For Abby, however, it had been more than remarkable. It had been overwhelming and humbling.
Mother. Abby tried the word out in her mind and found she liked the sound of it. It felt a little foreign, but in time, that would surely lessen.
“I would love that above all things… Mother.”
Lady Brigston continued to tickle Anne’s chin, but her smile widened, as though she liked the sound of it as well. It was a sweet moment that Abby would always cherish. Mother, daughter, granddaughter.
This is only the beginning, she thought.
The clock chimed the hour, and Abby glanced at it in surprise. Where on earth was Prudence? Callers would arrive soon, and they’d be vastly disappointed if the lady of the house did not attend to them.
As if on cue, Prudence burst into the room, excitedly waving a letter of some sort. “Only look what Knave just received in this morning’s post! It’s from Goyle and Parson. They’re interested in publishing Missives and Mayhem on commission!” She thrust the letter at Abby, her body trembling with excitement. “Can you imagine? I’m beside myself with anticipation. Only think how wonderful it will be to see my name printed on a book!”
Abby took the letter and skimmed its contents. “What does it mean to publish on commission?”
“That I, or rather, Knave, will pay to have it published, and Goyle and Parson will receive ten percent of the commissions. The rest will come to us.”
Abby glanced nervously at her mother-in-law—no, it was mother now—who was blinking at Prudence in astonishment. “You’re having a book published?”
“A romance, to be precise. Isn’t it exciting?”
Lady Brigston looked anything but excited, and Abby felt a little abashed. She hadn’t told her mother about Prudence’s love for the written word or her desire to have stories published. The ton frowned upon trade in any form, be it selling wares on the street or a book in a store. Lady Brigston frowned upon it as well, judging by the look of appall on her face. Abby could almost hear the woman’s thoughts.
The wife of an earl publishing a book to be sold? Scandalous.
“I’ve been writing for ages,” said Prudence, “but I never expected to see my stories in print. Now, thanks to the workings of my dear husband, it may actually come to pass. I can scarce believe it!”
Abby was thrilled for her friend. She only wished Prudence had waited until after Lady Brigston had left to announce her good news. Her mother had turned a worrisome shade of green, as though the thought of an acquaintance entering trade made her ill. Abby was hard-pressed not to smile. She, too, had been surprised by her friend’s wish to be published, but if anyone could tolerate public censure with aplomb, it was Prudence.
“Will you use a name other than your own?” asked Abby, hoping to appease her mother a little. “You could be like that writer of Sense and Sensibility.”
“Why would I do such a thing when it vexes me greatly?” asked Prudence. “I would love nothing more than to write the woman and tell her how much I adore her work—Pride and Prejudice was even more diverting than her first—but how can I when she hides behind such an ambiguous name as A Lady? Oh, how I wish she wouldn’t. I would invite her to tea and beg her to discuss books with me.”
“Oh my.” Lady Brigston looked faint.
Abby tensed, ready to rescue Anne should the woman succumb to a fit of the vapors. “Would you like me to ring for Nurse Lovell, Mother?” she offered. “Anne did not sleep well last night and will probably grow weary soon.”
That seemed to bring Lady Brigston back to her senses. She gathered the baby closer for inspection. “She doesn’t appear drowsy to me. I shall tend to her a while longer, I think.”
By the time she looked back at Prudence, her color was restored. “Are you not concerned with your reputation, Lady Knave?”
Prudence waved a hand in a careless fashion. “A person’s life would be dull indeed without a little scandal attached to her name.”
“This will be more than a little,” said Lady Brigston. “There will be ramifications. You may be shunned by all of society.”
“Not all, I think,” Prudence said with a smile. “My husband will still think well of me, along with his parents and my own. Sophia will still be my sister and Abby my dearest friend.” She looked pointedly at Abby. “Or are you planning to cut me off when my name appears on a book?”
“Only if you do not cease your matchmaking attempts,” said Abby good-naturedly.
