Ella forced herself to take a breath and be reasonable. Bertie was with him. Her brother would see him safe home and call a doctor if there were aught amiss. She knew that. Yet she could not help but worry.
The sound of raucous laughter reached her ear and she hurried to the window, craning her neck to see who was approaching the front door. With a gasp she took in the scene with utter disbelief and ran down the stairs just as the butler opened the door.
Oscar and Blackehart staggered through, their arms about each other like brothers. Bertie came in after, weaving a little, but apparently a little less inebriated than his companions.
Ella stared in astonishment, taking in the spectacular black eye that Oscar was sporting, and noting that Blackehart wasn’t totally unscathed. His lip was swollen and had obviously been bleeding.
Good, she thought, with just a touch of vindictiveness.
“There she is!” Oscar said, sending Ella a flourishing wave and sounding cheery. “My wife, Blackehart. None finer in the whole of England…. No, no,” he said, suddenly grave as he shook his head and wagged his finger at Blackehart. “That’s not right… in the world.”
“I agree,” Blackehart said, magnanimous in victory.
The two men swayed gently, grinning at her with twin expressions of benign contentment. Coming from Blackehart, it was quite unnerving.
“Do you know, she won the Craven Stakes at Newmarket,” Oscar said, beaming with pride.
Blackehart gaped at him, round eyed.
“Oscar!” Ella exclaimed, horrified as she ran down the stairs. Good Lord, just how drunk was he?
“Oh, sorry, love,” Oscar said, sending her a dazzling smile. He turned to Blackehart and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Secret.”
Blackehart snorted. “I’m good at secrets,” he said, a rather unsettling look in his eyes. “Won’t tell a soul.”
Ella shook her head, surprised to discover she believed him. Behind her, Bertie slid down the wall and landed with a thump on the ground.
“H’lo, Bug,” he said, an inane grin on his lips. “He’s still alive. Tol’ you he’d bounce.”
Perhaps her brother wasn’t as sober as she’d hoped.
“Good heavens,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Coffee, at once,” she instructed an amused looking footman. “And plenty of it,” she added.
“You’d best go into the library,” she said, ushering the two bosom pals through before going back to lever her brother to his feet.
“You were supposed to be looking after him, Bertie,” she scolded, though she was too relieved to be truly cross.
“He’s not dead,” Bertie replied, shrugging.
“No,” Ella agreed with a sigh and then smiled at him, kissing his cheek. “He’s not.” For the first time since Oscar had made his ridiculous confession, she felt like she could draw a breath.
“Come along, then. I’ve a duke and a villain to sober up. I can’t leave you sitting in the hallway.”
“Lead on, Bug,” her brother said with a grin, giving an after you gesture and managing to stay upright.
Ella laughed and flung her arm about his waist, and the two of them staggered to the library.
Epilogue
“Wherein new arrivals and happy endings.”
Ella stared at the perfect little face and touched a fingertip to the downy fluff just visible at the edge of the baby’s woollen bonnet. The child clutched at her finger and Ella felt her heart clench in her chest.
Pearl’s daughter was perfect.
“You are going to have a wonderful life, my darling niece. I promise you.”
She bent down and pressed a kiss to the baby’s impossibly soft forehead before placing her back in her mother’s arms.
Pearl was sitting up in bed, looking unreasonably beautiful considering she’d only given birth yesterday morning.
“Have you decided on a name yet?” Ella asked, watching as Pearl stared down at her daughter with such adoration that her throat grew tight.
“Yes.” Pearl looked up at her. “Eleanor, after her aunt.”
Ella stared, the aching in her throat increasing as her eyes filled. “Oh,” she said, too overwhelmed to say anything. Instead she leaned over and hugged Pearl and her little namesake with care.
“Thank you,” she managed once she’d composed herself a little. “I don’t know what else to say. That means a great deal.”
Pearl smiled. “You mean a great deal to me, sister.”
