Seven Minutes in Heaven

by Eloisa James

  “This boy here,” Mr. Biddle roared. He gave a shake that went all the way down to Otis’s boots.

  “Surely you didn’t mean to handle my brother so violently, Mr. Biddle,” Ward stated. One of the consequences of his unexpected sojourn in prison was an extreme disinclination to see anyone mistreated, physically or otherwise.

  “I did, and I didn’t,” the butcher said, chin jutting forward, although he released Otis’s collar.

  Ward pulled the boy into the crook of his arm and stepped back. “What happened?”

  “I caught him stealing,” Mr. Biddle thundered. His mustache puffed out like the tail of an indignant squirrel.

  Otis, now looking more put-out than scared, peeked up at Ward. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “He took me chain of office! That’s the symbol of me office as mayor and I caught him with red hands!”

  Bloody hell.

  It was one thing to pilfer scraps of wood from the stables and entirely another to steal valuables from the villagers. Miss Midge apparently agreed; she was frowning at Otis with all the boot-faced disapproval of a Puritan encountering an unrepentant adulterer.

  “Were you a witness to this alleged crime, Miss Midge?” he asked.

  “I regret to say I was in the haberdashery with Miss Lizzie.” She gave her charge a direct look. “Otis, explain yourself.”

  “What’s to explain?” the butcher said, his voice hard. “The boy tried for me gold chain. I caught him. He’s as crooked as—” He caught Ward’s eye and cut off the insult.

  Otis jerked against Ward’s arm. “I’m not crooked!” he shouted. “He said I was a by-blow, and I’m not! My parents were married. What’s more, I have a title, because my father was a lord!” He burrowed his face into Ward’s ribs.

  Mr. Biddle snorted contemptuously.

  “You may scoff, but Otis is correct,” Ward stated. “He is Lord Darcy, the fifth in his line and the owner of a considerable estate in Devon.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the king of England! I know about him and his sort. We hear things in the village. Lord knows what he was planning to do with me chain.”

  “I was only hanging it on his rosebush,” Otis cried.

  What the hell?

  “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “Lizzie said she would give me a shilling if I did it and brought her back four roses,” Otis said miserably. “I was going to put it right back on the hook in his shop. The rosebush is in his yard.”

  Lizzie was apparently up to some sort of magical foolery. Miss Midge’s eyes narrowed. Ward sighed and turned back to the butcher.

  “It seems, Mr. Biddle, that your chain of office never left your premises. My butler will give you a guinea for your trouble, and I will make certain that my siblings stay far away from your rosebush and your chain.”

  “I demand that you do something about that thief,” the butcher shouted.

  Otis snuggled closer to Ward’s side.

  “We villagers need to be able to sleep without fear. Why was he hanging my chain on a bush? I have to reassure me wife there’s no hocus-pocus going on.”

  “You are speaking about an eight-year-old boy,” Ward said with quiet ferocity. “I suggest you return to your shop, Mr. Biddle, and contemplate your orders. You have no need to think of my household now or in the future.”

  Biddle’s mouth fell open, so wide that Ward could see his fat tongue. Apparently it just dawned on the butcher that he was berating the man who owned the largest house this side of Oxford, and who employed twice as many servants as other estates in the vicinity.

  “Good day, Mr. Biddle,” Ward said. Gumwater took Biddle by the shoulder and turned him smartly toward the front door.

  Ward scooped up his brother and carried him to the library, followed by Miss Midge. He sat down before the empty fireplace, the boy in his lap. “Bloody hell, you’re a nuisance, Otis.”

  “I hate Mr. Biddle,” Otis cried.

  Miss Midge sat down opposite them, her hands folded and her heels neatly together.

  “Tell us what happened,” Ward said.

  “I wasn’t stealing his chain,” his brother said with an angry sniffle. “I was just nimming it for a little while.”

  “Nimming it?”

  “Thieves’ cant,” Miss Midge put in.

  “I was hanging it between heaven and earth.” Otis dragged his sleeve across his eyes.