”Ah, see?” Prudence grinned at Lady Brigston. “Abby is a dear friend. There are also others who will stand by me as well. As to the rest, I don’t care a groat for their good opinion. The respect of my husband, family, and close friends is all I require.”
If Abby thought her mother would argue this point, she was mistaken. Lady Brigston lapsed into a contemplative silence. After a moment or two she looked down at Anne and murmured, “How nice it would be to care only about the opinions of those who care about you.”
THE SMELL OF smoke, drink, and something foul met Morgan as he stepped into the tavern with the Bow Street Runner he’d hired months ago, a Mr. Dyer. The man was rugged and rough-looking, with a crooked nose, several days’ worth of growth around his mouth, and a jagged scar above his left eye—not that any of that mattered to Morgan. The man had done his job well and with discretion.
During the past several months, Dyer had tracked down a scoundrel by the name of William Penroth in a village called Danset, two hours south of London. He’d also located another woman willing to testify against him. Apparently she’d suffered a similar fate as Abby and longed to see the man brought to justice.
“There.” Dyer pointed a gnarled finger towards a table on the other side of the room, where three men sat playing cards. The youngest had to be Penroth. He was about Abby’s age and had a depraved look about him. His coat lay in a heap on the filthy floor, and his cravat hung loose and wrinkled about his neck, as though he’d been there a while. His hair was disheveled, and his black eyes had the look of a drunkard. Morgan’s hands clenched into fists as he thought of what the blackguard had done to Abby. How satisfying it would be to pummel him within an inch of his life.
Dyer had said he could manage the arrest on his own, but Morgan had insisted on accompanying the man. He wanted to see the look on Penroth’s face when he realized his freedom was about to be snatched away.
A bar maid sashayed past the table, wearing a dirty, low-cut dress. Penroth tucked his cards under his leg, grabbed her hand, and pulled her onto his lap. “Where do you think you’re going?” he drawled, leering at her.
She smiled and tugged on his cravat, pulling his mouth to hers. He returned the kiss greedily, his hands roaming wherever they wished.
A grizzly man to the left rolled his eyes and growled, “Your turn, Penroth.”
Penroth broke free, grabbed his cards, and tried to see around the woman on his lap, but when she attempted to kiss him again, he grumbled, “Out of my way,” and shoved her to the floor. She landed in a disgruntled heap while he went back to examining his cards as though nothing had happened.
Morgan seethed inwardly. He walked to the bar maid and offered a hand to help her to her feet. She glared at Penroth before turning a seductive smile on Morgan. When she began twining her fingers through his hair, he took her by the hands and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Go,” he said, in a kind but stern voice.
She pouted and pushed past him, moving in the opposite direction, no doubt anxious to find another man who’d be interested in her charms. It was how she made her livelihood, but Morgan wondered if she ever wished for a different, better life. Did she even know the possibility existed? Probably not.
’Twas a shame.
Penroth glared at Morgan and Dyer with wary, bloodshot eyes. “What do you want?” he snarled at Dyer. No doubt he’d spied the pair of manacles dangling at Dyer’s side.
“Are you William Penroth?” Dyer asked, even though he already knew the answer.
Penrot
h laid down his cards and leaned back in his chair. “Who wants to know?”
“That’s of no importance to you,” Dyer said.
“It’s also of no importance to me that I tell you my name,” he drawled, examining his cards once more.
“He’s Penroth,” confirmed the grizzly man at his side, adding, “I want no trouble.”
“I’m only here for him,” said Dyer, grabbing Penroth by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
“What’s the meaning of this? Unhand me!” Penroth jerked one hand free and threw an awkward punch at Dyer, who dodged it deftly and grabbed him again, this time with a stronger grip. Manacles were slapped on his wrists, and Dyer jerked him close. “Happy to oblige if the magistrate rules it so, but something tells me you won’t be so lucky.”
It was a shame Penroth appeared too drunk to remember much of this tomorrow. Morgan would love this moment to be branded in his mind forever.
