Page 121 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Please please please.
Fawkes had stopped praying years ago, but found himself repeating that plea over and over again.
Pleaselet Georgia and the bairn be safe.
Pleaselet Ellie be willing to see him.
Pleaselet him have a chance to explain. To apologize.
As he should’ve done long ago.
After rounding the drive—this place really was impressive, wasn’t it?—Fawkes jumped from the saddle, catching himself before his knees buckled. Halfway to the steps he realized he was still holding the reins, dragging the poor creature after him. He dropped them, hoping the animal had the sense to stay still, and crashed up the steps.
The door was opened on his pounding, the butler—Christ, hehopedit was the butler—looking older than death. “Yeeessss?” the zombie drawled. “May I help ye?”
“Horse,” panted Fawkes, as if he’d been the one to run from Hangcok Hill. “Take care of it.” He pushed the old man aside—not a difficult feat—and stumbled inside, gasping at the shocking warmth of the hall. “Is Ellie here—damnation, I mean, Lady Georgia’s sister?”
The old man shuffled the door closed. The locking took forever, giving Fawkes enough time to strip off his gloves and look around for a footman. One rounded the corner, and was startled by Fawkes’s sudden attack.
“My horse is outside, man. Could ye find a place in yer stables for it?”
As the footman nodded smartly and headed for the front door, the ancient possibly-butler/possibly-ghost began the process of opening the portal once more.
Jesu Christo.
Fawkes stalked over to the man. “Excuse me,” he muttered. He wrapped his hands around the old man’s waist and lifted him out of the way, then yanked the door open.
The footman smirked as he slipped out of the house, tightening his own scarf, and Fawkes closed the door behind him. Then he turned to the butler.
“Look, I’m sorry sir, I’m in a hurry—”
“Bruno.”
Fawkes’s thoughts ground to a halt. “I—what?”
“Bruno, milord,” the man announced cheerfully. “My name. It’s Bruno, milord.”
“Aye, well,Bruno, I’m nae lord. I’m here for Thorne and Ellie—Lady Danielle Aycock. Are they here?”
The old man was staring over Fawkes’s head, as if considering, and it took rather a lot of restraint to keep from reaching over and shaking him.
“The masterwasin the sitting room—that’s the one over there—with Thorne, having a few drams of whisky.” Fawkes was already on his way to the indicated room, when Bruno’s musings stopped him. “But I just popped in and Thorne was alone there. The master must be upstairs with Lady Georgia.”
Fawkes whirled back around, fingers still unbuttoning his greatcoat which was half-soaked. “Is her labor progressing?”
The auld man drew himself up stiffly, which put the top of his wispy-hair-covered head even with Fawkes’s armpits. “Milord, Itreasuremy ignorance about the birthing chambers.”
Christ, he evenspokeat the speed of a tortoise. “Has the baby been born?” Fawkes asked impatiently, checking to see if the vials were still wrapped in his inner pocket.
“The midwife is still up there, if that is an indication. Usually she leaves after the bairn is born, as I recall. Of course, there was one time—I think it was back in ’47—where Sam the butcher—do ye ken Samwise, milord?—his wife decided she’d birth his son right there in the—where are ye going, milord?”
“I told ye,” Fawkes called down, already halfway up the stairs, “I’m nae lord.”
“Is this quite proper?” came the warbled question from the foyer, but Fawkes ignored it.
Because the answer, obviously, wasnay. Nay, this was far from proper, but he was doing it anyway.
He just had to pray Ellie was with her sister.
