The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,28
convinced she understood every word I said and could speak herself, no matter that it to us sounded like gibberish. I dropped my walking stick to sweep her up, making her squeal even more shrilly as I lifted her to the ceiling.
The nanny, Mrs. McGowan, hovered nearby, always certain I would drop Anne. I would do no such thing, holding her as though she were the most precious object in the world, which she was.
“How are you, my girl?” I said, resting Anne in the crook of my arm. She reached for a button on my waistcoat with both hands, declaring, “Bah!”
“She has eaten much today,” Mrs. McGowan said. “Very robust. Stood up several times, using the chair for support.”
“Isn’t she clever?” I bounced Anne, who let go of my button to clap her hands.
“Are we going riding, Papa?” Peter asked eagerly. He’d taken to calling me Papa, rather than Sir, after our sojourn in Brighton this summer.
“Afraid not, lad. I’ve even convinced your mother to remain indoors tonight. There’s bad men about. That is why your mother wants you to go to Oxford.” As Peter’s face scrunched into the scowl that made him look much like his true father, I added, “We will join you by the end of the week.”
Donata and I had decided that Anne was too small to travel without us, even in Mrs. McGowan’s care. She would stay here, protected in the nursery, until time for us to leave.
“Why can’t we go at the end of the week together?” Peter stuck out his chin, manfully attempting not to cry.
“Because the danger is real. Mr. Brewster says it is, and I believe him. Mr. Denis says so as well. Mr. Brewster will be staying the night.” So he’d informed me before I’d come inside, not giving me a chance to argue.
Peter had much respect for Brewster, and his stubborn look softened a touch. “If it is so dangerous, we should go together now.”
“I will stay and make sure the danger is taken care of,” I said. “And then join you.”
Mrs. McGowan had listened in alarm. “You really do mix yourself up in too much, Captain. Begging your pardon, sir.”
As she was right, I could hardly admonish her. “Oxfordshire is beautiful in this season,” I told Peter. “You’ll be able to ride and run in the gardens. Your grandfather will look after you.”
More softening. Peter liked his grandfather.
“But you and Mama will come on Saturday?” he persisted.
“We will. And then we’ll ride every day.”
Peter balled his fists, scowl returning. “Very well, but I don’t like it. You should tell Mr. Denis to kiss his own arse.”
“Your lordship!” Mrs. McGowan’s voice rang. “That is not the sort of language a viscount uses.”
Those were exactly the sorts of words I heard aristocrats use all the time, but I forbore from saying so. I wanted to laugh, but as a good father, I frowned at Peter in admonishment.
“My obligation to Mr. Denis is finished. I will have nothing more to do with him.”
So I hoped. I had never lied to the children about Denis and my acquaintanceship with him, but I did not tell them the whole of it. I hoped by the time Peter grew to manhood, Denis would have turned his attention from me.
Peter’s expression was skeptical, which meant he knew more about Denis than his mother and I had relayed. But Peter was expert at roaming the house, finding out information his irritating parents would not pass to him.
I bounced Anne again. “Mr. Denis himself would suggest you go to Oxfordshire. Brewster, as I’ve said, agrees. I am sorry about today’s ride, but the weather was bad this morning, and it is too dark now. I will be home all this evening, and I’ll read to you later. And see you off myself tomorrow.”
Peter remained sullen. “Will I have to take all my books?” He gestured at the table, where a pen dripped ink onto a blot-filled sheet of paper.
“Not at all. It is time for a holiday. Take the rest of the week to enjoy yourself. Too much work is bad for the constitution.”
Peter brightened considerably, though Mrs. McGowan frowned.
“Thank you, Papa!” he shouted. Anne, liking the noise, squealed with him in excitement.
“But Mr. Roth will join you and continue lessons next week.” I named his tutor, trying to sound stern and fatherly.
Peter took no notice. He’d won himself a holiday from boring Greek and Latin and mathematics, and next week was a long way off.