The Duke and His Duchess - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,39
taking a prisoner, his staunchest guard had been protecting his flank.
Never had a man been so grateful to misperceive a situation.
The gate scraped open behind them, and the senior groom shuffled a few steps into the garden, hat in hand.
“Beggin’ milord’s pardon, but is we to unhitch the traveling coach?”
***
Esther regarded her husband, waiting on his reply. Percival might well send her packing, might well sweep the children away from Society’s notice until the gossip died down—which would happen only after several eternities.
“Unhitch the team,” Percival said. “We won’t be needing the traveling coach for some time. Is the cat still in one piece?”
The groom’s lips twitched. “Grimalkin be in the straw mow, that racket be the children all burrowing after. The mice is laughing fit to kill.” He left them alone, closing the gate behind him.
There were four children in that straw mow, and two more in the nursery, and they were all her husband’s progeny. The notion was dizzying, so dizzying, Esther was grateful to hold her husband’s hand.
“Esther, there is more we should discuss.”
She peered over at him, because he’d spoken carefully, with a studied calm that presaged bad news. “Six children is rather a lot, Percival. Are there more?”
She hadn’t been joking, but he smiled at her, a smile of such tenderness that Esther’s insides stopped hopping about like a collection of March hares, for no man smiling like that could be hiding any further secrets.
“I have only six children that I know of, unless you’re carrying. I was hoping to find decent quarters for Maggie before her mother comes, making a great drama on our doorstep, for I seized Maggie from her mother’s house and didn’t exactly ask permission first.”
He sounded hesitant, not quite sure of his strategy, when it had been the only reasonable course. “You kidnapped her.” Esther patted his knuckles with her free hand. “Of course you did, because the child was her mother’s greatest source of leverage. I do not see that you had a prudent alternative, it being beyond bad form for a mother to use a child like that.”
He studied their joined hands, his expression so serious as to emphasize a resemblance to his father. “I don’t see what prudence has to do with our situation, my lady. Had I been prudent, none of this would have occurred.”
He leaned back against the garden wall and stretched out his long legs before him. Though Percival didn’t turn loose of her hand, in some way his posture suggested he was abandoning his wife so he could wallow in his guilt and misgivings.
They had no time for male histrionics if Mrs. O’Donnell was maneuvering her cannon into place, and there was no point to Percival’s dramatics, either. “Listen, Percival Windham, and tell me what you hear.”
He closed his eyes. “I hear altogether too many small children making a lot of rumpus over one sorry feline.”
“Those children are laughing. They are playing together without a single toy between them, and they are having great good fun. They met each other a few minutes ago, and already they know how to go on as a family. We must take our example from them and make a certain cat sorry she ever thought to go hunting on our turf.”
***
“Nobody prosecutes warrants for prostitution.”
Cecily’s attempt at disdain was undermined by the quaver in her voice as she stared at the document Percival had tossed onto the table before her. If the woman had any sense, she’d be more terrified than angry, but then, she’d never demonstrated appreciable common sense.
“Madam, I vow to you that I will see this warrant prosecuted, and have affidavits from a dozen witnesses of good birth to ensure the charges result in a conviction. I will also bring suit for slander if you suggest to a soul that a single, casual evening in a public theater box was indicative of any renewed association between us.”
Cecily flicked the document aside. “You kidnapped my daughter. I am the child’s legal custodian, and you’ve taken her unlawfully from my loving care. Perhaps you aren’t even her father.”
“In your loving care, she hasn’t a single proper toy. She hasn’t been inoculated for smallpox, her feet are covered with blisters because she outgrew her only boots ages ago. And I am very certain she is my daughter, thanks to the documents you so kindly provided me.”
Something smug in his tone must have given him away, because Cecily rose from her artful pose on the green sofa and