Chapter 16

Yet again,Thorne paced. Damned thing was becoming a habit.

This time it was in the front sitting room of Stroken House instead of his study, but the effect was the same. He was filled with nervous energy, and shy of offering to spar with Fawkes or pinning Kit against the wall and fooking her quick and dirty, the pacing seemed to be the simplest way to rid himself of it.

Especially since the two of them were sitting over by the hearth, murmuring quietly.

It had done something to Thorne’s chest, to see Kit greet his cousin, and see Fawkes offer his hand with only a slight hesitation. With Kit wearing her hair down and her breasts unbound, it was obvious to everyone who met her that despite the suit she still wore, she was a woman.

Thorne had been impressed how Fawkes hadn’t said anything, just shot him an amused glance before sinking into the chair opposite Kit.

And now the pair of them were chatting away. Judging from the looks they kept shooting his way, Thorne suspected they were speaking of him.

Or perhaps the coming meeting.

Before yesterday’s ball—before everything had changed, before the very ground he stood on altered—Thorne had received word that Demon was arriving today, bringing his wife and sister-in-law. It had seemed serendipitous, so Thorne had sent word to Griffin, who had arrived several days previously, the only other ex-agent in London.

They’d be meeting here soon, to discuss The Plan.

Was it a good plan? Thorne couldn’t tell anymore. He was too close. Too close to it. Too close to Kit.

She’d been the one to suggest the wording of the message this morning, when he’d told her about the information he’d found about the Greede-Ahl Mine. Did Fawkes still have that stock certificate? It might be handy…

Aye, Thorne had told Kit what he’d learned about the mine when he’d opened Blackrose’s safe…but he hadn’t told her about the Pastorino file. The file about her.

Christ, what had he been thinking?

Growling, Thorne turned toward the window, bracing his palm against the frame and leaning his weight forward, not really seeing the road which fronted Stroken House.

Fook.

Last night, he’d held Kit in his arms. He’d spilled inside her. It had been the most magnificent feeling he could imagine, but even more remarkable had been her acceptance, her joy. Despite what she thought she knew about her past, she had welcomed his seed.

And damn it all, the thought of creating a child with her, with the woman he loved…it was beautiful. It was everything. Thorne wanted that.

He wanted her.

So tell her she’s legitimate. Tell her she’s Blackrose’s heir, because the Bonkinbone Earldom allows for women to inherit. Tell her.

That’s why Blackrose had been so intent on marrying; as it stood now, Danielle MacMillan, Fawkes’s wife and Blackrose’s niece, was his heir.

Oh shite.If Blackrose was still married to Gloria Pastorino, then he was clearly counting on no one knowing that. If word escaped, it would make him a potential bigamist, and Lady Emma wouldn’t marry him. Of course, if Blackrose had his current wife killed, it would open the way for another marriage, another heir…but the great Gloria Pastorino was famous enough her murder wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Thorne wondered if this was why she rarely accepted invitations to sing in Britain…

Could ye use this information? To lure Blackrose into yer trap?

Aye, it would absolutely lure him…but then Kit would find out.

And if Kit learned she was the next Countess of Bonkinbone, if she learned she wasn’t a bastard, she’d have to rethink her entire life. The birth she’d learned to accept would be gone, replaced with the stain of legitimacy.

She’d have to accept that the arsehole who had abandoned her mother hadn’t abandoned a lover; he’d abandoned a wife.

She’d have to face the fact that she would have responsibilities, hold a title for a future son, have expectations placed on her that she clearly had never wanted. Hell, he knew that pain.

And she would face the scandal of being aligned to a traitor to the Crown when this all came out.

But it would move her into the perfect position to become yer wife.

Thorne scrubbed a hand over his face.

Kit had made it very clear she didn’t want to marry him.

It was why he’d swallowed down every I love ye and every talk of a future together. She didn’t want that, and he was trying so fooking hard to be as unselfish as possible.

