Chapter 17

Dear Ash,

I received your reply this morning.

I shall be brief, as I have only one thing to say.

You absolute lunatic. Are you out of your tiny mind?

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Vivien Lane–Fox to her twin brother, The Hon'ble Ashton Anson (children of The Right Hon'ble Silas and Aashini Anson, the Viscount and Viscountess Cavendish).

12th De Beauvoir Nurseries and Landscaping, Chelsea, London.

Hart woke, squinting as daylight streamed through the window. He felt strangely lethargic, though in a good way, a quiet sense of well-being thrumming inside him. For a moment he was disorientated, for it was far later in the morning than he usually rose, but then he registered the soft weight curled against his body, and the sweep of golden hair that spilled over his chest from the woman whose soft breath tickled his skin.

Fidelia. Lady Fidelia De Beauvoir. His wife.

His wife. The words rang in his mind, bringing with them sensations of pride and wonder and downright astonishment. Doubt, worry, and something close to panic quickly followed these pleasant feelings, leaving him breathless as he considered the future. Had she really considered the life she would live with him, the daughter of a duchess as wife to what amounted to little more than a successful shopkeeper, a tradesman? He might as well say ‘street sweeper' as far as the ton was concerned, it would make little difference.

Fidelia stirred, stretching luxuriously, her hands sliding up over his chest in a drowsy exploration. Hart watched as a smile touched her lush lips and her eyes flickered open, settling on him.

"Good morning, wife," Hart said, too delighted to allow his worries to spoil the moment, what was done was done, and he was not a man who wasted time on borrowing trouble.

"Mr De Beauvoir," she said gravely, though her eyes danced with laughter.

Hart shifted, turning her onto her back so he could gaze down at her. "God, but you're beautiful," he muttered, half to himself. "Everyone will think I abducted you, or ruined you on purpose, and before you start fretting, no, I don't give a damn. You're mine now, and that's all I care about."

Fidelia returned a faint smile, but there was worry about the edges of it, concern in her eyes. "They may think you're the father of my child."

"Then that's all to the good," he said with a shrug. "Better for Ambrose if they think that."

That did not satisfy her. "But they'll think you got me with child and abandoned me, they'll think you're the kind of man who would—"

"Fidelia," he said, his voice firm. "When will you realise I don't give a tinker's cuss for what people think of me, especially if those people are society people? My family, I care about, my friends too, up to a point. I care what you think. Everyone else can take a running jump. Pack it in now, love. If you want to spend the day looking for your boy, we need to get dressed. It's gone nine already."

"Good heavens!" Fidelia said in alarm. "Is it really?"

"We slept late," he said with a nod. "We must have been tired out."

Her lovely face softened, and she reached up, touching his cheek with her hand. "I suppose we must have been."

Hart leaned down and kissed her, and thoughts of staying right where they were for the rest of the morning stirred, his body reacting with approval at the possibility. Last night she had been a wonder to him, refusing him nothing, giving of herself with such trust and eagerness he'd been overwhelmed by the entire experience. His feelings for her seemed to have grown exponentially. The desire to touch her, to have her with him, was so great he wondered how on earth he would ever go back to work. The idea of leaving her at home when he might spend that time beside her made him feel slightly sick.

He told himself he was being ridiculous, that he was a grown man, and he was not about to make a twit of himself by acting like a damned moon calf. It didn't make the feeling go away, though.

Fidelia responded to his kisses and caresses, sighing and coiling herself about him, and then suddenly giving him an impatient shove.

"No. No, Hart, stop distracting me. The day is slipping away, and we must go now. Please, you promised."

"So I did," he said with a regretful sigh. "Very well, love. Up you get, then. I'll fetch you some hot water, shall I?"

"You don't have a maid of all work, or a valet?" she asked, looking a little shocked.

Hart shook his head, wondering how she would take this, for she was simply not used to seeing to herself. He'd supply her with all the servants she needed once they were settled, but for the next few days, things would be difficult for her. "No, love. You can send for your maid if you think she'll come, though you must face the fact she may not wish to. You've come down in the world, remember?"

"Oh, pooh to that," she said crossly. "I think she will come, and if she won't, it's her loss. You'll just have to be my maid this morning," she added with a smile.

Hart got out of bed and stretched, not beyond enjoying the admiring look in his wife's eyes as he did so. "I think I can manage that," he said, shrugging on a dressing gown before he went to heat some water for her.

Hart had just put the kettle on to boil when there was a knock at the door. Tying his dressing gown a little tighter, he went and answered it to discover his floor manager on the doorstep looking harassed.

"Mr De Beauvoir, forgive me," the fellow said, swiping off his hat. "I understand congratulations are due and I would not have dreamed of disturbing you—"

"Well, you have now, Mr Jackson, so you may as well spit it out," Hart said dryly.

The fellow blushed, increasingly mortified. "It's just there's a young woman downstairs. She's loaded with dozens of valises and hat boxes, and she says she's Lady Fidelia's maidservant and she's not leaving until she sees her. Made a bit of a scene, she did, so I took her to my office, but—"

"You'd best send her up at once," Hart said, wondering what on earth the girl was playing at.

