Page 5 of The Dangerous Lord

“Now go on with you. And play quietly, for pity’s sake.”

They didn’t budge. Hanging on the rail, Ansel cast her a wistful look. “Maybe you could come tell us a story.”

“About the peacock eating the dragon,” William added hopefully. Peacocks and fanciful creatures were William’s current obsession.

“Not that one,” Georgie piped up. “Tell us the one where the evil knight falls off his horse into the slime pit and his armor just sli-i-i-des off of him!”

His enthusiasm made her heart constrict. “I can’t right now, moppet. I’m sorry, but I must finish this article. Mr. Pilkington is sending Mr. Winston over for it, and I can’t keep him waiting.”

“I don’t like Mr. Winston,” Ansel complained. “He should fall into a slime pit.”

She daren’t tell him, but Mr. Winston had indeed been the model for her tale.

“Mr. Winston is smelly and ugly,” Georgie added. “When he looks at you, I want to punch his face. He’s a bloody arse, that’s what he is.”

“George!” She tried to look shocked, but it was difficult when his word choice was so astonishingly accurate. “Watch your language, or I’ll use that cod liver oil to rinse your mouth!” When he grimaced, she added, “Besides, much as we dislike Mr. Winston, we must be civil to him if I’m to keep writing for the paper.”

“But I hate him!” Georgie cried. “We all hate him, don’t we?”

“Uh huh. If he were here, I’d punch him in the nose,” Ansel said vehemently.

“I’d spit him on a sword,” William added, as if he used one every day.

“I’d ... I’d ...” James hesitated, lacking his brothers’ bloodthirsty instincts. “Well, I’d do something.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it.” She bit back a smile at the thought of her little tin soldiers manhandling the oily-tongued Mr. Winston. “I tell you what. If you’ll stay out of trouble in the nursery for the next hour, I promise I’ll tell you both stories—the one about the peacock eating the dragon and the one about the evil knight.”

“Hurrah! The peacock eating the dragon and the evil knight!” the triplets chorused as they ran back into the nursery.

Bless them, they never walked anywhere.

James glanced down at her. “I’ll look after them better this time, I promise.”

“I know you will, sweetheart.” She flashed him a maternal smile. “You’re a good boy and a great help to me. Now go on with you.”

James beamed as he hurried after his brothers. She must remember not to scold him unnecessarily. He was as sensitive as a poet, poor dear.

Though he’d not been half as sensitive with Papa.

A fit of anger seized her, and she scowled up into the heavens. “You see what you’ve done, God? Why did you let Papa fall into the Thames while drunk? You could have performed some miracle, parted the river or something. You certainly used to do enough of those. But no, you had to let Papa drown. Well, I hope he’s giving you a time of it up there, gambling by the pearly gates and drinking in the streets of gold.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I hope he’s building your dratted mansions backwards.”

She brought her head down to find a maid staring at her. The girl jerked her gaze away and began furiously sweeping the carpet again.

Curse it all. She sighed. Oh, well. By now the entire household must be accustomed to hearing her lecture the Deity. She did it often enough.

As if a house full of scamps wouldn’t drive any normal person to rail at God. How could she accomplish anything with the boys underfoot? Thank heavens Mrs. Box would have them for the next few days while Felicity took her trip. She needed to escape her tin soldiers, especially the triplets.

But first, work. Hurrying into the drafty study that had once been her father’s, she sat at the desk by the window and examined a sheet of heavily inked foolscap.

Hmm, where was she? Ah, yes. Finally, for advice concerning fashion, consider the Duke of Pelham’s profound opinions: “What young girls need is that ancient apparel, the chastity belt, to restrain their passions. Then we won’t have all these elopements.”

She dipped her quill in the ink bottle and crossed out the s on opinions. Of course, to be perfectly fair, the whole thing needed a drunken slur, but that was a trifle difficult to mimic in words.

Passions, indeed. It was the duke’s passions the “young girls” must avoid, as she knew only too well. Fit him for a chastity belt, and every woman would cheer. Though to be truly effective, they’d have to bind his roving hands and gag his disgusting mouth.

The thought of that was so gratifying she had to sit back and savor the image of Pelham bound and harmless for once. Attach the lecher to a moving carriage and⁠—

The sound of rumbling carriage wheels was so real, she jerked up out of her seat. Through her window she spotted a hackney lumbering up the snow-bordered street, its wheels knocking icy water out of every pothole. When it halted in front of the town house, an unladylike oath escaped her lips. The odious Mr. Winston had arrived.