Last night, staring down at that marriage certificate, he’d panicked. What man wouldn’t? He’d shoved it back into the Pastorino folio and hadn’t said anything to Kit. Because he wanted her to make her own decision, didn’t want to influence her.

He wanted her to choose him because she wanted him. Because she saw him. Anything else would be a manipulation.

She has the right to ken the truth.

Aye, of course. And he’d tell her.

Eventually.

Fook.

He needed to tell her, but if he told her, would she think he was lying to manipulate her into marriage? This information—almost magically—negated her main objection to marriage, didn’t it?

Besides, they all needed to focus. This plan had to work, they couldn’t afford to fail now. Spilling the news to Kit that her parents had been wed would only distract her, distract him, distract Georgia and Danielle and Demon and Fawkes—

Growling again, Thorne dragged his hand through his hair.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

He wanted to tell Kit the truth, but he also didn’t want her to think worse of him than she already had cause to.

And last night it had been impossible not to whisper the words of love to her after she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

How could he lose her?

“Ye ken, he’s no’ normally this grumpy.” Fawkes’s slightly amused tone told Thorne his cousin was watching him.

Kit’s snort was quiet. “He’s not grumpy, he’s worried. The idiot thinks he has to do all this himself.”

“All what?”

A pause, as if she was gesturing, then Kit said, “Trap Blackrose. Run a dukedom. Be the hero.”

“Well that’s daft. He has plenty of people to help him run Stroken, and we’re all here to take down Blackrose.”

“That’s what I’ve told him, but he has this stupid idea—”

“I can hear ye,” Thorne growled at his reflection in the window. “Although I suppose that’s the point.”

“Yes,” agreed Kit cheerfully. “We’re trying to distract you.”

“Ye might be trying to distract him,” Fawkes said, “but I’m trying to insult him.”

“Get in line,” Thorne muttered.

“See? That’s what I mean,” Kit sighed. “He’s worried. I could fetch my violin?”

“That does seem to help him.”

Kit hummed. “He says it helps him think—”

“Oh, for fook’s sake,” Thorne blurted, swinging about. “I’m fine.”

Fawkes and Kit were both grinning at him, and Thorne realized he’d played right into their teasing. Rolling his eyes, he dragged his hand through his hair again.

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

And the thing was…he did feel better. These two people meant the most to him, and it made him feel better to know they cared about him as well.

He wasn’t alone, just as Kit had always told him.

The tension in his shoulders slowly eased, and he felt his lips twitch in response to the knowing smile Kit had turned on him.

He suspected, with her at his side, he was beyond “fine”.

Thorne opened his mouth to tell her so, but was interrupted by Titsworth clearing his throat. The butler stood in the doorway.

“Your Grace, the Duke of Lickwick begs an audience, along with the Duchess and her sister and their…accoutrements.”

“Accoutrements, boorish pissnozzle?” came Demon’s growl from the foyer. “Did ye hear that, love?”

“Yes, dear, hold the basket of nappies, please.”

“Malodorous turd-turnips, the man needs a lesson in manners!”

Thorne pressed his lips together to hide the grin that came at Demon’s expense. His friend hated to leave his secluded home and travel hundreds of miles, so it was no wonder he was grumpier than usual in London…but Demon hated pomp and circumstance even more.

So Thorne, of course, had to out-pompous him.

“The Duke of Lickwick, ye said, Titsworth?” Thorne tapped his chin, as if trying to recall the name. “Did the man bring a calling card?”

“A calling card?” roared Demon’s voice from the foyer.

“I am devastated to report, not, Your Grace,” Titsworth intoned. “Do you suspect the rogue might be lying about his identity?”

“Ye can never be too certain these days, Titsworth. Hobble back out there and ask the dobber if he brought any sort of identification. Decline any money he offers ye.”

“Pusillanimous spunkmuffins!” growled the short-tempered Demon as he tried to push past Titsworth, “get the fook out of my way, auld man!”