He closed the door and went to tell his wife.

"Sally? Here?" she exclaimed, as there was another rap at the door.

Hart went and opened it and ushered the blushing maid inside. The girl glanced at him in his dressing gown, dropped her gaze to discover his feet were bare, and turned scarlet. Happily, his wife appeared before he had to deal with her falling into a swoon.

"Sally!" Fidelia exclaimed.

"Oh, my lady!" Sally cried. "Oh, I pray I did right, but I'll be for it now if you don't take me on."

"Take you on? Why, of course I shall, Sally, what should I do without you? Oh, you dear creature," Fidelia exclaimed, embracing the girl warmly.

"You don't understand, my lady," the maid said sheepishly. "I realised what you'd done before anyone else, you see. I'd had my suspicions… about him," she added in an undertone, jerking a head in Hart's direction.

"You had?" Fidelia said in surprise.

"You're not very subtle when you're in love, my lady, I tell you," her maid replied with a shake of her head. "Not that I blame you for running away from Lord Malmsey. A nasty piece of work, he is. Tried it on with me, he did. If not for Fred the footman, he might have—"

The girl turned white and then pink as Hart let out a stream of invective.

"The blackguard. If I ever get my hands on him again—"

"Not sure you will, sir," Sally said, brightening. "He was in a right state when they brought him back to the house, though Lord Richmond was in a worse case. Don't reckon he'll fancy another run in with you this side of hell freezing over. Lord, what a fuss they made."

"Hmph," Hart replied, disgruntled, folding his arms and glowering.

"I still don't understand what the problem is, Sally," Fidelia repeated.

Sally sighed. "Well, the moment I realised what was happening, I guessed where you must be going to, and the gossip that followed told me I had the right of it. So, I packed up everything I could lay my hands on and talked Fred into loading it all into a carriage for me. He drove me to the railway station and… Oh, my lady, I brought all your jewellery, but I had to pawn those little pearl earrings to pay for the fare and for bringing all your luggage. I hope you don't mind?"

There was a stunned silence.

"Mind?" Fidelia said faintly, gazing at her maid in wonder. "Oh, Sally, you… you absolute Trojan. What a brave thing to do. How courageous you are."

Sally perked up at this and let out a sigh of relief. "I did the right thing, then?"

She glanced at Hart, who nodded, touched by the woman's loyalty. Not that it surprised him. Anyone who really knew Fidelia could not help but love her.

"You certainly did, and do you mean to say you've brought my clothes and jewellery with you?" Fidelia asked, still unable to believe it.

Sally beamed now, looking pleased with herself. "I did, my lady. Almost all of it, and what I left was stuff you wouldn't have wanted. Out of date, it was."

"Goodness, what a wonder you are," Fidelia said, her admiration such that the girl glowed with pride.

"Sally, if I might ask, what wage was the duke paying you?" Hart asked her, for if anyone was due a raise, this young woman was.

Sally named a figure which, while not meagre, was stingy considering who she had worked for, not that Hart was surprised.

"I'll double it," he said promptly. "Providing you start at once."

Sally's eyes grew wide. "Just try to stop me," she replied boldly, gazing at him in awe.

Hart gave her an approving nod. "That's settled, then. I'll see to getting your things sent up to you, love," he said to Fidelia, and went back to speak to Mr Johnson.

Hart washed and dressed quickly so he could get out of his wife's way and leave her and Sally together. Fidelia was telling her maid all about their elopement and marriage and speaking of him in such glowing terms, his ears were burning. So he went down to the showroom and made a nuisance of himself until Sally came to tell him Fidelia was ready to go and waiting in his office.

Hart hurried there and opened the door, finding the breath knocked out of him at the sight that greeted him.

Fidelia stood by the window, dressed in a dark green redingote trimmed with black braid. Her fair hair was neatly coiled at the back of her neck, and she wore a pretty bonnet lined with the same dark green velvet fabric and decorated with pink–and-green velvet roses. In short, she looked a picture of loveliness, and Hart found it hard to believe she was really his wife, despite the night they'd shared together.

Something of last night must have lingered in his eyes as he looked upon her, for his wife turned a becoming shade of pink.

"You look good enough to eat," Hart said frankly.

Fidelia's lips twitched a little. "Have you not breakfasted yet?"

"Yes," he said gravely, closing the door so he could take her in his arms. "But I'm hungry again."

He kissed her once, and then once more, for he could not resist the temptation, but then let her go, knowing she was eager to be off. In truth, he was anxious about this morning's excursion, as he had a disquieting notion about what they would discover, but there was no avoiding it, so he placed his wife's hand on his arm and escorted her out to his waiting carriage.

"Where are we going?" she asked once they were settled.

Hart frowned, wondering what to say. "The old woman who took your son and the young lady with him in for the night saw her speaking to a man. A gentleman, she said. She recognised him well enough to be fairly certain who it was. If she's correct, I know why she went with him."

"So he'll be able to tell me where Ambrose is?" she said eagerly, before her face fell. "This man, he's… he's truly a gentleman, he wouldn't have—"

"He is a good man," Hart said, taking her hand in his and smiling. "Don't fret, love. If I'm right, then Ambrose is safe and will have been well cared for."