Ella laughed and kissed her sister’s cheek. “The feeling is mutual.”
She got to her feet, taking one last look at the idyllic scene and feeling a little burst of anticipation.
“I’ll leave you in peace for a while then,” Ella said, smiling. “Get some rest.”
Ella closed the door behind her with care and then hurried down the stairs, eager to find Oscar.
He was in the parlour, scowling at the weather outside, which consisted of a leaden grey sky and rain that fell from the heavens in torrents.
“Good Lord, I’d forgotten how wet it was here,” he muttered, looking up as Ella came in.
Ella moved to stand beside him and slid her arm through his. They’d been here over a week, and the weather had yet to let up. Oscar, never good at sitting still for long, was climbing the walls.
He leaned down and kissed the top of Ella’s head.
“Hello, Bug. And how is the new arrival?”
“Absolutely gorgeous,” Ella said on a sigh. “And she’s to be called Eleanor.”
Oscar smiled, knowing how much that would mean to her. “I’m glad for you,” he said.
Ella leaned into him. He and Pearl were not yet comfortable in each other’s presence, but they were trying for her sake, and Ella felt sure time would put things to rights.
Oscar turned his attention back to the window and sighed. “Do you think it will ever stop?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling a little. “But not anytime today, or tomorrow, or the day after that.”
“Oh, very encouraging.” Oscar snorted and shook his head. “I swear I’ll go mad if I don’t have something to do soon.”
“But I have something for you to do,” Ella replied, her voice a little sly.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, aware of her tone. “Oh?” His tone was cautious, and she bit back a laugh.
“You know how the other night you told me how much you loved me—”
“Well, that doesn’t narrow it down much,” he butted in, grinning at her fondly.
Ella chuckled. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she said, feeling rather smug. “But you also said you would give me anything I wanted to make me happy, anything in the world.”
Oscar pulled her into his arms, curiosity shining in his eyes now. “So I did,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing the tender skin beneath her ear.
Ella sighed and tilted her head to allow him to continue.
“And what is it you desire, Duchess? Jewels? Dresses? A new carriage to terrify me with?”
“No,” she said, a little breathless now as he pressed delicate open-mouthed kisses down her neck. “You gave me all of those for my birthday.”
“What, then?” he said against her skin. “Name it and it’s yours.”
“I want to give Eleanor a cousin.”
Oscar paused and raised his head to stare at her, his eyes darkening, giving her a look that made her heart kick in her chest with anticipation.
“You do?” he asked, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards.
Ella nodded and then gave a squeal of surprise as Oscar swept her up and into his arms. She clutched at his neck as he carried her out of the parlour and up the stairs.
“Oscar, the servants,” Ella hissed, burying her face in his neck as she heard the unmistakable sound of Nancy giggling her head off as they passed her on the landing.
“What of them?” Oscar asked, undaunted. “We’re newlyweds.”
“No, we’re not,” she protested as he pulled their be
droom door handle down with his elbow and barged through it. “We’ve been married for months!”
He kicked the door shut behind him and slung her onto the bed so hard the bedsprings protested.
Ella watched, biting her lip against laughter as he tugged at his cravat and then danced about trying to remove his boots.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered, nearly falling on his backside as he finally tugged his boot free. He reached for the other one, looking up to grin at her. “Still feels new to me,” he said, such an endearing expression on his face that her heart did a strange little flutter in her chest.
She understood what he meant. It did feel new still, and yet old and familiar too. He was still Oscar, the foolish, adventurous boy she’d loved as a girl, but he was her husband too. A man full of charm and forgiveness and love, and very far from perfect… which was just the way she liked him.
Perfection should only exist for fleeting moments. In the face of a newborn, or a perfect summer’s evening; a moment in time you captured in your heart and your memories, to be treasured and taken out again when things were less than flawless.
She knew Pearl would never force her daughter into perfection, and she knew life would never be entirely perfect. It ought not to be. Yet, as Oscar climbed onto the bed, his shirt all askew and a grin on his face, Ella knew she was just as close to it as anyone had any right to be.
