To Kiss a Thief

Sarah watched as delicate flakes drifted down from the sky, twinkling merrily in the moonlight, coating the ground in a blanket of white, cheerfully indifferent to the Marquess of Estley’s stern proclamation that it never snowed before Christmas.

He had retired an hour or more ago, and she had intended to follow his example. But still she sat, gazing out the window of the sitting room, drowsing beneath Clarissa’s warm weight.

She thought of Mama and Papa in Bristol, bidding good night and happy Christmas to their friends and neighbors and Papa’s clerks, Papa’s eyes shining with satisfaction and Mama humming some dancing tune in spite of herself.

She thought of Lady Estley in London, where she had been since the autumn. Lord Estley had said little of her return to town, and St. John had said even less. She did not know whether it had been Lady Estley’s choice to go or not. Presumably the marchioness had found some entertainment to while away the days—other than the amusement to be found in the card rooms, for her husband had put her on a strict allowance, locked away the valuables, and severed every line of cash or credit to which his wife had had access. Sarah could not claim to miss her.

But she thought most of St. John, who had promised to be home for Christmas Day. As she watched the snow fall, she could not help but wonder about the mysterious business that had taken him away. She worried, too, although she knew she shouldn’t. Surely he had sense enough to stop for the night and was tucked away in some posting inn, safe and sound. He could not travel tomorrow, it was true, but they would be together again soon. One day, more or less, did not matter.

Christmas would be a quiet affair, however—just Lord Estley, Clarissa, and herself.

Not that any day with Clarissa in it was truly quiet. But in this moment of peace, as her daughter lay sleeping on her breast, breathing softly against her neck, it was easy to forgive her rambunctiousness, to hold her close and dream . . .

Sarah did not realize she had fallen asleep, but she awoke to the sound of a gentle voice in her ear.

“Happy Christmas, my love.”

She opened her eyes, blinked twice, and smiled. St. John leaned over her, brushing his lips against Clarissa’s curls.

“Jarrell told me where I’d find you,” he whispered. He had obviously come straight to their apartments, for she could still see the snowflakes melting on his greatcoat. He held a small wrapped parcel under one arm, and his other hand was thrust deep in his pocket.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” Sarah said.

“You weren’t worried?” he asked with a teasing tilt of his head.

“Perhaps a bit,” she confessed.

Clarissa stirred but did not open her eyes. “Papa?”

“That’s right, dear one.”

She murmured some incoherent reply that sounded suspiciously like “Present?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have gifts for my darling girls,” he said. Clarissa roused herself with a stretch. “But Mama shall have hers first.” Reluctantly, Clarissa nodded her acquiescence and slid off Sarah’s lap. St. John laid the parcel in her place. With deft fingers, Sarah untied the string, and the paper fell open to reveal a pretty wooden box.

“Why, it’s soap,” Sarah exclaimed when she lifted the lid. “Bluebell soap.”

Clarissa leaned over the box and inhaled enthusiastically. “Mmmmm.”

Sarah felt her eyes widen and, fighting a smile, glanced up at St. John. He gave a chagrinned sort of shrug, but the roguish twinkle in his eye could not be mistaken.

“My goodness, this will be enough to last a lifetime,” Sarah insisted, taking refuge in the contents of the box as her face heated.

“I hope so, for it’s likely to be the last of it. It seems that our dear Mrs. Kittery has, er, mislaid the recipe.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Kittery? You saw her in town?”

“No,” he answered slowly. “I was not in town. I went to Haverhythe.”

“Oh!” What on earth had called him there? And why hadn’t he told her he was going? “How is . . . everyone?” she asked instead.

St. John smiled. “Everyone is well, I believe. Mrs. Potts condescended to shake my hand but could not be persuaded to stop calling me Lieutenant Fairfax. Mrs. Norris is—wait, I have a letter here somewhere.” He finally pulled his other hand from his pocket and patted about the breast of his greatcoat.

“Mama?” Clarissa tugged impatiently at Sarah’s sleeve.

Sarah’s eyes followed her daughter’s gaze to the coat pocket her father’s hand had so recently vacated.

Something still moved within it.

“What dat is, Papa?” Clarissa asked hesitantly, pointing one dimpled finger at his coat.

“Hmm?” St. John replied absently, still making a great show of looking for the letter. “Oh, this?” He reached back into the pocket, pulled out a mewling ball of gray-striped fluff, and handed it to Clarissa.

“Thomas!”

After a few moments of stroking and admiring the kitten, Clarissa put it on the floor—much to Sarah’s astonishment—and ran to hug St. John’s knee. “Thank you, Papa,” she cried, unprompted.

Sarah watched as St. John ran a hand over his daughter’s head and smiled down at her, his own eyes curiously bright. “You’re welcome, my pet.”

Clarissa turned back to the kitten, which had discovered the string from the box of soap, and in another moment it was difficult to say who was enjoying their game more, as she raced squealing around the room, dragging the bit of twine behind her, and he scampered after, pausing to stalk and fluff and pounce whenever Clarissa hesitated.

“And here, my dear, is your letter,” St. John said, suddenly able to locate the wayward missive with ease and offering it to Sarah with a flourish. “I’m sure it will tell you much more about the goings-on in Haverhythe than I ever could.”

She very much doubted it. For one, Abigail Norris was no gossip. And even if she were, the thing Sarah most wanted to know was the one thing Abby was least likely to reveal, the thing she had not mentioned in any previous letter that had come.

“How is she?” Sarah asked, running her finger over the impressions left by Abby’s pen.

“Perfectly well, I believe,” was St. John’s calm reply.

“Truly?”

