Everyone knew he was richer than Croesus.
He’d made it quite clear that this wasn’t new to him.
And yet, while soaking in the hot water, Melanie couldn’t help but think she could have done more.
She didn’t even know if the baby was a girl or a boy—or if it even had a name…
ERNEST
“Hush now.” Malum swayed as he patted the screaming infant. He’d had no idea so much sound could come out of such a small little creature.
He ought to have returned to the club by now. Instead, he was pacing the length of the nursery, anxiously waiting for help to arrive in the form of a capable nursemaid from the agency Mr. Tipton had contacted.
Following Miss Rutherford’s departure, Malum had had every intention of handing the basket off to his housekeeper. The joke, it seemed, was on him.
Mere moments after the door had closed behind the Earl of Standish’s sister, Mr. Tipton had tiptoed into the foyer and reminded Malum that Mrs. Appleton had been given the week off to visit her ailing mother.
It was something Malum had approved without a second thought. He normally spent most of his time at theDomusanyway, so he hadn’t thought there would be an issue. And, contrary to his reputation, he wasn’t a monster.
How was he to know a child would be abandoned on his doorstep?
But that wasn’t all. With Mrs. Appleton gone, all but a skeleton of his staff had been allowed a holiday as well.
Still, Malum hadn’t panicked. How difficult could it be to care for something so small?
But that had been hours ago, and this little imp, named Ernest, according to the note he’d discovered in the basket, was becoming more and more irate.
And ominously odiferous.
“Tipton!” Malum called for his butler, who had notably absented himself when young Ernest began the debut of his vocal cords.
It was Malum’s valet who appeared instead. “Tipton’s polishing the silver.” Angus kept his gaze on Malum, purposefully avoiding the babe in his employer’s arms. “Do you need something, Your Grace?” The elegant valet did not step inside the room.
Angus had once been employed at Windsor Castle, and provided the best valet services money could buy. Which was why Malum had hired him.
A slight jab at Society, just as he’d filched the Duchess of Willoughby’s master cook and the Duke of Ravensdale’s gardener.
The Duke of Malum might be persona non grata among theton, but when it came to those in service—who often borrowed the snobbery of their employers—money had a remarkable way of lowering standards. In London’s employment market anyway, cash was, in fact, more important than status.
Malum saw no reason not to exploit both when it was necessary.
But Angus—a man who prided himself on handling the refined needs of a gentleman—looked as though he’d rather face death than set foot in the nursery.
And Malum couldn’t really blame him, especially with the suspiciously foul stench surrounding him.
On him?
Malum clenched his jaw.
“Angus, you are going to have to deal with a little shite one way or another,” Malum groused, speaking over Ernest’s pathetic cries. The damp sensation that had crept through Ernest’s blanket was indeed making its way through Malum’s jacket. “Is there not a single maid you can send up…?”
Angus was shaking his head. “They’re all busy in the kitchen, Your Grace.”
Of course they were.
“Has Tipton heard back from the agency?”
“Not yet, Your Grace.”
