“You know, Miss Lambert does not approve of our safeguarding lessons.”
“I’m more interested in whether or not you approve. Do you?”
Irene halted, facing Ginny. “Oh, yes.” Her earnestness caught Ginny by surprise. “I haven’t spoken of it much, but last year I was terrified when Lady Kimpton, baby Nathan, and I were absconded with.” Her timidness sliced through Ginny with the serrated edge of a seventeenth century dagger. And how was that for knowing one’s medieval history? “Lord Brockway’s warnings on not taking sweetmeats from strangers was quite sound.” Irene shuddered. “I never wish to eat a sweetmeat again in my life.”
Ginny studied her older daughter, forcing herself to remain where she stood. Irene had never spoken of her abduction before. “From my understanding, it was tea laced with laudanum, and you were not served by strangers,” Ginny reminded her lightly. She moved to a chair before the hearth and sat heavily.
“That’s true. But to realize…” Again she shuddered, then pulled herself up straight. “How many ways one could be hoodwinked.”
“Yes. I fear, I was likewise blindsided by the notion. I feel I’ll never sleep through the night again for worrying.”
Irene hurried to her and took up Ginny’s hands. “Oh, Mama. Don’t you see? Weneedto know these things. They can only help us to protect ourselves.”
Ginny flipped their hands, squeezing, a smile gripping her heart. “How did I bear one truly so special as you? I am the luckiest of mothers in all of London. England, I daresay.”
“Come, Lord Brockway is not known for his patience, Mama. He’s waiting.”
They moved back into the bedchamber just as Celia entered from the hall.
“Our parasols, Mama, Lord Brock. I’m ready for our outing,” Celia said.
“Thank you, Celia,” Irene said stately. She pulled her hands from Ginny’s and stalked to the door, taking one of the parasols. “Ready, Mama, my lord?”
Ginny laughed. “I’m ready, darling.”
“As am I.” Brock stood and led the trio to the door.
Perfect. She was indeed the luckiest mother in all of England.
Halfway down the stairs, Kipling opened the front door. Escape was imminent, she thought, until the Earl of Griston stepped over the threshold. Ginny slowed, realizing at once this was the price one paid for an unleashed temper.
Twenty
L
ady Maudsley, how delightful to see you again. And so soon. I hope you don’t mind. I ran into your father at White’s this morning. He invited me to luncheon.” Griston handed his hat and walking stick to Kipling. His eyes moved to the young daughters standing behind her, then back. Lady Maudsley’s surprise was an annoyance. The baron had assured him she would be present.
“My apologies, my lord. I am unavailable to luncheon with you. The girls were promised an outing, and I only just learned of my father’s invitation.”
“Yes. With me.” The Marquis of Brockway appeared at the top of the landing.
A soft blush tinged Lady Maudsley’s cheeks, but she held her chin up and hershoulders back. How proud she was.
She drew the girls farther behind her in another less than subtle move, and Griston’s irritation spiked. She would pay for such insolence. Now was not the time, however, as the baron moved into the foyer. The marquis was welcome to her. Loren just wanted one little thing from her, he thought, eyeing the five-year-old.
“Griston, there you are, old man. Come, join me for a brandy before lunch.” The baron’s gaze sharpened, spotting his daughter and grandchildren on the stairs, poised for departure. The parasols the younger girls held in their tight grips told the story. “Virginia—”
“Lady Maudsley, you’ve a missive,” the stately butler smoothly interrupted. “I was just about to send it up.”
“Thank you, Kipling.” Lady Maudsley tripped down the rest of the steps and snatched the velum from a silver tray on the entryway table. The girls remained halfway up the staircase with Brock. Ginny snapped it open.
Her expression was a fascination of storytelling from haughty confidence to concern to astonished horror. “Kipling, call for the carriage right away.”
Loren could not believe the gift he was about to be handed. In a decidedly unladylike manner, Lady Maudsley dashed back up the stairs to the trio and spoke quietly to them.
Her father’s lips tightened, and his irritation saturated the atmosphere. “Come, Griston, about that brandy.”
“Please excuse us, Lady Maudsley, Brockway,” he said, and followed the baron to the late Maudsley’s study. He surveyed the room with a sharp eye. It didn’t appear as if anyone had stepped in it since the man’s death. Still, Loren didn’t see blood on the carpet or against the wall behind the desk. “Whatever was that about?”