Fidelia let out a harsh breath, tears springing to her eyes. "Thank God."

Hart nodded, praying his deduction was correct.

The traffic was thick that morning, so the brief journey to Berwick Street in Soho took far longer than usual, but they arrived at their destination—a smart, redbrick five storey town house—by eleven. Hart helped Fidelia down and knocked smartly at the door, hoping its inhabitant was up by now.

The door opened, and he nodded at the immaculately dressed valet who answered it.

"Morning, Baines. Is he in?"

"Yes, Mr De Beauvoir. If you would care to follow me."

Hart nodded and followed the valet inside to the breakfast parlour, where the man turned to Hart expectantly. "Mr De Beauvoir, and?"

"My wife," Hart said to the valet, feeling an unexpected but not unpleasant surge of pride at the pronouncement. "Lady Fidelia De Beauvoir."

Baines was far too well trained to exclaim or show surprise, so he merely inclined his head. "May I felicitate you both, sir, my lady," he said, before announcing them to the master of the house.

"Wife!" spluttered the elegant man sitting at the neatly laid breakfast table. He set down his coffee cup with such a clatter it was a wonder it didn't break.

Larkin Weston sprang to his feet, turning an accusing gaze on his valet. "Baines, that is not funny—" He caught sight of Fidelia. "Good heavens. I mean… I beg your pardon, my lady, I… I was a little—"

"I take it you've not read the papers yet," Hart said dryly.

"I only just came down. Late night at the club," Larkin added, though that much hardly needed saying. "Well, you've been busy, you dark horse, you. Congratulations!" He shook Hart's hand enthusiastically before turning to Fidelia. "My lady, I believe I had the pleasure of dancing with you once at a ball my mother held."

"I remember," Fidelia replied. "It is good to see you again, Mr Weston."

"Never mind the social chitchat," Hart said irritably, a little unsettled by the idea of Larkin dancing with his wife. "We're here for a reason. I need information from you."

"Oh, yes, of course. Do sit down," Larkin said, pulling out a chair for Fidelia. "Have you breakfasted? Baines is a marvel in the kitchen."

"No breakfast, just information," Hart repeated as they arranged themselves at the table.

Larkin shrugged and sat down once Fidelia was settled. He refilled his coffee cup. "Go on, then. What is it you need to know?"

"About five years ago, you met a young woman on the street, close to Mother Red Cap's tavern. She had a newborn child in her arms. Is this the woman you took to Gillmont?"

Larkin stilled, his eyes narrowing. Carefully, he set the cup down, but everything about him that had been amiable and easy going had stiffened and he suddenly seemed downright hostile.

"You know it is. What of it, Hart? What's this about?"

Hart glanced at Fidelia, not wanting to speak without her permission. She smiled at him and took up the story herself.

"Mr Weston, your friend here is a wonderful man who has been very good to me. He has not only saved me from ruination by marrying me, but he knows… he knows a secret about me, something which the world will soon know too if I have my way. Five years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy. I was, obviously, unwed, and my father took my baby, intending to leave him at a foundling home. A woman was waiting outside the doors, and for reasons we do not understand, she took my son instead."

Larkin was gazing at her in astonishment, and Fidelia blushed, looking back at Hart, who carried on the story.

"It was a terrible night. The girl sought refuge and was taken in by an old lady. It was Mrs Mitchell, Larkin. She saw you talking to the girl the next morning and swore blind that she went with you."

Larkin got to his feet in a rush, moving to stand by the window. He stared out, though Hart thought he didn't see what was outside.

"It was you," Hart pressed.

"Yes," Larkin replied, his voice quiet. "Yes, it was, but… but I don't understand. It's your child?"

Fidelia nodded. "He was hours old. I didn't get more than a cursory glance at him before he was snatched from my arms. I will never forgive my father for what he did, but now I am free of him, and I want my son back."

"I don't understand," Larkin repeated, looking as hurt as he was bewildered. "Why didn't she tell me?"

Hart got to his feet and moved to stand beside Larkin, placing a hand on his shoulder. "My wife wants her boy, Larkin. Losing him nearly broke her. The past years have been hard for her to endure, and I gave her my word I would see him returned to her."

"Oh, God," Larkin said. He looked ill, his complexion turned ashen.

Fidelia got to her feet, moving to Hart with fear in her eyes. "What is it? What's the trouble? Who is this woman? Has she still got my son? What has she done with him?"

"Please, don't upset yourself, my lady," Larkin said, though his voice was heavy. "I cannot understand precisely what has happened, but if the boy is truly yours, he is well and happy. Indeed, he is the most cherished and adored boy in the world, that much I can promise you."

"Then he really is alive, and l-loved?" Fidelia pressed, her voice becoming choked.

"Yes," Larkin said. "Adored more like, I should say."

"And the woman who took him?" she demanded, her eyes glittering with excitement. "You must tell me, who is she?"

Larkin exchanged a glance with Hart, who nodded. "Her name is Elmira Hastings."

"H-Hastings," Fidelia murmured, and Hart just had time to catch her as she tumbled into a dead faint.