Latymer (9 page)

“Let me send for a surgeon.”

“Promise me.”

“You have my word.”

“This bag belongs to Giles. No one else.”

“Understood.”

I lowered my pistol, Somerton’s image coming and out of focus. “Papers in the saddlebag. Some for you. Others for Giles—when the time is right.”

Kissing my son’s head, I whispered, “Giles.”

My son lifted his head, fear pulled at his innocent features. “Yes, Papa?”

“Go with Lord Somerton.”

He shook his head, burrowing closer to me.

“You must.” Wishing I could hug my son, my arms and legs had turned leaden. “The earl is my friend. He will take good care of you.”

Tears filled Giles’s eyes. “No, Papa. I want to stay with you.”

“Please, for me, go with him.”

“Why?”

“I’m dying, Giles,” I said simply. “I want to know you’re safe before I join your mother in heaven.”
If only that were true.

“Papa, no! Don’t die. Don’t leave me.”

“I will always be with you, Giles. Always.” A harsh, rattling cough burst from my lips. Blood speckled the wall beside me. “Take Lord Somerton’s hand now. Take it so I know you’re safe.”

Somerton knelt down and held out his hand.

Giles looked between me and Somerton’s outstretched hand.

Daylight was breaking, and a warmth and a peace I had never known enveloped me. My range of vision had been reduced to little more than a pinpoint. Everything had slowed to a crawl. I wanted only one thing, and that was to see Giles go with Somerton.

A ray of sunlight squeezed between the doorframe and O’Donnell’s shoulder. I blinked once, twice, and as light infused the room, I watched my precious son slip his hand into that of my old friend’s. I closed my eyes, and the pinpoint of light disappeared.

EPILOGUE

Six weeks later

Bellamere Park, Somerton’s Country Estate

Mac O’Donnell rested his forearms atop the veranda’s wide marble baluster. Several feet below, Amelia and Sydney stood conversing quietly as they watched the antics of a horde of children running around Somerton’s favored sunken garden.

Somerton’s almost-betrothed’s exuberant daughter, Sophie, led the pack of wild ones around the tall hedges, flowing fountains, and thick vines of the garden. Joining Sophie was her friend, Teddy; Amelia’s son, Leo; and Giles Clarke.

It was good to see them all scampering about. For the first few weeks after Latymer’s death, they wondered if Giles would ever speak again. If not for Sophie Ashcroft’s effusive and managing ways, he might not have done so for quite some time.

The little girl had not only helped transition Giles into his new home, but she’d helped Leo as well.

Amelia glanced up at Mac and smiled.

He winked at her in return.

Excusing herself, she climbed the expansive steps to join him. Sydney threw him a knowing smile before joining the children in the sunken ring of terror.

Watching Amelia’s progress up the stairs, Mac’s heart began its familiar anticipatory rhythm. She sidled up next to him, allowing their shoulders to touch. It was enough contact to show him she cared but not enough to draw undue attention from her son below, or from the Nexus agents lounging on the veranda behind them.

“Leo seems to be enjoying himself,” Mac said.

She smiled. “Yes. He’s adjusted well after all the dramatic changes in his life. The three older children treat him like a beloved younger brother, and he clearly adores them.”

“I’ve always heard about the resiliency of children. Now I know it to be true.”

“You should have realized that was true well before now, Mac O’Donnell. Look how well you and Mick survived the streets of London. The two of you were barely older than Sophie, Teddy, and Giles.”

“Good Irish stock,” Mac quipped. Thinking about his brother no longer brought on the unrelenting anger. The grief was still there and would always be there. But now he could concentrate on good memories of Mick, not his last horrific ones.

“Speaking of Giles,” Amelia said. “When do you think Lord Somerton will give him the letter his father left for him?”

Among the items Latymer had placed in Somerton’s care was a sealed, unmarked letter. With no instructions to guide him, Somerton had opened the missive and found a detailed accounting of Latymer’s misdeeds and his reasons for them—all of it written as a confessional to his son.

The letter also contained professions of his love for Giles and his mother and where Giles could find information on their two families. Although disturbing to read, Latymer had crafted the letter to answer any future questions Giles might have and to remind him that he was loved. He’d put a lot of forethought into his final words. Mac wondered if Latymer had known all along that he wouldn’t make it out of England alive.

Mac’s gaze landed on Giles, where the boy attempted to hide behind a cluster of rosebushes. “When he’s old enough to handle the truth, I suppose.”

“Will he ever be?”

“He outwitted two highly trained spies and me for an entire evening. I have no doubt that one day he will be ready to read his father’s words.”

She shifted closer, and Mac caught the subtle scent of citrus.

“Lord Somerton is generous to undertake the raising of the son of his enemy.”

Mac angled his head the slightest bit, so he could study her beautiful profile. “According to Sydney, it’s not the first time he’s taken an orphan under his roof.”

“The deBeau siblings?”

He nodded, no longer interested in talking about Latymer, Somerton, or anyone else. He ached to take her into his arms and kiss her senseless, right there in front of everyone.

She must have noticed the yearning on his face for she warned, “Don’t even think about it, Mac O’Donnell.”

“Too late.”

An endearing blush bloomed across her cheeks. Averting her gaze, she followed her son’s antics while she spoke. “Leo has settled into his new home.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“He called me ‘Mama’ yesterday.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

Mac’s throat locked up. Unable to speak, he covered her hand with his.

“He also wondered when you were coming to visit again.”

Now she made his damned eyes sting. “Keep it up, Mrs. Cartwright, and you’ll turn me into a blathering idiot in front of a veranda full of spies.”

