THE TWINS WERE INSEPARABLE, spending their days walking hand in hand in the gardens, or with their heads—one so dark, the other so fair—bent close over a shared puzzle or collection of leaves they were sorting before pressing them into a book they were preparing for their aunt Emmaline.
The summer days were long, and quiet, and healing. Charlotte had no fears anymore for either twin. They might be seventeen, but events in their lives had matured them both beyond their years, so that when they passed their eighteenth birthday in December, and traveled back to Mayfair in late March, there would be no question that each was ready for her Season.
Charlotte would be proud to present them, even if she sometimes worried that Lydia wouldn’t put herself forward enough, and Nicole might make good on her promise to break at least a dozen hearts.
She and Rafe, as the Duke and Duchess of Ashurst, would host balls and breakfasts, and behave most responsibly, as proper guardians should…and then they would retire to their rooms and be Rafe and Charlie—friends, lovers, husband and wife.
She could only hope the same for Lydia and Nicole, when they found the friends and lovers they each deserved.
Charlotte thanked the footman who brought the mail pouch to her as she sat dreaming in the morning room, and she lazily sifted through the letters until she sat up straight, holding a letter addressed in Emmaline’s distinctive hand and franked by the Duke of Warrington.
Getting to her feet, she went in search of her husband, running him to ground in his study, where he was frowning over a paper he held in one hand in front of him, a drying pen in his other hand.
“Charlie, good,” he said without looking up, as if he could recognize her footfalls, which he probably could. “Quickly, what would be another word for scoundrel? I think I’ve called Bonaparte every name I can conjure up writing this blasted book. If Fitz were here, he’d be laughing at me, the way he laughed when I told him I planned to write the book in the first place.”
“Fitz would be nothing less than proud of you. Rafe, put that aside for now. I’ve a letter here from Emmaline.”
“Really? Then the babe has arrived?”
“I don’t know yet. I wanted to wait so that we could read the letter together.” She slid her fingertip beneath the seal and unfolded the single sheet. “Ah,” she said moments later. “It would appear the duke will have to try again for an heir, not that I imagine he or Emmaline will consider that a hardship.”
Rafe grinned as he read the letter over her shoulder. “Hardly. Is there a name?”
“Yes, right here. Lady Anne Emmaline Lucas was born three days ago. She’s beautiful, by the way. Emmaline swears it.” She lowered the letter to her lap and turned about to face her husband. “Can we travel to Warrington Manor soon, do you think? John Cummings is more than capable to oversee things here, and I’m sure the twins would adore seeing their new cousin.”
“If I say no, will you promise me anything to convince me?”
“No. But you can say yes, and then I can promise you anything to thank you,” Charlotte said as Rafe walked across the room to where the family Bible rested on its own podium. “Are you going to write in Anne’s name?”
Rafe picked up the large Bible and carried it to the desk. “Yes, and I promise to be thorough.” He dipped his pen and wrote Anne Emmaline Lucas, female. “There, we’ll add the particulars later.”
Charlotte frowned, turning to the previous page and the list of Daughtrys written there in many different hands. “Marion Daughtry,” she said, running a fingertip along one faded line. “Even Emmaline thought he was a female child. I remember seeing the name when we were attempting to contact your relatives when the late duke died, and again when Nicole was searching out names for prospective chaperones so that she could go to London. We none of us realized our mistake.”
“Marion Daughtry, the obligatory black sheep,” Rafe said, closing the Bible. “Disowned, disinherited, banished under a cloud, the girl bought off and married to our own Grayson’s brother once she’d healed, or else we’d never have understood what happened. Come on,” he said, sliding an arm around Charlotte’s waist. “Let’s go tell the twins the good news.”
“Rafe, wait,” Charlotte said, holding her ground. “I know he’s dead—I should know better than anyone— but if the Daughtry family tree is to be complete, Hugh Hobart Daughtry should be listed. We saw the marriage lines he kept in his room at Lottie Lusty’s…establishment. Turned off by his family or not, Marion did marry Hugh’s mother. If you…if you had died in the war, Hugh was next in line to be the Duke of Ashurst.”
“And I wouldn’t be the Duke of Ashurst if he hadn’t murdered my uncle and cousins. Although I’m afraid it must be said—Hugh certainly resembled my uncle and cousins in many ways. Charlie, if Hugh’s name were in the Bible, it would be my duty as head of the family to expunge it. And if this has to do with any feelings of guilt you might have over—”
Charlotte shook her head vigorously. “I don’t. Really, Rafe, even though it frightens me sometimes to feel so cold about what I did, I have no regrets. I’d do it again.”
Rafe bent and kissed her cheek. “You know, I believe you. You’re the bravest woman I know. Fitz would have raised you up onto his shoulders and carried you around the barracks, had you been one of his men. As it was, I had to take the credit for ridding the world of my miserable cur of a cousin, to protect you and Nicole, when I’d rather have openly called you both heroines.”
“Nicole might have liked that,” Charlotte said as, arm in arm, they headed into the hallway. “I think they’re in the west garden. Lydia was going to beg some more flowers from Higbee, to plant for Fitz.”
The memorial Rafe had commissioned for the west garden in memory of his good friend—an impressive obelisk with Captain Swain McNulty Fitzgerald, Soldier, Friend and Brother carved into the ebony marble—had lost much of its stark formality when Lydia had planted a garden all around it. But Fitz probably would have liked that, too.
“Rafe? It would be much quicker to go through the morning room,” Charlotte said as he steered her toward the foyer.
“I know,” he said, bending low to whisper the words in her ear. “But I thought we might delay the news for a little while. Little Anne’s birth has reminded me that it is my duty as duke to ensure my own line. Who knows how many little Annes we might get before you produce my heir, hmm? I mean, I do have a responsibility. I thought we should perhaps get in a little practice.”
He turned her toward the stairs, and then gave her a playful smack on the rump that had the young footman giggling into his fist.
“Rafael Daughtry, you should be ashamed of yourself!” Charlotte scolded. But then she saw the look in his eyes, the smile that curved his lips, and gave a small yelp, lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs.
Rafe winked at the footman, and followed after her at his leisure….