Her words, the irreverence of them lingered like sweet flowers or heady perfume. If only she were a different kind of woman, one that would enjoy raucous but discreet trysts with a hermit who needed to fit their appointments on his way from court to Finchely.
Perhaps a town house on the northern edge of London would do. Then he’d have only a thirty-minute drive to home. Hedonism and efficiency.
The notion sounded ridiculous.
A hermit could dream.
Another glance out the window showed he was at least five minutes from Finchely. No fences or hedgerows or forests with ironwood trees sprouting blue violet lignum vitae.
The ache of missing Phoebe, the guilt of her not being by his side wasn’t quite as strong as before. Liking Jemina, thinking of that woman who was here in London writing Daniel notes—did that shake something free in his chest?
He sat back and reread Jemina’s letter until Finchely’s fences, the lumber ties showed.Almost there, Hope.
He grasped his fob and fingered the deeply etchedTon the surface. “Lord, let my tot sleep through the night.”
Was it fine to pray for such things within moments of contemplating debauchery?
Being a hermit and dealing with the Lord Mayor’s suspicions had surely driven him mad.
The carriage stopped.
Daniel stuffed the letter in his coat, grabbed his hat and gloves and ran through the hedges, up the drive, and into the main door.
Then he heard the sound of terror. His little girl wailed at the top of her lungs. It shattered everything in his chest.
He tossed his things. His valet’s warnings could go to the devil as he flung his jacket to the polished floorboards and leaped up the stairs.
Arriving to the second floor, Daniel slid across the indigo-blue carpet runner on the landing.
Flinging open the door, he found his little girl standing in her crib. Her eyes were big and red as if she’d cried a river.
With two big chunky silk braids falling down her back, her wet face lifted, and she raised her hands to him. “Pa-Papa!”
His soul broke and mended as he scooped her up. “Papa’s here, Hope. I’m here, princess.”
She put her soggy little palms about his neck. “I thought . . . thought you gone! Gone like Mama.”
He lifted her apple face to his forehead, so she could see his resolve. “No, dearest. Never. The Lord Mayor . . . Long day working.”
Hope blinked twice. Her sobs slowed. “Pa-Papa here. Papa, no leave?”
“No.” He held her tight, snuggling her to his chest. “I have you. I’ll always be here, maybe just a little late.”
Daniel rocked her and looked toward the hall. “Where’s your nanny? She’s not supposed to go until you’re asleep.”
Hope’s long dark brown lashes closed. She cried harder. “Gone.”
“What? The new nanny left? Mrs. Gallick. Where’s Mrs. G?”
As if his questions had summoned her, his housekeeper entered the nursery holding a tray of tea and raspberry biscuits. “Sir, you’ve returned.”
Still bouncing Hope, he pivoted to Mrs. Gallick, a woman who’d known Daniel since he was born. He took a breath and mustered up his practiced calm. “I have, Mrs. G. Where’s Hope’s nanny? She’s not supposed to leave my child alone at night.”
The sturdy, graying brunette, a woman of good temperance and judgment frowned as if she wanted to spit. “The deplorable thing is gone.”
“See?” Hope wailed anew.
He put his hand to her head, stroking the curly tresses that framed her face. “It’s not that type of gone. Right, Mrs. Gallick?”