“Now, then,” he said, a little breathless as he moved over her.
She slid her arms about his neck, pulling him closer.
“Yes, Oscar?” she said, the words soft and enquiring.
“Shall we have a boy or a girl?”
Ella smiled at him, delighting in the weight of his body as he lay himself down.
“Oh,” she said, pretending to ponder the question for a moment. “Several of each, I should think.”
“Good Lord,” Oscar replied, his eyes growing wide. “In that case, we’d better get started.”
Coming December 28, 2018 next in The Rogues & Gentlemen Series, Lucifer Blackehart’s story…..Keep reading for a sneak peek.
The Blackest of Hearts
Rogues & Gentlemen Book 14
Lord Blackehart has not a drop of blue blood in his body, but he is the undeniable Lord of London’s underworld.
Born into poverty and quickly abandoned, he is left to grow up in the misery of the workhouse. Rumours about him are many, that he cannot die, and that he killed a man when he was just twelve years old. Now a man in his prime he is built like a mountain and exudes power.
Katherine Dove is illegitimate. She has borne the shame of this her whole life, but when her guardian and her only protection from the world at large dies, she discovers a clue to her parentage.
A perilous journey to London in search of her father finds her in dark company, but Miss Dove is resourceful, and Luther Blackehart seems to be a man who can supply the answers to everything and anything she desires.
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The Blackest of Hearts
Prologue
“Wherein we meet a young villain in the making, or a hero by any other name.”
The Work-house in the Parish of St. John at Hackney. In the County of Middlesex.
September 1802
The building was ancient, a Tudor cottage which at one time might have been a handsome building with its gable ends and quaint corners. Now it mouldered, narrow roofs sagging around a multitude of tall chimneys that struck out towards the sky like skinny arms pleading to God.
There was no God here.
Luther had heard talk of God. The chaplain droned on about him every Sunday. In all his never-ending twelve years the only thing Luther had learned about God was that he was vengeful and cruel, and that a fiery pit awaited you at the end of your miserable days.
The workhouse faced a tavern called Adam and Eve, and right now that tavern seemed a million miles away. It was on the far side of a paved inner courtyard surrounded by sheds and a high wooden fence. Luther had never set foot outside of the grounds, not since the day he’d been born into the filth and desperate squalor of the workhouse. He would today. Today there was no other choice.
He turned, tugging at the hand of the fearful little boy at his side.
“We gotta go, Ricky,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so frightened. The little eight-year old looked up to him, needed him, for protection and guidance. He’d failed the only other person he’d ever cared for. A failure so crushing and comprehensive he couldn’t think on it, not yet, but he’d not fail Ricky too. He’d promised, and he’d rather die than break that promise.
Luther was a large boy for his twelve years, despite his malnourishment. The scrawny kid at his side, however, was all big eyes and bones. A strong gust of wind would blow him away. He wouldn’t stand the punishment the matron would mete out when Luther’s crime was discovered. Not that he’d done anything but be in the same room. The guilt was Luther’s alone, and he didn’t regret it. He’d spit in God’s eyes and tell him so if he must.
Luther knew he’d not survive his own punishment either, hanging was not something a fellow recovered from. Did they hang children, he wondered? He’d never heard of it, but then most children weren’t murderers. His guts twisted, the all too familiar sensations of hunger and fear coiling together in a sickening twist.
“I’m frightened, Lou,” the little boy said, his narrow chest puffing from the exertion of fleeing the scene of the crime.
“I’m not,” Luther lied, the words bold and hard. “I’m going to get us out of this bleedin’ hell hole. We’re gonna be rich, Ricky boy, we’ll live like Kings and eat meat every night and for breakfast an’ all. You mark my words.”
“Promise, Lou?” the little boy said, his wide eyes growing so large in his filthy face he looked inhuman, like some odd little creature born of beast and man.
