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The little girl, Georgie, came and slid her hand into her mother’s. ‘Were you a friend of Papa’s, sir?’
He smiled at her. ‘We are not quite sure. Your mama and I were—’
‘He was Lord Peter Lacy,’ the child said. ‘I’m Georgiana Mary and that’s Harry.’
‘Georgie, sweetheart.’ Her mother took down the fairy tales again and handed them to her. ‘Take your book and sit down with it.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Lord Peter Lacy. He was a younger son of the Duke of Keswick. Hunt wasn’t quite sure which younger son; Keswick and his Duchess had been nothing if not prolific, although a couple of their sons had recently died. But Lord Peter had married in the teeth of his father’s disapproval and dropped out of society. He remembered hearing something, but he had been mired in grief at the time and hadn’t taken much notice. Just who had he married...? His memory finally obliged.
‘Lady Emma Lacy,’ he said. ‘Of course. Dersingham’s daughter.’ It vaguely came back. Lady Emma Brandon-Smythe she had been. Dersingham had been furious, too. Granted, the match had not been a brilliant one for either party, but perfectly respectable. Keswick and the Earl of Dersingham had only objected due to their mutual loathing of each other. There had been whispers of star-crossed lovers.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s well? I’ve not seen him since the spring sitting.’ Not that he’d tried. He didn’t like the Earl above half.
‘I believe so, sir.’ The polite smile did not so much as touch the weariness in her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me, I must finish choosing our books.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’ Hunt stepped back with a bow. The child, Georgie, had referred to her father in the past tense and, given that Lady Emma was garbed in grey, it followed that... He took a deep breath and took a wild leap into the unknown.
‘I was very sorry to hear of Lord Peter’s death, Lady Emma.’ Lord Peter had been at least ten years younger than himself and he’d dropped out of society completely after his marriage. Hunt hadn’t even heard that he’d died, but he’d been a decent sort, with little of Keswick’s arrogance.
‘Thank you, sir.’ The unmistakeable shadow in her eyes was familiar. He’d seen it in his own mirror for long enough.
‘Mama?’
Hunt glanced down at the boy.
He brandished three volumes. ‘I’ve got this.’
Hunt nearly choked at the sight of this. ‘Hmm. Rather dull, I thought it,’ he said, dismissing all the wild extravagances of The Monk. Matt Lewis might cut him dead if it got back to him, but then again, he doubted even Lewis would consider his tale, in which a monk unwittingly raped and murdered his own sister, appropriate for a ten-year-old.
‘Dull?’ Harry’s face fell.
‘Yes. Beyond tedious.’ Gently he removed the volumes from the boy’s grasp. ‘But I can recommend Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Very exciting. You’ll like the talking horses.’
‘Talking horses? Thank you, sir.’ He looked at his mother. ‘I’ll get that then.’
‘You do that.’ Lady Emma’s voice sounded a trifle strained. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she added very quietly, laughter quivering beneath the surface, as the boy headed back to the shelves. ‘I wouldn’t have let him read it, but—’
‘Perhaps it was more palatable coming from me?’ he suggested. Lord, she was pretty when her eyes danced like that. Like the sea near his Cornish home. A man could drown in eyes like that...
Her mouth twitched. ‘Probably. Not that I would have been fool enough to tell him he wasn’t allowed to read it, but I’ve no idea how I would have wriggled out of that.’
He cleared his throat, uneasy at the sudden camaraderie between them. ‘Well,’ he said stiffly, ‘it cannot be easy for a woman to control a headstrong boy. Ought he not to be at school? Surely Keswick has something to say in that?’
The drowning blue froze to solid ice. ‘That, sir, is none—’
‘Excuse me, my lord?’ Hatchard stood in the doorway. ‘I have the Milton ready for you. Oh, good morning, Lady Emma.’
‘Good morning, Mr Hatchard.’ Along with her eyes, Lady Emma’s voice had iced over, the dancing amusement winked out as though it had never been.
A reserved, sober matron faced Hunt, nose in the air. ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’
It was a dismissal worthy of a duchess. ‘Ma’am.’ He took her gloved hand. It fitted perfectly within his and, standing this close, he was teased by the warm fragrance of woman, despite the fury seething in her eyes. No scent, just soap and something that was Lady Emma.
‘Au revoir.’ Goodbye was a great deal too final. The French said it much better.
