For the first time in his life, Raven was truly happy. He was filled with hope for the future. And, if he were honest, it was slightly terrifying.
He was so used to being a miserable, jaded cynic that he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. So, he reached for Jane’s hand and, when she squeezed his in return, he instantly relaxed.
She laughed brightly, looking away from the first flakes of downy snow falling outside the carriage window and back to him. “I cannot believe we’re dashing off to Gretna Green, while my parents are still asleep. I think Ellie is actually looking forward to telling them the news. She even borrowed my vinaigrette.”
Raven lifted her fingers to his lips and held her gaze. “I promise that you’ll get to see your siblings often, even if we have to steal inside the house.”
On the other hand, he didn’t think there would be any need to sneak around. He’d had a lengthy chat with Ruthersby and the baron had agreed to recant his claims about seeing Jane at Moll Dawson’s.
“I’m not worried any longer,” she said with scholarly certainty. “I have this strange sense of peace about it all, which requires no planning or overthinking whatsoever. Regardless of what happens tomorrow or the days that follow, I know that I’m precisely where I belong.”
He couldn’t resist stealing a kiss and lingering over her plum-sweet lips. He’d been such a fool to spend those days apart. And a fool not to trust her. He should have listened to her and fought like hell—as Sterling said—against his own demons.
A love like theirs was too precious to lock away. He’d never lose sight of that again.
Ending the kiss, he put his arm around her and snuggled her closer as she rested her head against the crook of his shoulder on a contented sigh.
“Do you mind if we make one stop along the way?” he asked, thinking about wasted time and all the unopened letters waiting on the table in his foyer.
She feigned a gasp of shock. “Was that actually a politely worded question?”
“Forget I asked,” he teased and called up to the driver to take them to St. James’s.
Less than a quarter hour later, they were standing at a black door, opened by a rather cross housekeeper who tapped her foot on the floor. “So ye’ve returned, ’ave ye? Took your time about it.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you, as well, Mrs. Bramly. Is my”—he stopped and cleared his throat—“is the earl at home this morning?”
“In the library. You know where it is.” She jerked her head toward the stairs, then tromped off in a snit.
As Jane walked up beside him, she whispered, “At least she doesn’t think you’re a ghost any longer.”
“No, she only wishes I was.”
The familiar sweet fragrance of old books greeted Raven as he stepped into the library through the partially opened doorway. Warrister was in his usual chair. But he wasn’t alone.
Herrington was there, too, hands braced on the mantel and his arms and shoulders tense as though he were in the midst of an argument.
At the sound of the door creaking, he turned his head, then sneered.
Warrister looked over at the same time and his countenance brightened with affection, tinged with a frown of scolding. “Here you are, at last. I’ve sent an invitation to your house every day for a fortnight.”
“My humblest apologies,” Raven said instantly, pleased to be here and even gladder that Jane was on his arm. “In fact, today is a day for apologies. As I confessed to Miss Pickerington earlier, I have recently realized that I tend to shut out the people I want most in my life when I fear I’m about to lose them. I’m afraid I did that with you, as well. But I am here to admit that I would like, very much, to remain in your life. No matter who I really am to you.”
“Of course, my boy. There’s never been a question of that.”
Herrington scoffed.
“Hush, nephew. Make peace with the fact that he is your family.”
“How can you say that, after everything I’ve told you?”
“Because there are many things I know, which you do not. However, I did not choose a public forum to air mine. That should serve as another lesson for you.” Warrister turned his attention to Jane. “Miss Pickerington, my deepest gratitude for the heartfelt correspondences, along with the parcel. With your assistance and research, I believe I’ve finally gained a complete understanding about the events that transpired so many years ago.”
“I was more than glad to be of assistance,” she said with a modest shrug. “I don’t like unanswered questions either.”
Raven looked at Jane with a measure of surprise. Apparently, even when they were apart, she’d been campaigning for him, believing in him. And all the while, he’d been a confounded idiot.
She blinked up at him and nodded as if reading his thoughts, and it took every ounce of his control not to kiss that smirk off her lips. He’d wait till they were in the carriage.
“Those letters were invaluable,” Warrister said.
“What letters?” Herrington asked crossly.
“The ones in the casket, there on the mantel. They were from the maid, Helene Bastille. I believe you were acquainted with her, nephew,” the earl said carefully and Herrington stiffened, his gaze riveted on the black box. “Read through them if you like. I daresay, without the letters, I never would have thought to look at the maid, and then to her husband for the answers. But, as it turned out, that was the key.” Then, as if he’d just commented on the weather and nothing at all earth shattering, he turned to Jane with a smile. “My dear, would you be so kind as to hand me those papers, waiting on the table by the window?”
“Of course,” she said and received a pat on the hand when she returned, along with an invitation to sit beside the earl.
Raven pulled up the chair for her, his brow puckered in confusion. He heard himself ask, “What key?”
