A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(109)
Charlotte was regarding him, her eyes shimmering, her gaze enough to set Sherbourne’s heart thumping. To the casual observer, she was the same woman who’d shot top hats from randy bachelors. To her husband, she had blossomed as autumn had turned to winter. Her figure was changing, of course, but she’d also gained a sense of true confidence where bravado and sheer courage had been before.
“Besides,” Sherbourne went on more softly, “I have my Charlotte. With Charlotte to love, what else in the whole world could I possibly need?”
She blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and touched his fingers to his lips.
“You’re worse than Griffin and Biddy,” Haverford groused. “Sherbourne, think of your lady, who I’m sure wouldn’t mind having a lady’s title. And don’t blame me for this development. Elizabeth set the wheels in motion, and it is to her you will express sincere gratitude. Your library scheme found favor with the sovereign, who, like most worthy people, thoroughly enjoys a good book.”
“The dratted libraries,” Charlotte said, beaming at her husband. “You could still call me Mrs. Sherbourne when we are private.”
“I’m leaving,” Haverford said, rising. “If I have to swill another cup of peppermint tea, I will go barking mad. Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”
The duke was making a good show of irascibility, but Sherbourne knew friendship when he saw it. He shook Haverford’s hand, slapped him on the back, and let him escape before the dreaded peppermint teapot made another appearance.
Which in subsequent years, it did regularly.
In later life the baronet became a baron, and the coal mine which he eventually conveyed to Evander Porter was an example of the best, safest, most modern practices. Sherbourne became hopelessly wealthy, in part because his lady wife was a fiend for calculations.
Charlotte established a charitable undertaking of her own, one that found safe havens for young ladies in difficulties. She relied on a vast network of family and friends of means to ensure that every child brought to her attention was well cared for and well loved.
And Sir Lucas considered it his greatest privilege to ensure that Charlotte was also well cared for and well loved—very, very, very well loved, indeed.
Keep reading for a peek at the first book in the Rogues to Riches series.
Coming in Fall 2018.
Chapter One
“You isn’t to be hanged on Monday!” Ned declared. “Old Fletcher’s got the bloody flux. Can’t stir but two feet from the chamber pot. Warden says no hangings on Monday!”
Joy was the first casualty in the earthly purgatory of Newgate prison. When Ned came bounding into Quinn Wentworth’s cell, the boy’s rare, angelic smile thus had a greater impact than his words.
An uncomfortable, unfamiliar emotion stirred, something Quinn might once have called hope but now considered a useless reflex.
“You mean I won’t be hanged this Monday.”
Consternation replaced ebullience on the grimy little face. “Old Fletcher might die, sir, and then who would they find to do the business? Your family will get you out, see if they don’t.”
Quinn had forbidden his siblings to “get him out.” Abetting the escape of a convicted felon was itself a hanging felony, as were 219 other crimes, among them stealing anything valued at more than twelve pence.
“Thank you for bringing me the news,” Quinn said. “Have you eaten today?”
Ned studied ten dirty little toes. “No so’s I’d notice.”
Miracles occurred in Newgate. One of the most powerful and feared bankers in London could invite a pickpocket to dine, for example, simply because the banker had learned that company—any company—was a distraction from impending death.
Despite the death warrant dictating Quinn’s fate, his cell might have been a successful solicitor’s quarters. The floor was carpeted, the bed covered with clean linen, the desk stocked with paper, pen, two pencils, ink, and even—such was the honor expected of a wealthy felon—a penknife. The window let in fresh air and a precious square of sunlight, which Quinn valued more than all of the room’s other comforts combined.
The foodstuffs, however, had to be kept in a bag tied to the rafters, lest the rodents help themselves uninvited. The pitcher of ale was covered to prevent flies from drowning themselves along with their sorrows.
“Fetch the ale,” Quinn said. “We’ll share some bread and cheese.”
Ned was stronger and faster than he looked, and more than capable of fetching the ale down from the windowsill without spilling a drop. Quinn was, in his own opinion, weaker than appearances might suggest. The warden had taken one pitying look at him and muttered something about the big ones dying quickest on the end of a rope.
That comment—a casual, not intentionally cruel observation—had made real the fact of execution by order of the crown. Hanged by the neck until dead, as the judge had said. The proper fate of all murderers in the eyes of the law.
Though to be accurate, Quinn’s crime was manslaughter rather than murder, else even his coin might have been insufficient to earn him quarters outside the dungeons.
“Shall I get the bread?” Ned asked.
The child was being polite, which ought not to be possible, given his upbringing.