Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  A laugh broke into her reverie, and she looked across the room at the group gathered around a table littered with plates of sweetmeats, sugared plums, delicate lemon biscuits and bowls of punch and hot cider.

  Barnaby and Emily stood side by side, Luc and Gillian next to them, Luc’s arm possessively around Gillian’s waist. Mathew and Simon were nearby, as were Sophia and Stanley. Cornelia was sorry that dear, sweet Anne and Hugh and Althea hadn’t been able to be here, but she understood. Jeffery may have made himself thoroughly disliked, but he had been Althea’s son and Hugh’s brother and the wound of his death was too raw to allow for a celebration.

  Watching Luc smile at something Barnaby said, she nodded to herself. They all had much to smile about these days, especially, she thought, after the shocking events at the end of November and early December. She shook her head. Canfield, an accidental death. Townsend, dead by his own hand. And Stanton shooting himself in that abandoned cottage by the cliffs. Three such sudden, shocking deaths, each in close proximity to the other, had set the tongues in the neighborhood wagging.

  The discovery of Stanton’s body by an itinerant ragman the morning after the storm had sent a firestorm of horror over the area, but that was nothing compared to the uproar that erupted when Stanton’s confession to the murder of Elizabeth Soule and Charles Dashwood had been discovered. Padgett and St. John, as friends of the deceased, had been helping the constable and a local attorney go through Stanton’s belongings at Woodhurst, when St. John discovered the incriminating evidence the next day in a desk downstairs.

  Once the confession was made public, it was amusing, Cornelia thought, the many members of the ton who exclaimed and declared that they had known all along that Gillian couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her first husband’s death. To think otherwise was ridiculous! These days Gillian was hailed as a respectable, charming young woman who had been unfairly vilified, and she and Luc had been bombarded with invitations to visit some of the most illustrious families in the ton. Gillian took her sudden return to the bosom of the ton with aplomb, but Cornelia was convinced that the young woman didn’t care a fig for the opinion of the ton. The only opinion that mattered to Gillian, Cornelia thought with a smile, was Luc’s.

  Cornelia’s gaze rested on Gillian’s vivacious face as she smiled up at Luc. Luc’s bride was a vivacious little thing, and it was as plain as the nose on your face that the pair was deeply in love. It was there in the way their eyes clung, in the soft, secret smiles they shared and the way neither was ever far apart from the other. Luc hadn’t cared what the gossip had said about his wife, but it was a good thing, Cornelia decided, that Stanton had so considerately killed himself and then thoughtfully left a confession that St. John had so conveniently “discovered,” which absolved Gillian of any connection to Charles Dashwood’s death. Cornelia snorted. She might be an old woman, but she knew when she was being bamboozled.

  The events fit together neatly, but she’d wager next quarter’s generous allowance provided by Barnaby that there was far more to the tale than the authorities or the public knew. Luc had been determined to clear his wife’s name... . Her gaze fastened on Luc’s face, and she snorted again. One of these days, she’d have a word with that young scamp and badger him until he told her the truth, because she didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d had a hand in Stanton’s fate.

  At that moment, the group around the table split apart. Stanley and Sophia came over to see if Silas was ready for the journey to High Tower. He was, and the next several minutes were spent in farewells. Mathew was visiting with Simon at The Birches until after the new year, and a half hour later, the two brothers, after another round of feminine hugs and masculine handshakes and all around good wishes, prepared to depart. The women wandered back toward the fire, but Barnaby and Luc followed the other two men outside in the sharp night air.

  Simon hesitated a moment, then flashing Barnaby a speaking look, said, “Matt and I are stopping by The Ram’s Head for a few hours before returning home.”

  Barnaby cocked a brow. “Be careful,” he said quietly, his eyes following Mathew, who was already swinging into the saddle. “Your brother is ripe for mischief. This cat-and-mouse game with Nolles we’re playing is wearing his patience thin.”

  Simon’s eyes darkened. “I know. He needs Nolles either caught or killed. I think only then can he forgive himself for what happened with Tom.”

  Barnaby nodded and, once the men disappeared into the darkness, along with Luc returned to the warmth of the house.

  The ladies had not lingered in the salon and had disappeared into the upper reaches of the house. Unable to resist, a moment later, as if drawn by magic, the women were on their way to the nursery. After dismissing the nurse dozing in a rocking chair by the crib, much like a trio of fairy godmothers, they hovered around the crib, admiring and murmuring over the sleeping Noel.

  Barnaby and Luc retreated to Barnaby’s study, where Lamb joined them. The three men sprawled around the room, now drinking snifters of brandy.

  “Simon and Mathew are going to The Ram’s Head before returning home,” Barnaby reported.

  “Not very wise,” responded Lamb. “With Padgett and St. John no longer in the area, there’s little excuse to frequent Nolles’s place.”

  Luc shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that—one can always find a game of cards or dice, and Nolles provides privacy and willing wenches. Neither Mathew nor Simon are monks.”

  “If I thought it was because of women and gambling they were visiting the place, I’d feel less uneasy about it,” Barnaby admitted. He looked at Luc. “You know that they’re both hoping to catch Nolles out or learn something that will enable us to bring him down?”

