The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,58
Still, perhaps Miss Penrose will find herself a husband with plump pockets who will take them on.”
King snorted. “She’ll find herself a husband, I don’t doubt. Any man would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see what they might have with her, but they’ll not take the children. What newlywed wants to be lumbered with another man’s get? Especially when the bloody fool is still alive and just too irresponsible to look after them as he ought. Though I don’t doubt anyone wanting to court her will say the right things and make her believe they’ll help.”
“Reckon.” Walsh nodded, his expression grim. “But that’ll break her heart.”
King rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest, irritable now. “Well, it’s not as if there’s anything I can do about it.”
“No, my lord. I know it.”
King made his way down to breakfast, uncertain if he was relieved or disappointed to discover Livvy wasn’t there yet. He sat down with the children, somewhat disconcerted to realise he did not mind breakfasting with the nursery. Not so long ago, the idea would have horrified him.
The eldest girl was spooning porridge into the baby. King wondered if that was how she’d gotten her nickname, for she very much resembled a baby bird as she opened her mouth wide, waiting for the next spoonful to be delivered to her.
“Ing?”
King turned his attention towards George, a little startled to be addressed. At least, he thought that had been his name.
“Oh, he said your name,” Harry chortled, confirming this. “Clever boy, George.”
George beamed and held out his hand to King. “Ing?”
King hesitated, uncertain, but took the child’s hand, wondering at how soft and warm it was as the tiny fingers closed over his much larger ones.
“Ing? Lib Lib?”
“Oh, I don’t know where your aunty is,” King said, though he realised he knew exactly where she was. She was with Ross Moyles. Perhaps she’d gone early this morning to warn him they must be more careful. The knowledge settled somewhere in his throat as if he’d swallowed a stone.
George let out a disconsolate huff, his lower lip pouting. King felt very much like mimicking the expression. He wondered what the children would do when their beloved aunty went off and got married and they were left to their parents’ tender mercies.
“Here, George, have some bread and jam,” King said briskly, taking a slice and spreading it with butter and a good amount of blackberry jam. He cut it into small pieces as he’d seen Livvy do and handed one to George.
“Ta,” George said, taking it from him and beaming.
“You’re welcome.” King said.
He looked around at the children, at the older girls who were squabbling good-naturedly over the rules of some game they’d invented, and Jane, who was grumbling about whose turn it was to collect the eggs as it was drizzling with rain. The baby was fretting now she’d eaten all her porridge, and Harry was staring out of the window and picking at a thread on his cuff, his expression bleak.
“Damnation,” King muttered under his breath. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He got politely to his feet and escaped the breakfast parlour. This wouldn’t do. This simply would not do. He strode down the hall to Charlie’s study, knocked twice and walked in, only to find the room empty.
“Gone to town,” barked a low, rumbly voice that sounded like it had been dragged up from somewhere beneath the earth.
King spun around to discover Spargo standing in the hall behind him, as big as a boulder and about as easy to read.
“When?” King asked.
“This morning.”
“When will he be back?”
A shrug was his only reply.
“Did he take his wife?”
Spargo shook his head.
King let out a sigh of frustration and wondered if perhaps that was sympathy in Spargo’s eyes. The man must be well used to the vagaries of the household. It was likely why he’d given up on the art of conversation. There was no point in suggesting improvements or making plans when they were on a one-way trip to destruction. They both turned at the sound of trotters on parquet and watched as a piglet strolled along the hall towards the breakfast parlour. It had a string of pearls about its neck. Spargo didn’t so much as blink. Well, at least there was something to pawn if things went to the devil, though he didn’t think they’d get much for the pig.
“Oh, drat,” muttered an impatient voice that King recognised from the other end of the hallway.