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“Three and five-quarters,” Bess corrected.
“That’s four and one quarter,” Chester said with a smile.
Anna hiccupped again, then gurgled, wide-eyed.
Chester kept his gaze on the house, its façade calm and lit from within. “You told me,” he said, “that you wanted your nursery full.”
“With your children,” his mother snapped. “Not with…waifs from some society handbill.”
He thought of Pepper in the carriage on the road, eyes shining with hurt as she spoke of being called damaged goods; of the way she’d run on the sand, free of limp and fear. Of the way her fingers had felt twisted in his coat.
“I prefer,” he said quietly, “to fill it with those who have no one.”
His mother inhaled sharply. “You will learn, Chester, that there are some insults a title cannot survive.”
“Then,” he said, “it is a good insult.”
Before she could retort, the footman opened the door. Cool evening air rushed in.
“Beaumont House,” the man announced, as if there were any doubt.
Chester shifted Anna higher on his shoulder, felt her little hand flex in his cravat. “Stay with me,” he told Margy and Bess. “No running. No climbing the draperies. No biting anyone, even if they deserve it.”
“Not even pompous lords?” Bess asked in a whisper. There’d been an incident with Darley Chester couldn’t quite bring himself to scold the girl for.
He bit back a smile. “Not even them.”
He swung down to the pavement, then turned and held up his free arm for his mother. She accepted the support, because it was habit, not because she approved. Behind them, a maid lifted Bess out as if she were a parcel; Margy insisted on climbing down like a lady, gripping the footman’s hand with fierce dignity.
Chester took one breath, two, and followed the butler up the steps.
At least they didn’t turn him away this time.
He’d written to the proprietor of the Harley Street bakery and had certain reassurances to at least be heard this evening.
By the whole family, with the whole family. Chester gulped.
“His Grace, the Duke of Wyndale,” the man intoned as the door to the drawing room was opened.
For once, Chester hardly felt the familiar weight of the title. All his awareness narrowed to the scene before him.
It was chaos, but domestic chaos—full, warm, alive.
Lady Erica Beaumont stood braced by the fireplace, as if she had taken up position to defend it. Monsieur Duval, Chester deducted,—Papa, Chester’s mind supplied, with a small, incredulous jolt—stood at her side, flour-white hair and a mustache.
Lady Florence occupied a settee and rose when he entered, shawl thrown back like a banner, eyes sharp and entirely too entertained. Another woman of a similar age to Mother was Mrs. Hart, who was near the window, trying and failing to pretend she wasn’t wringing her hands.
And in the center of it all, in cream silk and a pearl bracelet, was Pepper.
Barbara. Pepper. The woman he loved in both names.
Her shoulders were straight; her chin set. Only the slight hollows under her eyes and the tightness at the corners of her mouth betrayed what the last days had cost her.
The butler had not finished his sentence before Margy slipped past his mother like a small, determined fish.
She dropped an unsteady curtsy, gripping the sides of her little pelisse in both fists and spreading it the way she’d practiced with the nursery curtains. “How do you do?” she said, breathless. “I am Marguerite, but everyone says Margy, and this is Bess, and that is Anna, and we are very good, really.”
Bess had already discovered the nearest armchair and was testing the bounce of its seat with blunt little fingers. Anna, miracle of miracles, was awake and not screaming; she blinked solemnly at the room from Chester’s shoulder, drooling thoughtfully into his muslin.
