Innocence in Regency Society: The Mysterious Miss M / Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress. Diane Gaston

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