Chapter Twenty Six

D o you prefer my room," Chris asked as he slid beneath the covers beside Phoebe, "or yours?" "I have no preference," Phoebe said. "Why do you ask?" "Because I have discovered over the last few days that separate bed chambers are not to my liking." He winced as he slid his arm beneath her neck, his knuckles aching. "I thought we'd share." "Really? You? Share ?" "With you, I'll share," he said. "Besides, it's damned inconvenient to have to walk all the way back to my room for a change of clothes whenever I've stayed the night in yours. Makes my knee ache." He winced again. Carefully she pulled his hand out from beneath her. "Kit, your hand! What have you done?" she asked, stroking the pad of her thumb gently across his ruined knuckles. "Introduced my fist to Scratch's face a few times too many for comfort. He had an unaccountably thick skull." Had . He hadn't much of anything anymore, and that was some comfort at least. "But I'm not the only one with bruises and scrapes." He turned her face toward the light, and pressed his lips lightly to the delicate skin near her temple, where a bruise was already forming. "What did the doctor say?" "Not much," she said. "I cut the inside of my cheek upon my teeth when he struck me. It bled a great deal, but it looks worse than it is. Have I truly got a bruise? Does it look rakish and dashing?" "It looks bruised ." "You've had worse and I've not complained of it," she grumbled. "Liar," he accused. "You're remarkably proficient at complaining." His head settled onto his pillow beside hers. "I recovered your dagger for you." "I don't know that I want it back," Phoebe said with a shudder. "What? Whyever not?" "Well, it's got blood all over it." He gave a startled chuckle. "Of course it has. You stabbed a man. The blood will wash off." His fingers slid through her hair. "I am so proud of you." "For killing a man?" "For defending yourself however you had to do it." She tucked her cheek against his shoulder. "I should feel guilty, shouldn't I?" "No," he said. "Anyone who threatens your life deserves what they get. Don't ever feel guilty for surviving." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I told my mother," she confessed. "The truth about me. I could always have told her. I spent so many years so certain that I could never, that no one would ever understand. But if I had—if I had, then—" Then they wouldn't be here now. Phoebe would likely have found contentment as the marriage mart failure she had endeavored to be, the maiden aunt to her siblings' practically countless progeny. She would not have been beset by suitors seeking a mother to the own children. There would have been no need for him to chase off those gentlemen with the judicious lobbing of oranges over the wall. They might never have spoken, never developed the habit of meeting in secret late in the evenings. "But you told me," he said, and that had made all the difference. If she had never confessed her desperation, there would never have been a reason for him to suggest a marriage of convenience. How easily they might have missed one another. By mere inches; just the width of the garden wall. "I did," she said. "I suppose I thought that you would keep my secret. That you might understand what it was like to be different." He had. Of course he had. But it had also been a new and novel experience to have someone—a stranger—trust him to do so. She had not seen him as a villain, even if the whole of society did. They had been friends first, and he thought that made it all the more remarkable. "Tell me what happened with Russell," she said, dragging her leg up the inside of his own. "How did he come to be…alive? And why did he come here?" "You didn't hear?" "I was rather busy with rallying my family and stabbing a man in our foyer." "Ah." His slid his hand down the gentle slope of her spine. "Clearly, I hadn't managed to kill him all those years ago," he said. "I thought I had. He said he knew I would, eventually, if he showed his face again. So instead he did truly become the bogeyman haunting the streets, frightening the children. For a while. Until he got pinched for theft and transported." "Transported? Truly?" "Yes. Came back using a new name. I'm not even certain it's his own. But it had been over two decades since he'd last been in London, and he's changed substantially. No one recognized him—and likely would not have, so long as he never claimed his prior moniker. He set himself up as a kidsman once again." Phoebe shivered. "I hate to think of it," she said. "Those poor children." "I've nabbed more than a few of them," Chris said. "Sent them on to Em. He didn't return to avenge himself, but I made it unavoidable. Either he did away with me—or eventually I'd find him, learn who he truly was, and finish the job I'd begun so many years ago. He had to kill me, I expect. But he wanted me to suffer." He heaved a sigh, rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. "Do you know, I never expected your brother to come to my defense." "I think he likes you, at least a little," Phoebe said. "Probably," she added, "he'll trade upon your reputation when it comes time for his daughters to be married. Just to ensure their suitors know to treat them well." Or else , Chris supposed. He gave a little snort. "I like that," he said. "For once to have my blackened reputation be a blessing. I suppose I could let your brother know that he may depend upon me to break a few noses if the situation calls for it." Or an arm. A leg, perhaps, if it were truly merited. He could count on one hand the people he'd ever given a damn about in the world, but since Phoebe had somehow scrawled her name onto that list, he supposed he could make room for a Toogood or several. Or several dozen. Hell . "Speaking of my family," Phoebe said, muffling a yawn against his shoulder. "I suppose I really ought to tell you about Christmas." A niggling sense of unease slid over him. "What? What about Christmas?" "We always spend it at my family's country estate," she said. "We? Who is we ?" She gave a hesitant shrug. "All of us. It's tradition." "All of you." The words banged around inside his brain. " All of you? Even the children?" Phoebe rolled her eyes. "Especially the children. It's Christmas ." She laid one palm against his chest. "We'll have to go, too. It's only a week—" "A week!" Perhaps he ought to have let Scratch shoot him. "And really, it's pleasant. Mostly." Chris groaned. "It's only a week," she reiterated. "Surely you can spare a single week." "That's seven days," he said. "I'll give you one." Phoebe thrust out her lower lip in a pout. "Five." Chris squinted. "Three." "Deal." She grabbed his hand, squeezed it in hers…and proceeded to slide her leg further up his. "I'm not going to budge on this," he said as she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "You're not going to manipulate me up to the full seven with sex." They were both exhausted, but at least they'd sleep particularly well afterward. "Phoebe," he said as she cast her leg over his hips and wriggled until she'd managed to climb astride him. "Tell me you understand." Instead she gave a devastating little wiggle. Ah, hell.

