Page 27 of Memories Made At Midnight (Chronicles of the Westbrook Brides #9)
Highbury House Estate
EARLY OCTOBER 1829
H umming a lullaby, Beatrice leaned over to smooth the downy black hair from her newborn son’s forehead as he slept in his cradle in the nursery, one tiny fist above his head. And to think she believed she could have been content without children.
What a fool she had been.
Now, married just over a year, she couldn’t imagine her life without Cassius or Antonius.
Cassius embraced her from behind, snaking his strong arms around her waist as he whispered in her ear. “How is the little fellow?”
Turning her head, she kissed his firm jaw. “Sleeping, but who knows for how long?”
Only a week old, the babe had yet to settle into a schedule.
Millborn trundled in, followed by the nursemaid, Pendle.
“I’ll watch the little tyke,” Beatrice’s old companion said. “Go get yourselves a bit of breakfast. I’ll let you know if he awakens.”
Now that Millborn had officially retired, most of Antonius’s care fell to Pendle, but the elderly servant enjoyed rocking the infant. As she had no kin of her own, the elderly servant would likely spend the rest of her days in Beatrice’s household.
“Thank you, Millborn.”
Even after knowing her most of her life, the servant still wouldn’t let Beatrice address the woman by her first name.
“It wouldn’t be proper,” Millborn maintained.
All those months ago, Cassius’s friend, Dr. Lancaster, had insisted on moving Millborn from Highbury House to the Royal Sussex County Hospital—against Uncle Cedric’s adamant protestations. Had he not done so, Dr. Lancaster vowed she would have perished.
Through Cassius’s cousin Torrian’s clever sleuthing, they had learned that Beatrice’s fiend of an uncle had plotted to bribe a knave to marry her in a phony ceremony. Then when she died from an “accident” shortly after being wed, the truth would come forth that she was never really married.
Torrian hadn’t revealed precisely how he had encouraged Dungworth to reveal those salacious tidbits. Since she had no offspring, Cedric intended to claim her fortune.
A twisted, perverse, and desperate scheme by a twisted, perverse, and desperate man.
Charged with abduction, extortion, intent to commit fraud, conspiracy to commit murder, and half a dozen other crimes, Uncle Cedric hadn’t escaped incarceration. Plus, his lack of funds prevented him from bribing his way out of his sentence.
Not that he stood a snowflake’s chance in Hades of avoiding his fate. Not when he’d made a mortal enemy of the powerful, influential, and popular Duke of Latham.
Uncle Cedric had died a mere six months later—infection from a rat bite.
A most deserving end.
It seemed the earldom’s coffers were empty as a beggar’s purse, which explained the new Earl of Highbury selling unentailed properties, including Highbury House. Why Uncle Cedric hadn’t done the same, Beatrice couldn’t fathom. Except he’d always been a prideful man, and if he sold his houses, others would soon know he wasn’t as wealthy as he pretended.
Uncle Cedric hadn’t been above pawning the earldom’s jewels, however, and had paste replicas made. Even the emeralds she’d worn for her portrait that first day turned out to be fake.
The new earl wasn’t the least pleased when he learned of Uncle’s perfidy.
What caused a despicable excuse for humanity to refuse to sell his properties to avoid the poorhouse, but would contemplate murdering his niece for her fortune?
When Beatrice learned her childhood home was on the market, she and Cassius decided it would be the perfect place for her menagerie—cared for by Hans—and an upper-story solar made a spectacular art studio.
“How are you feeling, my love?” Cassius twined an arm around Beatrice’s still slightly thick waist as they walked to the breakfast room.
Nala and Teddy refused to budge from the nursery since Antonius’s arrival except to do their business outside with the utmost haste before dashing back inside to guard the infant.
Beatrice closed her eyes. “Tired, but blissfully happy.”
“BeBe, are you certain you should travel to Hefferwickshire House at the end of November?” Worry creased the corners of Cassius’s indigo eyes. “Your lying-in period will scarcely have ended, and I don’t want you overtaxed.”
“Cassius Westbrook, don’t you know by now, I am not a fragile flower?” Her loving smile belied her mock sternness.
“No, you, my love, are a canna lily. Resilient and strong, and incredibly beautiful.” He chuckled and pulled her near to kiss her temple. “I suppose we must go. Grandmama did beckon.”
“And Layton and Lilly are expecting their first child,” she said.
Now that was a romantic tale of its own.
As Beatrice and Cassius passed the drawing room, she glimpsed her portrait hanging above the fireplace.
A confident, poised woman gazed back at her.
How had Cassius captured those elements when Beatrice hadn’t been the least bit confident or poised at the time?
She paused, and Cassius followed her gaze.
“I knew you would be a marvel on canvas,” he said, as though reading her mind.
Beatrice rolled her eyes, adoring how much he cherished her. “Your love makes you biased.”
“Your modesty, dear wife, becomes you, but the British Institution does not award five hundred pounds for excellence in art unless the piece is truly exceptional, especially considering my submission wasn’t a history or a landscape painting.”
They continued on their way.
How very different this house had become, now that love and laughter filled it.
She rested her head against her husband’s shoulder, loving him so much, her heart overflowed.
“I’m so glad you accepted the commission to paint me, Cassius. We might never have met otherwise.”
“I believe we would have met another way, my love.” Cassius turned her into his embrace. “We were destined to be together.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, and Beatrice gave herself over to the joy and bliss of his kiss.