by Elisa Braden
Hannah grinned down into familiar pale eyes. “I think a strong appetite is an excellent sign. It means he’s growing.”
“Hmmph. This time next year, we’ll need a cart and plow horses to wheel him about.”
Running a fingertip over the babe’s silky black hair, Hannah laid a kiss on his forehead. “Your mama is silly, Griffin. Surely a lad as clever as you will be walking on his own by then.” Tiny hands snagged her curls where the black spirals dangled within reach.
“He adores you, you know.”
Hannah smiled, refusing to take her eyes from his precious face. “And I him.”
A long silence fell. When she glanced up, Eugenia was eyeing her with speculation, her fingers tapping her lips. “You should have one.”
Hannah blinked. “One what?”
Eugenia nodded toward Griffin. “One of those.”
Shock blistered her insides. For a long while, she could not speak. The ache she’d tried to deny—a pain that had grown sharper and deeper with each passing day—swelled and filled and demanded.
Eugenia was blunt by nature. The benefit of her candor was that one rarely had to wonder what she was thinking. The difficulty was that one was not always prepared to hear the truth.
Calmly removing her hat and placing it on a low table, Eugenia’s direct gaze pinned Hannah to the sofa cushion. “To have one of those, you must first have a husband, of course. And there’s the rub, is it not, dearest?”
Hannah couldn’t form words, for none existed to describe her anguish. She could not tolerate Mr. Reynolds helping her down from her horse. She had to brace herself every time her own brother kissed her cheek.
A husband was impossible.
A man’s face flickered in her mind’s eye—square jaw, wicked grin, eyes that devoured her. She forced the vision away, but it cost her.
Eugenia’s lovely face blurred into a liquid swirl.
“Please,” Hannah whispered tightly. “Don’t.”
“I’ve held my tongue for months,” she replied. Warm, brown eyes shone with compassion. “Would that I could wait a little longer. You’ve made wondrous progress, dear sister. But time is working against us now.”
Hannah shook her head and cradled Griffy closer. His tiny fist patted her as though offering comfort. “I don’t understand.”
“This will always be your home. We will always be your family. Never doubt it.” Eugenia caught her gaze and held it, strong and sure. “But you are three-and-twenty. If you are to build a family of your own, you must press forward past your fears.”
“I cannot.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No. I am not ready.”
Eugenia smiled and laid a hand on Hannah’s forearm. “Ready or not, dearest, it is time.”
Resentment roiled up inside her. “Perhaps age serves as a marker to normal ladies. A season at eighteen. A husband by twenty. A babe by two-and-twenty. One might as well be a clock wound by a master smith, chiming the hours by rote.” Hannah raised her chin. “But I am not normal, Eugenia. Far from it.”
Her sister-in-law’s head tilted. “Do you wish to be?”
Another shockwave burst through her. God, sometimes she wished Eugenia would mince words. Just once in a while. But her honesty was also a comfort, as Hannah needn’t fear deception. In return, she offered an honest reply. “More than anything.”
Eugenia nodded. “As I thought.” She squeezed Hannah’s arm and stroked her son’s fuzzy head. “You’ve too much love in your heart to keep it locked away any longer. We must formulate a plan.”
“I don’t want—”
“I know. But avoiding what you don’t want stands in the way of what you do want. A husband. A babe of your own. Normalcy.”
Her heart throbbed in a pounding panic at the mere thought. “How?” she whispered. “How am I to … I cannot even imagine it.”
“We’ll approach this endeavor as we would any other. First, we establish our goals. Let’s begin with normalcy. You are not as far from it as you may think.” Eugenia leaned forward and poured them each a cup of tea from the tray. “Normal ladies drink tea. And you drink tea.”
Hannah raised a brow.
Eugenia gestured toward the pianoforte in the corner of the room. “Normal ladies play music. So do you.”
This time, Hannah rolled her eyes. “Normal ladies also sleep and eat, Eugenia. Shall we count these, as well?”
Laughing, Eugenia shook her head. “If it gives you solace, dearest, we shall count the use of a chamber pot.”