“Marry me, Mac.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending. He even shook his head as if the sharp jolt would make her words more coherent.

“Mac?”

“Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“I didn’t think you’d get around to it anytime soon. So, yes.”

“I would have asked you weeks ago, but I wanted to give you time alone with Leo.”

“For which I am incredibly grateful. But I think we’re both ready now. Ready for you to be in our lives, always.”

Mac’s whoop of joy snagged the attention of every spy and wild child in the area. He lifted Amelia into his arms and twirled her around. He felt her unabashed laughter flow through him like a warm, flowing stream. When he stopped, she cradled his cheeks in the palms of her hands, and he bent low.

Nose to nose, she asked, “Dare I?”

He lifted his chin until he could feel her rapid breaths fan across his lips. “Every. Single. Day.”

Eyes twinkling, she whispered, “You haven’t said yes yet.”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

She pressed her soft, warm mouth to his, capturing his declaration. Mac closed his eyes and deepened their kiss.

Yes, yes, yes…

The End

Thank You!

Thanks so much for selecting
Latymer
. I appreciate your support, and hope you enjoyed both Latymer’s and Mac’s journeys. 

Other novels in the Nexus series include: 

A Lady’s Revenge
(Book 1)

Checkmate, My Lord
(Book 2)

A Lady’s Secret Weapon
(Book 3)

I would love to hear from you. Please connect with me online
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TraceyDevlyn.com

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Latymer
, I would love it if you’d help me spread the word about this novella. How? Here are a few easy, but extremely important, ways:

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Turn the page for an excerpt from the first novel in my Nexus series,
A Lady’s Revenge
, available online and in fine bookstores everywhere.

Excerpt from:

A Lady’s Revenge

by Tracey Devlyn

A British agent flees her French captor and his torturous dungeon, only to fall in love with the decoder responsible for her imprisonment.

Guy Trevelyan, Earl of Helsford, stopped short at the sharp smell of burning flesh. The caustic odor melded with the dungeon’s thick, moldy air, stinging his eyes and seizing his lungs. His watery gaze slashed to the cell’s open door, and he cocked his head, listening.

There.

A sudden scrape of metal against metal. A faint sizzling sound followed by a muffled scream.

He stepped forward to put an end to the prisoner’s obvious suffering but was yanked back and forced up against the dungeon’s cold stone wall, a solid forearm pressed against the base of his throat.

Danforth.

Guy thrust his knee into the bastard’s stomach, enjoying the sound of air hissing between his assailant’s lips, but the man didn’t release his hold. Nearly the same size as Guy, the Viscount Danforth wasn’t an easy man to dislodge. Guy knew that fact well. For many years they had tested each other’s strength.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the viscount whispered near his ear. “We’re here for the Raven. No one else.”

Guy stared into Danforth’s shadowed face, surprised and thankful for his friend’s quick reflexes. What would have happened had he stormed into the cell to save a prisoner he knew nothing about, against odds he hadn’t taken time to calculate? Something in the prisoner’s cry of pain struck deep into his gut. His reaction had been swift and instinctual, more in line with Danforth’s reckless tendencies than his own carefully considered decisions.

“Leave off,” Guy hissed, furious with himself. He pushed against Danforth’s hold, and the other man’s arm dropped away.

He had to concentrate on their assignment, or none of them would leave this French nightmare alive. The mission: retrieve the Raven, a female spy credited with saving hundreds of British lives by infiltrating the newly appointed emperor’s intimate circle and relaying information back to the Alien Office.

Guy shook his head, unable to fathom the courage needed to pull off such an ill-fated assignment. The ever-changing landscape of the French government ensured no one was safe—not the former king, the
Ancien Régime
, the bourgeoisie, or the commoner. And, most especially, not an English secret service agent.

Although Napoleon’s manipulation of the weak and floundering Consulate stabilized a country on the brink of civil destruction, the revered general-turned-dictator wasn’t content to reign over just one country. He wanted to rule all of Europe, possibly the entire world. And, if his enemies didn’t unite under one solid coalition soon, he might achieve his goal.

Another muffled, gut-twisting cry from the cell drew his attention. He clenched his teeth, staring at the faint light spilling out of the room, alert for movement or any signs of what he might find within.

Sweet Jesus, he hoped the individual being tortured by one of Valère’s henchmen wasn’t the Raven. In his years with the Alien Office, he had witnessed a lot of disturbing scenes, some of his creation. But to witness the mangled countenance of a woman… The notion struck too close to the fear that had boiled in his chest for months—
years
—giving him no respite.

On second thought, he hoped the prisoner was the Raven. Then he wouldn’t have to make the decision to leave the poor, unfortunate soul behind, and they could get the hell out of this underground crypt posthaste.

“Are you well?” Danforth asked, eyeing him as if he didn’t recognize his oldest friend.

Guy shoved away from the stone wall, shrugging off the chill that had settled like ice in his bones. Devil take it, what did the chief of the Alien Office expect him to do? Walk up to the prisoner and say, “Hello, are you the Raven? No? What a shame. Well, have a nice evening.” Only one person knew what the agent looked like, and Somerton did not offer up those details before ushering them off to France.
Why?
he wondered for the thousandth time. It was an answer he intended to find as soon as they got back to London, assuming they survived this mission.

“I’m fine.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Now cease with the mothering and get behind me.”

He barely noticed the fist connecting with his arm, having already braced himself for Danforth’s retaliation. Some things never change. Inching toward the cell door, he tilted his head and concentrated on the low rumble of voices until he was close enough to make out individual words.