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A familiar sense of helplessness washed over Piers. Whoever stepped inside his house, he would not know them, would have no idea what danger they truly represented. Outside, dusk was falling and the shadow from the recently lit kitchen lamp fell across the man who entered Petteril House.

He was about Park’s own height and removed a hat that had seen better days. He carried no weapon. Park closed the door behind him and gestured toward the kitchen. The visitor obeyed in equal silence, though he was brought up short by Piers, who did not retreat from the doorway.

In the lamplight, he could see now that the visitor was young, about the same age as Piers.

Or Tucker, perhaps. And like the hackney driver, he was dressed for warmth rather than respectability.

There was no flower in his buttonhole. And no immediate threat in his face.

Had he seen it before? Damn it, there was nothing he recognized.

“My lord,” Park said in a strange, hollow voice that set all Piers’s nerves on edge. “This is my son, Simon.”

Which was the one thing Piers had already grasped.

Simon gave a slightly jerky bow.

Uneasy , Piers thought, and slightly thrown , which might have been good. Certainly, the man made no effort to bolt or attack, so taking his cue from Park, Piers inclined his head and backed into the kitchen to make way.

Mrs. Park had clearly rushed across the kitchen for she stood only feet away from Piers now, perfectly still, her avid gaze drinking in the figure of her son.

Simon made an instinctive move toward her, and halted himself at once, but as though his action had broken a spell, Mrs. Park hurled herself over the distance and seized him in her arms.

Simon hugged her tight, his face anguished, his eyes closed.

Piers relaxed just a little, and risked a glance at April, who still sat where he had left her, her little finger in the restive baby’s mouth.

A faint twitch of her shoulders told him she knew no more than he. But then, she had never met Tucker.

Mrs. Park drew herself free of her son and, suddenly brisk, dragged him by the hand past Piers and toward the kitchen table, where she pointed to Georgie.

“Is this yours?” she asked harshly.

As Piers silently crossed the floor to observe better, Simon raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, as though trying to work out what she meant.

“Is what mine?” he demanded at last.

“The child!” exclaimed his mother.

Simon’s eyes widened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never met the lady in my life!”

Piers choked back an impossible breath of laughter. April’s eyes began to dance.

Simon’s mother clouted him across the shoulder. “This is Lady Petteril!”

Simon blushed to the roots of his hair, a hunted look flooding his face, though he managed another of his jerky bows. “Sorry, m’lady,” he mumbled.

“Is this your son?” Park asked clearly.

“No, of course not!” Simon said. “What is this?”

Piers decided it was time to intervene. “I would suggest that we retire to your sitting room, Mrs. Park.” He cast a quick glance around the kitchen, using the same expression as he had once employed around his Oxford office and lecture halls.

He was gratified to see it worked just as well on servants as on distracted students.

They immediately plunged into motion. Francis retrieved his tray, following Martha and her linen to the stairs.

Bernie and his sandwiches sloped off to the back door.

Janey began to scrub the kitchen table with a hard brush.

Piers, April, and the baby followed all three Parks into the housekeeper’s sitting room. At the last moment, Piers swiped up the bowl of water that was keeping Georgie quiet.

Simon glanced around his mother’s private domain with apparent approval, while Mrs. Park settled April and the baby in her usual chair.

Piers set down the bowl on the little table on their far side, and perched on the arm of his wife’s chair, leaving the other for Mrs. Park—who, however, seemed too agitated to sit in it.

Park said harshly, “You will answer all of Lord Petteril’s questions with honesty. If you’re still—” He caught his wife’s eye and subsided, but the damage was done.

“If I’m still capable of honesty?” Simon said bitterly. “Don’t you know?”

“Enough, Simon,” Mrs. Park said quietly. “We need the truth now. All of it. How long have you been...” She swallowed. “How long have you been free?”

“A few weeks.”

“Have you seen That Woman?”

Simon’s shoulder twitched with irritation and pain. “Once. She still won’t leave him, so I came south alone. I thought his lordship was asking the questions?”

“Do you have work in London?” Piers asked.