∞∞∞

Emma's hand trembled as she poured herself a fresh cup of tea, scattering a few stray drops upon the pristine tablecloth. "Are you certain that's wise?" "It's only Christmas," Phoebe said. "How bad could it be?" "And he's agreed to a full week? In the company of the Toogoods? All of the Toogoods?" Diana inquired, her mouth dropping open in utter shock. "All of the Toogoods?" Charity asked, canting her head to the right curiously. "Just how many are there?" "Oh, a few shy of fifty," Lydia said as she passed a plate toward Charity. "Another biscuit?" "Thank you, I—" Charity paused, her fingers hovering over the plate, her dark eyes wide. "I must have misheard you. You couldn't possibly have said fifty ." "She did. Phoebe has got seven siblings," Diana confided. "Between them, she has got twenty-seven nieces and nephews." "Twenty-eight next year," Phoebe said. "Cynthia's expecting again." "Do give her my felicitations," Emma said. "And I don't intend to be rude by repeating myself, but—Phoebe, are you really, truly certain that's wise?" "I can assure you, it is not," Charity said. "I've seen Chris cross the street to avoid a single child. Hell, I've seen him cross himself , and I'm fairly certain he's not Catholic." "But he's kind to Hannah," Diana said. "My stepdaughter," she clarified for the benefit of Charity, who was not well enough acquainted with any of them to know. "And he sent a lovely gift for Jacob at his birth. Isn't he good with Danny and Kitty?" she asked of Emma. "Well, yes, of course," Emma said. "For as long as he can bear it, which is generally no more than an hour at a time. But there is a distinct difference between two and twenty-seven." "It's twenty-five," Charity said. "That's the difference. Twenty-five children." She gave a delicate shudder. "It's tradition," Phoebe insisted. "And really, it's only a week. Papa's country estate is vast—" "Not with twenty-seven children within it, it isn't," Diana said. "You'll have to do all the shopping," Emma said. "If you leave it to Kit to select his own gifts for the children, they'll likely end up with something highly inappropriate. I don't believe he's got even the slightest idea of what might constitute a child's toy." "That's not true," Diana said. "He sent a silver rattle for Jacob." Phoebe hadn't the heart to tell her that the gift had most likely been selected by Brooks. "He'll learn," she said. Eventually. But Emma was probably right. Christmas shopping—at least for this year—should be left to her. But it wouldn't matter, truly, just how many people were in attendance. How many children were underfoot. Because it would be their first Christmas together, and that would make it wonderful.

