Thea hid a smile.
“I say, would you care for a game of Spillikins?” Abrupt changes in topic were common with her quick-witted nephew. Edward held up the box he’d brought. “I have my set.”
Freddy bit his lip. “I—I don’t know how to play.”
“It’s simple. I’ll teach you,” Edward said. “Mama, may we be excused?”
“Yes, dear. But don’t overtire your host, all right?” Marianne said.
Freddy slid a tentative glance at Thea. She gave him an encouraging nod.
The boys found a place in the far corner. Settling on the carpet, they began laying out the sticks for their game. Before long the two were chatting back and forth, emitting cheers and groans as jackstraw empires rose and fell.
Thea and Marianne watched on from the settee.
“Thank you for coming today,” Thea said in an undertone. “Freddy needed the company.”
“Edward, too. He could do with a friend his own age. He spends entirely too much time with adults and books. Experiments with beans, for God’s sake.” Marianne shuddered. “At this rate, he’ll be talking about crop rotation before he’s ten.”
“You’re a proud mama, and you know it.”
“True.” Marianne’s lips curved. “You appear to be showing some talent for the role as well.”
Fighting off a blush, Thea tried to deflect her sister-in-law’s all too astute statement. “Freddy would bring out the maternal instinct in anyone. He’s bright and charming—all he needs is the confidence to see the best in himself.”
“And you, dearest, are just the one to provide it. Things are progressing nicely with the father, I take it?”
As there was no fooling the other, she might as well be honest. “Yes, they are. But please don’t say anything yet. Gabriel and I don’t want to make any announcements until after the villain is caught.”
“I understand completely. My lips are sealed.”
“Thank you.” Thea’s fingers knotted in her lap. “How do you think the men are doing? I wish I could be there with them.”
“I know the feeling, my dear, but we’d only be a distraction. The men would worry about our safety rather than the troubles at hand.” Her sister-in-law smiled ruefully. “No, we must let them go about their business whilst we conduct our own.”
“Our own?”
Marianne arched a brow. “Solving the case requires more than physical prowess.”
“You have a point. Actually, I’ve been mulling over the evidence against Lady Blackwood,” Thea said thoughtfully, “and I still can’t believe she is guilty. I’ve another hypothesis.”
“By all means, do tell,” her sister-in-law replied.
Bending their heads together, they got to work discussing the case.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hidden in a covered cart next to the stall, Gabriel surveyed the teeming piazza from a discreet hole bored into the side. On market days, Covent Garden was a site of chaotic industry, and today was no exception. ’Twas as if Bedlam had been contained and put to work within the square bounded by St. Paul’s Cathedral to the west and the arched porticoes of the Italianate buildings on the other three sides.
Within the booming market, stalls and barrows overflowed with fresh produce, flowers, and goods of every kind. The scent of violets and lilac mingled with that of savory pasties and fresh green herbs. Merchants cheerfully haggled with passersby from every walk of life, from the bleary-eyed rake just stumbling home from the night’s entertainments to the housewife looking for the best bargains to the fine lady whose entourage of servants lugged home baskets of hothouse blooms.
Even William McLeod seemed to be infected by the market’s mercantile fever. Sporting a straw hat, an apron over his rough linen shirt and trousers, and a bright silk handkerchief in lieu of a cravat, the brawny Scotsman made a convincing costermonger. With the brashness of a true peddler, he strutted before the fruit-laden table, his Cockney accent ringing with authenticity.
“Fresh melons fer sale,” he chanted. “Come get yer ripe and juicy melons.”
A pair of painted light skirts stopped in front of the stall, and one cooed out, “Ripe an’ juicy as these, my good fellow?” She jiggled the generous wares on display in her skimpy bodice while her companion snickered.
“Mymelons won’t get trouble and strife after yer life,” McLeod tossed back good-naturedly.
