Chapter 1

One

I had been struggling over the next chapter in my latest Emma Fortescue novel since Brodie and I had returned from Scotland.

In my two previous novels, she had ventured into the nasty business of murder, stumbling upon one during her adventure in Budapest, then being drawn into another one by a character of dubious reputation who coincidentally had a dark gaze, was most proficient with a firearm, and had rescued her from a very dangerous situation.

True to her nature, Emma Fortescue, promptly left Budapest when the murderer was caught, only to find the man of dubious character on the same train as it barreled toward Paris.

I had ended that particular novel there. Let the reader think what they might, with Emma's next adventure to be taken up in the book I was presently laboring over at the behest of my publisher, James Warren.

That previous novel had, he had informed me, quite literally flown off the sales table at Hatchards. It did seem that my readers had an appetite not only for adventure, but murder with a little romantic mystery thrown in.

"We are receiving letters daily," he had informed me in the weeks after it was released. "Readers are demanding to know when the next book will be released and who, precisely, the dark-eyed man of questionable reputation might be."

And then his most recent reminder when we last met.

"You simply must have the book ready before Linnie and I leave for the south of France after the wedding."

I stared at the blank page in my typewriting machine. Said wedding was three weeks away and they were planning to leave the month following for an extended stay in France, then possibly to Italy.

For whatever the reason, the words did not magically appear on the page before me. I did wonder if Mr. Dickens had the same issue when starting a new book.

Of course, it could have been due to the recent change, said the dark-eyed character who had finally taken up residence for the most part at the townhouse after I pointed out that it was quite acceptable for people who were married to live together.

The winning aspect for my argument had actually been two things. Brodie was particularly fond of my housekeeper's cooking skills, which I had few of—some would argue none—and which I made absolutely no claim to.

And then there was the shower compartment in the bathing room at the town house, which was far more convenient than the one down the hall from the office, and it did have other… attributes which I appreciated as well.

Of course, he insisted that it was Mrs. Ryan's skill in the kitchen and the promise of her Irish stew that had lured him back to the town house the previous evening after another long day at the office on the Strand.

A handful of inquiries awaited our return from Scotland, either by way of a note sent round, or through Mr. Cavendish, who always had his ‘ear to the street' when it came to such things. It did seem there was no end to crimes across the East End and even into greater London.

Brodie had been following up on the potential cases that included a missing payroll at a local mill, along with another from a man, somewhat older, who wanted him to make inquiries about his much-younger wife, whom he suspected was having an affair.

A third potential case had come from an acquaintance of my great-aunt, Lady Eugenia Davenport, a most dire situation. Little Bitsy had gone missing.

Bitsy? I didn't ask.

"She provided his jumper along with his favorite toys when I met with her," Brodie had exclaimed the previous evening. "Along with the last meal on the finest bone china before he disappeared."

He was quite beside himself, and only another dram of whisky eventually smoothed the edges of that temper. Somewhat.

"A dog!" he had then exclaimed. "A black pug, that eats off of fine dishes and has his own servant. The woman talks on and on about the animal as if it's a child."

"I would imagine that she's quite lonely, since Sir Lionel's death," I ventured in an attempt to soothe the raging beast.

"It's verra possible she talked him to death."

"What of the man with the much younger wife. A few years younger? And there is difficulty between them?"

"He's over seventy, and she is quite a bit younger." he replied. "It seems that the woman married him for his money, and the affair is not the first. Hers, that is. Apparently, the list is long."

"Oh my," I replied.

"I suppose ye have no objections to such things, with yer modern woman's ways."

I did sense a bit of temper.

"It would be interesting to know how the husband might have carried on in his younger years," I pointed out, merely for the sake of argument, which brought a glare.

"Ye approve such behavior?"

"I'm merely pointing out that in this case, what's good for the gander is good for the goose."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

I was very possibly poking the bear, but he was so very attractive when he was glaring at me.

"The usual saying is, ‘What is good for the goose is good for the gander.' However, this is a bit turned around. It does seem that perhaps he has gotten some of his own, and the shoe does not fit particularly well. You might remember that."

"She warned me."

"Warned?" I replied. "About what?"

"Her ladyship warned me that ye can have a quarrelsome spirit and an odd way of looking at things."

So, my great-aunt had a hand in this.

"Not at all," I replied. I have simply come to believe that what is acceptable for a man, should also be acceptable for a woman—travel, their own money so that they don't have to go begging to their husband, and the vote."

"Vote?"

"I consider myself as well informed on any of the issues confronting Britain as any man, more so than many," I pointed out.

