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“T ucker?” April repeated , dragging him into the house by the arm before locking and bolting the door behind him.

“The hackney driver I thought might be Simon Park.”

“He was here?”

“He wore a flower like this in his buttonhole yesterday.”

While they sat at the kitchen table, sharing the remains of his once hot—now vaguely warm—chocolate, he told her about the would-be intruder’s unskilled efforts to break in and Piers’s even more inept efforts to catch the villain in the act.

She grinned as he had known she would, though she said stoutly.

“I don’t think you were inept at all. You did stop him from breaking in and you discovered who he is.

You obviously did rattle him yesterday with your questions.

I think he must be Simon Park after all.

Though changing his name to Tucker is odd. ”

She picked up the single flower. “Do you suppose he came to see his parents? Or to explain about the baby?”

“Why wouldn’t he just knock on the door at a reasonable hour of the day? He has every right to see his parents.”

“But not to abandon a child on our doorstep.” Her eyes widened. “He might have come tonight to steal back the baby!”

“Then why abandon him in the first place?”

“Perhaps he only meant to leave Georgie in his parents’ care for a while. But you’re right, it doesn’t quite make sense.”

“There is sense,” Piers said, vaguely. “We’re just not seeing it.” He shoved the cup in April’s direction and folded her hands around it. “You finish it, and then we can go back to bed for a couple of hours...”

***

A PRIL WAS GLAD, THOUGH not surprised, to find out that Bernie, their stable boy, was acquainted with the grooms who worked for the Darcy family. He was therefore despatched to see what he could discover in their stables, and to discreetly follow James Darcy if and when he left the house.

The boy seemed glad of this reprieve from routine—to say nothing of the extra silver surreptitiously dropped into his pocket—so she and Piers returned to the house for breakfast.

Their first stop of the day was to be the Oxford Street hackney stand, where they intended to watch and wait until Tucker of the Christmas rose made an appearance.

It was not an infallible plan, since Tucker was likely to see them first. Piers would never remember his face—although the buttonhole might give him away if he was foolish enough to wear one the same flower—and April had never laid eyes on him.

Piers would just have to keep his head down so as to avoid giving the man any clue they were looking for him.

Before they left, April returned to her own bedchamber and made an excuse to look in on Georgie the baby who was feeding, but who kicked his little legs at April’s entrance, as though he recognized her. Touched, April smiled at him.

“I thought I might take him for a breath of fresh air in the park this morning,” Mrs. Robb said with a hint of defiance—presumably against dismissal. “Well wrapped up, of course, and not if it’s raining. Or snowing,” she added, glancing out of the window with disfavour.

“Ah. I don’t want you to do that,” April said. “Someone tried to break into the house last night and his lordship and I are afraid he was trying to steal the baby.”

Mrs. Robb blinked. “Seriously? Who is this baby?”

“That is what we are trying to find out. But yes, seriously. I don’t want either you or Georgie in danger, so please don’t take him beyond the garden.”

Mrs. Robb frowned, opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again while the baby released her and gazed in concentration at April.

“Very well,” Mrs. Robb said.

A bad smell wafted under April’s nostrils.

It appeared to explain the infant’s focus.

“Monstrous little creature,” she told him, then pulled herself together and addressed Mrs. Robb.

“Take some time this afternoon to visit your own daughter. Bring her back with you,” she added recklessly, “if your mother needs to be elsewhere. Hopefully, this uncertainty will not go on too long.”

She wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, so she hurried off to see Gussie before she rejoined Piers for their expedition. Gussie, still bleary-eyed, was sitting up in bed with a cup of tea while Smithy fussed over tonics on the bedside table.

“Piers and I will be out all morning, probably, but we can go for a drive or a walk in the park in the afternoon, if you like.”

“Perfect,” Gussie replied.

“Um... If, for some reason, we’re not back for luncheon, could you keep an eye on the baby? Mrs. Robb has a half-day. Sort of.”

Gussie blinked. “What do I do with him?”

“Oh, just watch him sleep,” April said optimistically. “And send for Mrs. Park if he won’t stop crying. Or if he stinks,” she added with a bright smile.

Gussie giggled behind her as she whisked out of the room.

