That being said, the pregnancy itself had been relatively easy. With the exception of a few week of morning sickness, Emily had been glowing and cheerful and they’d both been awaiting the birth of their son – or daughter – with growing anticipation, especially since all of their problems were now, at long last, finally resolved.
After their wedding at Gretna Green they’d taken three months to travel the continent, which served the dual purpose of escaping the gossip their sudden nuptials had incited as well as giving them some much needed time to themselves. They’d learned a lot about each other on their journey abroad and their relationship, while not always perfect (they were both too temperamental for that) had strengthened to the point of being unbreakable. They had been considering extending their travels to include America, but when Emily realized she’d missed her monthly courses they returned immediately to Rosemore.
At first West had feared Emily would miss her former life in London, especially now that her marriage to him excluded her from most of the social circles she’d once been a part of, but as she’d quickly assured him if she never attended another ball or “wretchedly boring” tea party she would die a happy woman.
Her father and Petunia visited regularly. While they’d never come out and said anything directly, both West and Emily suspected something was happening between them of a romantic nature, especially given that there was no reason for Petunia to remain within the duke’s household. Since they seemed content with whatever arrangement they’d come up with the newlyweds did not pry or question. It was enough for Emily that her father seemed genuinely happy again.
Part of that happiness no doubt came from having his debts discreetly paid and a yearly sum donated to London’s largest orphanage in his wife’s name. At first he’d resisted West’s assistance, not wanting to take what he couldn’t repay, but West had settled the matter simply and efficiently by telling the duke he would be forever in his debt for not only allowing him to marry his daughter, but for giving them his blessing as well.
As for the matter of West’s criminal past that, too, had been wrapped up and tied off with a bow courtesy of Kinsley. Using the strings provided him by his lofty position he’d ensured that West would never be brought up on charges for any of his past misdeeds after an anonymous (and very generous) donation had been made to the Bow Street Runners.
For the first time in his life West could walk down the street without pausing to look behind him. It was a liberating feeling, and although he occasionally missed St. Giles and his old life from time to time, what he’d had in his past was nothing compared to what he had in his present.
Petunia disappeared upstairs, and West sank into the nearest chair, beside himself with worry. When his wife’s former companion appeared at the top of the steps less than an hour later he was the first person to his feet, and when she shared the joyous news he was the first to shed a tear as well.
“Congratulations,” she said, smiling down at him. “You are a father.”
“Can I see her now?” he asked, not caring if he sounded desperate, for desperate was exactly what he was. “Can I see Emily?”
Petunia stepped to the side. “She is waiting for you.”
In four bouncing steps West was up the stairs. Another five carried him to the door of the master bedroom. Berta, who had been by Emily’s side coaching her through the entire delivery, granted a rare smile and granted him admittance. “A fine, healthy looking son you have, Your Grace.”
“A son?” he whispered. “I have a son?”
“We have a son,” Emily called sleepily from the bed. “Now come here and meet him.”
West glanced at Berta, who nodded her encouragement before she slipped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Suddenly hesitant, West froze in place as his heart began to pound. What if he wasn’t a good father? What if his son didn’t like him? What if—
“Westley Green, get over here this minute,” Emily said sternly. “You have someone who very much wants to meet you.”
On legs that were not quite sturdy he crossed the room and stood over his wife and newborn son. Looking exhausted but very, very pleased with herself Emily tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “Isn’t he beautiful?” she said softly.
Gazing down at the tiny pink newborn swathed head to toe in white linen, West couldn’t have agreed more. “He’s perfect, just like his mother.”
“You’d best hope he is not like me or you will most certainly have your hands full.”
Leaning down, he kissed first Emily’s forehead and then his son’s. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jillian Eaton grew up in Maine and now resides in Pennsylvania. When she isn’t writing, Jillian is doing her best to keep up with her three very mischievous dogs. She loves horses, coffee, getting email from readers, ducks, that awful (but delicious) fake butter they put on popcorn at the movie theaters, and staying up late finishing a good book.
She isn’t very fond of laundry.
www.jillianeaton.com
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The song featured in Chapter 24 is actually a real song. It was composed in 1820 by William Cox Bennett, which means it could not have been sung to Emily as a young child by her mother. Still, when I was looking for lullabies this one touched me the most and even though the timing wasn’t quite right, I decided to use it. Here it is in its entirety:
SLEEP! the bird is in its nest;
Sleep! the bee is hushed in rest;
Sleep! rocked on thy mother’s breast!
Lullaby!
To thy mother’s fond heart pressed
Lullaby!
Sleep! the waning daylight dies;
Sleep! the stars dream in the skies;
Daisies long have closed their eyes;
Lullaby!
Calm, how calm on all things lies!
Lullaby!
Sleep then, sleep! my heart’s delight!
Sleep! and through the darksome night
Round thy bed God’s angels bright
Lullaby!
Guard thee till I come with light!
Lullaby!
