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Anger flashed through Farley’s eyes for a moment before the amiable expression reappeared. ‘How does she go on? I hope she still pleases you, but perhaps you have tired of her.’
Devlin’s emotions were ragged enough to plant his fist squarely in the centre of Farley’s face. He pushed past.
The man fell in step with him. ‘I say, Steele, I hear you are seeking employment. Consider working for me. I could use a skilled gamester, and, I promise you, I would compensate you generously. I am again flush in the pockets, you see.’
Devlin stopped, his fingers still curled into fists. He’d heard the tale of Farley’s change in fortune. ‘Tell me, would my employment include fleecing green boys—like young Boscomb? He put a pistol to his head after a visit to your tables, did he not?’
Farley’s eyes narrowed but his grin remained. ‘An unfortunate incident.’
Devlin attempted to walk on, but Farley kept pace. ‘Perhaps, if you are in need of funds, you would return Madeleine to me. In return for the money you won from me, of course.’
Devlin’s fists tightened. If he’d had his sword in his hand, he would relish the sound of its steel plunging into Farley’s gut. Devlin gritted his teeth. ‘Do not speak of her.’
‘Oh?’ Farley remarked casually. ‘She has become troublesome to you, perhaps? She has a habit of doing so. I assure you, I know precisely how to deal with her.’
Devlin spun toward Farley and, with the strength of both arms, shoved him away. Better that than attacking and killing him. Farley fell, splashing into a puddle on the pavement.
Farley struggled to rise. ‘You have ruined my coat.’
Devlin leaned over him. ‘I’ll ruin more than your coat if you dare speak to me again, Farley.’
He turned his back and crossed the street, not heeding the stares of others walking by.
Madeleine stood in the hall, pushing the broom here and there, wondering how one contrived to get all the dust into one spot so that one could use the dustpan. She decided to experiment on a little pile of dust, but couldn’t work out how to hold the broom and the dustpan at the same time. Linette sat in the corner galloping her wooden horse back and forth, while her doll sat abandoned on a parlour chair.
Bart had accompanied Sophie to the dress shop. How could any of them have guessed that little Sophie would be the only one to find paying work? Bart searched each day for labour, coming home talking of scores of veterans like himself lining up for one job. And Devlin. More lines of worry etched his face each day.
When Madeleine and Sophie took some of her new dresses to the dressmaker in the hope that they might return them, Sophie came home with a large package of piecework, Madeleine with the dresses she had sought to sell.
She struggled with the sweeping. She was determined to do her part. While Sophie sewed and Bart and Devlin searched for work, she would care for the house.
Madeleine tried a different way to hold the broom, sticking it under her arm and levering it against her hip. She pretended to be a simple country housewife. She cleaned the house and tended the child while her husband—Devlin, of course—tilled the earth. Their lives were a quiet routine of hard work, peaceful evenings in front of the fireplace, and nights filled with loving. Madeleine leaned on the broom and sighed. How wonderful it would be.
She should not waste time in fancy. This silly habit of hers did not do her credit. She needed to solve her problems such as they really were. She needed work. Employment as a housemaid would not be the means, she supposed, although housework had never seemed difficult for the housemaids she once knew. They sped through chores with no apparent effort.
She jabbed at her pitiful pile of dust with the broom, scattering it everywhere except into the dustpan. ‘Deuce.’
As she uttered this unladylike but Devlin-like epithet, the door opened and Devlin walked in, his head bent and his shoulders stooped. When he saw her, he smiled, but his eyes remained sad. ‘What the devil are you doing?’
‘Sweeping.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘Or trying to do so.’
‘Deddy!’ Linette popped up from her corner and propelled herself into Devlin’s arms.
‘How’s my little lady?’
Linette wrapped her little arms around Devlin’s neck. ‘Deddy play?’ She batted long lashes and smiled sweetly.
‘Not now, Lady Lin.’ He put Linette down and the child ran back to her toy horse. Devlin rubbed his forehead. He turned toward Madeleine and again smiled.