The pig.
Ah, there it was. Hatred. Scorn. Fear. Good. He wasn’t too drunk to feel.
As Dyer dragged him from the tavern, Penroth’s attempts to resist became frenzied. He knocked over several chairs and a table, spilling ale from a tankard across the uneven floor. But he was no match for Dyer, who was both sober and stronger. In a matter of seconds, Penroth was tossed unceremoniously into a rented carriage.
Dyer slammed the door and locked it from the outside before looking back at Morgan. “Will there be anything else, my lord?” He didn’t sound even a little out of breath.
Good man. Morgan had picked the right runner for this job. He held out his hand. “Many thanks, Dyer. You will be well compensated for your trouble.”
Dyer accepted his hand and gave it a solid shake. “Always happy to put away a scoundrel.”
“Just be sure you keep him locked up for a good long while.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. The local magistrate has no tolerance for crimes against innocent women, especially a lady.”
“Glad to hear it. I shall meet you back here on Friday next.”
Dyer grunted, then climbed onto the driver’s seat and spurred the horses forward. Morgan waited until the carriage was out of sight before he walked down the road to the inn, where his groom waited with the horses.
He was now one step closer.
HIS MOTHER’S VOICE came from the darkened drawing room. “Morgan, is that you?”
He squinted to see her, but the room was black. No candles were lit and no fire smoldered in the grate.
He lit a lamp on the side table and carried it into the room, finally spying her in a chair near the fireplace. She wore a dressing gown, cap and slippers, and had a quilt draped over her lap.
“What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked. It was half past four in the morning. Had something happened?
“I was waiting for you,” she said calmly, gesturing to the chair at her side. “Sit, Morgan, there are things we need to discuss.”
Morgan knew if he sat down, he’d be hard pressed to get up again. He blinked weary eyes at his parent. “Can this not wait until morning? Or better still, afternoon?”
“I value my sleep as much as you do and will not sleep a wink until I have unburdened myself. Sit.”
Morgan sighed, placed the candle on the mantle, and collapsed on the chair next to his mother. He leaned forward and rested his head against his palms, waiting for her to speak.
“I learned today that you made an appearance at Lady Fernside’s ball.”
Morgan groaned inwardly. He had known word would reach his mother eventually. He just didn’t plan on being confronted about it at four o’clock in the morning.
“I did,” he said.
“Did you also ignore most everyone, solicit Abby’s hand for the waltz—which Lady Fernside swears you requested—and leave immediately after?”
Morgan frowned. From her accounting, his behavior sounded like that of a madman. In truth, he had felt reckless that evening, but certainly not mad. On the contrary, he’d never felt more sane in his life.
“I spoke to several people, and I didn’t leave immediately following the dance,” he countered. “I paused to pay my respects to Lady Fernside on my way out.” Perhaps “several people” had been a slight exaggeration. In reality, he’d exchanged some half-hearted pleasantries with those who’d waylaid him, then moved on quickly. He’d been more focused on locating Abby than making conversation. But his mother needn’t know that.
“Did it not occur to you that your actions were tantamount to making Abby an offer? Only you can’t offer for her, can you, because it is against the law!” She rubbed her temples with her fingers and grimaced. “You set the tongues to wagging across all of London, and did you think to prepare me for the onslaught? No. Earlier today, I sat here in complete shock with no idea how to explain your motives.”
Morgan felt a pang of guilt. He supposed he should have prepared her, but if anyone could handle an onslaught, as she put it, it was his mother. He was certain she’d managed to disguise her shock and come up with some sort of explanation for her son’s erratic behavior.
“I’m sorry, Mother. If you are worried about my reputation—”
“I’m not as concerned with your reputation as I am with Abby’s. You are a marquess and will weather scandal in time, but Abby will be made to bear the scars for some time. People are speculating that you have taken her as your mistress. I despise speaking plainly about such matters, but you’ve given me no choice. A widow’s reputation may not be as delicate as an innocent’s, but Abby is my daughter, and I will not have her suffer by your hand. Honestly, Morgan, I have never been more appalled by your behavior in my life.”