A DARK AFFAIR ON DOWER STREET
Read on for an excerpt from A Dark Affair on Dower Street, Book 1.5 in the Rookery Rakes Saga, now available wherever e-books are sold.
Ava is in distress, but she’s certainly no damsel.
Born and raised in the slums of St. Giles, she knows how to take care of herself and doesn’t take kindly to help, even when it’s offered by Heath Mason, the handsome stranger who appears out of nowhere to save her life.
On the run from men who want her dead for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ava reluctantly places herself in Heath’s care and, against all odds, begins to develop feelings for her brooding, mysterious rescuer.
But Ava is in more danger than she ever realized, for the man she’s falling in love with is the same one who has been hired to hunt her down…
CHAPTER ONE
St. Giles Rookery
London, England
May 1816
The cobblestone was cold and damp beneath her bare feet.
Ava ran quickly, barely letting one foot touch the ground before the other took its place. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps. A cramp burned in her right side and her shoulder ached from where it had been grabbed and twisted, the ripped collar of her dress flapping uselessly against her collarbone. Tears born of pain and fear and frustration ran down her face, making her cheeks glow silver in the moonlight.
After every fourth step she looked behind her, searching the shifting shadows for a glimpse of the men who chased her but the alley was dark and faceless. Nothing stirred in the night.
At least nothing she could see.
She turned right when she reached the end of the narrow alley, then left, then right again, navigating the twisted streets of St. Giles with ease. Anyone who did not live within the four corners of London’s most vi
olent, dangerous rookery would have no doubt been lost within minutes, but Ava knew the alleys like the back of her hand. After all, she’d been born in one of them.
For twenty years she’d lived here. For twenty years she’d managed to go unnoticed. For twenty years she’d managed, against all odds, to survive. And now, on the eve of her twenty-first birthday, she was going to die.
Of all the bloody rotten luck.
From somewhere deep inside the bowels of St. Giles a woman screamed and a baby’s wail echoed. Ava didn’t so much as flinch. She’d grown up listening to the cries of the damned and the bitter sobs of the downtrodden. They were her lullaby, and she didn’t fear them. Truth be told, she didn’t fear much. Except for the men that chased her.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself as she ran. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Another furtive glance over her shoulder revealed nothing, but the tingling at the nape of her neck said something was still stalking her and Ava had learned long ago to always trust her gut instinct.
Not doing so was what landed her in this predicament in the first place. She knew she shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but she hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from the horrific scene unfolding before her. Now she was a witness - the only witness - to a gruesome murder by a peer of the realm; a peer who was willing to do whatever it took to make sure his heinous crime was never discovered.
Collinsworth had already killed one woman tonight. Ava knew he would not hesitate to kill another.
A grimace of pain contorted her pixie-like features as the cramp in her side abruptly sharpened. She couldn’t keep running. Not for much longer. Her body may have been accustomed to sprinting short distances, but it still had its limits, and it appeared she’d finally reached the end of them.
If she could just make it back to—
The pain was sharp and cutting and tore a scream from her throat before she could think to clap a hand over her mouth. Ava stumbled and fell, landing hard on her right side in a foul smelling puddle that instantly soaked her to the skin. Managing to heave herself into a sitting position, she skittered back until she was wedged between two wooden crates piled high with rotten vegetables and lifted her skirts.
Blood was already seeping from between her toes and staining the cobblestone an inky red. Swallowing a second cry she bit down hard on her bottom lip and, grasping her ankle with both hands, wrenched her leg up to stare at the shard of glass protruding from the bottom of her foot in disbelief.
This was going to hurt.
“Ye can do it,” she coaxed herself in a whisper as she tentatively took hold of the glass. “Ye have dealt with worse than this, ye ninny.”
And she had.
If cats had nine lives, then Ava had ten. Through sheer dumb luck she’d managed to survive scrapes that should have killed grown men, let alone a skinny slip of a girl with more tenacity than common sense. Somehow she’d managed to do the impossible in St. Giles: survive without selling her body in the process. Instead she stole what she absolutely needed, and worked like a dog for everything else. If she could do that, then surely she could do this.
Ripping off a ragged strip of skirt, Ava wrapped it around her hand and readjusted her grip on the sharp shard of glass. It was warm to the touch and slippery with blood. Closing her eyes, she counted backwards from three… and yanked with all her might.
The glass slid out of her flesh like a knife being pulled from warm butter. Ava gritted her teeth so hard she bit her tongue, and tasted blood even as she watched it run across the bottom of her foot in a thick stream of crimson. Tearing off another piece of skirt she tied it around the ugly looking cut to stem the bleeding and stood up. She could not afford to sit and wait for one of Collinsworth’s hired thugs to catch up to her. If she wanted to survive, she needed to move, and she needed to move now.
Except when she tried to take a step her leg buckled beneath her and she fell to her knees with a sharp cry pain.
“You look like you could use some help.”