She stepped over to him to take his hat. ‘You are wet.’
‘It is nothing. A little rain.’
‘Let me help you remove your coat.’ She reached for the lapels. He held her arms and stared at her a moment before clutching her to him.
She could hardly breathe, he held her so tight.
‘Do not worry so, Devlin. We shall come about.’ She wound her own arms around his neck.
Linette ran to them, arms raised. ‘Me! Me!’
Devlin scooped her up and enveloped them both in a hug, the kind of coming-home greeting she had imagined a moment ago, but infused with pain instead of pleasure.
‘Come into the kitchen, Devlin. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She liked the sound of that, the housewife giving comfort to the labourer.
‘I want biskis!’ Linette cried.
Devlin, holding them both more loosely now, gave her a perplexed look. ‘Biskis?’
‘She means biscuit. I believe we still have a good number that Sophie made.’
He smiled. ‘Tea and biskis it is, then.’ Still carrying Linette, he followed her into the kitchen.
Bart and Sophie entered from the rear door as Madeleine poured Devlin’s tea. Devlin merely raised his eyebrows to Bart, who shook his head.
‘These are hard times.’ The sergeant frowned.
Madeleine bade Bart and Sophie sit for tea and ‘biskis’, and, amid Sophie’s protests, she served them all. Linette had climbed upon Devlin’s lap. While the others traded news of their efforts of the day, she surveyed the scene. Their situation was dire, but the moment filled her with peace.
Her family, she thought. She put a hand to her brow. She must not think of family.
‘Perhaps I have something of value to sell,’ Devlin mused. ‘I must have a stick pin or something with a jewel in it. Or perhaps my sword would fetch a good price.’
‘You must keep the sword.’ Bart nodded his head firmly. ‘To honour the others.’
‘You are right.’ Devlin’s voice was barely audible.
‘I could try another shop to sell the dresses,’ Madeleine offered.
He winced. ‘Yes, you could.’
Sophie rose and dropped a few coins into Devlin’s hands. ‘My earnings, sir.’
Madeleine watched the look of pain flash over his face, replaced by a gentle smile for Sophie.
‘Thank you, indeed, little one. This is a welcome contribution.’
Sophie flushed with pride.
He stood, having drained the contents of his cup and set Linette upon a chair. ‘If you all will pardon me.’
Madeleine watched him walk out of the room, his tall figure ramrod straight. A moment later the front door closed.
Later that evening when she was putting Linette to bed, she heard Devlin’s footsteps on the stairs. He entered his bedchamber. Half-listening for sounds from his room, she sang softly to her sleepy daughter. Within a few minutes, the child’s eyelids fluttered closed. She kissed Linette’s soft, pink brow, tucked the covers around her, and tiptoed over to the chest. Quietly opening the top drawer, she removed a small package wrapped in cloth.
Madeleine tapped lightly at the connecting door between her room and Devlin’s. Without waiting for an answer, she entered.
He sat on the edge of his bed, bare-chested, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He glanced up.
‘May I speak with you, Devlin?’
He nodded.
She walked over to the bed, handed him her parcel.
‘What is this?’ He took it in his hand.
‘Something for you to sell.’
He unwrapped the cloth and lifted a delicate gold chain with a teardrop pearl. In the cloth were matching pearl earrings.
‘These are lovely. Where did you get them? From Farley?’
‘No,’ she said, indignant that he should think so. ‘They were mine before I met Farley. You may sell them.’
He stared at the jewellery and at her. ‘Not quite yet, Maddy. Keep them for now.’
She carefully rewrapped the package.
‘I have been thinking.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I have depended upon all of you too long. Poor Sophie, her fingers sore from sewing. You, ready to sell your treasures. Bart, searching for labour I’d not ask an enemy to perform.’
She stroked his cheek. ‘I have caused you this trouble.’
He clasped her hand and held it.
