“I would add my apologies as well, Virginia.” The baroness sipped at her tea, looking as if she’d aged a decade just since returning from the Faulks’ ball.
“Thank you.” Ginny rose from her chair, cradling a sleeping Celia. She took her to the bay’s window bench and laid her down gently. Ginny pulled a folded coverlet and tucked it around her. There was no having her sent up to her bedchamber. Ginny couldn’t bear not having her within sight. She glanced at the governess. “Miss Lambert, please feel free to take yourself to bed. There is no need for all of us to remain up.”
“I wouldn’t dream of—”
Ginny put out her palm, interrupting her. “Please, Miss Lambert. I feel confident in believing we’ll have need of your services tomorrow.”
“Of course, Lady Maudsley.”
The silence after her departure amplified the longcase clock’s swinging pendulum, soundly marking the passing time.
The baroness refilled her cup. “Do you suppose your marquis is Irene’s true father?”
One could hope.A slight smile tugged at Ginny. “She certainly has his arrogance.” She let out a sigh. “I don’t know, Mother. I suppose it’s just as well we’ll never know. It might leave Celia feeling bereft if such a difference was discovered. And I would rather not have Celia feeling that way.”
“You’re a good mother, Virginia. I was wrong when I accused you otherwise.”
Ginny looked down at her sleeping child, tenderness clutching her heart, fear of a future without her older daughter, and terror that she might be huddled in a darkened doorway somewhere in the dregs of White Chapel, Bethel Green, or Seven Dials. Any number of places were scary to a young, gently bred girl. Even Mayfair at night if one were all alone.
“What’s that unseemly commotion?” the baroness asked, physically jarring Ginny from the vortex attempting to swallow her.
“Dear heavens, they’re back.” She tore from the room into the foyer. “Papa?” Her father had a ruffian by the collar of his feculent, ratty shirt.
Brock strode in behind, holding a barefoot child covered in mud. Straggly, stringy hair camouflaged her face. Ginny was at a loss for coherency.
“Your granddaughter has no respect for her elders, Virginia. She insisted this”—her father shook the boy in his grip—“delinquent accompany us. She has promised him a home.”
“Irene?”
Her older daughter didn’t speak, only held out her arms. Ginny snatched her from Brock and hugged her with all her might. Holding back her cries were pointless. She vaguely registered Brock ordering baths to be prepared. Slowly, she pulled back, pushing the hair away from Irene’s dirty, tear-streaked face.
“He assisted me with Lord Harlowe, Mama. He’s only six and has no home.”
She met Brock’s eyes, stunned. “You found Harlowe?”
Amusement twinkled in his gaze. “Yes, and I am certain your daughter was instrumental in saving his life.”
“He was quite ill, Mama.”
Ginny nodded, words escaping her. She eyed the boy critically, recognition dawning. “Aren’t you—”
“I’m a changed man, yer ladyship.”
“Dear Lord,” she breathed. “Quite right. Kipling, raise the house. Have Cook prepare a hot meal. In the meantime, prepare a tray of cheese and bread. You may release your prisoner, Papa. He is home now.”
“Lady Maudsley?” Miss Lambert stood at the top of the stairs. “Might I assist Lady Irene?”
Ginny lowered her older daughter to her feet, laying her hand on her head. “Of course. Irene, get cleaned up. There will be chocolate waiting for you.”
“Yes. Mama.” The glare she shot the baron surprised a laugh from Ginny. It felt odd to laugh. “James had better be waiting for me when I return, sir.” Irene, apparently not expecting a response, ran up the stairs to Miss Lambert. Actually ran.
The weight of a pyramid lifted from Ginny’s chest. “Go with Kipling, James, is it?”
He nodded.
“You heard my daughter. It’s a bath for you. Then food.” She watched James’s wonderous gaze survey the hall, following Kipling. And finally, in two steps, Ginny had her arms around Brock. “I expect you’ll need a drink.”
“Yes indeed. That, and an agreement to wed, my love.”
