Much later, after Daniel had everything done to protect Phoebe’s surprise.
He settled into the carriage and looked at this sweet girl’s eyes.
They were open and very brown like wheat.
“Phoebe loves you. I can tell. So I must love you too.”
The little thing reached up and knocked his spectacles and clamped a hold of his nose, the wide, flat thing he used to sniff out baked treats.
Eighteen months courting Phoebe and no word of this girl.
How could she not talk about her daughter? How could she not tell him he’d be a stepfather?
The baby puckered and drooled but didn’t cry. He took a small piece of bread from his picnic basket and put it to her tongue. The child gulped, but except for a swallow, she uttered no sound.
His wife, like all women, had her reasons for her secret. That felt better than thinking Phoebe couldn’t trust him to love her and another man’s child.
As an officer of the court, he’d investigate to see if there wasn’t a brokenhearted family looking for this little one, but as the lieutenant said, no other Blackamoor showed. This child had to be Phoebe’s girl.
Looking at the way the babe trusted him eased the pain tightening about his chest. He hadn’t lost all. He still had something. He had hope.
“I like my surprise, Mrs. Thackery.” His voice had become a wet throaty whisper. “I’ll raise this child, our . . . Hope. Yes, Hope, to be wonderful.”
With both fists clasping his buttons, the wee girl drifted to sleep in his arms.
CHAPTER 3
JEMINAST. MAUR
Two years later, June 2, 1814
London, England
It was a universal truth that a widow in need of saving had lost the man and the means to be rescued. In my case, it was up to me to save me.
Miserable.
Miserablewas such an ordinary word. It didn’t convey enough feeling, not the highs and lows of the moment. I was miserable because my elbow throbbed. Banging it on the chimney of our last mission left a gash, very black and blue and bloody. Shouldn’t I be better with all the practice the Widow’s Grace’s secret gambits afforded? I suspected I might’ve always had a problem with heights. I don’t remember.
Miserable.
Miserable because the roasted pheasant served for dinner was dry. The bird on my Wedgwood plate deserved a better way to die. The lack of a decent sauce added to the cruelty. Our hostess, Lady Bodonel, should have more charity if she insisted on throwing weekly dinners, that I and her daughter-in-law, Patience, must attend. My dearest friend, the new Duchess of Repington, was in demand, but I mustn’t let Her Grace suffer an overdone bird alone. Maybe I was a cook once. I don’t recall.
Miserable.
My new fancy slippers were stiff and tight. I’d begged off from dancing all night, but the gossip about my being the heiress of the Season made everyone—well, almost everyone—try for my hand. Other than a legal paper with plenty of zeros, I didn’t know why I had this twenty thousand pounds, or if it was deserved. I couldn’t say.
Miserable because he looked at me, then turned away. Daniel Thackery, the only man not to ask for my hand, sat across the table chatting with Lady Shrewsbury, his aunt.
What was he telling her? What was his complaint this time?
The handsome man, always short in his speech unless offering corrections, stared at me again, or at the bandages wrapping my bruises. The doctor’s stitches couldn’t be hidden by my lacy tan sleeves.
Fumbling with his dancing gloves, white linen with cherry-red threads at the cuff, my barrister frowned again. Such a waste for his smooth lips. I’d draw them well, if I sketched people. Though I was good with charcoal and paper, I don’t think I was an artist.
Thackery hated when anyone working with his aunt hurt themselves. And we weren’t supposed to mention it to him. He wanted less and less to do with Lady Shrewsbury’s operations. It made him fussy.
Yet, there were times, like now, on this third glance, when the all-knowing man didn’t see I’d noticed him until too late. Caught, our gazes tangled like there was no one else in the room, in London, or on the earth. This look, it was as if we enjoyed a juicy secret that was only ours to share.