  “I do not understand,” Ward said, with Herculean patience.

  “I was hanging it in Mr. Biddle’s rosebush. His own rosebush, between heaven and earth.”

  “It sounds as if Miss Lizzie made another attempt at a magic spell,” Miss Midge said. Her voice was tight.

  Ward’s heart sank. Since her arrival, the new governess had shown herself to possess no discernible sense of humor, which meant she took Lizzie’s foolery too seriously.

  “We must speak to Lizzie,” he said.

  Miss Midge nodded and rose.

  Otis collapsed against Ward’s shoulder and said something unintelligible.

  “What did you say?”

  And, after catching the import of it, Ward said, “You’re my brother, Otis. You’re stuck with me, no matter what. Forever.”

  He didn’t reply, but Ward added, “Lizzie too. You’re wretched nuisances, but you’re my nuisances.”

  He surprised himself.

  It seemed he wasn’t going to hand his brother and sister over to his father and stepmother after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fawkes House

  May 23, 1801

  Dear Mrs. Snowe,

  Miss Midge is adding her own note to this missive. I will keep my part brief. Otis was caught borrowing our village mayor’s chain of office, a crime which his sister instigated. His motive was not personal gain; Lizzie intended to use the power of the chain to transform a few roses into tools for finding true love.

  If you find this confusing—never mind improbable—so do I. My sister has shown herself to have a prodigious imagination; unfortunately, her creativity is in direct proportion to Miss Midge’s dislike of magic, no matter how ineffectual (it promotes paganism and undermines Christian values). Miss Midge will no doubt expound on her feelings when she sees you.

  The wherefores of the conjuration are vague, but apparently Otis was to hang the chain in a rosebush in order that the sun could shine “full” upon it, and thereafter bring four roses back to his sister.

  We need your help,

  Ward

  “What on earth does he think I could do?” Eugenia asked, looking down at the letter. “Go back in time and stop the boy from stealing a livery collar?”

  “I suppose Lord Darcy could have started his career as a burglar by taking something less valuable,” Susan remarked.

  “Have any of our children stolen valuables before?” It was the sort of detail she should have at her fingertips, but she couldn’t bring anything to mind.

  Susan snorted. “Surely you haven’t forgotten last year’s Most Misbehaved contest? One of the Duke of Fletcher’s children, I can’t recall which one, stole heaps of things. Don’t you remember the golden toothpick?”

  “Well, of course, but that was different. It wasn’t for material gain.”

  “Neither is this,” Susan pointed out. “The Fletcher governess didn’t even win Most Misbehaved for the toothpick, although after she mimicked the duke’s reaction, she earned a few nominations for Most Pitied.”

  “I can’t remember anything like this before,” Eugenia said.

  “I try not to burden you with unpleasant details, so that you can maintain a pleasant relationship with the parents.” Typically, Susan worked with the governesses, while Eugenia dealt with their employers. “Some of our children are proper little rotters.”

  “We oughtn’t to insult our own,” Eugenia said, frowning.

  Susan blithely ignored her. “If I were to embark on a life of crime, I’d take a gold chain instead of, say, a gold toothpick. It
suggests that Otis possesses more intelligence than the Fletcher offspring, although I don’t imagine His Grace would agree.”

  “I have no idea how to respond,” Eugenia said.

  “He is begging you to come, Eugenia. Obviously, you must go to Oxford,” Susan said. “I will take your appointments for three days. And I’ll add my own plea: travel from there to your father’s estate and enjoy a proper rest.”

  “I cannot go to Oxford,” Eugenia said, the words wrenched from her throat. “I just can’t, Susan. Mr. Reeve is too . . . No. I’m not ready.”

  The thought of entering Ward’s house—shamefully, Eugenia couldn’t help thinking of him with the name he used to sign his letter—made her feel weak. Cracked. Overheated.

  Susan scowled, but Eugenia shook her head. “No.”

  “All right, we’ll have to rely on Miss Midge,” Susan said with obvious reluctance. “I’ll write to Mr. Reeve and explain that we have no expertise as regards larcenous behavior. I won’t mention that Otis has bested the Duke of Fletcher’s offspring,” she added, with a chuckle.

