Page 4 of The Dangerous Lord

The Countess of Blackmore recently provided her husband with an heir. Mother and child are thriving, so undoubtedly we shall soon see Lady Blackmore leaving her bed to renew her efforts for the poor. Such dedication in one so exalted must be commended, all the more because of its rarity.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 8, 1820

The red missile dropping past the window of Miss Felicity Taylor’s study strongly resembled a piece of fruit. At the sounds of a carriage screeching to a halt and a coachman spewing vile profanities, Felicity leapt from her chair and hurried into the hall.

“William, George, and Ansel, come out here at once!” she shouted up the stairs to the next floor.

A suspicious silence ensued. Then one by one, three identical tow-headed six-year-olds peered over the railing at her, guilty expressions smudging their faces.

She glowered at her triplet brothers. “For the last time, you boys are not to bombard carriages with fruit. Do you hear me? Now, which one of you threw that apple?” When the boys muttered their usual protests, she added, “There will be no pudding for anyone at dinner until someone confesses.”

Two heads instantly swiveled to stare accusingly at a third. George. Of course it was Georgie. He was as troublesome as his namesakes—the late mad king and the reckless son who’d ascended to the throne this year.

His brothers’ defection leached Georgie’s face of color. “I didn’t throw it, Lissy, honest. I was eating it, and it was real juicy, so when I leaned out the window⁠—”

“Which you’re also not supposed to do,” she bit out. “I’ve told you before, only lowborn ruffians hang out of windows and throw things at unsuspecting passersby.”

“I didn’t throw it! It slipped!”

“I see. Like last night when your Latin grammar ‘slipped’ and nearly put a hole in a hackney’s roof, or this morning when that snowball ‘slipped’ and hit the vicar.”

Georgie’s head bobbed up and down. “Uh huh. Like that.”

She glared at him. Unfortunately, glaring at Georgie made no impact whatsoever on the incorrigible scamp.

Nothing did, although that was understandable. The triplets were still reeling from Papa’s death last year, as was she. They’d never known Mama, who’d died within hours of their births. But Papa had been their world. They considered their sister a poor substitute, since the debts their architect father had left behind kept her too busy trying to provide for them to spend much time parenting them.

Planting her hands on her hips, she stared at Ansel, the tattler among the triplets. “Where’s James?”

“I’m here.” Her fourth brother appeared behind the others, his gawky frame towering over their bent heads.

“I thought you were watching them for me,” she said irritably.

She regretted her sharp tone the instant he flushed. “I-I’m sorry, Lissy. I was reading. I’m keeping up with my studies until I can return to Islington Academy.”

His beloved Islington Academy, which they could no more afford than gold plate and silk suits. “It’s all right, James. You should maintain your studies.” Though God only knew when he’d be able to resume them, if ever.

A weary sigh escaped her lips. She shouldn’t have put the eleven-year-old in charge anyway. Her studious brother had as much business playing nursemaid to three rapscallions as a puppy to three wolf cubs. But she couldn’t afford a real nursemaid.

Nursemaid or no, Georgie needed the fear of God put into him before the other two began mimicking his antics. “Well, Georgie, I suppose we must call the doctor.”

Georgie’s jaw dropped. “What d’you mean?”

“You seem to have a problem with dropping things, so something must be wrong with your hands. Perhaps you have the shakes. I’ll send for a doctor to examine you.”

“I don’t need a doctor, Lissy! Truly, I don’t!” He held his hands out over the rail. “See? They’re fine!”

She tapped her finger against her chin, feigning a look of deep speculation. “I don’t know. A doctor might cure your sudden malady. He could suggest a physic—minced frog’s eyes or some such.”

Georgie went green. “F-frog’s eyes?”

“Or cod liver oil. Three or four times a day.” Georgie detested cod liver oil.

“Honest, Lissy,” Georgie blurted out, “it won’t ever happen again! I’ll be very careful next time I lean out ... I-I mean, next time I’m near a window.”

“See that you are.” She caught the other two looking smug and added, “And if the rest of you find yourself with shaky hands, I’ll be happy to call the doctor for you, too.”

That sobered them at once.