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“The greatest swimming family in the world.” He pointed. Sure enough, it said exactly that. The chromolithograph depicted a handsome, jolly couple in bathing costumes posed in front of raging surf, surrounded by seven circular images of adolescent boys and girls diving and somersaulting. “Uncle Alan’s going to take me to see their show, and afterward I’m going to ask them if I can be a Bramley too.”

Nina could tell he was in earnest. Claud, Marquess of Stancliff, future Duke of Umfreville—an aspiring Bramley. That would flummox those who put wealth and social consequence above the humbler consolations of a united, affectionate family.

Claud cocked a brow, and again, the resemblance to Alan was uncanny.

“My father doubts I can eat a chocolate cake underwater.” He lifted his chin. “I can.”

“I didn’t know anyone ate cakes underwater.” Nina blinked. “Cakes should be moist, of course, but . . .” She trailed off. Moist within reason.

“The Bramleys do everything underwater.” Claud’s volume rose as he reported on that remarkable family’s aquatic exploits. Nina’s eyes kept sliding to Miss Milford, but she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. The boy was embellishing, describing balls and banquets at the bottom of the sea. He spoke breathlessly, caught up in his inventions. No wonder Alan took such pleasure in composing him a novel of Mars. Claud existed most fully in imaginary worlds.

He finished with a dry, hollow-chested cough, bending over and covering his mouth with both ends of his neckerchief. Miss Milford’s head bobbed forward and jerked back.

“That’s all marvelous,” Nina murmured, eyes on the nurse. “They must eat a special sort of cake at the bottom of the sea.”

“Tiny green cakes,” offered Claud. “And big blue ones.”

She looked back at him and smiled. “I bake lovely cakes, but none are green or blue. And they’re meant to be eaten on land.”

“You bake cakes?” He leaned forward. “I would eat them anywhere!” He said this last with a knightly boldness that made Nina laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, and his chest moved with a quick, excited breath that once again exploded into body-rattling coughs.

Drat secrecy. Concern for the boy overrode every other consideration. She touched his shoulder. “What do you need? Should I wake your nurse?”

Claud wheezed and shook his head. He began to roll the handbill, concentrating on the task. His face had blanched. As Nina stared, uneasy, she saw a drop of water hit his pallid cheek. And then the skies opened. Fritz bounded up her dress and jammed himself beneath her chin. Everywhere, people were opening umbrellas, or scattering, or both. Claud barely had time to stuff the contraband down the front of his shirt before Miss Milford came to her feet.

Nina stood and ran with her head down and her skirts bunched in her hands. By the time she’d passed through the gate out of the park, she felt grimy and bedraggled, and she stared at the traffic with stinging eyes. A coach from Casa De’Ath collected her each day, but never so early. She’d have to find shelter, or she’d have to find her own way back to Chelsea. Bother. She fumbled in her chatelaine to see if she had the coins for a cab, ducking down to avoid the umbrellas of the passersby. One pair of legs entered her field of vision and stayed put. Muscular legs encased in fine gray trousers. A pair of legs, and the shaft of a rosewood cane.

Alan. She straightened with a gasp.

“I was in the area,” he said with a twirl of his umbrella. “And aspired to save you from the elements.” He raised his brows as his gaze traveled from her wilted bun to her muddy boots. “My timing was off.” He gave his head a rueful shake.

“Your timing is wonderful.” She smiled up at him. “I have something to tell you.”

“I have something to tell you too.” He slipped his fogged, dripping spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “I just left the South Kensington Museum.”

A clap of thunder sounded.

“Precisely.” Alan grinned at the heavens and held his umbrella over her as she climbed into the waiting coach.

Chapter Eighteen

Fritz kept butting her neck with his hard, cold little face. Nina fidgeted too. Her excitement had transformed to dread.

“What happened at the museum?”

“You first,” said Alan, tossing his hat onto the seat.

“I saw the children, all three of them.” Her nerves made the story tumble out in a rush. She told him about her conversation with Claud, the green and blue cakes at the bottom of the sea. He kicked up his leg and listened, ankle resting on his knee, eyes bright.

“He’s well, then,” he murmured and inhaled like a man who’d been holding his breath.

A new pressure built in Nina’s chest, unrelated to her own predicament.

“Geoffrey tells me otherwise.”

She chewed her lip, picturing the boy doubled over, thin shoulders shaking. He’d looked, and sounded, far from well. She’d omitted those details, instinctively. She’d wanted to present a happy account, one that brought exactly this expression to Alan’s face, soft and warm.