“Temporary, gardening in the parks which is really just tidying up at this time of year. But it keeps me in the open and I like that. They might keep me on in the spring. And I see you sometimes, walking past.” His quick glance took in both his parents, and Piers, touched, warmed to him a little.

“I never saw you,” Mrs. Park said hoarsely. “You never spoke.”

This time, Simon’s glance was at his father. “Wasn’t sure of my welcome, was I?”

Piers shifted against the chair arm to make more room for April. “So why now?”

Simon met his gaze without fear. “Because a Lord Petteril asked for me by name at my lodgings and gave this address. I knew my parents worked for you, because my mother wrote and told me when I was still in prison. What I didn’t know was why you were looking for me.

I didn’t want you dismissing them because of their association with me, so I stayed out of the way.

Then I wondered if that would have the opposite effect, so I thought a discreet call on my way home from work might be the answer.

It seemed to be when my father opened the door, though then I seemed to walk into a circus. Or a mad house.”

April laughed and stood up. “Come, my lord. I think it’s time we left these people to a more private reunion.”

Piers, both glad for the Parks’ sakes and frustrated by the dissolving of all his suspects, rose with alacrity.

April paused and glanced at Simon. “Mr. and Mrs. Park are welcome to receive visitors at their own discretion,” she said and led the way out.

Piers was proud of her.

As soon as he re-entered the kitchen, he saw a female-shaped silhouette hurry past the window that looked onto the area.

“It’s Mrs. Robb!” Janey called.

And just for an instant, April looked stricken.

***

“I ’M GLAD SIMON ISN’T Tucker,” April said as they changed for dinner that evening. “I like him.”

Which was also in his favour, Piers allowed.

“Though now we’re running short of suspects,” she added. “Even if it was this Tucker who left the baby, why did he pick our step in particular?”

“Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps it was just chance.

” Piers set about fastening the tiny loops of her gown.

He would miss this intimacy if she ever found a lady’s maid.

“I just can’t understand why he would come back in the middle of the night.

In any case, the hackney that Darcy and the servants saw is not necessarily Tucker’s. ”

“We still need to speak to him.”

“We do.” Piers dropped a kiss on her tempting nape and stood back to let her fasten his sleeve buttons, which he was quite capable of doing himself.

But he enjoyed inhaling the light, floral scent of her skin and watching her face as she concentrated on this small, wifely duty.

“And I think Darcy’s honesty clears him too. ”

“Even if he did see anything else useful at the time,” April said, switching to the other sleeve, “I doubt he’ll remember it now.”

Piers regarded her quite carefully. “He is not completely harmless, you know. You will please be careful around him.”

She glanced up at him in surprise. “Why?”

“April, he is smitten, and to a rake all women are fair game.”

“Even married women?”

“ Especially married women.”

She searched his eyes for a moment, a smile beginning to dawn in her own. “Are you jealous, Piers?”

She seemed more delighted than annoyed, forcing him to smile back. “I am careful of my wife—who might not realize that drawing room wiles and tavern attacks have different approaches. Though they amount to the same thing.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” He reached for his coat and shrugged into it.

April went to the bed to pick up the shawl she had left there. “Piers?”

“Yes?”

“If we can’t find Georgie’s parents...we could keep him, could we not?”

The moment was here, sooner than he’d expected. He hated that she was afraid to face him while she asked. He moved to stand behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders.

“I can’t give you children,” she blurted. “But we could have him as our own.”

“It wouldn’t be fair, April,” he said gently. “He can’t be my heir and whether we have children or not, he would be treated differently from our own—passed over as my heir to lands and title, resented by servants, looked down on by people we might regard as his peers though no one else would.”

She half-turned to face him. “Like me?”

The cut sliced through him. “Yes,” he said brutally. “Like you, but worse because he didn’t choose it and wouldn’t understand it.”

“But we can’t give him up to the orphanage!”

“No, we can’t do that either. We will think about it if we can’t find his parents, but I haven’t given up yet. Have you?”

She butted him, burying her face in his shoulder. “No,” she whispered.