"Her ladyship and yerself are the exceptions," he replied. "Ye do not take yerself off worrying whether or not Bitsy has a jumper to wear when it gets cold."

I did suppose that was a compliment. While I was contemplating that he was plotting his escape from the conversation at hand.

"Is that Mrs. Ryan's fine cooking I smell?" he asked.

I let him escape for the time being.

Her roast chicken had ‘soothed the beast' somewhat, as they say, and we had retired afterward to the parlor, where we shared a dram of whisky.

After complimenting Mrs. Ryan on the most excellent supper, he had retreated into himself, sitting before the fire at the hearth unusually quiet, as he had since our return from Scotland. At least he was not of a mood to return to our previous conversation, which he could not win.

The thought ‘ brooding Scot' came to mind. I had discovered they were inclined to brood over just about anything—the weather, which no one could control in spite of a fist shaken toward the darkened sky as a downpour set in. It was usually Mr. Hutton, who managed Old Lodge for my great-aunt, with complaints about his rheumatism as he set off through the snow from the main lodge to the distillery.

Or it might have been an affront over some past issue—Munro, his good friend was inclined to this. Or possibly someone's late arrival for an appointment—usually mine, however always with a good excuse.

Yet, this was different and I knew the cause. Knowing him quite well and not one to pry, I let him have his thoughts. Eventually he had shared them.

It was about Rory, a young boy caught in the middle of that previous murder case.

Brodie and the boy's mother had been together for a time, years before, and he had reason to think the boy might be his own son.

He had spoken of Rory, how fine he was, how smart and good, in spite of everything he'd been through. How proud he was of him, as any father might be, and he had been spending a good deal of time with the boy.

" There's somethin' I want to tell ye," he finally said.

I listened as he explained, even as I felt a tightness at my throat, knowing what the boy meant to him.

It seemed that Rory had a distinctive mark on the back of his left shoulder. He had been born with it, and it was identical to a mark his father had.

"It would seem that Stephen Matthews was his father."

I could only imagine the effort it took to say those words, knowing how he had hoped that Rory might be his son.

I took a deep breath against the pain I felt for him, and saw it in the expression on his face. I knew about loss.

"When our great-aunt took Linnie and me to live with her, I couldn't see how an old woman who had never had children and had never married could possibly know anything about what a family was," I began, drawing on those old memories as he took another swallow of whisky.

" I was angry, and hurt, and scared, I suppose," I added. "She would have none of it, of course."

I thought I caught the slightest softening of his mouth surrounded by that dark beard at the mention of my great-aunt and her stubborn determination. He was quite fond of her.

"Of course," he replied.

"During a particularly difficult period, we had an argument," I continued to explain. "I told her that she had no right to order me to study harder or inquire where I had taken myself off to, that she was not my family."

At the time, I had taken myself out the second story window at Sussex Square and was gone for hours.

"I canna imagine," Brodie sarcastically replied. He could, of course, as he knew me quite well.

I then told him that my great-aunt had not sent the servants out to search all of Sussex Square. Instead, she had left me to myself, even as a storm set in. Cold to the bone, soaked through, I had eventually sneaked back into my room the same way I had left, and lay there cold and hungry through the night, certain her wrath would come crashing down on me the next day.

"The next morning, she explained to me how she was raised, for the most part by her governess," I told him then. "Her father was often away on some matter or another, and quite simply didn't know what to do with a headstrong young girl.

"She considered her governess to be her family, the person who was always there to guide and love her, patched up her scraped knees, cared for her when she had a fever, summoned the physician when she fell from a tree and broke her arm."

I caught his slightly bemused expression. It had been said more than once that my great-aunt and I were very much alike.

"The woman quite bravely stood between her and her father over some matter when he thought she needed to be reprimanded," I continued.

"There is a point to this?" Brodie had replied.

I had joined him before the hearth.

"She explained to me that family is not always those who share one's blood, but those who love and care about you, share your life, the good moments, the difficult ones. Those who are there for you, as she was for Linnie and me.

"I've seen how you care for Rory, and his affection in return," I told him then . "I think that it does not matter who sired him. He will need a strong, good man to be there for him, to guide him, to love him… to be a part of his family, and I know that Mrs. Matthews feels the same."

His expression was sad, wounded, and should have been a warning. Or possibly I didn't want to see it, so badly had I wanted to ease his pain.

He grabbed me as if he wanted to shake me, anger there along with the pain, then crushed me against him with a strength that drove the air from my lungs.

There were no words. There was no need for them as I wrapped my arms around him and took the anger and the pain because I understood all of it.

"Mikaela…!"

The sound of my name, as if it came from some place deep inside him.

"I'm here," I whispered.