Queen

by Heather Gray

  "Would you be content if I demanded you take a boring accountant's job for the rest of your life?"

  "None of that matters. I want you by my side. The rest is unimportant. We can work it out together, but none of it matters to me — not unless you agree to share it with me."

  Maggie and Red had descended the stairs by then and stood nearby. Owen's parents had come out from the drawing room, too, watching.

  Isabel tapped a finger against her cheek. "I might need to think about this some."

  Red rolled his eyes, and Maggie chuckled.

  Mrs. Loring held tight to her husband's arm as they took in the scene.

  Owen groaned. "Put me out of my misery already."

  Isabel drew her words out. "I would consider marrying you, but there's something you need to tell me first."

  Owen lifted an eyebrow. "What would that be?"

  "Your codename."

  Owen's mother frowned in puzzlement. Isabel, on the other hand, stood there expectantly, her hands folded in front of her, demure as the most well-bred lady. "Why?"

  "You knew mine before you realized it belonged to me, but you've never told me yours. Or do you not have one?"

  Owen swept a hand through his hair.

  "Ah, so you do have one. You just don't care for it."

  "Is this necessary?"

  Isabel nodded. "Absolutely."

  Owen crooked his finger to bring her closer. Isabel stepped up to him, and he spoke the name for her alone.

  She gave him an odd look and asked, "Why?"

  He leaned close again, letting his lips whisper against the sensitive skin of her ear. "I'm good with books."

  Isabel stepped away from him again, her feet moving in rhythm with some dance she alone heard. "Hm, I see."

  Owen waited. He wasn't going to ask again. The answer was in her eyes, but he wanted to make her say it after she'd tormented him so.

  With an exaggerated sigh, Isabel said, "All right. I shall let you wed me, but I warn you, I have nothing to offer in dowry except my love."

  Owen captured her wrist with his hand, pulled her close, and ran his lips along her jaw line. "The world has never known a more priceless dowry."

  Isabel shivered under his touch. Owen moved to kiss her again whilst Red cleared his throat most vocally.

  Owen glanced at the red-haired man, whose arms were crossed and whose eyes threatened bodily harm. Maggie patted Red's back. "Don't you worry about a thing. I can mix up a big enough batch of fish stew to keep the young man in check until the wedding day arrives."

  Red uncrossed his arms, reached down, and squeezed Maggie's hand.

  The move didn't go unnoticed by Isabel, either. Her smile could have lit all of London without the need for a single lantern. Voice soft enough so it traveled no further than Owen, she said, "It's about time, you two."

  The group moved in unison, encircling Isabel and Owen with their many congratulations. Red congratulated Owen with a handshake that would have put the Norse gods to shame, all the while using his eyes to promise an untimely death should Owen ever hurt Isabel. He didn't mind. His wife-to-be was well loved, and that mattered more than any mortal danger he might face from Red.

  As the hubbub settled down, Mrs. Loring pulled Isabel aside. "I didn't know there was proof to exonerate your parents or any of the rest of what had gone on. Mr. Loring only recently told me. I'm so sorry. I never believed the accusations. I've worried about you all these years. I tried to convince myself you were with family that loved you, but deep down I was afraid for you, afraid something terrible like what happened to your parents would happen to you. I loved your mum like a sister, and…" Mrs. Loring's words faltered, and her eyes clouded with a pain so palpable Isabel was certain she could reach out and touch it.

  She pulled the older woman into a heart-deep hug. "Mum adored you, too."

  "And now we're going to be family again." Mrs. Loring offered a watery smile.

  Isabel glanced up to find Owen watching them. "Family." There was nothing else to say; that one word captured it all.

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later

  "Something came for you in the post today. Two things, actually."

  Isabel peeked up to see Owen entering the sitting room. Maggie was trying to teach her to sew, but Isabel was hopeless. Any chance to get away without hurting her friend's feelings would be welcome. "Oh?"

  Owen nodded. "This one's from Parliament." He held a note out to her.

