Lorelei should have taken offense at Corinne’s obvious exasperation. But the fire and insistence in the girl warmed her greatly. “Yes, yes. Do go on. I fear my brother inherited his love of art from me. His talent”—she flung a hand out—“elsewhere. I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.” Lorelei opened the door and ushered Corinne in. “Now wash your face, dear, and let us see about taking the children—”
“Miss Elvins? What are you doing in my bedchamber?” Corinne frowned.
Indeed, Sarah stood in the middle of the room, Nathaniel—Nathan—pressed to her chest.
“Oh my. You startled me,” she said in a breathless rush. “Mrs. Wells is feeling ill. I offered to take care of the baby.”
“Thank you, Miss Elvins.” Corinne squared her shoulders and marched over to Sarah. “I appreciate your offer. But I think I can handle the position.” She gently but firmly extracted Nathan from Sarah. “Were you preparing to take him to the gardens, Miss Elvins? I see you have your cloak on.”
Lorelei watched the exchange with a subtle sense of unease. The two did not care for one another at all. “That is a wonderful notion,” she said in a determined yet cheerful manner. “Why don’t we fetch Cecilia and Irene as well? It’s shaping up to be a lovely morning.”
Waiting just beyond the carriage path in Hyde Park did not guarantee Edward would not be seen. The risks were great, but things were not going well. He forced himself to take a deep breath, unclenched his fingers, and pulled a coin from his pocket. It wasn’t his lucky coin—that one appeared lost forever. He tossed it in the air and caught it.
Griston’s idea of claiming Corinne Hollerfield—Ninnis, he corrected—as his long-lost daughter was brilliant. And that she had already borne a son was most reassuring. The problem lay in the child’s bastardy. But with Griston’s help, Edward was all but assured his legacy.
He pitched the coin up and snatched it from the air as theory after theory roiled in his head. Sadly, the child belonged to Harlowe, that much he knew. But had they married? And how to find out?
Harlowe was a fool. Even having him beaten senseless, the man had refused to offer the slightest bout of information. Perhaps he hadn’t realized Corinne was carrying his child. No. The man had been more astute than he presented, and Edward had realized it too late. An artist! He’d been conned by an artist.
Again tossing the coin skyward, he caught it and huffed out a frustrated breath. What the hell did it matter? He had enough money to forge a marriage certificate, and marrying Corinne off to Welton was nothing short of genius.
He looked out over the small lake. A family of ducklings paddled their way across.
Dammit. Sarah should have shown up an hour ago. He hurled the coin, just missing the runt of the flock. They paddled away none the wiser, content in ignoring him.
He willed back his temper. Alienating his only way into Kimpton’s inner sanctum would be disastrous. Harlowe had somehow learned Edward’s secrets and documented them. Panic welled in his chest, but he forced it back. He needed his wits about him, and forced himself to calm. He loosened his fingers from their tight fists and flexed his fingers, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He concentrated on the breeze stirring the leaves. With another breath, and pulse steadied.
Each inhalation allowed the oxygen to flow, and his fraying temper eased. Edward repeated the effort until chirping birds and the distant clopping hooves of horses penetrated. He turned his gaze to the path. A few people milled about. A slow smile started in his chest.
Little Sarah was growing up. His need for her would wane soon. Her drab brown frock hid her pert breasts and flat stomach and lean legs. He did love a young girl. Soon it would be time to put in another order with the exclusive society to which he and Griston belonged.
A knot of fury started a slow pounding against his ribs. Even Edward drew the line at toddlers. Griston, however, showed no such conscience. Turning Cecilia over to the bastard was an evil necessity. He shook his head. London was chock full of girls to choose from.
With a harsh breath, he cut off that direction of thought, focusing on Sarah’s auburn curls escaping their confines in her haste as she hurried toward him. Her compressed lips sent a surge of lust through him. The familiar urge to tease her mouth apart raced through his veins. The silly girl. Her aspirations of becoming the lady of the house were an easy and useful way to procure information.
Her eyes darted wildly about until they found his. Her steps wavered.
With the patience of a saint, he waited until she made her way off the path and stopped before him. He smiled. “You’re late, my dear.”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her. “I-I…”
Poor, poor child. He clucked his tongue and took one of her fisted hands and tucked it in the crease of his arm. “Sarah, darling. Don’t fret. It’s a difficult task I’ve asked of you.”
“T-thank you, my lord.”
Her fingers trembled against him as he guided her beyond a small copse of trees.
Nineteen
T
horne strolled into White’s. The calm, steadfast atmosphere mastered an ability to appease one’s thoughts, even when the inclination was to commit oneself to Bedlam. Between emotional females, energetic children, wailing babies, and mysterious paintings, he needed to think, and home was not conducive to thinking at the moment. Home meant lusting after his irresistible wife. He’d hardly managed to remember to send Andrews back to Kimpton for two more of Harlowe’s works.
The low rumble of conversation filtered throughout the dark club, muted by paneled walls. He glanced through the various groups of members, searching.
Ah. There he was, hidden behind theGazette, legs stretched out, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “Ahem.”
Brock lowered the paper. “Kimpton, didn’t realized you’d returned. How was the country air?”