Chapter Two (#u9d6976ef-7b7b-525e-ac34-b183c310d744)
Their selections made, Emma hurried towards the front door of the shop, the box of books tucked under her arm. How dare he criticise her management of Harry? No doubt his children had been brought up by an army of governesses and tutors. He probably saw them once a day, if that. Although his sons would have been at Eton or Harrow, learning to gamble as her own brothers had! And what on earth was she thinking to find the man attractive? For a start he was married and years older than she was and she was a widow. A widow who had loved her husband to distraction. Besides, it was ridiculous for her pulse to leap and skitter simply because an attractive gentleman had spoken to her and made her laugh. He had been kind. Polite. And stuffy and critical.
But he was married, which made it appalling that she had permitted herself to feel any attraction. And he was the first person from her past in years who had neither ignored her, nor let his contempt show. Although to be fair, not all the gentlemen ignored her, although their contempt took a different form to that of the ladies. To these gentlemen a widow with a shady reputation was just the thing to enliven a dull existence. Not that she could quite see Huntercombe trolling for a mistress in a bookshop, even if she’d been dressed in silks rather than this dreary grey wool. Even if he had thought she couldn’t control her own children.
Harry shot ahead to open the door, something he hadn’t done on the way in. No gentleman behaves badly to his mother. ‘Shall I carry the books, Mama?’
Her breath jerked in. The man who followed them from Chelsea stood across the road, his expression insolent as he looked her up and down. She stiffened. Curse it! Who was he? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had recognised her and followed, thinking she would be ripe for an affair. Lord Pickford had done just that in May, taking her rebuff in bad part.
‘Mama? Shall I—oh, just look!’
Books forgotten, Harry rushed down the steps towards a brown and white spaniel.
‘Harry!’
To her amazement Harry actually stopped and looked back. ‘Oh, Mama, please may I pet him? I don’t think he’ll bite. Do look at him!’
Emma choked back a laugh. Judging by the spaniel’s flopping tongue and insane tail, the only danger was that Harry might be licked to death. She doubted anyone could walk past the creature without stopping to pat him. However, to her amusement, although the dog raised a beseeching paw at Harry, he remained firmly seated.
‘Yes. You may pat him, Harry.’
Harry was beside the dog in a flash, holding out his hand to be sniffed and approved.
‘Do you think he’s lost, Mama?’ Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘We could take him home and look after him until his owner finds him.’
Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t think he’s lost. Look, he has a very handsome collar with a brass plate on it.’
‘There’s a name on it,’ Harry announced. ‘Fergus.’
The dog wriggled ecstatically, his tail a blur of feathered delight.
‘He might be lost,’ Georgie argued. ‘Maybe his master is horrid and he’s looking for someone nice. We’re nice.’
‘I am afraid, Georgiana Mary,’ said a deep voice behind them, ‘that Fergus is not lost at all. He’s merely waiting for me.’
Emma closed her eyes on a silent curse, wondering if her children could possibly embarrass her any more in one day, as she realised precisely who the supposedly horrid master was. Huntercombe might be stuffy, but he wasn’t horrid.
If Fergus had been pleased to meet Harry, his reaction to Huntercombe was nothing short of ecstatic. Still sitting, he quivered all over, uttering whimpers of delight.
‘All right, lad.’ Huntercombe clicked his fingers and the dog bounded to him, one wriggle of joy as he danced about his master’s boots.
‘He’s awfully well trained, sir,’ Harry said. ‘He stayed sitting the whole time.’
Huntercombe’s smile, even directed at Harry, left Emma breathless. ‘Thank you, Harry. He’s a good fellow. Looking forward to his run in the park now.’
Harry’s eyes lit up. ‘Really? We’re going to the park. We always do after coming here. Don’t we, Georgie?’
Georgie backed him up at once. ‘Yes. We do. And we like dogs. Especially dogs in the park.’
‘Oh. Well.’ While not looking offended by this very unsubtle hint, Huntercombe seemed somewhat taken aback.
‘Would you like to come with us, sir?’ Harry asked, as though inviting a marquess for a walk in the park was the sort of thing one did.
Emma plastered a placating smile on her face. ‘Harry, I’m sure his lordship has—’
‘That’s very kind of you, Harry,’ Huntercombe said.
At least he’s letting him down gently.
Huntercombe continued. ‘Fergus is definitely looking forward to his run and I’m sure he would enjoy it more if he had some young legs to run with him. Ma’am, if you permit?’
Shock held Emma silent long enough to see Harry’s shining eyes. Both children loved dogs, as she did. Yet having one was simply impossible—a dog needed more meat than she could afford.
‘May we, Mama?’
Georgie tugged at her hand. ‘Please, Mama?’
