Page 7 of The Dangerous Lord

Boyish voices wafted down the stairwell. “’Odsfish, it’s not him!” said one. A similar voice echoed, “It’s some other gent.” He glanced up to find himself the object of shocked scrutiny by three pairs of eyes. Identical eyes in identical heads that bobbed over the railing on the top floor like imps out of some farce. He blinked a couple of times, but there was no mistaking it. The three young urchins at the top of the stairs were identical. And one held an empty bucket in his hand.

“Hello there,” he called up. “Do you greet all your guests with such hospitality?”

A new face appeared at the railing, an older boy whose alarmed expression directly contrasted with the curious ones of the others. “Oh, Georgie, what have you done now? Lissy will have our heads for this!”

Lissy? Their nursemaid perhaps? For these must be Lord X’s children. Hmm. Identical triplets, a rarity. He added that to his store of information, although for the life of him he couldn’t think of any gentleman who’d bragged of siring identical triplets.

The boy who wasn’t a triplet raced down the stairs, with the others tumbling after him. At closer examination, his resemblance to the triplets was obvious. “Please, sir,” the older boy said as he skidded to a halt before Ian. “They didn’t mean any harm.”

“Didn’t they?” Leaning down, Ian poked around in the filthy snow. “Coal dust. Three or four small rocks. Lump of ice.” He picked out a roughly cylindrical shape and dangled it between thumb and forefinger. “An apple core? I’d say this lot would wreak quite a bit of harm on a man’s head. And certainly his clothes.”

“We weren’t aiming for you, sir,” one of the triplets said helpfully. “We thought you were Mr. Winston.”

With great difficulty, he suppressed a smile. “Not a favorite of yours, I take it.”

“He gawks at Lissy,” the older boy muttered.

Ian straightened, drawing out his handkerchief to wipe his hand. “Who’s Lissy?”

“Our sister,” another triplet announced.

“I see.” Four sons and a daughter. Lord X had quite a family to care for. “Well, I thank God I’m not Mr. Winston. And that your aim is faulty.”

“We’re truly sorry, sir,” the older boy said penitently. “We don’t usually do this sort of thing. If we hadn’t been expecting the gentleman from the newspaper⁠—”

“I’ve come in his place,” Ian broke in.

“Then you’re a writer like Lissy?” one of the triplets asked.

“Not exactly.” Inexplicably, he balked at lying to the child. “Your sister’s a writer?”

“Oh, yes, she writes all sorts of things,” the triplet continued eagerly, “but⁠—”

“Be quiet,” the older boy told his brother firmly. Then he cocked his head to stare at Ian. “I could tell you’re not a writer.”

“Could you?”

“All true writers have ink stains on their fingers. And you don’t.”

Ian examined his hands with mock solemnity. “I believe you’re right.”

“Lissy has ink stains on her fingers,” one triplet offered. “‘Cause she writes⁠—”

“I told you to hush, Georgie,” the older boy said sternly. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. Lissy says it’s not ladylike for her to write stories.”

Ian bit back a smile. He could easily imagine their sister, a budding novelist of fifteen or so, trying to imitate her father’s profession while also clinging to her training in “proper” female behavior.

The housekeeper suddenly appeared at the top of the next floor. When she saw the children, she called out, “Stop bothering the gentleman, lads!” As she hurried down, she caught sight of the rapidly melting pile of snow, around which they were ranged like surgeons around a troublesome patient.

White brows furrowing, she shouldered the boys aside. “I suppose you children got this from the balcony, eh? I swear, Father Christmas shall bring you naught but lumps of coal in your stockin’s this year, ’specially if he has a word with your sister.”

The panicky looks that the triplets cast each other roused Ian’s rusty protective instincts. “Actually, a footman came in and shook a great amount of snow off his coat,” he remarked, hoping there were footmen around somewhere. “I might have slipped in it if the boys hadn’t hurried down to warn me.” When their grimy faces lit up gratefully, he tempered his sudden burst of feeling with a stern glance. “I’m sure they’ll clean it up for you. They’re very helpful lads.”

“Yes, we’ll do that, won’t we, boys?” the older one ordered his brothers.

“Oh, yes, we want to help⁠—”

“Let us do it⁠—”