Chapter Twenty-Two

"A ll right, then." Peyton clapped her hands, and the children lined up in the street, some so excited about their game that they bounced up and down in place, unable to stand still. "First—David." She pointed at the towheaded boy of ten who stood first in line. "Count to five."

The boy's face lit up at such an easy pitch. "One, two, three, four, five!"

She pointed at the downspout halfway down the street. "Good! Take your base."

The boy ran forward, and a little girl in a dress that was barely more than a collection of rags stepped up next.

"Spell your name."

The girl scrunched up her nose. "M-A-R-Y."

"Go!"

The children advanced a base, working their way around their improvised game of rounders. They had no ball, no bat, and only stations along the street to serve as bases, yet they were making a go of it. Instead of pitching to them, each child was asked a question that they should have learned in Sunday school. When they answered correctly, everyone advanced a base. If they answered wrong, the child in the lead could help. If the answer still wasn't correct, then they all went back a base, and the lead child went to the back of the line. An out. But Peyton made certain the questions were just hard enough to tax their brains without being so difficult as to frustrate them.

She'd felt the need to do something fun with the children this afternoon after her night at Brechenhurst. She owed it to them and to Mrs. Martin, who made her feel welcome here.

After the fight at the townhouse, she certainly didn't want to stay there. Nor could she stay in a townhouse that was empty except for old toys and ghosts, although the fight with Wilkins had seemed to exorcise them, and Devlin's strength and comfort had pushed them completely into the past. Yet she also couldn't bring herself to stay at Dartmoor House with his mother and sisters. Oh, they would have welcomed her, surely…until they learned the truth about her father's role in helping the old duke destroy so many lives. She doubted they could ever forgive her.

So she asked Devlin to take her to the one place she knew she would find comfort—Brechenhurst. After all, if it gave shelter to forsaken children who had no place else to go, then she would be right at home.

Mrs. Martin took her in without a single question, not even when she helped Peyton with a warm bath with salts meant to soothe the black and blue bruises forming across her body and brought her warm comfort food on a tray down into the basement bedroom. This morning, the kind manageress miraculously found a dress for her to wear because her own gown—no, Margaret's gown, she couldn't forget that she no longer had anything in this world to call her own—wasn't fit to wear. The woman was a saint. A silent, non-judgmental saint.

Now, this afternoon, Peyton was doing her best to put the darkness of the past few weeks—and especially last night—behind her by playing and laughing with the children. It was more than just a game. It was her chance to say goodbye. She'd promised them that the child who answered the most questions correctly would receive a shiny coin and new coat, although she'd already sent one of the shelter's helpers to the market to buy new coats and shoes for all the children. Their new clothes would be waiting for them when they arrived back at the shelter this evening. So would a bag of shiny pennies for each of them.

But she would be gone by then, like a wraith in the night, leaving London as secretly as she'd arrived. It was for the best. The Raines family needed to heal, and they couldn't do that if she were a constant reminder of past sins.

"My turn, miss!" A little boy who couldn't have been more than five or six stepped up to bat.

"All right then." Despite the sudden sadness that swept over her, she ordered, "Sing me a song."

The boy thought a moment and then belted out the first verse of a sailor's drinking shanty that left Peyton staring at him, wide-eyed. Goodness. Did the little bit of a boy even know what was meant by calling a woman Miss Laycock?

He grinned, knowing he was stirring up trouble.

"A miss," she called out. "Back to the end of the line with you. And next time, try a nice hymn or nursery song, all right?"

The boy only grinned wider and moved to the back, where one of the other boys stole his hat, then rubbed his head in slight punishment for slowing up the game. The warning was clear. If he attempted to disrupt the game again or embarrass Peyton, he'd find himself pummeled in the alley by the other boys.

She turned to the next child. "Sing me a song—a proper one."

The boy nodded and sang a few bits from a song he'd learned in Sunday school. Peyton applauded and sent him on. All the children advanced around the bases, with one coming back to the start.

"Score! A point!" All the children shouted and jumped up and down excitedly as the oldest boy made a mark in a patch of dirt at the side of the street. They'd been promised treats if they managed to score more than ten points. Peyton would make certain they did.

"Who won the Battle of Waterloo?" she called out to the next child.

"England!"

"Wellington!" the lead boy on base corrected.

"Excellent!" she called out. "A team answer. Go!"

Another child returned back to home and scored another point.

"Here's a hard one." Peyton leveled a challenging look at the girl who stood in line next. She was the oldest of all the girls and just on the cusp of being too old to stay at Brechenhurst any longer. Peyton made a mental note to give Mrs. Martin funds to find the girl a position as a maid so she might have a chance at a good life. "Recite a poem to me."

The girl thought a moment. Peyton could almost see the nursery rhymes spinning through the girl's head as she tried to choose one to share. She opened her mouth—

"She walks in beauty like the night."