∞∞∞

"Christmas with the family?" Rafe said, sipping his glass of brandy from his position upon the couch within Chris' library. "Who are you?" "It's only a week," Chris muttered. "How bad could it possibly be? Really." Probably he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that, but that was likely because he was. "A week? I thought you'd said three days." "She manipulated me into more with sex. Quite a lot of it in quite a lot of places." And it had been quite a lot of fun. If Christmas went well, probably he'd suggest it hadn't, just to plant the idea of another round of such manipulation in her mind for next year. Probably he'd do the same even if it didn't. Rafe coughed into his fist. "Emma's got a theatre box, if you—" He broke off abruptly at Chris' glare. "It was only a suggestion." "I'll purchase my own damned box if I've a mind, thank you," Chris said. He hadn't much fondness for the theatre, but probably Phoebe would want to attend occasionally. Very occasionally. And he—well, he'd have a grand time filching trinkets from anyone who dared to cut them. Probably so would Phoebe. She'd amassed her own tidy little collection of them. "It's…strange," Rafe said. "I never thought I would see you married, much less happily." It was strange, even to himself. He hadn't thought himself the sort. Probably he wasn't, except—except that Phoebe had made him into that sort. "We suit each other," he said. Friends first. Before they'd married, before they'd had a reason to be anything more, they had been friends. How many married couples could say that? He'd gotten more than a wife out of that bargain. He'd gotten a whole social circle, a damned family . And it was a loud, obnoxious one, but he had the oddest feeling that he could grow accustomed to it. Just so long as he had a home of his own to return to, which was quiet and comfortable and just his and Phoebe's. And it was damned satisfying to find her back within it once again. The past month had been calm and peaceful—excepting two breakfasts during which the Toogoods as a whole had descended upon his house with the excuse that it was plainly large enough to accommodate the lot of them. But he had gotten the sneaking suspicion that at least a few of them liked him. Somehow. For some nebulous reason or another, probably something that would never quite make sense to him. Phoebe hadn't suffered a nightmare featuring Scratch since she'd returned home. Hopefully, she never would again. She'd ceased to jump at shadows, and enjoyed security and safety once more. Scratch's death had brought her only peace. "I suppose you must," Rafe said. "At least, Emma's not mentioned any complaints from Phoebe to me. Did you know she brought Charity round to tea with her last week?" "Did she? How did it go?" "Just swimmingly," Rafe said. "To all accounts, anyway. I can't say I know of anyone else who would approve of his mistress—" " Former mistress." "—striking up a friendship with his wife. But she seems a decent enough woman." "She is." Charity had always been that. "She's been a good friend to Phoebe thus far. Probably she could do with a few new friends herself." Life had not been particularly kind to Charity in the past, but Phoebe would be. Emma, Diana, and Lydia would be. Even if she wasn't the sort of woman whom they should much be in the company of, they'd all endured their fair share of scandal and more. What was one more scandal? It wouldn't signify to anyone who mattered. Probably it wouldn't even be the last of them, since he intended to be rather scandalous himself. Rafe extended his glass. "Pour me another," he said. "I suppose this calls for a toast." Chris reached for the crystal decanter and poured another measure into Rafe's glass and his own. "What to?" he asked. "Happy endings," Rafe said. "Seems fitting. Somehow, we've all managed to seize them." Chris lifted his glass—and paused as Phoebe wandered slowly past the hall outside the open doors, humming softly to herself. Hieronymus followed moments after her, plodding along in steely turtle determination so as not to be left behind. It wasn't the end. There were years and years left. And, God willing, they would all be happy. This was only the start of them. "No," he said. "To happy beginnings."