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“Don’t suppose you have a piece of rusk for me, have ya?” He cocked his head at Charlotte.

The baby took her foot out of her mouth and smiled at him. “I can try crying and see whether Nanny gives me another one.”

“Naw, she’ll flap her apron at me,” the sparrow said. He glanced over at the fireplace and then took a short flight to the end of the crib. “So how’s the world looking to you, Lottie?”

“Lottie,” Charlotte said. “I like it.”

“She won’t,” he said, eyeing Nanny. “Not proper enough for a lady like yerself. It’s a housemaid’s name.”

The baby narrowed her eyes. “No. I’m Lottie.”

Something about her demeanor convinced even a jaundiced London sparrow that she meant what she said.

Which explained why Miss Lottie Peregrine debuted at the age of sixteen with her closest friend, Lady Sophia, daughter of the Duke of Lennox.

The assembled guests at the Duke of Lennox’s ball found it hard to say who was the more beautiful: Lady Sophia was exquisitely regal.

But Lottie, with her madcap red curls, enchanting grin, and very (very) stubborn chin?

Lottie was ravishing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

AN EPISTOLARY CHAPTER, AS THE BEST GOSSIP IS EXCHANGED BY LETTER.

JONAH CECIL CRAWFORD LLOYD, DUKE OF LENNOX

TO HIS CLOSE FRIEND, LORD FIENNES PEREGRINE

SENT FROM HIS LONDON ADDRESS

August 4, 1815

Dear Fiennes,

I write because Viscount St. Trevelyon died last night. I’m sending this letter by one of my grooms, in hopes that you can share the news gently, before his wife comes upon the news in the papers. Please convey our deep sympathies.

The viscount was at Carlton House, and the Regent was up to his usual foolery. The details are confused, but the evening involved a great deal of port and a series of disgraceful boasts.

Given the extreme heat in London, the viscount was seated in an upstairs windowsill in the rear of Carlton House. The story has emerged that he leaned forward to engage with a courtesan. The woman took umbrage at being pinched and slapped his face. He recoiled, lost his balance, and fell backward out the window.

As you know, Carlton backs onto a cobblestone street, and in the normal course of events, he would have broken his head in an unpleasant but immediate fashion, but instead he fell just as a night-soil cart trundled by. You can imagine the outcome. One vivid account in the morning paper described him as sinking into the muck like an arrow into a haystack.

His lordship suffocated before the drivers were able to extract him.

Bea has a particular dislike of the viscount, due to her close friendship with your wife. She is muttering about the manifestations of God’s providence.

She is also insisting that I make certain the young courtesan suffers no consequences, which shouldn’t be a problem. The Regent has issued no defense of his friend, and I believe he will turn his back on the scandal.

I expect the circumstances of the viscount’s death will fill the scandal sheets for the next week. Given his wife’s delicate condition, you might wish to conceal the papers.

You kindly inquired in your last missive about Sophia’s sleeping habits. I am proud to report that she now manages a quiet slumber for six hours at a stretch. Bea is in a delicate condition once again, though, so we can look forward to more sleepless night. Bea will feel better in the country air, as London is stifling this summer. We leave for Suffolk tomorrow.

Yours most sincerely,

Jonah

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