The deep, masculine voice came from behind Peyton, its velvet richness twining around her like a ribbon. She froze, not daring to turn around… Devlin .

"Of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright," he recited softly as he stopped directly behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him down her back and smell that now familiar scent of leather, port, and man, "meet in her aspect and her eyes."

He took her shoulders and gently turned her to face him, and the crooked smile that greeted her melted her insides. He'd always had that effect on her, even years ago when he'd been nothing but a careless young man who hadn't paid her any attention whatsoever. But now that she knew the man he'd become… How could she ever love anyone else as much as she loved him?

"Do I get to take a base?" he asked cheekily. The girls were all giggling, and the boys were irritated that he'd interrupted their game with love poetry. Then his chocolate brown eyes landed on hers. "Or perhaps I scored a point."

Oh, he'd definitely scored a point, all right. And not in any way that made leaving London easier. Just when she thought she might be able to put her feelings behind her and move on, he had to go and do something as romantic as recite a love poem to her. Did the blasted man have any idea how much her heart was breaking?

"You cut the queue," she informed him instead, somehow gathering enough strength not to break down. Or throw herself into his arms. "You're disqualified."

The children let out a flurry of laughter at Devlin's expense.

He eyed them knowingly. "That's not the support I'd expect from my team. And after I asked Mrs. Martin to open Brechenhurst early today, too, so that you could all have warm sticky buns and cups of chocolate."

The little faces lit up with excitement. They didn't move, not wanting to break the spell and have what he was saying be nothing but a terrible joke.

"She's waiting for you now." He nodded in the direction of the shelter halfway down the street. "Go on."

The children let up a cheer and raced toward the front door of Brechenhurst, their game quickly forgotten. All but one ran away. A little girl named Charlotte lingered behind.

"But you promised the winner a coin and new coat," Charlotte reminded her in a quiet voice that broke Peyton's heart. The girl had already learned in her brief life how few people kept their promises.

"So I did." Peyton reached into the pocket of her pelisse and withdrew a shiny new penny. She bent down on her heels to the little girl's level and held it out. "I don't have the coat with me, though. That will be coming later today. But you've won this fair and square."

Charlotte bit her bottom lip in hesitant distrust as she slowly approached, as if she expected Peyton to pull the penny away and laugh at her. Peyton didn't move, except to place the coin in the girl's outstretched palm.

The girl closed her hand around it as if it were as valuable as a gold sovereign, then pressed it against her chest. "Oh, thank you, miss!"

"Ah-ah!" Peyton held up her finger as the girl turned to walk away. "Spell your name."

The girl hesitated, sliding an uncertain look at Devlin for help. When he didn't interfere, letting her do this on her own, she pulled in a deep breath and spelled, "C-H-A-R-L-O-T."

Peyton smiled sadly, knowing she wouldn't be here to help the little girl learn to spell. "Close enough."

With a quick hug, she sent Charlotte racing back to the shelter and the treats waiting there.

"You're wonderful with them." Devlin held out his hand to help her up. "They trust you a great deal."

She shook her head. "They don't trust anyone, not really." She rose, bringing herself face-to-face with him. "But I understand that."

"I'm certain you did. Once." He didn't release her hand. "But I hope that's changed, that you've come to trust in my family. And in me."

She dodged answering that by tossing him a saucy smile. "How could I distrust a man who flatters me by reciting Byron?"

He curled her arm around his and slowly began to walk with her toward the shelter. "Did it work? I hear most women like sweet nothings and charming flattery."

"I am not most women."

He leaned down to caress his lips against her temple and murmured, "How well I know that."

Ignoring the butterflies in her belly that launched into full flutter, she quickly changed the subject, and her amusement from only moments before vanished, along with her smile. "You've done it, then? You've told them everything about our fathers?"

"Everything they need to know."

That was a duck if ever she'd heard one. But she understood. Only so much shock could be absorbed at one time. The rest of what their fathers had done would come little by little, when the moment was right.

She turned her face away. "They must hate me."

"Not at all."

She bit back a grim laugh. "How can they not? My father made their evil possible. Your father and Crewe's wouldn't have been able to fund their enterprise if he hadn't handled the money for them." Then the butterflies in her stomach turned into sickening knots. "The money I found after the attack, all squirreled away in investments and properties—all of it is tainted."

"Not all of it. Your mother had a large dowry that your father invested into legitimate businesses and bonds when they married, and his salary with the Bank of England was more than enough to buy property." An amused grin pulled at his lips. "Including the small estate in Sussex that you used for collateral the night we became reacquainted at Barton's."

Her shoulders sagged. "I can't keep any of it."

"You should. You deserve that part of it. Use it for whatever you want. My mother and sisters raised some very good suggestions for it." He paused, barely a heartbeat, but she felt it, so attuned had she become to this man during the past few weeks. "Such as your dowry."

