Page 74 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Zebadiah glanced toward the man and woman in question, who stood fortunately out of earshot. Lady Sterling’s head was at present tipped upward, looking into the laughing face of the little girl seated easily on Lord Sterling’s shoulders.

“And Everham Estates always receives a sizable donation shortly after some shockingly dissolute nobleman gets his comeuppance.” The Sterlings managed one of Britain’s foremost charitable institutions on behalf of injured soldiers and exploited domestics.

“The Crown has ways of showing its gratitude for valuable information,” Zebadiah acknowledged. “But that hardly means—”

For just a moment, she thought he meant to go on denying his influence, and she sighed.

But in the end, it seemed he too was tired of keeping secrets. His shoulders sank a notch. “How long have you known?”

“Why, my dear, I’ve always known you had a soft spot for your men—for keeping them safe, for seeing them happy. The sheer number of wedding invitations over the years would have told me that. And if some of their gifts of gratitude—a lovely bottle of Scotch whisky, for instance—arrived with a thick letter that sent you back to the office late in the evening, well…”

Zebadiah hummed. “Painstaking work, piecing together all those bits of evidence. If you were one of my men, I’d recommend a promotion.”

She arched one brow and sent him a mischievous glance. “Can’t you think of any other suitable reward, Zebadiah?”

“Several, actually. To start, I’d like to—”

She laid a staying hand on his arm as Captain Fitz Hopkins approached them, one of the few gentlemen present clad in his scarlet uniform, which clashed magnificently with his coppery hair. Helen could not help but be reminded of a young Zebadiah. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “May I take the liberty of wishing you well?”

“Captain Hopkins. Thank you. I suppose Colonel Millrose sent you in his place? I thought perhaps, given the peace, he’d be more willing to abandon the shop.”

The young man’s gray eyes flared in surprise. “I, er, I assumed you’d already heard—”

“Heard what?”

“The very morning that the peace was declared, Colonel Millrose decided to…” Another pause sent Zebby’s bushy white eyebrows a notch higher, making them visible above the top rim of his spectacles. “He’s on his honeymoon,” Captain Hopkins finished weakly. “Apparently he’d been nursing a tendre for that missionary lady who hangs about the neighborhood—”

“Miss Davis,” Zebby supplied easily. “So, she finally said yes?”

“So it would seem. Not five minutes after the news of Napoleon’s defeat had arrived, Colonel Millrose walked up from his office and out the door of the tobacco shop, crossed the street to Miss Davis’s usual post, took her in his arms, and”—he glanced toward Helen, then paused to swallow hard—“kissed her. They were married three days ago.”

“How romantic,” Helen declared.

“Yes, ma’am,” agreed the flustered young man. “We’re all happy for him.”

“You must take good care of the Underground in his absence, Hopkins.”

The captain straightened, suddenly every inch the officer accepting his charge. “Yes, sir.” And then he bowed his gratitude three times before hurrying away.

When he was gone, Helen asked, “What was it, do you suppose, that finally convinced Miss Davis to accept Colonel Millrose: the peace or the kiss?”

“Mrs. Scott,” Zebby scolded her teasingly. “I’m astonished at you. Smiling at such scandalous conduct from one of my officers.”

“Oh, don’t pretend with me. You knew about the wedding. Of course you must have known. Why, I daresay you had some hand in the lady’s choice of that particular neighborhood for her mission field.”

“Certainly not!” he protested. “I will confess to knowing something of his interest in her, but beyond that, I am innocent. This time, at any rate.” His blue eyes twinkled, but as the crowd gathered and grew, some of their sparkle dimmed. “You promised there wouldn’t be a fuss.”

“I said there wouldn’t be a great fuss,” she countered. “You must allow us to fuss over you a little.” At his resigned sigh, she added reassuringly, “I have asked the Duke of Hartwell to make a toast. He is hardly an effusive, sentimental sort of man.”

“He was not, I’ll allow. But since his reunion with his wife…”

“All your doing,” she reminded him. “Come, my dear. It’s time for a taste of your own medicine.”

In the crowd, she spotted the Duke of Hartwell limping forward, his steps impeded not by his injuries, but by a pair of little girls of perhaps two and three, their arms wrapped around his legs as he trudged along, pretending to search for them as they laughed and squealed in protest. The duchess walked beside them, smiling indulgently at her husband and daughters. When she turned and held out a hand to the young Marquess of Chesleigh, a lad of not quite six, her high-waisted gown clung to her figure to reveal the impending arrival of another blessing.

“After so many years apart, it would seem the duke and duchess have made good use of their time together,” Helen said in a low voice. It was marvelous, after what seemed a lifetime of war, to find oneself surrounded by so much love. And even better to think that her husband had played such a prominent role in ending the one and forwarding the other.

“Always knew they would be well suited, if Hartwell would let down his guard. All it took was a little prompting. Though when I think back on those days, I do wish Hopkins and Mrs. Drummond had made a go of things too. They’ve spoiled a perfect record,” he confided with a self-deprecating laugh.