“Nothing gives me solace. That is why it is impossible.”
Eugenia clicked her tongue. “What a lot of rot. How do you suppose other ladies manage to appear normal?”
Hannah frowned. “Because they are.”
“Wrong. These are simply behaviors. Other ladies learned to pour tea, to play their instruments. They learned to ride, the same as you have—by practice. Practice, practice, practice.” Eugenia sighed. “Inside, we are all strange, you know. Strange creatures with peculiar natures. Some of us have too much fondness for hats. Some of us are endlessly curious about plants. Some of us are plainspoken and some reserved. Some merely tolerate children, whilst others …” She covered Hannah’s hand, gently stroking her knuckles. “Others cannot help but love them.”
Hannah swallowed and looked down at where Eugenia touched her hand. She didn’t even flinch any longer. She’d grown so accustomed to Eugenia’s affectionate gestures, she scarcely paid them any mind, apart from the comfort they offered.
Perhaps Eugenia was right. Perhaps normal was merely a matter of practice.
She examined little Griffy’s face. His eyelids were drooping; a nap was nearing. “I do want this,” she conceded. “You’re right about that much.”
“Of course I am.”
“What do you propose?”
“Lady Wallingham has invited us to visit her in Northumberland, a house party at Grimsgate Castle. My family is attending, including Maureen and Henry.”
Maureen was Eugenia’s sister—one of five Huxley daughters—and a dear friend of Hannah’s. She’d been the one to introduce Hannah to Phineas, in fact. Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston, was Maureen’s husband, a dashing gentleman with a penchant for bold waistcoats and sharp daggers. He’d saved Hannah’s life once. He was a good man and would never hurt her.
She released a shuddering sigh. “Having friends about should make our stay more pleasant, I suppose.”
“Hmm. Helpful in the husband hunt, too.” Eugenia had gone back to tapping her lips and eyeing Hannah with a speculative gleam. “My mother and sisters will revel in our little project.”
“H-husband hunt? I thought we were only going to practice being normal.”
“And we shall—whilst we find you a husband.”
“This is your worst idea yet.”
“Nonsense. First, we must teach you flirting. Pretend I am a gentleman.”
Hannah glanced at the elaborate confection lying next to the tea tray. “No gentleman would wear a hat decorated with fruit.”
Eugenia lowered her voice and her brows. “You are an exquisite creature, Miss Gray. I find you enchanting.”
“Who says such things?”
Eugenia wagged her brows and leaned closer. “Verily, my beauty, I speak only the truth of your astonishing splendor.”
“Well, do stop. It sounds silly. Griffy is more enchanting than I.”
Eugenia broke character to chuckle. “As his mother, I quite agree. But gentlemen will not. You’ve the Holstoke coloring without the Holstoke severity. Such pure, delicate lines. No man will be able to look away. A hint of flirtation, and you shall hold them in thrall, vying for your favor in the most embarrassing fashion.”
“But I don’t want them in thrall. I don’t even want them … looking at me.”
“Do you want this?” She nodded toward the now-sleeping Griffy.
Hannah’s heart squeezed so hard, she felt like she was suffocating. “Yes.�
�
“Then flirt with me.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Simple. Step one, smile.”
Hannah frowned.
“Wrong direction, dearest.”
“Smiling is not the problem.”
Eugenia sighed. A sad wince flickered over her features. “I know.”
“Touching is. I cannot bear it.”
“You couldn’t bear riding either. Now you do it every morning.”
Hannah stared at her sister-in-law, wishing she could explain how it felt to fight for one’s sanity in the most ordinary of interactions. A polite press of hands. A close conversation. A dance.
“Would you know how to ride if you’d never attempted to mount a horse?”
Sighing, Hannah focused on her sleeping nephew. The tiny boy smelled of milk and sweetness. “No.”
“Go on, then. Give us a smile.” Eugenia demonstrated by beaming.
Hannah hesitated before following suit.
“Hmmph. An anemic effort.”
“It is the best I can do.”
“Perhaps we should skip the flirtation.”
“I did warn you.”