Although April had grown used to walking in public on her husband’s arm, today, for some reason, it felt very strange again.

Or perhaps it was she who felt strange. It was certainly very pleasant, and she knew she looked the part of the viscountess in her fashionable fur-trimmed pelisse and matching hat.

She had learned to walk with poise so that she did not disgrace him.

Where were these thoughts coming from? They had both gone into this unequal marriage with their eyes open, knowing what they would face from others, but also—at least from September—the value they held for each other.

She might be an inadequate viscountess, but however amazing it might be, she was very necessary to the viscount.

The odd feelings she was trying to throw off were, she supposed, just another stage of adjustment to her new life.

Distracting herself, she said cheerfully, “I don’t want to neglect poor Gussie, so I’ve said I’ll go for a drive with her this afternoon.”

“Good plan. We might find we have morning callers too, now that she is with us.”

“Meaning Haggs?” April said, referring to his friend Sir Peter Haggard, who seemed to have developed a soft spot for Gussie.

“Or any other of her flirts.”

“ Is she just flirting with Haggs?” April asked. “She is different with him.”

“Matters will take their natural course,” Piers said vaguely.

The usual three stalls were set up at the corner opposite the park, with both pies and vegetables being in demand.

Flowers, not so much, but then the flower barrow was almost hidden by the taller bigger pie stall.

And the girl huddled there looked unhappy to the point of devastation.

A momentary expression, April thought with relief as the girl smiled at them around Jack Newly’s large shoulder.

“Morning, sir,” Newly called. “Lovely warm pie to eat in the park?”

“Not right now, thank you,” Piers said cheerfully.

The flower girl’s gaze darted all around. Her whole body was poised and yet rigid.

“She’s frightened,” April said. “More frightened. Piers, is Jack Newly trying to squeeze her out of her patch?”

“Shouldn’t think so. They’re not in competition.”

“Then why is she hidden behind him, almost invisible to the passing trade? She’s got little enough to sell as it is.”

Piers, who always listened to her, took another look. His brow tugged into a quick frown. “Perhaps we should buy flowers on the way back. Shall we walk through the Green Park to avoid the worst of the Piccadilly traffic?”

***

T HE STAND IN OXFORD Street had several hackneys lined up waiting.

While Piers pretended to be looking at shop windows as an excuse to hide his face—his strange affliction of face-blindness meant he was very unlikely to recognize anyone he spoke to yesterday for the first time—April gazed toward the jarveys, searching out buttonholes or any sign of unease as they strolled past.

But none of the drivers tried to hide their own faces or showed any expression of alarm. April and Piers reached the end of the line of carriages, after which April pretended to have missed the shop she had come for and dragged Piers back toward an elegant window of hats and gloves.

This time, Piers leaned his back idly against the window, showing his face to any who cared to look. He even pushed his hat back at a rakish angle on his head.

“Our man might bolt,” April murmured.

“In which case, we’ll bolt too. A pity we can’t drive them ourselves...”

The line of hackneys moved up as the front one was taken. Another joined the back of the line.

“Someone’s saluting me with his whip,” Piers said, touching the brim of his hat in response.

Quickly, April followed his gaze. It was the jarvey at the back of the line. “No buttonhole that I can see. Bulky cove—his coat buttons are stretched. He doesn’t have much hair.”

“I did speak to a bald fellow yesterday,” Piers said, straightening, and drawing her hand back through his arm. “Brearly by name. Let’s stroll in his direction.”

As they did so, the jarvey at the back grinned and doffed his hat to reveal an entirely bald pate. “Morning, guv’nor!” he called. “Found who abandoned that kid yet?”

Piers moved nearer to him. “Sadly not. But something did come up that I wanted to speak to that other driver about—your friend with the Christmas rose in his buttonhole complaining about families making his cab sticky. Tucker, I think you said.”

The man grinned. “Amos? Grumpy sod—begging your pardon, ma’am—when he wants to be but no harm in him.”

“Doesn’t he have children of his own then?” April asked innocently.

“Couldn’t tell you that, ma’am. He’s got a wife, though. Talks about her sometimes.” A curious expression crossed his face that April couldn’t quite understand. Doubt? Disapproval?

“I don’t see him here today,” Piers said. “Will you tip me the wink if you see him first?”