Page 63 of A Landscape of Love

Fidelia’s lips twitched a little. “Have you not breakfasted yet?”

“Yes,” he said gravely, closing the door so he could take her in his arms. “But I’m hungry again.”

He kissed her once, and then once more, for he could not resist the temptation, but then let her go, knowing she was eager to be off. In truth, he was anxious about this morning’s excursion, as he had a disquieting notion about what they would discover, but there was no avoiding it, so he placed his wife’s hand on his arm and escorted her out to his waiting carriage.

“Where are we going?” she asked once they were settled.

Hart frowned, wondering what to say. “The old woman who took your son and the young lady with him in for the night saw her speaking to a man. A gentleman, she said. She recognised him well enough to be fairly certain who it was. If she’s correct, I know why she went with him.”

“So he’ll be able to tell me where Ambrose is?” she said eagerly, before her face fell. “This man, he’s… he’s truly a gentleman, he wouldn’t have—”

“He is a good man,” Hart said, taking her hand in his and smiling. “Don’t fret, love. If I’m right, then Ambrose is safe and will have been well cared for.”

Fidelia let out a harsh breath, tears springing to her eyes. “Thank God.”

Hart nodded, praying his deduction was correct.

The traffic was thick that morning, so the brief journey to Berwick Street in Soho took far longer than usual, but they arrived at their destination—a smart, redbrick five storey town house—by eleven. Hart helped Fidelia down and knocked smartly at the door, hoping its inhabitant was up by now.

The door opened, and he nodded at the immaculately dressed valet who answered it.

“Morning, Baines. Is he in?”

“Yes, Mr De Beauvoir. If you would care to follow me.”

Hart nodded and followed the valet inside to the breakfast parlour, where the man turned to Hart expectantly. “Mr De Beauvoir, and?”

“My wife,” Hart said to the valet, feeling an unexpected but not unpleasant surge of pride at the pronouncement. “Lady Fidelia De Beauvoir.”

Baines was far too well trained to exclaim or show surprise, so he merely inclined his head. “May I felicitate you both, sir, my lady,” he said, before announcing them to the master of the house.

“Wife!” spluttered the elegant man sitting at the neatly laid breakfast table. He set down his coffee cup with such a clatter it was a wonder it didn’t break.

Larkin Weston sprang to his feet, turning an accusing gaze on his valet. “Baines, that is not funny—” He caught sight of Fidelia. “Good heavens. I mean… I beg your pardon, my lady, I… I was a little—”

“I take it you’ve not read the papers yet,” Hart said dryly.

“I only just came down. Late night at the club,” Larkin added, though that much hardly needed saying. “Well, you’ve been busy, you dark horse, you. Congratulations!” He shook Hart’s hand enthusiastically before turning to Fidelia. “My lady, I believe I had the pleasure of dancing with you once at a ball my mother held.”

“I remember,” Fidelia replied. “It is good to see you again, Mr Weston.”

“Never mind the social chitchat,” Hart said irritably, a little unsettled by the idea of Larkin dancing with his wife. “We’re here for a reason. I need information from you.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Do sit down,” Larkin said, pulling out a chair for Fidelia. “Have you breakfasted? Baines is a marvel in the kitchen.”

“No breakfast, just information,” Hart repeated as they arranged themselves at the table.

Larkin shrugged and sat down once Fidelia was settled. He refilled his coffee cup. “Go on, then. What is it you need to know?”

“About five years ago, you met a young woman on the street, close to Mother Red Cap’s tavern. She had a newborn child in her arms. Is this the woman you took to Gillmont?”

Larkin stilled, his eyes narrowing. Carefully, he set the cup down, but everything about him that had been amiable and easy going had stiffened and he suddenly seemed downright hostile.

“You know it is. What of it, Hart? What’s this about?”

Hart glanced at Fidelia, not wanting to speak without her permission. She smiled at him and took up the story herself.

“Mr Weston, your friend here is a wonderful man who has been very good to me. He has not only saved me from ruination by marrying me, but he knows… he knows a secret about me, something which the world will soon know too if I have my way. Five years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy. I was, obviously, unwed, and my father took my baby, intending to leave him at a foundling home. A woman was waiting outside the doors, and for reasons we do not understand, she took my son instead.”