  Isabel broke the seal with trembling hands. She'd tried not to think about it, and she'd decided she would be fine either way, but she desperately wanted her parents' names cleared.

  Owen read the letter out loud over her shoulder as she studied the single sheet of paper.

  "It is the conclusion of this body of Parliament that Ian and Henrietta Thorpe did not conspire against their country. They are innocent of wrongdoing in the eyes of their king, their government, and their fellow citizens. A public announcement will be made forthwith…"

  The remainder of the letter was filled with official jargon for which Isabel had no use. She hugged the letter to her chest and sighed.

  Owen tugged her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. "I know it doesn't change anything that's happened, but I'm happy the record has been set straight."

  Isabel blinked back her tears and smiled at her husband. "Thank you," she whispered. Then, her voice stronger, she reached for the other missive he held. "So what of my other letter? Does that contain even better news?"

  He studied it for a moment. "I don't recognize the handwriting on this one. Should I be worried?"

  Isabel chuckled. "Have we been wed so long, husband, that you managed to memorize the handwriting of every person who might ever have need to write me?"

  Owen held the letter out of her reach. "You will pay for such insolent behavior, dear wife."

  She chuckled. "What did you have in mind? Shall I be forced to darn all your socks?"

  Owen winced. Her last attempt at darning socks hadn't gone so well. Not even Maggie had been able to fix the damage. "A kiss, I think."

  Isabel batted her lashes and moved in close as if she planned to kiss him. Then she lunged for the letter, tugged it from his hand, and danced away.

  "Is that how it shall be for the rest of our married life? I say one thing, and you do the opposite?"

  "Not at all. I'll almost always do what you say." She again sashayed in close and this time gave him a kiss. As she moved back out of the circle of his reach, she added, "Just not in the way you expect."

  "Of course not," Owen answered. "Heaven forbid we do anything ordinary or predictable."

  Isabel grinned at him as she broke the seal on the letter. Her smile faded as she read.

  "What is it?"

  She looked up. "It's from Phineas. He's asking for help."

  Owen whistled softly. "Why do I have the feeling this is related to Lady Rutherford's death?"

  Isabel glanced up from the letter again. "I was there when Tobias told you about it. An unidentified man publicly confronted her with claims that a witness saw her push Lord Rutherford to his death."

  "And the next day she was found dead in her bedchamber." Owen's voice was hesitant, the words forming a statement while his voice asked a question.

  With a brisk nod, Isabel met her husband's gaze. "We still don't know why she showed up at the ne Hurlants. Was she responsible for the gold and bribery? Is there any proof she killed her husband? We need to help. If Tobias is right, Phineas has no one else to whom he can turn, and I don't believe for a minute that he murdered that odious woman. Besides, what if he's learned something about who the traitor is in Parliament? We have to do this."

  Her husband didn't bat an eye. He didn't ask if she was certain. Neither did he question what they were getting themselves into. "Then we'll help." Owen pivoted to face the other woman in the sitting room. "Maggie, tell Red to be ready within the hour."

  Isabel watched as her friend dropp
ed her sewing and left the room. Then she spun to her husband. "You want them to come, too?"

  "We're a team now, right? We're in this together, all of us."

  Isabel's heart burst. She'd known for ages that she loved Owen. There had never been a question of what she'd say when he finally asked her to marry him. But this — this was beyond all she'd hoped for in her most fanciful daydreams. He might not always know what to do with Red and Maggie, but he'd welcomed them into his home and heart. She couldn't have asked for a better husband.

  Red picked that moment to come running into the room. "Mags said we have a mission?"

  Isabel twisted around to look at him, blinking back the sentimental weepy tears. "We got word from Phineas. He needs us."

  A smile split across Red's face. "I'll get my gear." He left the room as abruptly as he'd arrived. If Isabel knew her friend at all, his gear would include an array of weaponry hidden on his person.

  Owen stepped in front of her and tilted her chin up with a single finger. "You should change, too. Make sure you've got at least one knife and one gun on you somewhere."

  "Only one? Tsk, tsk. You apparently don't know me well at all."