Suddenly shy under his gaze, she glanced down. Her eyes rested on his chest and widened. ‘Devlin, you have scars.’
His torso was riddled with them. Now, thinking about it, she realised she’d felt rough areas on his chest, that day she had touched him and almost made love with him. She had not looked, however. Now, so close to him in the candlelight, she recognised the long scar from the injury in Spain, but there were so many others, short and jagged.
‘It is repulsing, is it not?’ he said.
She touched one of the scars with her finger. ‘Oh, Devlin, how could you think such a thing?’ With gentleness, she traced it, still pink from healing. ‘What happened to you? How did it come about that you have so many?’
‘Waterloo.’
She placed her palm against his firm chest. ‘I know it was at Waterloo. I should like to hear what happened to you.’
He rose, walking over to his window. ‘The tale is not fit for fair ears.’
‘Fustian. Nothing about me is fair.’ She followed him. Standing behind him, she marked the scars on his back with her fingers. ‘You had to endure this. It cannot be worse for me to hear of it.’
He turned to face her. She placed her hands on his shoulders as he gazed at her. The green of his eyes turned soft as moss. ‘I have a proposition for you, Miss England.’
She stiffened, pulled away, but he held her firm.
‘Not that kind of proposition.’ He took her chin between his thumb and fingers. His expression turned serious again. ‘I will tell you about Waterloo on one condition.’
‘What condition?’ She could imagine no other condition but bedding him. He meant a proposition, after all, no matter how he coloured it. When he touched her like this, she dared hope for it.
He gave her a light kiss on the lips, which merely gave her an urge to kiss him harder in return. ‘I will tell you about Waterloo, if you tell me about how you came to be with Farley.’
She pulled away and rubbed her arms. ‘Nonsense. I told you already that he seduced me. What else is there to tell?’
He crossed the room and picked up the cloth wrapping her necklace and earrings. ‘I want to know how a girl who owned these came to be in Farley’s gaming hell.’
She turned away. She had never spoken of her past to anyone, not even Sophie. In fact, she chastised herself if even a thought of the past invaded her mind.
She faced him. ‘Very well, I will tell you, but not this night. I do not wish to speak of it this night.’
‘You have a bargain, Maddy.’ He returned to her, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I do not wish to speak of any of it tonight.’
The chaste kiss disappointed her. She wished something else from him. She wished to pretend she was the farmer’s housewife readying for bed with her husband. There was no Farley, no Waterloo, no shortage of money. Just days full of useful toil and nights filled with love.
He walked back to the window and stared out at the street for countless minutes. She knew not whether to stay or leave, but she did not want to leave him, especially with the weight of all their problems on his shoulders.
‘Sophie is teaching me to sew.’ Her voice sounded foolish in the face of his troubled silence.
But he turned to regard her with a kind look in his eye. ‘That is very well. Had you not learned before?’
‘Oh, I was taught, but I did not heed the lessons.’
He chuckled. ‘Your head too full of horses?’
She smiled. ‘Sadly, you are right. I never could keep my mind on much else.’
He sat on the window seat, his long legs stretched out before him. ‘I know precisely what you mean.’
She sat next to him, tucking her legs beneath her and leaning against him. His arm circled around her shoulders. ‘It is a pity that I could not procure employment in a stable. I could do all manner of things there.’ She sighed.
He became silent again, and she struggled to think of some other topic to converse upon. She rested her hand on his knee and in a moment, he covered it with his own warm, strong hand.
‘No, I shall find the way,’ he murmured.
She snuggled against him, the moment acutely precious.
Devlin lifted his hand to her hair, stroking gently. Her locks felt like spun silk beneath his fingers. He inhaled the faint scent of lavender in her hair, and recalled that fragrance from his first meeting of her. After Waterloo, when fever made him delirious and his sisters bathed his forehead with lavender water, his Miss England swam through his dreams.
He had never expected to see her again, and here she was, more wonderful than he could have believed.
