“I know. She thought I’d pay her five hundred a year.”
“I asked her how she came to that addled conclusion,” Jessica said. “She told me it was when all the grand folks came to your father’s funeral. Some of the gentlemen had brought their birds of paradise along and deposited them at nearby inns. Along with other London gossip, Charity heard tales—exaggerated, no doubt—of settlements and annuities made for certain noblemen’s illegitimate offspring. That, she told me, is why she didn’t employ the usual precautions with you and Ainswood, and why, when she found herselfenceinte, she took no corrective measures.”
“In other words, another brainless trollop put the idea in her head.”
“Charity thought all she had to do was have one child, and she’d never have to work again. Five hundred pounds was unheard-of wealth to her.”
“Which explains why she settled so easily for your fifteen hundred.” Dain still had his eyes fixed upon the dragons. “You knew this, yet you threatened to give her my icon.”
“If I’d had to deal with her by myself, I could not risk her creating an ugly scene in front of Dominick,” Jessica explained. “Like you, he is acutely sensitive and emotional. The damage she could do with a few words in a few minutes might take years to repair. But with you there, that risk dropped considerably. Still, I preferred she go away quietly. That is why I armed Phelps with a bribe.”
Dain turned onto his side and pulled her into his arms. “You did right, Jess,” he said. “I doubt I could have dealt with a sick child and his screaming mother simultaneously. I had my hands full—both of them—and my mind fully occupied with him.”
“You were there for him,” she said, stroking his hard, warm chest. “His big, strong papa was there for him, and that’s all that matters now. He’s home. He’s safe. We’ll take care of him.”
“Home.” He looked down at her. “This is permanent, then.”
“Lady Granville brought up her husband’s two bastards—by her aunt, no less—along with their own legitimate brats. The Duke of Devonshire’s by-blows have grown up in his household.”
“And the Marchioness of Dain can do what she damn well pleases and the hell with what anyone else thinks,” said her husband.
“I do not mind starting my family with an eight-year-old boy,” she said. “One can communicate with children at that age. They are very nearly human.”
At that moment, as though on cue, an inhuman howl rent the early morning quiet.
Dain pulled away from her and bolted up to a sitting position.
“He’s having a nightmare, that’s all,” Jessica said, trying to tug her husband back down. “Mary’s with him.”
“That caterwauling is coming from the gallery.” He scrambled from the bed.
While he was pulling on his dressing gown, Jessica heard another earsplitting shriek…coming from the gallery, as Dain said. She heard other sounds as well. Other voices. And thumps. And the faint thudding of hurried footsteps.
Dain had already stalked out barefoot while Jessica was still trying to disentangle herself from the bedclothes. She quickly donned her dressing gown and mules and hurried out after him.
She found him standing just outside the door, his arms folded over his chest, his expression inscrutable while he watched a naked eight-year-old boy race toward the south stairs, three servants in hot pursuit.
Dominick was but a few feet from the entryway when Joseph abruptly appeared in it. The boy instantly turned and ran back the way he’d come, dodging the adults trying to catch him and shrieking when they missed.
“It would appear that my son is an early riser,” Dain said mildly. “What did Mary feed him for breakfast, I wonder? Gunpowder?”
“I told you he was devilish quick,” Jessica said.
“He ran past me a moment ago,” Dain said. “He saw me. Looked straight up at me and laughed—those screeches are laughter, you will note—and never broke stride. He went headlong toward the north door, stopped one half second short of dashing his brains out against it—turned, and ran back the other way. I collect he wants my attention.”
She nodded.
Dain strode out into the gallery. “Dominick,” he said, without raising his voice.
Dominick darted into an alcove. Dain followed him, picked him off the draperies he was attempting to climb up, and hoisted the child over his shoulder.
He carried Dominick into the master bedroom, then into the dressing room.
Jessica followed them only as far as the bedroom. She could hear her husband’s low rumble and the higher-pitched tones of his son, but couldn’t make out the words.
When they emerged from the dressing room a few minutes later, Dominick was wearing one of his father’s shirts. The pleated front extended below the boy’s waist, while both sleeves and hem trailed upon the carpet.
“He ate his breakfast and washed, but he refuses to don the skeleton suit because it makes him choke, he claims,” Dain explained, while Jessica nearly choked trying to keep a straight face.
