Page 5

S ince there was no sign of Piers, April walked around a bit more, spoke to a footman at the opposite corner of the square, and a passing messenger who almost knocked her down in his hurry, without learning anything.

By then the square and the streets leading from it were busier.

Domestic servants were scurrying about. An elderly lady emerged from a house with a pug on a leash, walking toward the park.

Horses and carts passed making deliveries, and costermongers with their barrows were making their early rounds.

A few horsemen passed en route, no doubt, for Hyde Park, and a carriage moved briskly eastward.

It seemed to April that the baby must have been left before this time yesterday, for the vast majority of people would surely have reported seeing a baby left on a step. The mother must have done it when no one was around, for she obviously did not want to be caught.

The presence of the hackney seemed the most promising clue so far, though it rather changed the nature of the investigation too. Was it a poor woman in distress who had abandoned the baby? Or someone well off that travelled by hackney?

Was it even a woman?

Mulling it all over, April returned to the house, where Park tutted as he divested her of her wet cloak.

“Best go and change, my lady,” he said severely. “Shall I send up one of the maids?”

“Oh no, I can manage. Is his lordship back?”

From the twitch of his brow, Park did not know that his lordship had gone out, but he merely replied, “I don’t believe so, my lady. Mrs. Robb, however, is having breakfast in the kitchen, so there is no difficulty in accessing the dressing room. If you don’t wake the child.”

April grinned. “Oh, I won’t!”

She ran upstairs, feeling the chill and damp and rather longing for a hot bath.

However, she returned to Piers’s rooms, where she had left a few of her things.

The fires were lit and warming the place nicely.

The washing water was warm, and she was soon much more respectably—and dryly—dressed, with brushed and properly pinned hair.

She wanted to talk to Piers about the hackney, and whatever he had discovered, but since there was no sign of him, and she was sure breakfast would be served any moment, she marched determinedly to the door.

It was then that she heard the baby crying and paused with her fingers on the handle.

The pitch of a small baby’s cry had always pierced her. Usually, she had run away from it since there was nothing she could do to stop it. Usually, the baby’s mother would feed it. Some would shout at it, or croon at it.

Well, thank God for Mrs. Robb and a house full of servants. She could still run away.

Except the crying kept up, growing louder and more distressed. Mrs. Robb must still be at breakfast and there would be no servants on this floor at this hour, not unless April rang for one.

Which she fully intended to do, just as soon as she made sure the baby hadn’t fallen out of his box.

She found herself in her dressing room, where the daybed had been made up again. Beside it, the baby’s box sat on a low table and the baby, still inside it, had kicked off all his blankets in a fury. His little face was red, but what broke April’s heart were the tears on his tiny cheeks.

Without consciously meaning to, she reached for him and lifted him from the box. The crying broke off in apparent surprise.

“There,” April said softly, cuddling him close. “There, no one has abandoned you.” Except your mother . “And you’ll have all the milk you want in just a few minutes.”

The baby gazed into her eyes and turned its face into her breast, searching for comfort and sustenance.

“And I cannot help you,” she whispered.

She was unlikely ever to have children, because of her past. Knowing that, Piers had married her anyway, loved her anyway.

More than anything, she wanted him to have heirs and a family because they would make him happy and he deserved it.

This abandoned waif should by rights be Petteril’s child, and she wished suddenly it was hers.

He was so warm and vulnerable and helpless, and just holding him comforted him. And her. Emotion pricked, tightening her throat and yet filling her with unique contentment.

“You are a puzzling, magical creature,” she informed him, a shade unsteadily, walking with him in her arms and rocking him at the same time. “And your mother must be breaking her heart without you.”

A gusty noise escaped him, followed by an expression of satisfaction.

April flared her nostrils. “Though she won’t miss that . You are also a dirty, smelly creature. A sulphurous spawn of Satan.”

The baby gazed up at her adoringly.

***

A MANDA ROBB WALKED back into the small but luxuriously appointed dressing room she had been given to sleep in and care for the baby—only to find the lady of the house somewhat clumsily changing the child’s napkin.

