“He said my mama’s name.” Oliver looked up at her, his brown eyes searching her face. “He said he was papa’s friend, but he never says their names.”
Maribel’s throat tightened. She thought of Thaddeus standing alone in that study, the morning light falling cold across his shoulders. She thought of the way his voice had roughened when he spoke of Margaret. The way his face had drained of colour at the revelation of Maribel’s connection to Oliver.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t suppose he does.”
Oliver was silent for a moment, considering this. Then: “Perhaps he misses her and papa too.”
The words struck deep. From the mouths of babes, as the saying went.
“Perhaps he does,” Maribel agreed.
Her heart knocked against her ribs wildly as she picked Oliver up into her arms. She could only hope that this arrangement did not turn out to be a mistake.
However, with Oliver in her arms she was certain that no mistake was too big to make if it allowed her to remain in his life.
CHAPTER 3
“Blackwood. I did not expect to see you here.”
Thaddeus turned from his contemplation of the ballroom to find Lord Stirling approaching, a glass of champagne in each hand and an expression of genuine surprise upon his weathered face.
“Nor I you,” Thaddeus replied, accepting the offered glass with a nod of thanks. “I was under the impression you found these gatherings insufferable.”
“I do. Thoroughly.” Stirling positioned himself beside Thaddeus, his gaze sweeping the glittering assembly before them. “But my wife has made it abundantly clear that my absence from the Whitmore ball would constitute a personal affront to Lady Whitmore, with whom she has been friends since the nursery. And so here I stand, insufferably.”
The Whitmore townhouse blazed with the light of a thousand candles. The air was thick with perfume and powder, with the rustle of silk and the murmur of conversation, with the strains of a string quartet whose efforts were largely drowned beneath the din of social performance.
Thaddeus loathed every moment of it.
He had come because obligation demanded it—because the Duke of Blackwood could not absent himself from the Season’s most anticipated ball without inviting speculation, and speculation was the last thing he needed at present. And because after this afternoon’s correspondence, he needed a word with his…associate.
The arrangement with Lady Maribel was barely a fortnight old, and already whispers had begun to circulate. An unmarried woman of questionable reputation, residing in the home of an unmarried duke, caring for the unfortunate orphan of Nicholas Talbot and his rather mysterious wife.
He took a measured sip of champagne and found it too sweet.
“I hear you have acquired a ward,” Stirling said, his tone neutral. “Nicholas Talbot’s boy.”
“I have.”
“Tragic business, that. Talbot was a good man. I did not know him too well on a more personal level, but we did conduct some business at times. What a loss.”
“Indeed.”
Stirling waited, clearly expecting elaboration. When none came, he cleared his throat. “And the child? He is settling in well?”
“The child is none of society’s concern.”
The words came out sharper than Thaddeus had intended, and Stirling’s eyebrows rose a fraction. But the older man was too experienced a diplomat to take offence at bluntness; he merely inclined his head and changed the subject to matters of Parliament.
Thaddeus responded automatically, his attention divided between Stirling’s observations on the upcoming vote and his systematic survey of the ballroom. He had not seen her arrive. He had positioned himself deliberately near the entrance, nursing his champagne with the patience of a man accustomed to surveillance, and still she had somehow slipped past his notice.
But she was here now.
Lady Maribel stood near the far windows, her dark chestnut hair arranged in a simple style that should have been unremarkable among the elaborate coiffures surrounding her. She wore a gownof deep blue—not the burgundy she had worn upon her arrival at Blackwood, but something richer, more suited to evening. The colour caught the candlelight and held it, transforming the fabric into something almost luminous.
She was speaking with an elderly woman Thaddeus did not recognise, her head inclined with the appearance of interest, her gloved hands clasped before her with perfect composure. To a casual observer, she might have seemed entirely at ease.
Thaddeus was not a casual observer.
