Page 136 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
There was something relieving about not having to hide his parentage any longer. Mother hadn’t minded that others knew now, especially since Fawkes had the deed to their home. And although Thorne still preferred to spend time in London, he was in Scotland often enough that Fawkes knew there’d always be someone to turn to with questions or advice when it came to running an estate.
Aye, he was finding he didn’t hate calling Thornecousinafter all.
And as Fawkes had settled into Hangcok Hill, his reputation as a chemist had spread. The midwife who birthed wee Rosie still consulted with him regularly, sending him many clients. The local chemist and pharmacists had begun to rely on his concoctions for their female patients, and Fawkes was able to send necessary medicines to London—for Mister Reynald, for example—with Thorne.
Aye, things had worked out surprisingly well. Except…
“Who is that lad eyeing Mother’s candelabra?” he murmured to his cousin. “Do I need to nail it—or him—down?”
“That is Bull Lindsay, Exingham’s younger brother, and stepson to Calderbank, the agent we told ye about who took his family and hid in America.”
“And why exactly is he trying to pick Effinghell’s pocket?”
Thorne hummed. “Trying? The lad doesnaetryto steal; he has the most remarkable fingers the London underworld has seen, I’d wager. Now,he’dmake a fine agent, if anyone was stupid enough to actually start up a legitimate organization.”
“He’d have to be touched in the head,” Fawkes muttered.
“Nay, he’d have to be fookingstupid,” Thorne cheerfully corrected. “Has Ellie heard anything more from her uncle?”
“Ye mean, since she wrote to tell him she was remarrying without his blessing?” Fawkes snorted. “Blackrose disowned her, but there really wasnae anything else hecoulddo, is there? His brother set precedence, disowning Georgia, and Blackrose wants the Bonkinbone fortune for himself. Nae point in giving up a dowry.”
“He willnae be able to spend it,” Thorne vowed, as the harpist Mother had hired began to play. “Well, at least ye dinnae have to pretend politeness to him. Have ye cashed in that stock certificate yet?”
Fawkes’s attention was on the door at the back of the room. “Nay, should I?”
“No’ yet,” Thorne murmured thoughtfully. “I’m wondering if we could use that to trap the bastard…”
Fawkes might’ve said something else, but at that moment the door opened. He took a step forward, ignoring his cousin and the vicar, suddenly anxious to have the ceremony over and done with.
The last few months—Ellie had insisted on at leastappearingto mourn Rufus—had been wonderful, but Fawkes couldn’t wait to claim the woman he loved in front of the whole world. Own her. Declare her as his.
Merida stepped through the door, followed by Tramp on a lead.
Behind him, Thorne sucked in a breath. “Christ on the cross, cousin, she could be yers.”
Ringlets framed her little face and her big green eyesdidlook remarkably like Fawkes’s and his mother’s. But it was the way her face brightened into a smile which made his heart tug in his chest.
She was beautiful, aye. Just like her mother.
Crouching, Fawkes opened his arms. Heedless of her fine dress, or the flowers in her hand, Merida let out a whoop and leapt forward. Tramp, of course, followed.
Merida barreled into Fawkes’s arms, and the dog barked twice before lowering himself to his haunches and trying to gnaw off the flowers tied to his collar. Sighing hugely, Thorne slipped the end of the lead around his wrist and told the pup, “If ye do anything impolite, I’m sending ye to the stables.”
Tramp scooted his arse along the fine rug, making little satisfied noises. “Aye, like that,” Thorne growled.
Fawkes ignored him, holding Merida at arm’s length now. “Ye look so beautiful, sprite!”
“As beautiful as Ellie?” she asked, almost shyly.
She wore a pretty pink dress, positively covered in ruffles, which her aunt Georgia had insisted she must have. Around her neck hung a gold chain, and on that chain was strung the ornate gold ring her father had once given to Ellie—they’d both decided Merida deserved to have it.
The girl’s adult teeth were growing in, and to Fawkes’s secret delight, they were growing crooked.
Just like her mother’s.
“Of course ye’re as beautiful as she is.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “She’s yer mother, aye?”
“Stepmother,” the girl corrected. She took a deep breath as if she wanted to say something, then closed her mouth and frowned, uncustomarily awkward. Fawkes’s patience was rewarded when she finally blurted, “And ye’re my stepfather.”