Morgan ought to feel more repentant, but he hadn’t walked into Lady Fernside’s ball in a state of naivety. Rather, the entire evening had been a calculated move on his part to cause talk. He wanted the ton to know of his interest in Abby. Let them believe the worst in her for now. In time, all would be set to rights—or, at least he’d planned for that outcome.
“I intend to marry her, Mother.”
His announcement was met with silence. Resignation crossed her features, as though she’d been expecting him to say as much while hoping he would not.
“What about your inheritance?” she asked.
“I have learned that if we marry overseas—perhaps Paris—our marriage will be binding and uncontestable. The laws are different there, and—”
“Paris?” she asked faintly. Morgan knew what she was thinking. Another elopement. More talk. More conjecture. How much could their family bear?
With any luck, a little more.
The ton thrived on scandal but didn’t like being ambushed by it. It made them feel obtuse when they preferred to be thought of as clever. At Lady Fernside’s ball, Morgan had made his interest in Abby known—something he would continue to do over the next several weeks. The ton would draw whatever conclusions they wished, but when at last he and Abby returned from Paris as man and wife, society would not feel duped. Rather, he fully expected many to claim they’d deduced his attentions and weren’t at all surprised.
With any luck, Abby would become the notorious wife of the Marquess of Brigston instead of an ostracized woman.
“I know this is not the direction you’d have chosen for my life, but I could never marry another. I love her.”
His mother looked down at her lap, and a ringlet fell forward, shrouding one eye. The other appeared troubled. Morgan felt a pang of sympathy for her. All her life, she’d maintained a reputation that was above reproach, and she’d expected the same from her children. Unfortunately, both her sons had disappointed her in that respect.
Morgan leaned forward and took hold of her hand. “Say you’ll support me in this,” he whispered. “I need you.”
She looked up at him and actually smiled a little. “How is it that one woman can be the cause of so much mischief in our family? If I did not care for Abby as much as I do, I’d despise her. But if truth be known, I migh
t even like her better than you.”
Morgan chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”
She sobered quickly, drawing in a shuddering breath. “It’s hard for me not to care about my standing with the ton—I’ve been raised to value it above all else—but if marriage to Abby will make you both happy, I will support you. I will also look forward to having little Anne at Oakley with us. I feared I would have to let her go at the season’s end, and I have dreaded that day from the first moment I held her in my arms.”
Morgan couldn’t say he understood because he’d never seen the child. “Does she look like her mother?”
“The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and the tiniest golden curls. She’s an angel, even when she howls something terrible.”
Morgan smiled, but there was a reason he hadn’t yet called on Abby or asked to see Anne. If the child took after her father at all, Morgan wasn’t sure he could ever look upon her without the loathing he carried for William Penroth.
“Is it difficult to love her, knowing how her existence came about?” Morgan asked, voicing one of his greatest fears.
His mother did not hesitate. “Oddly enough, it has made her easier to love. She is like the first flower that blooms in the spring, so vibrant and beautiful. She is the light in the darkness, the good in the bad. How can that be hard to love?”
Morgan was touched by her words. Abby had said something similar to him long ago, and while he’d admired her sentiments at the time, he couldn’t fathom she’d truly feel that way when the child came.
He’d been wrong.
“You should call on Abby and ask to see her,” said his mother. “I’ll wager my favorite bonnet you will be charmed in an instant.”
“What the deuce would I do with your favorite bonnet?” Morgan asked dryly.
His mother peered at him in confusion, then burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her hands, but when that didn’t stifle her laughter, she doubled over, smothering it in the quilt on her lap. When at last she lifted her head, tears of joy leaked from the corners of her eyes.
“Do forgive me,” she gasped. “I just pictured you wearing a bonnet and—” She burst into giggles once more.
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