“The key that finally unlocked the whole truth,” the earl said with an ambiguous air that demanded the forbearance of his audience. “In those pages, Helene Bastille refers to her husband as le Sinistre. The name could easily be disregarded as merely a moniker that an abused wife might have given her estranged husband. However, it means a great deal when one discovers that there was an infamous French spy by that same name.” He paused, lifting his brows thoughtfully. “Not only that, but le Sinistre’s method of covering up his tracks was through arson.”
Arson? A shock jolted through Raven, the hair at his nape standing on end. He looked from Warrister to Jane, and to the casket beneath Herrington’s hand on the mantel. He’d never bothered to look at the letters. Not even when he saw that Jane had translated each and every one. At the time, just seeing her handwriting had nearly broken him, so he’d sent them back.
“Does that mean this . . . le Sinistre . . . is responsible for setting the fire that day?”
Warrister nodded solemnly. “I believe so. From what I have uncovered, he had several contacts in England—traitors willing to sell British secrets and others who engaged in smuggling for him. Regrettably, one of those traitors had fallen in love with his estranged wife and planned to flee with her child. I can only imagine that this was the reason le Sinistre brought his wrath down upon my son’s household.”
Herrington whipped around, fury marked in his high color. “If you think for a moment that I had anything to do with this, then you’re sorely mistaken!”
“Calm down, nephew. I’m making no such accusation.”
“Then what are you doing? Why are we even talking about Helene in the first place? Unless you’re about to tell me what I already know, that this imposter”—he flung an arm toward Raven—“is really her child.”
Raven straightened, head high and ready for confrontation. If he was the maid’s child, then that’s who he was. There was no changing it.
“No need for a battle,” the earl said, exhaling his impatience. “Let’s put that aside for the moment. I should like to read the final letter that my son wrote to me. It should clear up many of the doubts plaguing both of you,” he said looking from one to the other.
“‘Dear Father,’” he began, the rasp in his voice redolent with emotion. “‘I shall arrive straight to the topic of your last letter and tell you that yes, your grandson is perfectly hale. He grows stronger by the day and seldom cries, which is likely because Arabelle keeps him with her always. I am teeming with jealousy—or I would be if I could love either of them less.
“‘But there is news to report of another birth in this house. You may recall that maid I mentioned, the one who sought sanctuary with us from her husband. She has brought a son into the world just today. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a healthy set of lungs.
“‘Merrick acts very much the elder infant and studies this other child with equanimity. He is ever-stoic, and I have never seen a more inquisitive child in my life. He studies us with that pale watchful gaze like a king, waiting for us to entertain him. And I am embarrassed by the amount of foolishness I’ve put forth simply to earn a smile.
“‘Today, it finally happened—the smile—and I did nothing to inspire it. My only activity at the time was sitting near the bassinet in our rooms and reading aloud. I heard a gurgle and a coo that stopped my oration. I turned to attend to him, but he simply stared back, expectant. So I read again and—behold—there it was. A smile. I am happy to report that Arabelle was positively teeming with jealousy.
“‘I look forward to seeing you in the springtime, Father, and be assured I will read your every letter to your grandson. Your son, Edgar.’”
Raven felt as if his heart was in his throat and he swallowed thickly. Looking to Jane, he saw that her own heart was swimming in her eyes.
But, of course, Herrington had something to say about it.
He cast a sweeping gesture to Raven. “That letter gives no proof at all. Everyone knows that the color of a child’s eyes often alters after birth.”
Raven fought the urge to growl.
“Yes, I thought you’d say as much.” Warrister drew in another deep breath before he continued. “What I have here is a complete confession from Mr. Pickerington which should finally end this speculation.”
He shuffled the pages on his lap. “Pickerington mentions working for my son and his affair with the maid, Helene. He further admits that he’d been intending to run away with her, and to having double-crossed her husband—the man to whom he’d been selling secrets while working for many notable military families—le Sinistre.”
Raven watched as Jane read the page and her face paled. He went to her side and took her hand.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My own uncle. If not for him then you would have had . . .”
“Shh . . .” He knelt down and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “None of this is your fault.”
“Quite true. No one in this room is to blame,” Warrister said, looking warningly at his nephew. Then, skimming through the pages once more, he paused briefly, closing his eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. “According to Mr. Pickerington’s account, he was set to abscond with Helene the night of the fire. Regrettably, he arrived too late to save anyone—” He broke off, his voice gravelly. “Anyone other than the child in my son’s outstretched hands, as his body was being consumed by flames.”
The breath fell out of Raven’s lungs. Beside him, Jane stifled a sob in the cup of her hands.
Warrister looked into his eyes, holding his gaze as he reached out and put a warm hand on his shoulder. Then he nodded and Raven knew.
There was no ounce of doubt any longer. There never would be again.
Then the earl turned back to his nephew. “In these pages, he even mentions seeing you that night and how he’d hoped you wouldn’t hear the baby crying from underneath the bench. How he’d hoped it was dark enough that you didn’t see the soot on his clothes.”
Herrington cringed as he pressed his fingertips to the center of his forehead. “I did see him that night.”
Warrister nodded, unsurprised. “I suspect you didn’t tell me that you saw him because that would lead back to the maid. The maid had ensnared you, as well, despite what you said at the ball.” Then softly, he added, “She was likely playing her part with both of you.”
