“Then your demise will cheer at least one person,” I said. “The rest of us will be morose.”
“I am certain I will have enraged enough men with my haughtiness by then that there will be a line of rejoicers,” Grenville said. He sighed. “I grow weary of this life, Lacey.”
“You long to be off.”
Though the rain had ceased, a dampness pervaded the town. London was awake and alive, men and women, horses and carts moving through the streets in a great press, regardless of the weather. High brick walls hemmed us in, cutting off any view but stone and humanity.
“I do,” Grenville said. “Dr. Johnson observed that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, but I am missing the rest of the world. One can only remark upon the cut of another man’s coat so often. Although the bright green thing I saw upon the back of young Lord Armitage last night made me choke. And then I felt old. He is twenty-three, uninterested in the opinions of a man of forty. He, like Wilkinson, looks forward to my departure.”
“Stop.” I gave Grenville a stern look. “You are plunging into melancholia—I know the signs. Go home and make your plans for your Egyptian excursion in the winter. I have told you I will accompany you, and I will.”
Grenville brightened. “You’re right, Lacey. That will be just the thing. The weather there is appallingly hot, even in January, and there is dust everywhere, along with poisonous snakes and insects. You will heartily enjoy it.”
“I believe I will,” I said.
We talked of places in Egypt we’d visit and what I looked forward to seeing, as the carriage wedged its way through the damp press of London and dropped me at my front door. I took my leave of Grenville, feeling better, and went to find Peter to go for our ride.
Hyde Park after a rain, when the sun was beginning to emerge, was a fine place. Trees and brush sparkled with raindrops, the air had freshened, and the open expanse of the park was invigorating after the narrow streets of the metropolis.
It was not yet the fashionable hour, when the entire haut ton would turn out in carriages and on horseback to parade in their finery and greet one another with wit both pleasant and biting. Peter and I had a stretch of the Row to ourselves, though others were walking or trotting horses in the distance.
Peter was a good rider—he’d been given instruction at an early age and already he had a quiet seat, a steady hand, and knew how to move with the horse. Ostensibly, I was furthering his riding education, but the truth was we both enjoyed our afternoon rambles in the park, the men of the household together.
Peter was slightly downcast today, though I did not realize this until our first half-hour had passed. He was usually a cheerful chap, nothing at all like his churlish father—or perhaps the absence of that overbearing father had brightened his disposition.
“What is it?” I asked him when I noticed he didn’t laugh as quickly, or seem as interested in naming and describing others’ horses. “Something bothering you, old man?”
Peter didn’t answer for a time, as though debating what to tell me. “Mother is going to have a child,” he burst out. “Nanny said.”
Peter was six years old, tall and sturdy for his age, and could converse without nervousness with adults he knew. I saw his mother in this. Donata talked, as she called it, man-to-man with Peter instead of behaving as though he were a strange creature from a land she’d long ago left behind.
I sometimes forgot that Peter, already a viscount, was in truth a bewildered little boy.
“She is,” I said. “We were going to tell you so. In a few days, in fact. Make a celebration of it.”
“I don’t have a father,” Peter said abruptly. “Not anymore.”
“I know.” I’d been there when Lord Breckenridge had been pulled out of brush and bracken, stone dead. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Mother says you are to be my father now, even though you aren’t really. That is, if you and I are willing.”
“I’m certainly willing,” I said in all sincerity. “If you’ll have me.”
Peter frowned, his small face screwed up in uncertainty. “You’ll be the true father to Mother’s child. You won’t need me.”
“Ah.” I thought I understood what was bothering him. “You think when I have this new little one, I’ll forget all about you.”
“Won’t you?” Peter was struggling to keep the wistfulness from his question. Males in England had stoicism drilled into them from an early age. “Mother never liked my father. No one did—I didn’t like him either, really, though I don’t remember him much. So … maybe … you won’t like me.”
The sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children, so said the Bard in The Merchant of Venice. Well did I know how trying it was to be the son of a man most people, including his own family, despised.
“You are not your father,” I said firmly. “I truly believe God gave us free will, Peter. You need be nothing like the late Lord Breckenridge. I respect and esteem you, lad. You remind me far more of your mother, and you know I care very much for her. Another child will only add to our family, not take away from it.”
Peter watched me, doubtful. Another rider, his greatcoat pulled close against the chill the rain had brought, came toward us at a slow lope. We’d have to cease this conversation and nod to him, speak to him if he were an acquaintance.
“Think of it another way,” I said. “Gabriella is my daughter, and now your stepsister. I have room in my heart for her, and you, and another child. You and Gabriella get on well, don’t you?”
“She’s very kind,” Peter conceded. “Though she’s much older than me.”
“She’s a kind young woman.” Could I help it if pride rang in my voice? In the decade and more of her life I’d missed, she’d become a sweet-tempered, sunny-natured girl. Loosening her to meet the young men of London filled me with dread. “You will have to help us raise our new child to be as kind and thoughtful as Gabriella.”
“I will?” Peter looked more interested. “Do you think it will be a little girl?”
“I hope so,” I said. “The world needs more ladies. They’re so much softer and more cheerful than us.”
Peter’s grin flashed. He enjoyed it when I spoke to him thus, as men together.
The other rider was nearly upon us. I turned, ready to tip my hat and greet him if need be.
The rider went low in his saddle and urged his horse toward us at a rapid pace. I stopped in surprise. It wasn’t done to ride hell for leather when the park began to fill with the elite, though I sometimes shocked the denizens with a good gallop.
I recovered my surprise in time to see the man, muffled to his nose, his hat pulled over his eyes, ride hard for Peter. He swung something down beside his horse—it appeared to be a bag with a weighty object inside.
He was going to knock Peter from the saddle. My body knew this before the thought could form.
The crackling of gunfire came back to me, the scents of smoke and the roar of men in the middle of battle. I’d fought those who tried to smack me from my horse, cut me down, shoot me, trample me. I’d survived by being ruthless, fast, and trusting my instincts.
As the lingering din of war sounded in my head, I shoved my horse between the rider’s and Peter, driving my mount at the approaching man’s, forcing him to turn.
The rider’s horse shied; mine spun and smacked his hindquarters into the other, ready to kick. The rider kept to his saddle, though his horse swayed. He righted the beast, and let fly the sack at me.
It had indeed been filled with large rocks, as I found when it struck me. If I’d ducked, it would have flown over me and hit Peter, and so I took the full brunt on my back and side.