  “Thank you,” Eugenia said, heaving a sigh. “If your father only knew what you are urging me to do, Susan—”

  “He’d disown me,” Susan said cheerfully. She leaned over and dropped a kiss on Eugenia’s cheek. “It’s only because I love you. You have no appointments tomorrow. Stay home.”

  That evening, Eugenia walked through the house where she and Andrew had begun their married life, servants moving in a swirl of activity around her. A footman brought her a light meal that she ate in her bedchamber. She bathed, put on her nightgown, cleaned her teeth . . .

  Went to bed and dreamed.

  Of course, she dreamed of Andrew. There was nothing unusual about that; she dreamed of him at least once a week. He had been her rock, the stable fulcrum of her world.

  In her dream, they were in the dining room, and Andrew was lounging at the table, rolling something between his hands. She couldn’t see what it was. He was talking on and on about a horse he’d bought that had the eyes of a unicorn.

  Starting awake, Eugenia lay in the dark, remembering how much Andrew talked. She’d loved to listen to him in those days. He had such definite opinions. And he always, always, knew what was right.

  If he claimed a horse had the eyes of a unicorn, it had. No matter that neither of them had ever seen such a creature. Andrew’s certitude had been a refuge after the ebullient chaos in which she grew up.

  Her father’s house had been comfortable, untidy, stacked with books, crammed with curiosities from all over the world. He had a penchant for fencing in the long picture gallery, lunging and parrying with competitive fervor while Eugenia watched from behind the shelter of a glass cabinet.

  Andrew would never have fenced in the house, any more than he would have left a stack of books on the piano. He furnished their house in perfect taste. No detail was too small—from the way a horse’s mane complemented the carriage he pulled, to the color of a bride’s trousseau. His instinct for perfection dictated every detail of their life.

  One night he had even discarded a silk nightgown that her stepmother had given her, because Prussian-blue was unbecoming to Eugenia’s hair. “You look like a firework, all red and blue and ready to explode,” he had said, laughing as he’d bundled it up and thrown it into the hallway. “The only place you’re allowed to explode is in bed with me.”

  Then he had gathered her up in his arms and taken her to bed, and she’d forgotten about the nightgown.

  Until now. Oddly enough, she felt a prickle of sadness for the girl she’d been, who had loved that nightgown and had felt beautiful in it.

  She’d been so impossibly young.

  And her life had been so simple.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday, May 26, 1801

  18 Cavendish Square

  Mrs. Eugenia Snowe’s residence

  The next morning, her maid laid out a muted green gown that complemented Eugenia’s red hair without making it blaze like a wildfire.

  Not that Andrew disliked her hair. He had adored winding her curls around his fingers and arranging her hair over her breasts as if she were a naiad in an old painting.

  But he didn’t want her to look flashy in public. Ladies sparkled in private; they gleamed discreetly in public.

  It would have been easier to recover from his death if she had unpleasant memories of their marriage. Instead, all she had were wistful fragments, like a few pearls strung on a thread. But pearls that are never worn lose their luster and shine. Perhaps that was the problem.

  “I don’t wish to wear that dress today,” she told Clothilde. “Don’t I have a gown somewhere that is the color of the sky?”

  “Yes.” Clothilde ducked into the dressing room and returned with an armful of cerulean silk. “With slippers?”

  “No, something more sturdy. I intend to go for a walk in the park.”

  Clothilde groaned. “Madame, there is mud from yesterday’s rain.”

  “You needn’t come with me,” Eugenia said. “Ladies my age have no need of a chaperone.”

  “That is true,” Clothilde said, brightening. She hated mud, rain, dirt, and anything else that posed a threat to her immaculate appearance.

  “You are larger in the bosom than you were when this dress was ordered,” she observed a minute later, wrestling Eugenia’s bosom into place.

  “My breasts look like two cream buns on a tray,” Eugenia said, regarding herself in the glass. “If they keep growing, they’ll end up the size of ostrich eggs.”

