“Lord Brock?” She flew across the room, hurling her tiny body into his arms. “I knew you would find us. I knew it. I knew it.”
“Blimey,” another child’s blasphemous voice breathed with awe.
“Harlowe?” Kimpton said to the room at large.
“Dead.” Irene’s husky tremor was a quiver through her entire body. Brock squeezed her tighter against his chest. Even caked in muck, he detected the faint fragrance of her floral soap. “He asked about… about… oh, Lord Kimpton, Icouldn’ttell him about Corinne. I just couldn’t,” she ended on a whisper.
Brock spotted Harlowe’s torso covered in rags and stretched along one wall the same instant Kimpton dropped to one knee.
Kimpton pressed two fingers against his neck. “He’s alive, my dear.” He stood and lifted Harlowe over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
“Come along, James. You can stay with us,” Irene said.
Brock remained silent, unable to bear disabusing her of the impracticality.
Back on land, Brock followed Kimpton to the horses. There was no putting Irene down; she wasn’t wearing shoes. The kid, James, took one look at the horses, said, “Blimey,” and now cowered behind him.
The first thing Brock noticed was the quiet. No Romanian-chanted mantra filled the air, faint or otherwise. The second…
“Where’s Griston?” Kimpton said.
Brock’s eyes narrowed in a swift survey. “Gone, it appears. We’ll deal with him later. Where’s the baron?”
Wimbley’s heavy booted steps clattered down the wood planks. “Clapped that fool, McGee, in the hold and bolted him in.”
“Good.” Kimpton shifted with the burden on his shoulders. “I’ll catch a hackney. Despite Harlowe’s considerable weight loss, I don’t think my horse will handle both of us back to Mayfair.”
James darted around Brock. “I can help ye, yer lordship.” With an ear-piercing whistle, a cab trundled up.
“Good work, young man,” Kimpton told him. He turned to Brock. “See to my horse, would you?” Then he disappeared inside.
Brock look down at James. “Do you ride, son?”
James’s eyes widened in horror.
“Right, then. You’ll ride with the baron.”
“See here, Brockway. I’ll, er, take my granddaughter. The boy can ride with you,” the baron blustered.
Brock started to respond, but Irene cut him off. “No,” she said. “I shall ride with Lord Brockway, Grandfather.” She addressed the boy. “James, would you care to try sitting in the saddle? Lord Brockway will carry the reins the entire time. You will be quite safe. I assure you.”
Irene’s confidence humbled him. Losing Rachel had maimed him in ways he hadn’t realized.
“You will obey your elders, young lady.” The baron reached for her. “Now, come to me—”
She reared back, almost clipping Brock’s chin.
“You heard her, Wimbley. Lady Irene is a take-charge young woman. She knows what she’s about.” He looked at the boy. “Do you wish to try to ride? The lady is right, no harm shall come to you.”
“Blimey,” James whispered again.
“How are you faring, Miss Lambert?” Ginny studied her daughters’ governess. Little color had returned to her cheeks, so she was still considerably pale.
Miss Lambert touched her head with visibly trembling fingers. “I believe I shall live.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work. Her hand moved to her lap, and her chin dropped to her chest. She seemed to stiffen her spine. Then she raised her head, meeting Ginny’s eyes. “I owe you an abject apology, my lady.”
Her words surprised Ginny. “Whatever do you mean? It wasn’t your fault someone broke in. However much I’d like to place blame, I certainly cannot blame you.”
“Perhaps not. My apology has to do with my attitude, to do with my feelings toward your beliefs in teaching young girls to defend themselves against miscreants and the like. I found the notion improper and unladylike in the extreme.” She shook her head, albeit carefully. “But there is no denying that the safeguarding lessons saved Lady Cecilia’s fate.”
