They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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Josephine
It was a lovely day for sitting in the garden, and Josephine took advantage of it, having her father brought down and settled in a chaise longue while she sat in a chair beside him.
It had been nearly a month since Josephine had stood in the pre-dawn with Hero and watched as Avendale boarded what was certain to be a ship bound for hell. She should have slept well, knowing that Amelia and Whit were safe for all time. It wasn't guilt that kept her from peaceful slumber. It was worrying over her father, whose health was diminishing rapidly now.
And it was longing for Hero to be there to ease the burden that was weighing on her.
Josephine scoured the papers every morning searching for the announcement of Hero's betrothal to Miss Mabel Darling, but she had yet to see it. No matter. It would come, and when it did, it would be like a knife through her heart.
One morning she'd told her father the tale of the Earl of Claybourne. He'd seemed as entertained by the story as he was by Oliver Twist. As feeble as he seemed, she suspected he was well aware that Hero was the man she'd been silly enough to fall in love with. But she saw no condemnation in his eyes.
The focus of her life had narrowed to her father, enjoying his company as much as possible during what she was certain were his final days. She'd written to her brother, beseeching him to return home. Lord only knew if the letter would find him in time.
Now she read the final words of Oliver Twist and very gently closed the book. She smiled at her father. "So Oliver found a home. I'm glad of it."
He blinked slowly. She combed her fingers through his hair. "My heart did go out to the Artful Dodger, though. I was sorry he was transported. I hear it's a very harsh life, although I suspect there are those who deserve it."
His gaze shifted past her, and his eyes seemed to fill with gladness. She glanced over her shoulder where he looked, halfway expecting to see Matthew there. Instead, she saw a beautiful white lily.
"Where did that come from? I'd not realized the gardener had planted lilies. It's rather late in the season for one to bloom." She turned her attention back to her father. "Would you like me to pluck it for you, bring it nearer so you might enjoy it a bit more? I know they're your favorite."
He gave her a very small nod. She rose, leaned over, and kissed his cheek. "I love you, Papa. I'll be right back."
She walked to the table where she kept her slender cutters. She was often nipping off blossoms to share with her father. In a way she hated to cut the lily, knowing it would wither that much sooner, but she was willing to do whatever would bring her father joy.
"I do believe this is the most perfect lily I've ever seen," she said, turning back to her father. Her heart caught, tears welled in her eyes. Even from this distance she knew. And she was left to wonder if it was truly the lily that had caught his eye or if he had seen something more divine.