Eugenia tapped her fingers against her lips. “Let’s narrow the field a bit. Husbands come in many varieties. Short ones, tall ones. Lean and fat. Pleasantly daft and darkly brilliant. What sort would you prefer?”
Swallowing her first answer, which was “none at all,” Hannah considered the question. She sifted through recollections of the men she’d admired over the past seven years—Phineas, Lord Dunston, a gaming club owner named Sebastian Reaver, a duke’s brother named Lord Colin Lacey. Another man stole through her thoughts, but she blocked the intrusion ruthlessly.
He was gone, dash it all. And he probably despised her.
“H-he would need to be kind,” Hannah murmured. “Patient. I would need to feel … safe.”
Eugenia nodded. “Naturally. I’ll not have my sister married to a brute. What else?”
“A good father.” The words nearly choked her, but they had to be said. “Above all things, he must love children and treat them well.”
“Hmm. Should he be handsome?”
Again, a face appeared her mind’s eye—a face with lips she hadn’t been able to resist. She forced the vision away. “No,” she answered. “Handsome men feel entitled to a woman’s regard.”
“True. However, I would advise keeping an open mind on the subject. Some of the best men I know are handsome as the devil and twice as charming.”
This time, she had trouble banishing his image. Without meaning to, Eugenia had described him perfectly.
“What of height? Tall, medium, short?”
Hannah shook her head, still trying to force his image away. “He needn’t be tall.”
“Do you care anything for titles?”
“I should like him to be well settled,” Hannah answered, stroking a finger over Griffy’s plump cheek. “Able to provide a proper home for our children. But no, a title is the last thing I want.” A titled man would expect his wife to function as his hostess, perhaps even traveling to London each season to attend agonizing rounds of entertainments. She would prefer to ride Astrea across the Channel wearing the sort of wool that gave her a rash.
“Sensible.” Eugenia sipped her tea. “An abundance of unmarried, untitled, unthreatening gentlemen shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” She set down her cup and tapped her lips. “The challenge lies in finding one who will also please your brother. He will demand deep pockets and impeccable honor, as well as a facility with weapons.”
Hannah frowned. “Weapons?”
“Hmm. Pistols, knives, swords. Fists, too. He’ll need to be fit and strong. You may not care one way or the other about height, but Phineas will prefer a tall man.”
“I don’t understa—”
“I shall write my mother and Lady Wallingham this very day.”
“Eugenia—”
Her sister cupped her jaw, the contact warm and gentle. “We will find him.” Sparkling sherry eyes glowed with reassurance. “The man whose touch you will welcome. The man you may trust with your life, and more importantly, your heart.” Her thumb swiped beneath Hannah’s eye. “No tears, dearest. Trust that I would never ask more from you than I thought you could bear.”
Hannah blinked away the annoying sheen of tears. She hated her weakness. Once again, she beat it back with the force of long habit. “Chess.”
Eugenia’s mouth quirked in amusement. “What about it?”
“He must play, and he must be good. I am an excellent player. I prefer a challenge in that regard.”
Eugenia chuckled. “Leave it to me,” she answered. “The men visiting Grimsgate Castle have little notion of the test they are about to endure.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWO
“You may be correct in stating I have demanded the moon and stars, my lord. But I find your counteroffer the equivalent of substances far more earthbound. I daresay one may inadvertently step in such substances whilst traversing London’s filthier mews.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter exchanging offers of disparate value.
Long before the thief struck, Jonas felt his intentions as an itch. The crawling sensation slithered along his nape. He might have chalked it up to the sweltering heat of August in London. But he’d felt it before.
Every time death hovered near, the itch returned.
He kept his pace steady along Exeter Street, deceptively lazy, intentionally casual. Rounding the corner of a stench-filled alley, he calmly withdrew his blade from inside his oversized coat.
And waited for his fish to take the bait.
He did not wait long.
The thief gurgled, choked, and wheezed as Jonas’s arm seized his throat. He thrashed against Jonas’s hold, his heels sliding on the slippery leavings of animals and men.