  “Ostrich? What thing is that? Your décolletage is most attractive. Unfortunately, there are no gentlemen to be seen at this hour.” Clothilde sniffed disapprovingly.

  “I should like a new wardrobe,” Eugenia said, making up her mind. “From the modiste who dresses the Duchess of Villiers.”

  “Oh là là,” Clothilde cried, helping her slip into her merino pelisse. “An excellent choice! Now, now, madame, you will meet the man.”

  “The man?”

  “A man.” Clothilde gave a Parisian giggle. “Or many men!”

  Eugenia crossed the road and walked into the park, ambling off on a brick path. While she’d been hidden in her office, spring had come to London. Everywhere she looked there were masses of spring green and clumps of pale purple violets.

  With one surreptitious glance to make certain she was not observed, Eugenia stepped from the path and crouched down in order to gather a fat handful of violets.

  She had the vague sense that they were edible, though she doubted her cook knew—

  Wait.

  She froze. She wasn’t alone.

  In front of her, a pair of stout boots came into view. The owner of those boots presumably had an excellent view of her bosom, not to mention her purloined posy.

  A dark, gravelly voice washed over her like the smell of brandy in a small room. “Mrs. Snowe, may I help you to stand?” His hand was large and powerful: the quintessence of all the things she enjoyed about men.

  No glove.

  Of course, Ward Reeve probably never wore gloves.

  She put her gloved hand in his bare one and allowed him to draw her to her feet. “Mr. Reeve, this is a surprise.” She had liked his smile when they first met. But now, after their exchange of letters, it was different: deeper, warmer . . . intimate.

  A gallant would raise her fingers to his lips, fall back and bow, perhaps with a flourish. Ward did none of these, but simply held her hand tightly as he said, “You would not come to me, so I had to come to you.”

  Eugenia could feel herself turning pink. She pulled her hand away. “I have no advice to offer you, Mr. Reeve.”

  “Shall I collect your violets?” Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and gathered most of them in one sweep. His thighs strained against his tight-fitting breeches. Sunshine made his hair gleam with hints of gold.

  He rose and presented the violets to her. “I consider myself extremely fortunate that Sn
owe’s doesn’t merely dole out governesses to various households, but offers them support throughout their employment.”

  “Yes, well—”

  Ward slipped his hand under her arm and guided her back onto the footpath. “Your assistant, Miss Lloyd-Fantil, was kind enough to point out your house, and your butler directed me here. May I escort you to tea at Gunter’s, Mrs. Snowe?”

  For goodness’ sake, why had Ward’s fiancée run off to marry another man? Eugenia was having trouble not simply nodding in agreement to everything he said.

  It was his voice and his eyes.

  She had the feeling that, had he disappeared on their wedding day, she would have waited for him.

  For years.

  Just as she was doing for Andrew, she thought uneasily. Waiting for a man who would never come back.

  Ugh. She pushed away the thought and focused on Ward’s face again.

  “Even though you claim to have no advice, you could choose the right concoctions to dazzle my siblings into obedience.”

  “I—”

  “Miss Lloyd-Fantil assured me that you had no appointments today.” His coaxing, deep voice brushed over Eugenia’s skin like silk. He drew a little closer, and she smelled a mixture of leather and soap.

  And man. Man sweat, to be utterly frank.

  It was demoralizing to realize that she wasn’t a good woman after all.

  Apparently all her conventional behavior was simply a façade, because in his presence her limbs felt heavy and her skin prickled.

  “Very well,” she said, “I suppose we could go for tea.”

  If he kissed her, she would quiver like a rabbit caught in a vegetable patch. Not that he appeared to have any intention of kissing her.

  The man was asking for help and she was staring at his mouth. Shameful!

  “I shall ask them to prepare a hamper that I can bring back home with me,” he said, taking her arm.

  “You mustn’t accept ices,” she told him. “They’ll never last. Gunter’s always promises that properly packed, their ices won’t melt, but they do.”