“I want to see my sister’s child,” she said.
“Your sister should have been here to show him to you.” Evander’s voice was low and even. “She chose not to be. And I will allow no one from your family near my nephew until I understand why.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Irresponsible. That is what you think of us.”
“I think your sister vanished four months ago with my brother, left a baby on my doorstep this morning, and has yet to show her face. Draw your own conclusions.”
“How dare you.” She scoffed. “Charlotte has always been the picture of propriety. Of duty. And your brother was the one who convinced her to run.” Mary tilted her chin. “All of London knows Lord Richard’s reputation. The gambling. The late nights. The women. Half the drawing rooms in Mayfair had a story about him before the betrothal ink was dry. Charlotte was the steady one in that match, Your Grace, and if you believe otherwise, you are the only person in England who does.”
“You have no proof of that.”
“And you have no proof of the alternative, yet here you stand, blaming a girl who is not here to defend herself.” Mary stepped forward. “Do you want to know why I am wearing this dress, Your Grace? Because my groom abandoned me at the altar this morning. The moment news of this child reached the church, Lord Grentport walked out. He shoved my father to the ground on his way.” Her voice did not waver. “So, I climbed into a carriage in my wedding gown and came here. Because whileevery person in London is whispering about this baby, and I, his own aunt, have not even had the chance to see him.”
Evander held her gaze. He could feel the heat of her anger from where he stood. She was close now, close enough that he could count the seed pearls stitched along the neckline of her gown and see the way her pulse beat in her throat. Her chin was raised. Her hands were fists at her sides.
She did not blink.
The baby cried.
The sound split the silence between them, thin, reedy, and sharp enough to make them both turn. Tommy’s face had scrunched into a knot of fury, his fists waving above the edge of the basket, his wail building.
The parlor door opened. His housekeeper, Mrs. Cahill, swept in with a warmed bottle in one hand and a cloth draped over her shoulder. Two maids followed.
“Let me hold him,” Mary said.
“Absolutely not.” Evander turned to Mrs. Cahill and gestured toward the basket. “I will not hand my nephew to a woman who arrived uninvited in a wedding dress five minutes ago.”
Mary flinched. Something crossed her face that was not anger. It was there and gone before Evander could name it.
Mrs. Cahill gathered Tommy from the basket and held him against her shoulder, rocking with the ease of a woman who had raised children of her own. She murmured to him and offered the bottle.
Tommy screamed louder. His face turned red, then purple. The wail rose to a pitch that rattled the teacups on the sideboard.
Mrs. Cahill gathered him closer against her shoulder and bounced. “Hush now, little one. Hush, hush.” She shifted him to the other arm and tried the bottle again, pressing the cloth teat gently to his lips.
Tommy turned his face away and screamed harder.
She walked a small circuit near the hearth, patting his back with a practiced rhythm. “Come now, my lord. There we are. Settle down.”
Tommy did not settle down. The screaming built to a crescendo that made Mrs. Cahill wince, and the bottle dripped unheeded onto the carpet.
Mrs. Cahill looked at Evander with the expression of a servant who had reached the limit of her expertise and needed permission to say so.
Mary stepped forward. “Please. Let me try. Just this once.” She held Evander’s gaze. “I will help him.”
Evander’s fists clenched at his sides. The baby’s screams filled the room, bouncing off the walls, and every second of it felt like a failure he could not afford. He looked at Tommy and then at Mary.
He nodded.
Mrs. Cahill moved to transfer the wailing bundle, but Evander stayed close enough to intervene.
Lady Mary cradled the baby against her chest. She shifted her hold, tucking him into the crook of her arm with a sureness that surprised Evander. She did not bounce or murmur. She held Tommy close and rocked him with a motion so slight it was almost invisible, and she smiled.
Then, she breathed. Slow and even, her chest rising and falling beneath his small body, as though she were teaching him the rhythm by giving him her own.
“You are safe,” she murmured. “I have you. You are safe.”
Tommy’s cries hitched. Stuttered. His fists unclenched. The wail thinned to a whimper, then to a series of shuddering breaths, and then to nothing.