Although unintentional, the auld man caused the butler’s eyes to glint in pleasure, and he bowed carefully. “Your Grace, welcome to Stroken House. Allow me to assist your wife with her bags.”

Unaware he’d just made a friend for life, Demon stomped into the sitting room. “She’s no’ a bag, she’s my daughter!” He halted in the middle of the room and spun back to glare at the butler. “Dinnae hide any of the bags, she needs them all!”

Deciding it was likely time he took charge of the conversation, Thorne asked, “A demanding infant?” as he crossed the room to his friend.

“Aye,” Demon growled, accepting the handshake. “Clearly she’s brilliant and we cannae leave the books and rattles and the colorful abacus at the townhouse for fear of delaying her education.”

At that moment, two women stepped through the doorway. They looked alike enough to be sisters, which they were, in fact. Georgia, Demon’s patient wife, juggled six-month-old Rosie, while her sister carried three bags of what Thorne had to assume were nappies, books, and rattles.

From behind him, he heard Fawkes reverently murmur, “Ellie,” before he went rushing past to gather the woman in his arms.

Judging from the noise the bags made as they hit the ground, Demon’s wee daughter required rather a lot of rattles.

In an attempt to give the reuniting couple their privacy, Thorne crossed to Georgia to fuss over the bairn. “Give her to Uncle Thorne,” he commanded, already reaching for the lassie. “And go have a bit of a rest.”

“Careful, she hasn’t had her nappy changed,” Georgia warned him as her husband led her toward the settee. “And see if you can get her to focus on yer fingers. I’m convinced she’s trying to learn to count.”

At six months? Thorne smiled indulgently at the bairn he was certain would be his goddaughter if Demon had allowed anything as ordinary as a christening. “Ye are a bright wee one, eh? Can ye count yet?”

Bouncing the lassie in his arms, he crossed the room, counting as he went. “Forty-seven, ninety-four, three hundred and twenty-one.”

“Do not teach her incorrectly,” admonished Georgia sternly from where she was making herself comfortable on the settee, feet immediately up. “Thorne, I mean it. If you teach my daughter incorrectly—”

“Och, dinnae fash, love.” Demon threw himself down beside her and hauled his wife up against him. “She’s an infant. She’s far more interested in Thorne’s massive eyebrows than his counting skills.”

Approaching the hearth, Thorne raised said brows at the baby. “I dinnae have unduly large eyebrows, do I, sweetheart?”

“I like your eyebrows just fine,” murmured Kit, who’d been standing stiffly by the mantelpiece. Now she twitched one of her own brows at Thorne, who flushed and lifted the bairn higher.

“This wee sprite is Rose. Rosie. Demon and Georgia’s daughter.”

Something like surprise flashed across Kit’s face before she masked it, leaning closer to tweak the bairn’s toes. “Hello, Rosie. You’re a smart little one, eh?”

The wee one grinned, showing off her two bottom teeth and far more drool than strictly necessary.

Still, Thorne announced, “She’s the prettiest baby in the world.”

From the settee, Georgia called, “And brave and strong and talented—and remarkably clever.”

Thorne lowered his voice. “Georgia doesnae want her to grow up thinking her appearance is the only thing praise-worthy about her.”

“If only more daughters were raised that way,” Kit murmured, leaning closer to stick her tongue out at the bairn. “You’re going to grow up to be a very special young lady, aren’t you, Rosie?”

Since she’d stated this while tweaking the bairn’s toes once more, Rose bounced happily, waving her spit-covered fists about happily. Kit burst into laughter.

It was an indulgent sort of laughter, laughter that was pleased and proud all at once. It reached down into Thorne’s chest and squeezed, as he wondered what she’d do if he suddenly handed the bairn to her.

The thought of Kit holding a babe—not even his babe—made him flush. Happily, he was certain.

Ye have nae hope for a future of bairns if ye dinnae tell her the truth!

Aye, but how could he tell her the truth about her father if he was also trying to keep her desires in mind—her future, her freedom to leave Society well alone?

