Page 111 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
That’s what they’d called him. Had it been because of his father?
But he is illegitimate—a bastard, his word. There was no way he would ever inherit. Even his father’s nephew, Thorne, had a greater claim to the dukedom.
“Danielle,” Thorne began, “ye dinnae understand. My uncle…”
“It’s mine,” whispered Fawkes, finally lifting his gaze from the paper, something unreadable in those green depths. “He left me Hangcok Hill.”
As Ellie sucked in a breath, Thorne nodded.
“Aye. The reading of the will made it verra clear. The original lease was until Uncle’s death, but he’d always intended on ye inheriting this place after. Ye can sell it, or live in it, or go back to London. Either way, yer mother will have a place here.”
Fawkes was staring at Thorne, but Ellie suspected he wasn’t seeing much of anything. “A home,” he repeated in a whisper.
And in that moment, Ellie understood.
A lump in her throat the size of her right knee, she reached for him again, latching on to his arm. “Fawkes,” she managed to breathe.
Dark green eyes turned to her, and there was wonder in them, but also confusion and excitement.
“It’s mine, Ellie.” When he swallowed, she watched his throat work. “Mine. All of it. Mother will be safe here. And I…”
“You could live here.” She squeezed his arm, loving the way his eyes lit. “You do such important work for the people of London, Fawkes, but you could do good here, too. You could help.”
And just like that, his expression shuttered.
She actually saw it happening; his lids fluttered shut, he inhaled, and when he opened his eyes again, the joy was gone, replaced with wariness.
“I’m no’ certain they’dwantmy help,” he finally said, in a dull tone.
“Of course they would,” she scoffed. “I know you had that horrible name in London, but you didgoodfor people—”
“Did I?”
His expression had gone so bleak, so cold, she barely recognized it. “Fawkes?” she whispered, stepping toward him, willing him to loosen, to hold her again.
Her step kicked the garland, which had fallen earlier from the banister. Huffing in irritation, Ellie stooped to pick it up, and lifted it back to the small nail on the wood.
There.No, wait, it is crooked.Frowning, she adjusted the swag she’d created, only for the bow on the next swoop to fall off.
Behind her, she heard Thorne drawl, “Did ye, cousin?”
Fawkes twisted suddenly and Ellie was reminded of the way he moved that night she’d stayed in his flat, when he’d thought danger had followed her. His knees flexed, his shoulders rolled, and he looked ready to pounce on Thorne.
His cousin, however, merely cocked his head and stared thoughtfully, as Ellie stood there with an embarrassingly large red bow in her hands.
“I ken that ye ken that I kenexactlywhat sort of work ye did in London…” Thorne shook his head. “And I ken ye’re out of it now.”
Slowly, Fawkes straightened, the paper still dangling from his hand. He didn’t speak but watched Thorne warily, as if afraid the man would suddenly burst into violence.
Or a song and dance routine.
Neither particularly welcome.
Exhaling tightly through her nose, Ellie turned and carefully hung up the red bow. When she stepped back to ensure it was even, the first swag of garland tumbled to the ground again.
“Damnation,” she muttered, trying to gather the greenery again, while behind her, Thorne spoke speculatively.
“Ye see, I kenned what awaited me in Scotland—a funeral and paperwork and the arse-pain of a dukedom—so I wasnae in a hurry to rush up here after my uncle’s death, as ye were. I had time. Time to poke around in London.”