The rough, gravelly voice of a stranger had Ava whirling around and skittering back between the crates of rotten vegetables, dragging her useless foot behind her. In an instant the knife she kept strapped to the inside of her calf was in her hand and pointing straight at the heart of the man who’d emerged like a thief in the night from the shadows.
The darkness of the alley prohibited her from seeing what he looked like beyond a tall, lean silhouette – not that his appearance would have made a difference. If threatened she would stab a handsome man just as easily as she would an ugly one.
“Git away from me before I cut ye up like a slab of beef,” she warned, slicing the knife through the air for emphasis. It was no measly threat. Ava knew how to wield a blade and shoot a pistol with deadly accuracy. Truth be told she preferred gunpowder over steel, but pistols were heavy and cumbersome to carry which was why she’d left hers behind before venturing out for the night.
Yet another stupid mistake made. If she wasn’t careful they’d become a habit. One she could ill afford.
“You’re bleeding,” the stranger noted.
“And ye are one second away from having your throat slit ear to ear,” Ava hissed.
He startled her by laughing. Startled her even more when he reached out and, in a move too quick for her to anticipate, plucked the knife from her grasp. “Do not make threats you cannot keep, kitten.”
Like taking candy from a baby, Ava thought, disgusted with him and herself. “Do not call me kitten,” she retorted. Even cornered and disarmed she would never willingly surrender. If the stranger intended to kill her he wouldn’t have an easy time of it, knife or no knife. After all, she was a rookery girl, and rookery girls knew how to hold their own. Even if they were feeling rather lightheaded from blood loss and dizzy from the excruciating pain of having a shard of glass shoved between their toes.
“Then sheath your claws,” said the stranger. “I am not going to hurt you.”
“What are ye about then?” she asked suspiciously, squinting up at his shadowy countenance and wishing and she could see his eyes. Ava knew from personal experience you could tell a lot from a man by looking him straight in the eye. Men were able to lie with their bodies as well as their tongues, but their eyes always told the truth, whether they wanted to reveal it or not.
“Would you believe me if I said rescuing a damsel in distress?” He sounded amused, as though he didn’t even believe himself. The heel of his boot scraped against the cobblestones, drawing Ava’s eye down.
Expensive leather, she noted, albeit quite dirty. He couldn’t have been a lord, not if he was in this section of London alone at such an hour, which meant one of three things. Either he was a criminal, a wealthy merchant who dabbled in less than honest business practices, or he’d killed the man who owned the boots before him. She scratched her jaw, smearing a trail of mud across her cheek. “What are ye doing out this time of night?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
Ava grunted. She didn’t like people who had answers for everything. Annoying buggers. Still, he hadn’t attempted to rape or murder her yet, which she took as a good sign.
“Help me up,” she demanded, extending one slender wrist. The man took it and pulled her to her feet. When her injured foot made contact with the ground she gasped and fell forward. Thankfully, there was something there to catch her this time. A very firm, very male something.
The stranger’s arms wrapped around her tiny body, securing her tightly against his chest. She pressed the side of her face against his waistcoat, surprised when she felt the rub of silk against her cheek. Wealthy merchant it was, then. A criminal wouldn’t have liked the constriction of such a formal garment and it was too finely tailored to the stranger’s muscular frame to have belonged to anyone else.
Maybe her luck hadn’t run out after all.
Clutching at the lapels of his great coat to hold herself up, Ava tilted her head back, batted her lashes, and purred, “Ye feel so strong. A man
like ye could protect a girl like me. Maybe ye should bring me home with ye.” So I can fix my foot proper and rob ye blind, ye bloody fool.
“I liked you better when you were threatening to slice my throat open.” One of his hands skimmed down her back, following the bony protrusion of her spine. The hand slowed as it drew closer to her derrière and abruptly reversed directions, coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. “Flaunting your wares doesn’t become you, especially when you have no intention of making good on the deed.”
Not such a fool after all, then. Ava gritted her teeth and squinted up at the stranger. He was nearly a foot taller than she, no surprise given her diminutive stature. Now that they were close enough to touch she could see his hair was black as coal and clipped unfashionably short. He had a square jaw, cleanly shaven, and a nose that bent slightly to the left, indicating it’d been broken at least once. His eyes were rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and seemed to glow silver in the moonlight. The broken nose hinted at a life roughly lived, but his scent - sandalwood and pine - revealed he bathed regularly, a contradiction not often found within the debauched streets of St. Giles.
“Who are ye?” she wondered aloud. “And what are ye doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” he murmured, his voice taking on a distinctly husky edge. Ava flinched when he brought his hand up to her face, but he only used the edge of his sleeve to gently wipe at the dirt on her cheek. “You are quite pretty beneath all the grime and muck,” he said, sounding vaguely surprised. “How old are you? You should not be out here alone at night, you know. It is far too dangerous.”
Ava rolled her eyes. She was accustomed to being mistaken for a child, but she didn’t like being treated like one. “The devil take ye, I’m twenty-one.” At least, I will be if I survive the night.
The Duke of St. Giles Page 26