Laughter spilled from her at the ludicrousness of that. "You saw the looks of shock and horror on the faces of everyone in Malvern House when I announced I'd returned. Who would want to marry me?"

He kept his gaze straight ahead on the street. "The Raines women have some determined ideas on the subject."

"Of course they do." She blinked rapidly. If they found her a husband, they could send her away with him and thoroughly wash their hands of her and any association society might think connected them. "But they don't need to worry about me. I'm a survivor, you know. I'll be just fine on my own, wherever I am."

"I know."

They stopped in front of the shelter's door, and Peyton stared at it, unable to bring herself to look at Devlin for fear he would see the anguish glistening in her eyes. She rasped softly, "This is goodbye, then."

"No." With a gentle tug, he led her onward down the street. "This is just the beginning."

She glanced up at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you want to know what other ideas my family had for your inheritance and for the rest of the money still left to be uncovered?"

"Yes?"

"Restitution."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"They think you should use it for restitution for the people our fathers harmed." He shrugged. "Or reparations, as the case may be. And I agree with them."

He led her toward the small pocket park at the end of the street, where a lone chestnut tree protected the only patch of green grass in the neighborhood. Someone—perhaps Mrs. Martin—had planted a small bed of flowers beneath the spreading boughs to make it as inviting as possible. Peyton couldn't help but compare it to Brechenhurst. A small refuge of beauty and peace in the midst of an otherwise colorless, impersonal city.

"It means hiring detectives to hunt those people down, enduring disappointment and grief, and it won't be easy, either in finding the people involved or in figuring out the best way to provide help." He reassuringly squeezed her arm, then posited carefully, "You would need to remain in London to oversee it all."

"No," she whispered, barely a sound on her lips. "I can't … Your family, Lucien…you—you would all hate knowing I'm in the same city with you, that I'm digging through your pasts to discover more sins…" She shook her head, but not before her eyes began to sting and the world around her blurred beneath her gathering tears. "I have to leave. You all need time to heal. How could you ever come to terms with what our fathers did if the sight of me constantly dredges up painful memories and grief?"

She turned her back to him and swiped desolately at her eyes.

"Good Lord," he murmured, stunned. "That's why you want to return to France, why you've been so determined to leave? Not because you want to live there." He took her upper arms and gently turned her around to face him, and his eyes searched her face for answers. "You want to leave because you think you'll cause us more pain by staying."

She closed her eyes to keep from seeing the expression on his face at the stark truth of what she'd planned. She couldn't bear it. "Yes."

"You're wrong." He cupped her face between his hands and rested his forehead against hers. His breath fanned warmly across her cheeks. "We need you here with us, Peyton. We need to heal together—all of us." Another pause, and in that hesitation, she felt the world shift beneath her. "I need you, Peyton. I need you here with me."

Her eyes flew open and stared at him, his face tear-blurred. He couldn't possibly mean… Her shoulders sagged in defeat. "I would only cause you pain if I stayed."

"You would cause me infinitely more pain if you left."

She stepped back, needing space and air to breathe. She simply couldn't trust in what he was saying. "And your family?" she argued. "How are they supposed to move on if I'm haunting them?"

She'd learned a hard lesson during the past few weeks. There were more ghosts than just those in graveyards.

He leveled a solemn gaze on her. "My family wanted to make certain that I delivered a very precise message to you."

She steeled herself for the worst. "Which is?"

He reached into his jacket's inner breast pocket as he took her hand and lowered himself onto one knee in front of her. "Marry me."

Peyton couldn't move, couldn't speak—she could barely find the strength to keep standing as she watched him slide a small ring onto her finger.

Devlin looked up at her, not with expectation but determination. She'd always known he was a force to be reckoned with, but she never knew exactly how much until that moment. His expression held no uncertainty whatsoever as he waited for her decision, only strength and resolve.

"You said you loved me," he reminded her as he folded both hands around hers and slowly rose to his feet. "You meant it. So did I."

A knot filled her throat, and she began to tremble.

"So we should spend the rest of our lives proving it, don't you think?" He raised her hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss to the back of her fingers. "I can't think of any better way to put the past to rest than to focus on a new future. Together." He paused, then took a deep breath and asked again, "Will you marry me, Peyton Chandler?"

The burden of loneliness and fear she'd carried for too long lifted from her shoulders, and the hollow in her chest vanished. With every beat of her heart, they soared away into the distance. In their place came hope, purpose…love.

She nodded as a tear slipped down her cheek. "Yes," she whispered, her voice shaking with the enormity of the new life rising up before her. With this man she loved. "I will marry you."

He murmured her name as he took her into his arms and held her, loved and protected, against him. So much affection and trust blossomed between them that she warmed from it, all the way down to her toes. His embrace tightened around her, and as she nestled against him, she knew this was exactly where she was meant to be.

In his arms.