  Owen captured her lips with his own. After he stepped back, he inspected her with serious eyes. "I don't promise not to overreact or become protective. You should know in advance."

  She nodded. "I might demand you not take unnecessary risks from time to time."

  "As long as we understand each other."

  Isabel tangled her fingers in Owen's cravat and pulled him closer. "I love you, Mr. Librarian."

  He winced at the name but offered little resistance to the tug on his neckcloth. "No more than I love you, wife." His lips met hers, and the rest of the world and its problems faded away.

  A gruff voice at the door interrupted them. "Is this how you plan for missions now?"

  Red stood there, shifting from foot to foot.

  Isabel couldn't help but smile at the man's discomfort. "I thought you were getting ready."

  "Maggie wants to know where we're going."

  "Devon."

  Red whirled away, and they could soon hear his steps as he made his way back up the stairs.

  "Come along, wife. Red's correct. We've work to do." Owen held out a hand to her, and Isabel took it.

  They left the sitting room hand-in-hand, and Isabel couldn't imagine a better way to face the rest of her life. "You're a special man, Owen Loring."

  His lips captured hers again as they got to the bottom of the stairs. "Ah, Isabel, you may think me special, but you… You are spectacular. And you're mine. My very own Queen."

  About the Author

  Heather Gray authors the Ladies of Larkspur inspirational western romance series, including Mail Order Man, Just Dessert, and Redemption. She also writes the Regency Refuge series: His Saving Grace, Jackal, and Queen - plus contemporary titles Ten Million Reasons and Nowhere for Christmas. Aside from a long-standing love affair with coffee, Heather’s greatest joys are her relationships with her Savior and family. She also enjoys laughter. This theme is prevalent in Heather's writing where, through the highs and lows, her characters find a way to love God, embrace each day, and laugh out loud right along with her.

  You can find Heather online at http://www.facebook.com/heathergraywriting, http://www.twitter.com/laughdreamwrite, and http://www.heathergraywriting.com. She can also be found most days at The Inspired Inkpot, a street team, prayer group, and all around awesome place to hang out - http://www.facebook.com/groups/theinspiredinkpot.

  Also by Astraea Press

  Chapter One

  Thursday, October 14, 1813

  Strong sunlight poured between the pretentious columns fronting the Olympic Pavilion. Beneath the portico moved shadows not cast by the neoclassical architecture, shadows of completely the wrong shapes and sizes; and, when His Grace approached to a sufficient proximity, shadows creating noises both indiscreet and inappropriate for a public street. A flash of copper curls and a clashing maroon sleeve caught his eye, and surely only one couple in all of Mayfair would dare sport such an unfortunate combination of colors. Deliberately he clumped on the pavement, announcing his presence. The shadows whipped behind their sheltering column and the salacious noises ceased.

  But as he passed, a calculated glance back proved his theory correct. Mrs. Beryl Fitzwilliam, née Wentworth, stood on her tiptoes and peered over her new husband’s shoulder. The Duke of Cumberland, His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, gave her a victorious grin; her bewitching green eyes lit with glee and she wrinkled her nose at him. Satisfied, he resumed his more usual manner of walking and continued on his way, permitting them to resume — well. Perhaps better not to pursue that thought.

  Enchanting Beryl’s adventure was complete, her dreams now reality.

  Leaving him free to acquire a new target.

  Who unknowingly awaited his tender attentions within Trent’s coffee house, beyond the Temple Bar on Fleet Street, where he’d first laid siege to delicious Anne Kirkhoven, now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, a woman delighted with her husband’s literary success and essaying upon a few attempts of her own.

  As His Grace crossed the coffee house’s threshold into its shadowy, happy clutter, a hush descended upon the crowded patrons, heads swiveling in tribute to his entrance. He’d long ago become accustomed to such moments and let his lips curl into a rogue’s smile in greeting, doffing his beaver, tucking it beneath his elbow, and tugging off his gloves.

