had put him in a room fronting the square, the heavy curtains and thick glazing still leak
ing in traffic noise, but never mind. He generally drank his way to sleep, anyway.
Murmuring voices were barely audible in the corridor. Hackwell had greeted him at the front door, threatening to send up a repast, and Virgil would have none of it. A night of drinking with his old commander would be just the thing, for both of them, probably. Hackwell had looked none too composed before running off to check on his lady.
Virgil limped to the door and stepped out. At the other end of the corridor, the butler was ushering a guest—a woman—into a chamber.
The skin on Virgil’s neck prickled, and when she cast a glance back in profile, his breath caught. Her bonnet obstructed all but a straight nose, full lips, and a determined chin.
She was the right height, the right stature also. Before he could see more, Alton blocked his view, and the door closed on her.
He shook his head. The dress, dark, plain, and ugly, was wrong. His sister’s companion had always favored more colorful dresses.
How very odd.
Hackwell’s ancient retainer hurried over. “Is there aught that you need, milord?”
“Thank you, I am well settled. I see there is another guest.”
The butler inclined his head. “That is the midwife.”
“Indeed.” He swallowed a smile and went to find the master of the house. Leave it to Hackwell to give the midwife a better room than a marquess.
Annabelle Beauverde, Lady Hackwell, opened the bedchamber door herself and pulled Ameline into as much of a hug as she could manage around her great swollen belly.
“My water has burst,” she said, “and the pain is coming at regular intervals. And I am pacing, as you advised me to do.”
The pain etched on her ladyship’s face drove away all of Ameline’s own worries. She had a knack for this, even Mrs. Crawford had said so. Here was a woman who needed her, and here she would be, and stay, until—please, God—the child was safely delivered and the mother in good health.
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