Wee Rosie chose that moment to smack him in the jaw with a drool-covered fist, something Thorne thought rather appropriate. Kit chuckled, reaching up to tuck the small arm back against Thorne’s chest.

“Sorry, sweetie, Uncle Thorne is fastidious and doesn’t care for other people’s spit on his face.”

Grinning wickedly, Thorne leaned closer. “I didnae mind yer tongue on my skin though.”

“I’ll remember that,” she vowed, nodding solemnly even as her pale eyes twinkled. “Face licking is allowed.”

“Nae nostrils,” he admonished.

“No nostrils,” she agreed in a whisper, her mouth inches from his.

Rosie chose that moment to latch her mouth onto his chin.

Thorne reared back. “What is she doing?” he asked, only it came out as “At ishe ooin?” because he didn’t want to move his mouth too much.

Chuckling, Kit stepped back with hands raised, palms outward, as if to say he was on his own here. “It looks as if she’s trying to bite you, but considering her age, I’m more likely to think she’s mistaken your chin for her mama and is latching on.”

While trying to work his finger between Rosie’s lips to break the seal, Thorne glared at Kit. “I dinnae suppose I can ask ye to keep this to yerself.”

“Not even close, Your Grace,” she teased, eyes twinkling.

And that was the opportune moment Bull announced from the doorway, “We’re here! What’d we miss? Thorne, why is that baby eating ye? Demon, are you starving your baby?”

The arrival of Bull and his stepfather Griffin caused another commotion, not the least of which was Demon bounding to his feet and bellowing, “Rose! Get that chin out of yer mouth! Ye dinnae ken where that chin’s been!”

As Demon stalked across the room, Kit murmured, “Face licking,” and ducked behind Thorne.

One might’ve thought any baby, when faced with a horribly scarred, spitting mad Demon, might be forgiven a cry or two. But wee Rosie merely disengaged Thorne’s chin with an audible pop and, burbling happily, reached eagerly for her father.

Thorne was more than a little relieved to turn her over to him.

After sending a quick glance at Kit to make certain she’d be alright standing by herself, Thorne turned to greet Griffin with a welcoming handshake. “It’s good to see ye, Yer Grace,” he teased.

“Bah, dinnae call me that.” Griffin, the only man in Scotland grumpier than Demon, scowled. “I’ll start calling ye Stroke, see how ye like it.”

Thorne feigned horror. “Anything but that!”

“Ye’re the one dumb enough to be born the nephew to a Duke of Stroken.”

“Aye, but ye’re the Duke of Peasgoode, so if ye call me Stroke, I’ll start calling ye Piss.”

Bull shook his head, the gold coin flipping across his knuckles again. “We tried that, he just gives us a lecture on legumes.”

Thorne lightly punched the lad’s shoulder. “And have ye brought yer da up on everything that’s been happening in London?”

Griffin’s scowl deepened. “Ye mean how, after I pleaded with ye for the love of God to keep the little shite out of trouble, ye allowed him to walk alone into Blackrose’s lair?”

“Yep,” declared Bull cheerfully, grinning at Thorne. “Though I wasnae alone. Didnae fash, Thorne, I told him everything.”

“Obviously,” Thorne muttered.

“If I didnae ken the laddie could take care of himself, Thorne, I’d be rather more pissed off.”

Thorne sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I tried, Griffin, God kens I tried to keep him out of it.”

“He really did,” Bull said sympathetically to his stepfather. “But I’m the brilliant one around here, and it was my plan.”

“And he was in disguise,” Thorne offered. “Please tell me he told ye about his disguise.”

“Aye, he did.” Griffin eyed the lad with bemusement. “That led to some interesting discussions, let me tell ye.”

“Marcia’s angry because I was prettier than her,” Bull faux-whispered to Thorne.

“Nay, Marcia’s angry because she hasn’t had her official come-out yet, and ye got to go to a ball,” his father corrected him. “Although I still cannae keep track of why the lassie would want to go to a ball.”