Luther released his hold on the boy’s hand to spit in his own palm, and held it out once more. “Word of honour, Ricky. You an’ me, we’ll never let anyone hurt us, not ever again.”
The younger boy swallowed, staring up at Luther with awe in his eyes as he gave a terrified little jerk of his head that Luther took for agreement.
“Shake on it, then,” he said, giving the boy a fierce look. “Shake and it’s binding.”
Ricky put his smaller hand against his, the skinny fingers curving around his own and Luther let out a breath. “Right then,” he said, turning back to survey the expanse of paved yard and the filthy jumble of buildings beyond. London called to him, stories of evil and dreams come true, of unimaginable wealth and the vilest cruelty and poverty, worse even than the workhouse … but at least they’d be free.
Luther would rather starve on his own, at his own hand, than be forced to lap at foul looking puddles like a mangy dog when his rations had once again been denied him for speaking out of turn. He’d never hold his tongue again, he’d say what he damned well pleased and go to the devil with a snarl on his lips.
A scream reached his ears, distant and muffled and he knew there was no more time to gather his nerve, to steel himself to face the outside world for the first time. Taking a tight hold of Ricky’s hand, he turned to give the boy one last glare that dared him to chicken out.
“You an’ me, Ricky. We’ll conquer the bloody world. Now run!”
***
Luther grimaced at the feel of the thick, freezing mud between his toes. No matter he’d been doing this for well over a year, he’d never get used to it. The stench of the river Thames at low tide invaded his lungs, putrid and so thick it seemed to fill his chest like a weight. Dead things, mouldering things, human refuse, even corpses, so often they barely remarked on it … Such sights had long since ceased to shock either of them. Luther wasn’t even sure they ever had. He’d been forced to share a room with a corpse for three days and three nights in the workhouse once, for a crime he couldn’t even remember now. It had given him a morbid dislike of dark rooms, but he wasn’t afraid of death, not e
ven his own. It would get him, or it wouldn’t. He couldn’t muster the energy to fear it.
They called them Mudlarks, those that sifted through the filth washed up on the banks of the Thames when the tide went out. A muddy basket hung from Luther’s arm, half full of coal. When the bargemen heaved their heavy sacks of coal to the shore, pieces often dropped into the water and sank to the mud. On a good day they could fill two baskets before the tide came in. They’d sell them to the neighbouring houses and earn enough to keep their bellies full. There were a few bits of iron today too, a nail and a couple of rivets which would fetch a few farthings. They’d had rope yesterday, fallen overboard from some ship. That they’d sold to the marine dealers.
“I ain’t half hungry, Lou,” Ricky muttered, his arms wind-milling as he lost his balance in the sticky black filth. Luther reached out to steady him, tugging him upright.
“You’re always bleedin’ hungry,” Luther muttered, irritated. “Fill that basket and we’ve enough for bread and beer and maybe a bit ‘o cheese an’ all.”
Ricky scowled but returned his attention to picking over the refuse. He’d filled out a little in the two years since they’d left the workhouse, though he was still scrawny and far shorter than Luther.
The first months after they’d run away had been the worst of their short lives. The initial euphoria of having escaped was short-lived as the brutal reality of life on the streets was swiftly brought home to them. Luther had told Ricky he’d take him back to the workhouse if he wanted, but that he’d rather freeze to death in a ditch than go back himself. Ricky had stayed. They’d been frozen and close to starvation when Luther had heard tell of the Mudlarks that picked the edges of Thames clean like a dog gnawing a bone.
It had been tough and miserable at first as the Mudlarks were a territorial lot. Luther had always been handy with his fists, but he’d never had to fight so hard nor so often as he had in those first weeks. There were fewer boys working in the winter months though, so the odds hadn’t been so bad. Even the hardiest lads were unwilling to face the frozen mud beneath on their bare feet unless they really had to. It was wretched and dangerous work.
The Corinthian Duke Page 24