“My lady! You should have rung!” Amanda cried, appalled. “I was only gone a few minutes—”

“Oh, I know. I just happened to hear him crying and then his bottom exploded.”

Amanda let out a giggle without meaning to. Not good for the starched, efficient character she wished to portray. “An apt description.”

“I don’t think it went beyond the napkin this time,” Lady Petteril said with an air of pride as she pulled the clean napkin up between the baby’s legs. After which, she looked stuck.

“Let me finish it off, my lady. It’s why you employed me, after all. And you will wish to wash your hands.”

Lady Petteril, who was at least five years younger than Amanda, sat back on her heels, making way for the nurse, who hastily applied the pins, whisked down the nightgown, and settled back against the pillows with the baby. He was snuffling and fussing now because he could smell the milk.

Amanda, who would once never have dreamed of such immodesty before anyone, opened her bodice and began to feed the baby. The little viscountess gazed for a moment, her expression unreadable, before turning with some light excuse and then leaving.

Amanda smiled faintly. She wasn’t quite sure about the lady of the house yet, although at least she hadn’t tried to dismiss her for taking a quarter hour over her breakfast. The staff were close-lipped and protective of Lady Petteril.

And of the viscount, for the most part, although a couple of the younger male staff who had been nudging each other, seemed to imagine his lordship was the child’s father and seemed quite proud of him for it.

Fools.

She stroked the baby’s head, crooning at him. “There you are, my precious one, mama’s here, taking care of you...”

***

P IERS HAD HEADED TOWARD the park in the hope of encountering early riders who might have noticed a mother with a box full of baby heading in the direction of Petteril House.

However, before he even reached Park Lane, he caught sight of the familiar pie seller setting up his stall, which resembled a barrow with a glass box on top to keep his goods warm and dry.

Since he often exchanged a word with the amiable baker, Piers paused to make conversation and bought a pie as an excuse to linger.

He was only the first customer, as a couple of Watchmen on their way home, a gardener, a washerwoman, and three working men queued up behind him.

It seemed to be too early for the flower seller and the other stall holders who shared this patch.

Piers stood to one side under the doubtful shade of a bare tree, nibbling at the pie and watching the sun rise until the baker was free again.

“You certainly catch the passing trade here,” Piers remarked.

“Got my regulars, too. It’s a good spot.”

“And you’ll see the world go by... I don’t suppose you saw a woman pass here yesterday about this time or just a little later, and turn down toward the square?”

“Probably saw a few,” the pie man said. “But if they don’t buy, I don’t always remember ’em.”

“This one would have had a bundle with her, maybe a box—not large but awkward to carry.”

The pie man smiled at an acquaintance waving from the other side of the road.

“Never saw anyone like that,” he said positively.

He turned his head and as their eyes met, Piers had the odd notion that the baker’s were not friendly.

Even though the man added, “I can ask around if it’s important.

Reg with the vegetable cart’ll be along later. ”

“And the flower seller,” Piers recalled. “Is she not usually here by now?”

“Still trying to get around your missus?” the baker said cheekily. “Nah, Ginny expected to be late today, but I’ll ask her and Reg the Veg, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Piers said, taking another bite of warm pie. “Damn, this is good. No wonder you have regulars. Are you the baker or do you work for someone else?”

“I’m the baker,” was the proud reply. “I’ll be getting my own shop in a couple of months, but I might keep the stall on too.”

Piers, who had seen other customers approaching purposefully, lifted his pie by way of farewell, and sauntered away toward Hyde Park Corner, where he turned left back toward home. He hoped April was having more luck in her inquiries.

Another thought struck him, however, and he returned home via the mews that were another path into the square.

The stables and coach houses were hardly busy at this time of year and some were locked up.

Coming to his own stable, he gave the rest of his pie to Bernie, the eternally hungry lad who had replaced a certain Ape, and made what he hoped were subtle inquiries.

Of course, there was little point in subtlety since the stable staff would be as aware as the house staff of the baby dumped like an accusation on his doorstep. Nor did he learn anything useful. So, with a sigh, he took himself home for breakfast.