Thorne opened his mouth—although he wasn’t certain if he’d been planning on defending the practice or continue teasing—when the sound of a throat clearing interrupted him.

He turned to see Fawkes standing there, Danielle on his arm, looking…somber.

Thorne remembered his cousin hadn’t been formally introduced to this particular ex-agent of Blackrose, so he nodded abruptly and stepped back to allow the pair to join them.

“Griffin, allow me to introduce Fawkes MacMillan, my cousin. He owns land up near Stroken. Fawkes, this is Griffin Calderbank, the Duke of Peasgoode.”

Fawkes inclined his head. “My wife, Yer Grace, the Lady Danielle.”

Face grim, Griffin bowed briefly to Danielle. “My lady.” His “Sir,” was even colder. “I ken who ye are.”

The Duke of Death. Griffin knew the identity of Blackrose’s poisoner, and Fawkes knew he knew it, judging from his wince. Oh excellent. There wasn’t room enough in here for a punch up.

“Your Grace, please grant me a moment?” Fawkes didn’t pause for confirmation but moved his free hand to cover his wife’s on his arm. “I’ve spoken with yer son about yer wife’s death.”

“My first wife,” Griffin corrected, eyes cold. “I’ve had verra good reason to suspect Blackrose of her murder.”

“Aye, and the bastard is capable of anything,” Fawkes agreed. “Bull explained the circumstances surrounding her death, and I’m sorry for yer loss.”

“Are ye?” growled Griffin.

Fawkes exchanged a glance with his wife, then with Bull, and took a deep breath before switching his attention back to Griffin. “I swear on my daughter’s soul, Calderbank, and my mother’s too, that I did no’ poison her. I dinnae ken of any other chemist working for Blackrose, either. If she was poisoned, it was no’ at my hand.”

Before Thorne’s eyes, Griffin’s shoulders slumped, his acceptance seemingly immediate. “Could Blackrose have done it on his own?”

Fawkes blinked. Surprised he’d been believed, perhaps? Or perhaps Bull had already explained their earlier conversation to his stepfather. Eventually, he shook his head. “I…I dinnae see how. I’m sorry.”

“Dinnae be.” Griffin’s command was harsh, as he swallowed and dropped his gaze to the carpet. “If ye dinnae poison Mary, and dinnae believe Blackrose did, then… This is good news.”

Bull’s hand rested on his father’s shoulder. “It is, Da,” he murmured. “What we ken of Blackrose, it fits that he’d make use of Mary’s natural illness to make ye squirm.”

“I would’ve done anything to keep my children safe from the bastard,” muttered Griffin.

Unable to stop himself from offering comfort, Thorne touched Griffin’s arm. “Aye, and ye did. But now they’re safe at home with Flick,and we’re ready to take him down.”

“Ye have a plan?” Griffin asked, raising his gaze. “Does it involve my son dressing as a woman again?”

Thorne winced. “No’ unless he really, really wants to.”

“Tempting, but nay,” Bull quipped. “No’ until pockets become standard.”

Exhaling mightily, Griffin turned to Fawkes and held out his hand. “Thank ye.”

Fawkes hesitated only a moment before pulling out of Danielle’s hold and accepting the handshake. “Thank ye, Yer Grace.”

“Griffin,” the gruff man corrected. “I’ve only been a duke for a year, and I find it doesnae quite suit me.”

“Well, ye’re welcome to visit us at Hangcok Hill if ye ever want to get away,” Fawkes offered. “It’s much easier to manage than a dukedom!”

“Right,” bellowed Demon from across the room. “If ye excretable spunkbuckets are done with the emotional shite, can we get on with the plan?”

“Demon Hayle,” began his wife sternly from the settee, “If you upset that baby after all the trouble I had convincing her to eat an hour ago, I shall insist she direct her vomit down your back this time.”

But the scarred man merely harrumphed and lifted his daughter to eye-level. “Rosie isnae upset when I call people excretable spunkbucket, are ye, love?”

