Lionel began to cry. I knew this yelp. There would be no placating him. “Ma’am, I need some place for privacy. I need to feed my son.”
“This is my house, Mrs. Jordan,” the duke said. “Go to any room you choose to take care of my ward, my heir.”
A footman bowed and moved his hand for me to follow.
“Oh, Colin’s boy. Such a yellowish-brown little thing. Does he look like Colin to you?”
“Mrs. Jordan, hurry. We need to leave as soon as possible.”
Opening a door to a parlor, the footman lit sconces and then pointed inside.
Once seated with the door closed, I disrobed and fed my hungry boy.
I tried to distract myself from the conversation in the hall.
The voices were low, but the duke offered many one-word answers, several of them noes.
Lionel’s suckle was strong. “Were you a good boy for the duke?”
The answer seemed obvious. His appetite was too big, too hungry.
“You didn’t eat a thing for Repington, did you? Naughty Lionel.”
Lady Bodonel’s pitch became higher. I couldn’t understand what she said, but it sounded like one long set of syllables, no spaces, no breaths.
I felt sorry for the duke.
My own mother was difficult, but I’d been able to get a few words in—angry ones, even repentant ones at times.
Not enough repentant ones.
Lionel should hurry up. I’m not sure what we’d come into, but I knew this was no place for us or the duke.
* * *
Busick stood up as straight as he could as his mother circled him in the grand hall of the house he leased for her. A nice, expensive Mayfair address was the cost to keep her from his smaller townhome in Town, where he’d convalesced these past two years.
“Son, you’ve been back from the war front for a while, and this is the first time you stop by to see me, in the middle of the night with a woman?”
“You sound as if you are shocked. Remember when you left me with Grandfather for four years? I did enjoy the letters for my birthday, though I’m surprised you found time between that string of special friends. A duke, an earl, a marquess.”
“You weren’t unhappy. The late duke enjoyed having you about.” She folded her arms and strutted about in her nightgown and robe as if auditioning for her latest paramour, complete with pouts and tearful mopping with her handkerchief. “This widower duke may decide to be a permanent friend.”
“Mother, this one is no more likely to commit than the others. They all figure out you bore easily.”
“What do you know of commitment, son? Last I heard, you were unwed without the benefit of even a bastard.”
He rubbed his skull wondering what he’d done to have such a mother. “Just when I think you can’t shock me anymore, you do.”
Her brow raised, and she offered him that devil-may-care-but-she-didn’t look. “You’re popular like me, son. If I were a man, such popularity would not draw censure.”
“When Mrs. Jordan is finished, we’ll leave you to your packing.”
“But that woman, Busick? That unusual creature with a baby. Is that what they wear, men’s tailcoats and breeches?”
“Mother, Mrs. Jordan . . . It was a masquerade. I cared for the baby while she was away. I should tell her there are fresh napkins in the basket.”
Lady Bodonel held out her hand. “Wait, she made my military son, a commander of English forces, a nursemaid? What has come over you?”
