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A s expected, they found Mrs. Robb in April’s dressing room.

The baby lay in her lap, half-asleep, while she fastened the bodice of her gown.

Clearly, she had just fed him. The knowledge raised a few hairs on the back of Piers’s neck, probably because this was April’s room.

Just for an instant, he imagined April feeding her own baby, his baby.

Would she miss it if she never had that opportunity? Would he?

Yes, he would. But it had always been April that was important.

Heirs were considered his duty as the viscount, but in truth they were a very distant priority.

If his career had remained in Oxford, he would never have married.

And marrying April had been nothing to do with heirs.

So far as he was concerned, even if his cousin Bertie, his current heir, curled up his toes on the Peninsula, there were still other, more distant cousins to fill his shoes.

April had told him she couldn’t have children because of a past that he hated to think about and she had mostly forgotten. She minded for his sake, not for her own. Or so he had always believed until he saw her gaze not on Mrs. Robb but on the baby in her lap.

The wet nurse rose calmly to her feet, the baby comfortably in one arm. She curtseyed. “My lord. My lady.”

“Mrs. Robb,” Piers said civilly. “How is your charge?”

“He feeds well, my lord. He’s a very good baby.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” On impulse, he walked up to her and took the baby from her. She resisted, clinging for a moment, then dropped her eyes and gave in. Interesting...

The baby smelled curiously pleasant, reminding him of something long distant. Another baby encountered in childhood, no doubt. Gussie, perhaps? Or even Maria...

“I was just going to put him down in his cot,” Mrs. Robb said firmly. She didn’t quite dare to take the child from him again, but he could have sworn her arms twitched in that direction.

“He’ll spill out of that box, soon,” April remarked. “Do we not have a more suitable cradle in the Nursery, Piers? It would have to be thoroughly cleaned, of course. Or we could buy one.”

Piers nodded, though he kept his gaze on the nurse. “Why don’t we investigate that tomorrow? Lady Petteril has just been talking to your mother.”

Mrs. Robb’s eyes widened, flying to April and then back to Piers and to the baby he held. The little boy stirred comfortably, turning his face into Piers’s shoulder. Like a puppy, trusting, reliant, and yet horribly vulnerable.

Oh dear...

“My mother?” Mrs. Robb said as though unconcerned. Her eyes said otherwise. “How on earth did that come about?”

“I chose to follow up your character with the agency,” April told her. “Which sent me to your old home and then your current one. You lied to the agency and you lied to us.”

“I did?” Mrs. Robb was trying to brazen it out, but she knew the axe was falling.

“Your child is not dead. Of that we are very glad. But the lies remain an issue.”

Mrs. Robb tilted her chin. “I need the work. My baby doesn’t need my milk, so I can feed others and keep the admittedly wretched roof over her head.”

“Did someone tell you about this child?” Piers asked, cupping the baby’s head to be sure it didn’t loll back. His skin was soft, the light down of his hair like silk. “Tell you which agency to register with?”

She shook her head. “No. But I needed a wealthy client. The few pennies I made wet nursing for my working neighbour barely cover the cost of cow’s milk. So I went to the most respectable agency I knew of. Not many women like me register to be wet nurses. I thought I might impress someone.”

“Oh, you did,” April agreed. “You impressed the agency, and Mrs. Park. And his lordship and me—until we discovered the lies.”

Mrs. Robb met her gaze. “Would you have engaged me if you’d known I had a baby of my own at home? Knowing I’d abandoned her?”

“With your mother,” April said with a twitch of the brow.

“I was going to ask you for half days,” Mrs. Robb admitted. “To go home to my daughter and give my mother a rest. I would have taken Georgie with me...”

“Georgie?” Piers asked with an upward twitch of his eyebrow.

Mrs. Robb smiled with a wealth of sorrow as she gazed at the baby once more. “Every child should have a name. It seems even more important for those who’re unwanted.”

Unwanted . Piers could feel his arm begin to tighten around the baby and forced it to relax. “Well, in the absence of his own name, Georgie will do.”

“He’s a good baby,” Mrs. Robb said, almost desperately. “I can take him home with me. His mother isn’t coming back for him now. I’ll look after him well, same as my own. They’ll be brother and sister...”

“And you’ll have two growing mouths to feed as well as your own,” April said flatly. Though her eyes were not unkind. They were understanding.