  There they sat, at a table near the yellow-curtained casement windows, three elegant gentlemen of the ton staring at his entrance. They all wore similar expressions of eyebrow-arching recognition, although George Anson’s little smile seemed tinged with a certain amount of relief, as well. Whatever topic they had under discussion, perhaps it was more beyond his reach than usual. Not that Anson was stupid, not at all; merely limited in his understanding of deeper subjects, such as anything beyond Goodwood, sporting life, and Gentleman Jackson’s saloon on Bond Street.

  But his manners remained impeccable. “Well met, your grace. Won’t you join us?”

  “It would be entirely my pleasure, Mr. Anson. Thank you.”

  Surprise joined Anson’s relief. Well, if the subject was that deep, the invitation might be his first contribution to the discussion since sitting down.

  They made room for him, Henry Culver and Kenneth Rainier scooting their chairs to the sides. Round-faced Trent brought a steaming pot and matching cup — his best, the ivory with blue and white flowers — sans any cream or sugar; only lesser mortals doctored Trent’s invigorating brew. Preparations complete, His Grace leaned back, cradling the cup, and inhaled the coffee’s essence. The aroma alone was sufficient to wake half the ton at dawn and keep them that way for days.

  Deliberately, and with malice aforethought, His Grace stared even more pointedly than normal at Miss Coralie Busche, who hid in the shadows beside the dark paneling.

  The chair she adorned angled away from the gentlemen, her shoulder half-turned and her attention supposedly reserved for her amiably mature and still lovely companion, the widowed Mrs. Lacey, who sat across from her at their little table. A plain bone china tea set cluttered the tabletop between them, stray sunbeams flashing through the windows and glancing off the highly polished white surfaces as if from a looking glass. Her beautiful hair glowed amber where it peeked from beneath her rose-bedecked bonnet, and the light touched her smooth cheek and jaw line, setting her off against the dark paneling like a portrait from a background. If indeed their likeness were taken, elegant Coralie and dear Mrs. Lacey, the completed picture would be one of grace and beauty. Most definitely beauty.

  “Maybe your grace will support my poor argument here.” Rainier poured the last tea into his cup and pushed the pot to the table’s center. Of the three gentlemen, only he seemed relaxed, as if enjoying the discussion. Thick brown hair waved extravagantly around his temples, his narrow chin forming the rounded bottom point of an upside-down triangle, and hi
s grey-blue eyes lit with intensity. The green swallowtail coat fit him perfectly, a tribute to his tailor. “Romeo and Juliet—”

  Culver shook his head hard and cut in. “—were young and silly. Love at first sight is manifestly impossible, love on short acquaintance hardly less so, and both bloodshed and self-murder are ridiculous responses to a momentary attraction.” In contrast to Rainier’s relaxation, Culver’s shoulders were hunched and tense. Not a discussion, then, but a debate, and Culver’s distaste for all forms of competition was well known.

  “—is one of the greatest poetic and dramatic works ever composed.” Rainier amiably awaited his opponent’s pause for breath before continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “The irrationality of their behavior is beside the point, if irrationality it can honestly be called. How can one impose time constraints upon affection? And what could be greater than dying for love?”

  As if you really understood the glorious sentiments you spout. His Grace managed to suppress an eye roll. Over the last four months he’d conversed repeatedly with Rainier, observed him from a surreptitious distance, and gained a strong sense of the young man’s perspective on life. Those blithe words didn’t reflect Rainier’s honest thoughts, but rather a typical diatribe from an adherent of the Romantic philosophy, young and idealistic intellectuals who refused to follow the sensible but bland Rationalism of their parents. Instead of commonsensical answers to life’s difficult questions, Romantics preferred to give free rein to their feelings and desires — dramatic blasted heaths instead of peaceful and productive farmland, so to speak. Unfortunately, too many Romantics, perhaps not yet mature enough to appreciate the necessity of balance, locked away their rationality to such a degree that they said things they neither understood nor truly believed.

  And clearly the two arguing gentlemen had been at the topic for a while and their partisan positions were cast. A typical day at the coffee house, then.