Oh, devil take it! What harm could there be walking through the park with an acquaintance of her father’s for goodness sake? A few more smears on her reputation were neither here nor there. And she knew Huntercombe’s reputation. He was a gentleman and married to boot. He could view her as nothing more than an acquaintance’s impoverished daughter.
She glanced up to see the man across the street walking away east along Piccadilly. Probably he had been put off by Huntercombe’s presence. Her tension eased.
‘Thank you, sir. Your company will be most welcome.’
For a short while she would enjoy the company of someone from her own world who viewed her as neither an embarrassing acquaintance, nor a potentially convenient widow. What possible harm could it do?
* * *
By the time they reached the park Hunt had concluded that Lady Emma Lacy was a conundrum. He discovered that she read the newspapers and was well informed, but unlike most ladies she was uninterested in the doings of society. She deftly kept the conversation general, avoiding anything that verged on the personal. In short, she held him at bay.
The moment they left the more populated areas of the park he took a well-chewed old cricket ball from his pocket—something his valet and tailor shuddered over—and hurled it. Fergus, ever reliable, had hurtled after it and brought it back to drop at his feet. Seeing Harry’s delighted face, Hunt at once suggested that he and his sister might share the task. Harry having promptly handed Hunt the box of books, the children raced off, the dog leaping about them.
‘How far do you wish to go before turning back?’ he asked eventually. Fergus would run all day given the chance.
She frowned. ‘Turn back?’
‘Home.’ He gestured back towards Mayfair.
‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘I live in Chelsea. We walked in.’
He wasn’t sure why that brought colour to her cheeks. Quite a number of well-to-do people lived in Chelsea. Far better for the children than living right in town. ‘Are you near the river?’
‘Not particularly. But nowhere in Chelsea is very far from the river.’ Her gaze followed the children and dog. ‘Thank you, sir. They are enjoying themselves very much.’
‘Every boy should have a dog,’ he said.
Her brows lifted. ‘I can assure you that Georgie would object heartily to the limitations of that statement. She would love to have a dog.’
He watched as Fergus, tongue hanging out, tail spinning, dropped the ball at the child’s feet. Georgie picked up the by now probably revolting ball between finger and thumb, managing to throw it about ten feet.
‘But you don’t have one?’
‘No.’ Her gaze followed Fergus’s pounce on the ball.
‘Why ever not?’ He could have bitten his tongue out as her mouth flattened and the colour rose in her cheeks again.
‘Because, my lord, I cannot afford to feed a dog.’
‘Cannot—?’ He broke off and several things registered properly. She was neatly dressed, but not in anything approaching the first stare of fashion. Furthermore, now he looked properly, beyond those tired blue eyes, he noticed that her pelisse was worn and rubbed, her hat a very plain straw chip trimmed with a simple black ribbon. And Harry had said something about Georgie being sick and the medicine costing too much for them to buy a kite as well.
‘We must start for home,’ she said. ‘I’d better call the children.’
‘May I escort you?’ Why the devil had he asked that? Of course it was the polite thing to do, but she had clearly consented to his accompanying them for the children’s sake. And wasn’t that his motivation? Admittedly, he liked the children. Excellent manners, but not so regimented they couldn’t engage in a good squabble. And he liked that they were so deeply smitten with a dog.
Her chin came up and she stiffened. ‘There is no need, sir. It was very kind of you to bring Fergus this far for them.’
He raised his brows. ‘Who said I came this far just so the children could enjoy Fergus?’ Hadn’t he?
‘If you are suggesting, sir—’
‘That I enjoyed your company? I did. And I should very much like—’
‘No.’
He blinked. ‘No?’
Her mouth, that lovely soft mouth, flattened. ‘No, as in “no, thank you, I am not interested”.’
Not interested? Not interested in what, precisely? What on earth had set up her bristles?
‘Harry! Georgie!’ She stepped away, beckoning to the children.
‘Mama!’
Hunt cleared his throat. ‘Permit me—’ He stuck two fingers in his mouth—a skill his mother had deplored and his sisters still did—and let out an ear-splitting whistle.
Fergus, the ball in his mouth, bounded back, the children racing behind. Hunt made a grab for the dog, but Fergus danced out of reach, grinning around the ball. Hunt laughed. Fergus knew perfectly well it was time for home, but Hunt played his silly game for a moment while the children shrieked encouragement to the dog. At last, slightly out of breath, Hunt said firmly, ‘Sit.’ Fergus sat at once, the expression on his face saying very clearly cheat. He spat the ball out at Hunt’s feet.
‘Good boy.’ He bent to pick up the now completely revolting ball between thumb and forefinger.