Mrs. Robb had lost her husband and her home. Her only purpose, her only comfort, was clearly in taking care of her baby and other people’s.

“Then you didn’t see the baby on our step early yesterday morning?” Piers asked her.

Mrs. Robb glanced up and met his gaze, shaking her head without hesitation. “No. I’d never even been to this square before I was sent yesterday afternoon. I didn’t know it existed.”

Piers met April’s gaze. Amanda Robb’s defences were down and they both knew the truth when they heard it.

***

A ROUND THE DINNER HOUR was a bad time to question any of the servants since they were all particularly busy.

So once changed for dinner, leaving April to look in on his cousin Gussie, Piers returned to the library to contemplate what they knew about the baby—beyond the fact that he was ridiculously tiny and endearing.

And from there, how much he should confide in Park.

Deciding it would be cruel to even suggest he might have found Simon until he had some kind of proof, he made plans to return to the hackney stand early the following morning —probably with April, since she would be more likely to perceive any likeness to the Parks and remember who she saw.

Then there was Darcy. Piers wondered if he could get his stable lad, Bernie, to follow the man around for a bit, just to see what he was up to. In the past, Ape had always been useful at that kind of thing...

Gussie strolled into the room, looking about her while Piers poured her a small glass of sherry.

“I like this room now,” she remarked. “Before you, it was sadly neglected. Papa only ever used it to meet his stuffier guests.”

“Do you miss living here?” he asked curiously, for it had been her home up until a year ago when her mother had made way for Piers who had inherited the title and everything that went with it.

Gussie shook her head. “I thought I would, but I don’t. I found I was glad to move out —too much death here—even though Mama hated leaving so much. It’s a better house with you and April in it now.”

“Is that a compliment?”

She grinned. “Of course it is. Swallow it and say thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said politely. “Where did you leave April?”

“Oh, with the baby! Isn’t he adorable? And just think, Maria’s must be even tinier!”

***

W HEN THE LADIES WITHDREW from the dining room after dinner, Piers regarded the port decanter without much interest. It was not a great deal of fun drinking without company after dinner, so when they had no guests, he generally just accompanied April to the drawing room or the library.

For appearance, he poured himself a glass, then rose and pulled the bell.

Joshua appeared a few moments later. He was a few years older than Francis and had darker hair.

“Send Francis to me, would you?” Piers said, and stretched his legs out under the table, crossing them at the ankles. He had done a fair bit of walking today and his feet were tired.

Francis appeared very sharply, without his usual grin. His expression was wary, as if he expected to be punished for something.

“My lord?” he said, bowing.

“Close the door.”

Wary changed to alarmed , but the lad obeyed without question.

“Francis,” Piers said, “as you know, we have a baby problem.”

“It’s not mine, my lord,” Francis blurted.

“Why on earth should I imagine it is?”

“Because everyone knows I’ve got a sweetheart in Mrs. Renton’s employ.”

“ Still in Mrs. Renton’s employ?” Piers asked delicately.

“Of course, my lord.”

The words should have been a comfort, for no one would retain a pregnant maid, yet Francis’s uneasy manner remained. He wasn’t quite shuffling from foot to foot but only because he had been trained not to.

“Do we have a different problem, Francis?”

“No, my lord. Everything is under control.”

“Is it?” Piers said slowly. “And yet I think you had better tell me.” He cast around for a more encouraging phrase. “Man to man. Rather than Lady Petteril finding out from other sources.”

Francis did shift feet then. “There’s nothing to find out,” he said pleadingly.

“Or at least not yet. Truth is, Emma and me.... Well, Emma thinks she might be—it’s possible but not likely, only she’s missed.

.. I’d marry her, my lord, I would, only I couldn’t stay with you, then, and she’d lose her position, and we’d have no work between us.

What sort of start is that for a child?”

“For any of you,” Piers agreed. He sat up, frowning.

“Look, the matter is not beyond redemption, even if Emma proves to be increasing. You are not to let her try and be rid of it for she’s more likely to kill herself, whatever happens to her child.

Your child,” he added with an extra glare, just in case Francis felt any inclination to shrug off the responsibility that would never affect his life as it did the mother’s.

Francis dropped his eyes. To give him his due, there was anguish in his face.