Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

A spark of joy, sweeter than summer sunlight, lit inside her. She still had her secrets, but the shadows were gone. “I couldn’t have penned a better summation myself.”

“And now, my love, let us go announce our betrothal.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Huzzah!” exclaimed Prescott on hearing the happy news. His voice rose in excitement, along with his glass of punch. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

John refrained from remarking on the berry-red slosh of liquid that was now dribbling down his son’s shirtfront. Olivia wouldn’t bat an eye at strawberry jam in the hair or a frog in the pocket. The thought made him smile.

“Yes, huzzah,” added Lucy after a tiny hesitation. “I admit that you were right, Scottie, and I was wrong. Writing the letter was an excellent idea.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” murmured Olivia.

“You are welcome, Miss Sloane,” replied the little girl with equal formality. “Will you show me how to shoot with a sling?”

“We had to return Lord Davenport’s weapon, but I daresay we can contrive to make something similar on our own. And the back lawns of Wrexham Manor offer all sorts of interesting objects for target practice.”

“Huzzah!” chorused Lucy.

“I told you that taking pen in hand was worth the risk of getting a birching from Wilkins the Wasp,” said Prescott rather smugly.

“A knack for putting words on paper seems to run in the family,” said John quickly before Lucy could retort. He winked at Olivia. “It seems we owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Hurley’s newspaper for bringing us together. I shall be sure to send him a case of champagne from Berry Brothers.”

She waggled a brow in warning.

Yes, some secrets we will keep just to ourselves, he thought to himself. That Olivia and he would have a lifetime together of sharing not only secrets but passions and friendship was far more intoxicating than the rare wine gracing his crystal goblet.

“Speaking of which,” murmured Cecilia, “I just received a note from Lucy’s father saying that sacks of letters in response to the advertisement are still arriving at the inn.”

“You may assure Simmonds that the matter will be taken care of,” replied John.

“I propose another toast,” chimed in Henry with a lopsided grin. “To Hurley, to Simmonds, to the Royal Mail coach!”

“I think perhaps we’ve all imbibed enough spirits for the night,” said Cecilia, slanting a look at her husband’s cheerfully flushed face. “And the children have already been up long past their bedtime.” She rose, ignoring the grumbled protest from Prescott. “Come along, you two. We have a very full day scheduled for tomorrow. First we must stop and pay our respects to the Sloane family. And then we shall finally finish our tour of the Tower menagerie.”

“And if some villain tries to snatch Scottie again,” said Lucy, “I shall knock him on his bum and feed him to the lion.”

“No villain would dare challenge such a highly decorated warrior,” said John. He had awarded the little girl one of his medals for valor, and she had worn it proudly pinned to her dress ever since. “However, the danger is over. You two are safe.”

Lucy’s chest puffed out with pride, but she didn’t look quite convinced. “Maybe Scottie and I could take boxing lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, just to be sure.”

“Oh, what a corking good idea.” Olivia cracked her knuckles. “I have always wanted to learn how to throw a right cross.”

John repressed a bark of laughter. The legendary pugilist would probably fall into a dead faint if a female tried to set foot in his exclusive establishment. “I’ve a better idea. I shall hire one of Jackson’s assistants to come give you all private lessons at the Manor.”

This time it was Olivia leading the shouts of “Huzzah!”

“The Manor is going to be lots more fun to visit, Scottie, now that Miss Sloane will be there,” confided Lucy in an overloud whisper.

So it is, thought John, offering up a silent prayer of thanks for pens, papers, and a newspaper editor who knew a good story when he saw it.

“You are supposed to be sleeping.” Closing the bedchamber door behind her, Lucy padded toward the desk, where a single candle was burning brightly.

“So are you,” answered Prescott, not looking up.

“I heard a scratching noise, so I thought I had better come investigate.” She craned her neck to look over his shoulder.

“What are you writing?”