“I was supposed to go to her that night but I waited. And then I waited . . . and all because I didn’t want her to think she had power over me.” Herrington cursed, a low mournful sound. “Uncle, you don’t know how often I’ve regretted making her wait and what could have happened if I’d been there sooner.” He gripped the earl’s hand. He held it for a moment, then let it drop and looked to Raven. “But that still doesn’t mean that this man is my cousin’s child.”
Warrister drew in a deep breath, then turned to Raven. “Show him the mark, my boy.”
Numbly, he stood and shrugged out of his coat. His thoughts lingered on the horrifying image of his father emerging from that house on the hill, determined and skin still burning as he carried his child to safety.
Overwhelmed by a torrent of emotion, Raven didn’t bother to remove his shirtsleeves. He just took hold of the linen and ripped.
The sound echoed in the room. It was followed by Herrington’s choked sob as he staggered back from the sight of the scarred shoulder.
“The ring,” he whispered. “That’s from the signet ring I found on my cousin’s body. He was sprawled on the ground, arms outstretched. And his hands were”—he broke off, slowly lifting his own hands in imitation, his gaze haunted—“as if he were holding a chalice or something precious.”
Warrister stood and walked across the room, looking away from the fire and toward the new snow falling outside the window. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket.
Raven sat down in his grandfather’s chair beside Jane. He felt her brush the pads of her fingers against the wetness on his cheeks.
After their collective shuddering breaths fell silent, Warrister said, “Nephew, you’ll make it known that Merrick Northcott survived. That Viscount Northcott lives.”
“I will,” he said. Then looked to Jane. “I apologize for what you’ve endured since the night of the ball, Miss Pickerington. I wish you had slapped me instead of the glass from my hand. I deserved it, and much more.”
Raven looked at Jane, curious. He didn’t know about this. Damn, he wished he’d seen it. In fact, he wished he’d punched Herrington, and much more. Unfortunately, they were family. Bloody hell.
Jane nodded to Herrington in forgiveness. She was far too generous, in Raven’s opinion.
“And I realize now that you didn’t try to murder Raven, after all,” she said. “It’s here in my uncle’s confession.”
She showed Raven the letter.
He saw that the scrawl was much altered from the one he’d read in those ledgers. The hard slant was barely discernible, and the words were like the ramblings of a madman.
Apparently, Mr. Mayhew had been blackmailing Pickerington for years.
The beadle at the foundling home had been watching from an upper floor window the night Pickerington had left an infant on the doorstep. Then, once word had spread about the fire and the earl’s belief that his grandson survived, Mayhew approached Pickerington.
The tutor had been terrified about anyone associating him with the fire and having his treasonous activities discovered. Mayhew used this to his advantage, as well as all the other information he had in his possession. He knew all of Pickerington’s secrets because he, too, had been working for le Sinistre.
But while Mayhew had carefully covered his own tracks, Pickerington had not. So Mayhew used everything he could against Pickerington, including the one thing that mattered most—family.
Pickerington knew that if his treasonous secret came out, it would have signed his own death warrant. But worse, in his opinion, a public trial and hanging would forever blacken the family name.
The threat had been enough for him to pay Mayhew any amount, even enough to beggar himself.
But as the years dragged on in debtor’s prison, Pickerington had decided that it would serve him better to get rid of the only real link between him and his crimes.
And the only way to do that was to have Raven killed.
“Now, I understand why all the money my father has been sending has barely kept my uncle in coal. If he wasn’t paying Mr. Mayhew, then he was hiring murderers to—” Jane’s voice broke as she turned away from the page, her forehead pressed to his chest. “He isn’t the man I remember at all, and I cannot apologize enough for all he has done to you.”
Raven dropped the letter on the floor, dismissing it, and took her face in his hands. “No. It is not your place to apologize. And, besides, there is nothing either of us can do about our relations,” he said with a wry glance to Herrington.
The man chuckled in response and cursed under his breath. “Further proof that you are your father’s son. Edgar was ever-quick with the quip and I received the lash of it more times than not.” He sighed, resigned. “I suppose I deserve to be plagued by you.”
Warrister turned away from the window, a pleased smile on his lips. “At last. And to celebrate the reunion of our family, I’ll host a dinner this evening and—”
“Beg pardon, Grandfather,” Raven interrupted and shrugged back into his coat. “Jane and I have a previous engagement in Gretna Green. We’re on our way there now.”
Warrister started to bluster. “No grandson of mine is getting married over a blacksmith’s iron. No, you’ll have the wedding here in London. The banns will be read—”
“I’ve spent a lifetime apart from her and I refuse to wait a minute longer.”
Warrister’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “I’ll secure a special license with the archbishop post haste. You’ll be married tomorrow and then we’ll have a wedding breakfast.”
Raven took Jane’s hand and curled it over his sleeve. “On this topic, I’m afraid, I cannot be moved. Jane needs a new chapter for her book—How to Marry a Scoundrel.”