“Thought you said you never strayed west of Temple Bar, Pickens.” He muttered the taunt in the wily thief’s ear then clicked his tongue in a mocking chide. “Should have kept to it. Mayfair nobs get a peculiar thrill from seeing shite like you hang.”
Bertie Pickens clawed at Jonas’s arm and twisted to work free his blade. After seizing the thief’s wrist and applying a bit of pressure, the blade dropped to the ground with a ping. Jonas sent it skittering across muck-strewn ground with a kick. Then, he pivoted and plastered Bertie’s face against sooty bricks.
“Eh! No call to bruise me up, Hawthorn,” the thief whined. “What’d I ever do to you?”
Jonas plucked a purple velvet pouch from Bertie’s pocket and dangled it before the thief’s nose. “Not a thing, Pickens. My employer, on the other hand, would like her jewels back.” Jonas tucked the pouch away and retrieved a leather cord to bind the thief’s wrists. “Sentimental value. You understand.”
“What’s Bow Street want with a poor wretch what only works to feed ’is poor, ’ungry little childr—”
Disgusted, Jonas yanked Bertie away from the bricks and hauled him out to the street, where he flagged a hack. “Silence would be wise, Pickens.” He tossed the vile creature up into the coach. The thief smelled musty, like mushrooms stewed in the same pot as sweaty breeches.
After a pained “ooph,” Bertie scooted across the coach floor, avoiding Jonas’s long legs. “I never stole nothin’. An’ if I did, it was only what I ’ad to do for my poor little—”
“Lie to the magistrates, if you like,” Jonas said flatly. “Perhaps they won’t have heard how you sell your poor, hungry little children to depraved men when you’re too bloody sotted for thieving.”
They arrived at Bow Street within minutes. Relieved to be rid of the thief, he handed Bertie Pickens over to a constable known for dressing up prisoners in a bit of black and blue before their appointment with the magistrates.
Jonas shrugged out of his coat—a stifling but necessary evil—and retrieved the newspaper he’d begun reading earlier that morning,
before one of his informants had alerted him to Pickens’s whereabouts.
He weighed the purple velvet pouch in his hand. Loosened the drawstring. Diamonds winked up at him like stars flickering in the dark. Pearls glowed like moonlight.
“Bloody, bleeding hell, Hawthorn.” The grumbled epithet came from the hound-faced, middle-aged runner approaching from his right. Deep grooves had worn their way into the other man’s face. To be expected, he supposed. Drayton had already been at Bow Street a good decade before Jonas had become an officer.
Calmly, Jonas sat behind his desk and picked up his paper. “Who pissed in your ale this time, Drayton?”
“Pickens was mine.”
“Seems to me the reward was offered to anyone who retrieved the goods.” He plopped the velvet pouch on the desk and nudged it with his knuckle. Then, he grinned. “I’m anyone as much as you are, eh?”
“I needed that job.”
“We all need the jobs.” None of the Bow Street men lived like kings. If they wanted better pay, they had to go hunting rats like Bertie Pickens.
Drayton limped to a nearby chair and sat, rubbing his leg as though the old bullet wound pained him. “I saved your arse not more’n a year past, Hawthorn.”
“And I bought you the Black Bull’s finest ale for your trouble, did I not?”
“Bloody ingrate. What do you need the reward for, anyhow? All you wear is rags. You’ve no mouths to feed but your own.”
Jonas leaned back, surveying the bleary-eyed drunkards, petty thieves, prostitutes, and laggards crowding the Bow Street police office. Some were criminals waiting to go before the magistrates. Some lingered to learn the fate of their kin or conspirators. Others were newspapermen scribbling notes, or wives wringing their handkerchiefs.
He’d watched the same scene from the same play every day for nine years. Longer, if he counted his time as a soldier. Patterns repeated and repeated and repeated, as inexorable as an infection of the bone.
“You like it here, Drayton?” he asked softly.
The hound narrowed his eyes. “Bow Street? There’s worse places.”
Half-smiling, Jonas nodded. “Suppose so.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it against his newspaper. In summer, when the nobs fled to their country estates, jobs with generous rewards grew scarce. “Better ones, too, I reckon.”