The bairn smacked him in the nose with a drool-covered fist, then laughed, which Thorne thought appropriate.

Georgia rolled her eyes and asked Thorne, “Is Rourke joining us?”

Bull answered as Thorne shook his head and stepped closer to Kit. The gold coin flashed across the lad’s knuckles nonchalantly. “He sent word that he’s bringing Sophia to London in a few days. He’ll be here when we spring the trap.”

“He’s bringing his wife?” Fawkes confirmed curiously.

“And why not?” Danielle nudged him. “We are here, and Sophia has a right to see Blackrose punished. She was one of his agents, remember. She was the one who collected the evidence we will use to bring him down.”

“It’s no’ enough,” Thorne confessed, sharing a glance with Kit. “The Crown willnae accept it. We need to set a trap for him, to make him act. We have some…ideas.”

“The Crown?” murmured Griffin in surprise, as Demon blurted, “Corpulent twatmuffins!”

When Thorne turned to him, the scarred man scowled in response, and explained. “I just mean, should we be announcing our plan in front of the help?”

It wasn’t until he turned his glare at Kit that Thorne realized what he meant. His protective instincts bristled, and he moved to step in front of her…and he would have, had Kit not grinned at Demon.

“I’m more than a bit of help, Your Grace,” she quipped.

“Absolute bananas, these Americans,” Demon muttered, readjusting Rosie on his shoulder. “Thinking ye’re special.”

“She is special,” Thorne announced, taking Kit’s hand in his.

Demon’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, then raked Kit from shoes to cravat and back down to trousers. “Yer tastes have changed, Thorne. What’s that Rourke said about fooking the servants?”

While Thorne bristled, Georgia groaned, “Try to be polite for once in your life, Demon. I don’t ask for much!”

Demon shrugged mulishly, one hand on his daughter’s bum to hold her in place. “I dinnae care what ye do in yer private time, Thorne, but surely yer travesti lover doesnae need to hear secret plans.”

Kit seemed incapable of being insulted. In fact, her grin grew. “Bull’s here, isn’t he? Once he hears secret plans, you can bet they won’t stay secret for long.”

“She’s right,” Bull called out. “I tell my mother everything. And I do look fabulous in a gown.”

Griffin snorted softly as Fawkes shook his head.

Kit raised a brow at Demon in challenge. “Thorne called you here because of my plan. I’m going to be bringing Blackrose down.” She tilted her chin to one side almost indulgently. “You can help, if you’d like.”

“Yer plan?” growled Demon. “Gooey shitenuggets! Who the fook are ye?”

“Oooh,” hissed Bull from the side, “This is going to be good.”

And Thorne realized aye, aye it was going to be good.

To hell with social niceties which claimed rank determined who was introduced to whom. He turned to Kit and lifted her hand, brushing a kiss across the skin.

“Kit, love, allow me to introduce Demon Hayle, the Duke of Lickwick.”

“Demon Hayle?” she repeated dryly, that single brow raised. “It suits him.” They were speaking as if Demon wasn’t standing right in front of them, and judging from his low growl, he knew it.

Thorne’s smile increased. “That’s the Duke of Peasgoode standing beside Bull—his given name is Griffin Calderbank. Ye ken Fawkes, of course. That’s his wife, Danielle, sister to Lady Georgia, seated. Both ladies are daughters of the previous Earl of Bonkinbone, and brilliant in their own rights.”

He was being deliberately rude, and of course Demon didn’t let him forget it. “Thorne, ye’re lucky I’m holding my daughter and thus cannae get my hand around yer throat. Who the fook is she?”

“Och, allow me to continue the introductions.” He turned Kit toward the room. “This is Katherine Pastorino, who goes by Kit. Her mother is the famously talented soprano, Gloria Pastorino, and her father…”

He glanced around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes, dragging out the moment. “Kit’s father is William Stoughton, the Earl of Bonkinbone. Blackrose.”