The grate held no fire.
“I was taking tea with the regimental officers. Would you like to join us?”
He’d freeze if he spent much time in this room. Maggie did not seem aware of the cold. Her braids were ratty, her short dress stained at the hem, and her pinafore fastened with a knot rather than bow at the back.
“Tea would be lovely.” He loathed the stuff.
Maggie took him by the hand—her little fingers were like ice—and drew him into the room. “I will make the introductions. You may sit there.” She settled onto the floor with a fluffing of her pinafore and dress that bore a disquieting resemblance to her mother’s pretentious manners. Percival lowered himself across from her, haunted by the memory of visits with his boys in their cozy, carpeted nursery—a room full of books, toys, and comforts.
While Percival felt despair clutching ever more tightly at his heart, little Maggie spun a fantasy of a polite tea with elegant service, crumpets, servants, and a cozy fire in the grate, which the imaginary footman tended about every two minutes.
When he could tolerate her play no more, Percival interrupted his daughter’s diatribe on whose wig was the most ridiculous at last night’s soiree.
“Maggie, where is your nurse?”
Her gaze narrowed on him, showing displeasure at having to give up her fictional tea party. “I haven’t a nurse. Mrs. Anglethorpe is the housekeeper. Burton is our maid of all work, and if Mama wants me, Burton fetches me.”
“Then who dresses you, child?”
Downy little brows twitched down. “I dress myself. I’m not a baby.”
She was not. He knew exactly how old she was, and she was not an infant. She was a handful of months older than Bartholomew.
“Who cares for you, Maggie?”
She studied him with an expression of consternation. “Burton says Mama loves me, but I can take care of myself.”
The despair weighting Percival’s heart threatened to choke him. He could not abandon this child to the care of her mother. He simply could not—his honor would not allow it, and in some way, even his standing as Esther’s husband would not allow it. For a moment, he considered confiding in his wife, but even if Esther were inclined to be understanding, there was nothing she could do to still Cecily O’Donnell’s vile tongue.
Percival rose and shed his jacket. “I want you to have my coat.” He draped it around Maggie’s shoulders. It fell nearly to the floor on her, which was good.
She drew it closed at the lapels and gave it a sniff. “It smells like you, and it’s warm.”
“Exactly the point. When was the last time you ate?”
She glanced at the battered doll and the worn soldiers.
“I mean real food, for God’s sake.” At the exasperation in his tone, her expression shuttered, and that… went beyond causing him despair. No child of her years should have instincts like this, should have circumstances like this while her mother sat two floors below, swathed in lace and warmed by a blazing fire.
“Come with me, Miss Maggie. We’re off to the kitchen.”
When he’d seen the child seated before bread, butter, jam, and hot tea, Percival forced himself to rejoin Cecily in her lair. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him without his coat, but she said nothing until the door was firmly closed behind him.
“You’ve assured yourself the girl is well and hale, and you know she’s yours. If I say you’ll accompany me to the theater tomorrow night, Percival, then accompany me, you shall.”
He hated this woman. Hated her with an intimate, burning passion that was not for himself but for the small child left shivering and alone hour after hour.
He was going to rescue this child, though he must wait until Esther had removed to Morelands to implement that plan. Hatred fueled the most ironically pleasant smile he’d ever manufactured. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Try not to dress like the trollop you are.”
Five
“She didn’t ask how much I wanted, she asked how much I needed.” Kathleen St. Just fell silent rather than try to explain to her son why desperate schemes were rioting through her brain.
Devlin glanced up from where he was laying out playing cards on his mother’s bedspread, this room being the only one with even a meager fire. “The lady who gave me chocolate was nice. The horses were wonderful.”
The deck he was playing with lacked several cards, and try as he might to pair each one with a match, his game was doomed. Being a child, he hadn’t figured this out, and Kathleen wasn’t about to tell him.
“That lady is your papa’s wife. She’s kind.” And for that kindness, Kathleen wanted to hate her, which was of no moment whatsoever. “Also very rich.”
They spoke Gaelic, which was a sign of how tired Kathleen was. Bad enough Devlin was illegitimate, worse yet if he sported a brogue as he got older. “I received another letter from Mr. O’Dea.”
Devlin glanced at her when she switched to English. “Mr. O’Dea lives back home.”
Back home was a place the boy would have little memory of, or so Kathleen hoped. She’d visited only once during Devlin’s short lifetime. “He does. He asked after you.”
Devlin made no reply, remaining focused on his cards. Billy O’Dea always asked after “the boy,” but his sentiments regarding Devlin were one reason why Kathleen hadn’t made any more trips back to Ireland. With the tolerant pragmatism of a man who knew exactly how Kathleen earned her livelihood, Billy—like Kathleen’s own family—believed Devlin’s best chance for a good start in life lay in throwing the boy on his father’s charity, and Billy was not wrong.
He was also not going to offer marriage unless or until Kathleen heeded his advice. On that tired thought, wind rattled the glass and fluttered the curtains, bringing an icy draft into the room.
And winter was only getting started. Kathleen thought of the vile things Gregory Pelham had whispered in her ear as she earned her coin with him like a doxy in his mews, and wanted to retch.
“One day soon, we’re going back to visit your papa’s wife again.”
Devlin turned up a pair of queens and smiled. “Will she give me more chocolate?”
“Yes. She’ll give you more chocolate. As much chocolate as you can drink.”
Without making a sound, Kathleen started to cry.
“Your papa has asked us to return to Morelands. You’ll like that, won’t you?” Esther adopted the cheery tones of a parent bent on deceiving small children, though from the look Bart and Gayle exchanged, she’d failed miserably.
Gayle kicked at the dead leaves on the frozen ground. Bart dropped Esther’s hand and skipped ahead a few steps. “I like the park. If we go home, we can’t play in the park. Papa visits with us more here too. I like when Papa visits.”
Gayle echoed the complaint as they wandered along the Serpentine, cold winter sunlight bouncing off the water in the middle of the lake. Near the shore, ice had once again formed. Esther resisted the urge to find a rock and pitch it hard at the ice, lest the boys complain about missing the Serpentine too.
“Papa will be home at Christmas,” Esther said, “and that’s just a few weeks away.” Though Percival hadn’t promised to return to Morelands at Christmas.
Bart’s face lit up with glee as he pointed at a rider coming down the path on a chestnut stallion. “There’s Papa! Maybe he’ll let me ride home with him!”
Predictably, Gayle planted his mittened fists on his little hips. “That’s not fair! You got to ride with Papa last time, and it’s my turn.”