  “I know,” agreed Luc, “but Nolles is a slippery bastard. We’ve been after him for what? Nearly a year now, and we are no closer to bringing him to justice than we were in the days following Tom’s death.”

  “I was certain,” Lamb said, “that there would have been a run or two by now, but it’s as if he knows we’re watching him and isn’t willing to take any chances.”

  Barnaby grunted. “He’d be a fool if he didn’t know we’re watching him. We’ve made our hostility toward him plain.” Barnaby scowled. “And he has to know that we’re not going to let his attack on Luc go by without retaliation—even with Lamb’s, ah, message to him.”

  Lamb smiled into his brandy. “Well, yes, there is that.”

  Luc snorted and glared at Lamb. “I was the one who endured the beating, and you’d think that some people would have the decency to let me fight my own battles.”

  “It appears we were wrong about Nolles having cleared out The Birches in anticipation of a run,” Barnaby said hastily. “If that had been the case, there’d have been one by now.”

  “Mathew and I haunted the vicinity of Stanton’s place, even after his death,” Lamb grumbled, “but we never saw any sign of Nolles or his men at Woodhurst.”

  Luc frowned. “I’m of the opinion that Townsend’s death caught Nolles by surprise, and with Simon in residence and a far different kettle of fish that poor drunk Townsend, he dare not try to use the cellars to store his goods. Nolles might be lying low for a while, considering his options.” Luc glanced at Barnaby. “Don’t forget, if Canfield and Stanton were a pair of his investors, their deaths must have been a blow to Nolles’s operation. Certainly it would have meant less money to buy contraband.”

  Barnaby stared at his snifter, as if the answer he sought were there. “Which leaves him with only Lord Padgett... .” He made a face. “Padgett certainly cleared out as soon as he could after Stanton’s death.”

  “And St. John right along with him,” murmured Lamb.

  Luc shifted in his chair. What had happened the night Stanton died was a secret shared by only himself, Gillian and St. John and he saw no reason for anybody else to know about it. The possibility that St. John had been an investor in Nolles’s smuggling operation had occurred to him but, he reminded himse
lf, it had been revenge that had brought St. John to Padgett and Stanton’s circle, not greed. “St. John isn’t part of it,” Luc said abruptly.

  Lamb cocked a brow and looked skeptical.

  “I agree,” said Barnaby. “Although his association with that group arouses suspicion.”

  “I’ll wager that you’ll not see St. John rubbing shoulders with Padgett in the future,” Luc muttered. “His reason for having been in the company of those licentious rakes doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Both Lamb and Barnaby stared at him, but when Luc remained silent, they exchanged looks and shrugged.

  Barnaby finished off his own brandy and said, “We shall have to hope that the new year will bring us better luck at ending Nolles’s smuggling career than we have had so far.”

  Luc lifted his snifter and said, “I propose a toast: to the downfall of Nolles within the year.”

  The three men drank and dispersed, Luc going in search of Gillian. She was descending the stairs with Emily, Cornelia having sought out her bed, and at the sight of Luc crossing the hall, her breath caught and her knees nearly buckled at the wave of love that washed over her.

  Taking her hand in his and dropping a kiss, Luc said, “Shall we go home, m’amie?”

  Gillian agreed, and not long after that, wrapped in an ermine-lined cloak with a hood that framed her face, mittens and muff to keep her hands warm and a hot brick at her feet, she was seated beside her husband in the hooded gig as they drove away from Windmere. Carriage lamps on either side of the gig cut through the darkness, lighting their way as they drove toward Ramstone.

  Her head resting on his broad shoulder as he drove, Gillian could not remember a time when she’d been so happy and contented. She had a husband she loved and one who loved her; what more could she want? The image of tiny Noel, looking like a sleeping angel, flitted across her mind and a secret smile curved her lips. She sighed blissfully.

  Hearing her sigh, Luc took his eyes off the horse and asked, “What is it?”

  Gillian snuggled closer. “I was thinking of your niece—she is quite adorable, isn’t she?”

  “Oui,” he answered. Grinning down at her, he added, “But not as adorable as our own children will be.”

  Gillian smiled shyly up at him. “I agree ... and sometime next summer, the end of August, I think, you shall see for yourself.”

  It took Luc a second. But when he realized what she was saying, he jerked the horse to a stop and turned to stare at her, an expression of joyous incredulity on his face. “Do you mean... . ?”

  She giggled and threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, my love, I am going to have your baby next summer.”

  Heedless of the horse, the gig, the road, Luc dropped the reins and, his arms closing around her, kissed her. “A father,” he said, dazed, several moments later. “I shall be a father.”

  Nestled against him, Gillian murmured, “Yes. You shall be a father and a very good one, too.”

  Luc’s eyes caressed her. “But I shall always be a husband first. A husband who adores you.”

  “Oh Luc,” she cried, “I do love you.”

  What could he do but kiss her again? After several minutes, the horse snorted and moved restlessly, reminding them where they were. Breaking apart, they laughed, and picking up the reins, Luc urged the horse forward. Her head leaning against his shoulder, they drove slowly home, the future beckoning bright and glorious before them.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2012 by Shirlee Busbee

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  ISBN: 978-1-4201-2827-7