“Why, Lady Fairfax, surely you do not suggest that I would have been so ill-mannered as to have observed Mrs. Norris’s delicate condition?” He shook his head in a mock scold, shrugged out of his greatcoat, and came to sit in the chair beside her. “Apart from a certain rosy glow in her complexion, and the fact that the vicar looks fit to burst—whether with pride or anxiety, I could not hazard a guess—it’s all quite cleverly disguised by one of those fashionable new high-waisted gowns, or so Mrs. Dawlish assured me. You know I can hardly tell one dress from another, my dear,” he added with a grin. “I heard almost no gossip at all about it—except for what I was told, confidentially you understand, by Mr. Gaffard, who got it from Mackey, who heard that Mr. Kittery suspects there might be twins on the way.”

Sarah followed the long train of informants to the end and then gulped. Twins?

On the one hand, it seemed like a fitting blessing for a couple who had thought for so long that they would never have a child. “But is there not some risk?” she asked.

“Some,” St. John acknowledged more soberly. “But you can be sure that Mr. Norris does not allow her to exert herself unduly, and she seems in the very bloom of health.”

Did she imagine the wistful expression in his eyes?

“It’s far too quiet in here,” Sarah said, rising to her feet to cover her sudden nervousness. “Clarissa,” she called, “you aren’t hurting Thomas, are you?”

She found the two curled up in sleepy contentment on one of the chairs nearer the hearth. “No, Mama,” Clarissa insisted. The kitten purred.

She felt St. John’s eyes on her as she came back to her seat and arranged her skirts around her.

“What of Mr. Beals?” she asked after a moment’s silence.

“Ah, poor Beals,” St. John sighed with a shake of his head. “He’s in sorry shape. Veritably struggling to get by, the sales of his currant cakes dropped off so precipitously after you left.” Sarah pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Although—it seems you were not his only customer,” he added with a meaningful look. “He happened to ask, quite out of the way, if Miss Dawlish ever spoke of returning home.”

In spite of herself, Sarah gasped and looked up. “Emily?”

He nodded. “Who may or may not at this moment be poring over a letter that Gerald Beals may or may not have tucked into my hand when I left, while muttering the closest thing to a prayer that I suspect has ever passed that crusty baker’s lips.”

And sure enough, when a few more minutes had passed, Emily came in, dark eyes shining, a certain bounce in her step, and one hand pressed to her breast as if clutching some bit of clandestine correspondence secreted there—or guarding the heart beneath it.

“Bed this instant, little miss. I won’t hear another excuse,” she proclaimed in a rare display of firmness when Clarissa began to protest. But when Clarissa held up the kitten, she softened visibly. “Oh, gracious me, what a precious little thing. And hasn’t it the look of Bright Meg about it, milady?” she asked, looking to Sarah for confirmation.

Sarah nodded, not certain she could trust herself to speak.

“I had a bit of news from home, mum,” Emily continued. “Someone paid up the rent on Primrose Cottage for the rest o’ Mrs. P.’s life! Lord Haverty’s agent let it slip one night in Mackey’s. Why, just think! Who coulda done such a thing?”

Sarah twisted to look at her husband, who refused to meet her eye. “It’s a mystery,” she acknowledged, fighting a smile.

“Now, Clarissa,” St. John admonished, scooping up the kitten and handing it to Emily. “If you do not want Thomas to spend his first night here in the kitchens with Mrs. Hayes, you must do as Miss Dawlish says.”

Clarissa’s lower lip trembled. “Yes, Papa.”

At Emily’s urging, Clarissa kissed her parents good night and then, with an enthusiasm that caused the kitten to squirm, took Thomas in her hands and led the way to the nursery.

“Emily Dawlish and Gerald Beals,” Sarah murmured incredulously when the door had closed. “How could I have failed to see—?” “I suspect either that they did not want anyone to see, or more likely, that there was nothing to see. Perhaps they realized the depth of their feelings only after they were apart.”

Sarah could not disagree with him. After all, love sometimes blossomed under the unlikeliest of circumstances.

“Well, whatever the case, by the look on her face,” he continued, “I fear we’ll soon be in need of a new nursery maid.”

Fighting a smile, Sarah nodded.

In the peaceful silence that followed, St. John slouched comfortably in the chair and closed his eyes. She could see the exhaustion etched on his face, and she knew that at least the last miles of his journey could not have been easy ones.

“Whatever made you go to Haverhythe?” she asked quietly, thinking he might have fallen asleep. “Rather a long trip for a kitten, some soap, and a letter, don’t you think?”

His eyes opened and leveled their steady gaze on her. “I’d travel to the ends of the earth to make you happy, Sarah—and our daughter, too. Besides,” he added, with a wry glance toward the soap, “I’ve always favored homemade gifts at Christmas.”

“Oh,” she breathed as her lips curved upward. “I’m glad to hear it, for I have—” She pressed her fingers to her lips and then let her hand drop back into her lap.

She had thought the gesture had gone unnoticed, but she saw then that St. John’s eyes had followed the fall of her hand and watched it settle, quite without meaning to, on the curve of her belly.

“Sarah?” His pale eyes darted back to her face.

She gave a quick nod. “You must understand, I don’t know,” she cautioned. “It’s too soon to be certain. But there are signs. I have hopes.”

He was on his feet in an instant, sweeping her into his arms. “Oh, my love.”

Tears started into Sarah’s eyes. “You are pleased?” she found the courage to ask.

“More than pleased. Elated,” he insisted. “I will confess that seeing Mrs. Norris made me cognizant of all I’d missed. And when I saw Norris, I was quite jealous of any man who was lucky enough to share in such joy.”

She thought of the sickness and fatigue and pain and considered for a moment whether she ought to correct him, or at least warn him. But then he was setting her on her feet again and cupping her face in his hands and kissing her, and the thought danced away like the snowflakes swirling outside the window. His lips skated across hers with heart-stopping tenderness.

And in that moment, all she knew was joy.