Page 2 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

There was no decision to be made.

“Get into my carriage,” she said, her voice filled with determination. She was not a woman used to being disobeyed. “Get in and we’ll be away from here and the men who are after you.”

“Ils sont là?” A French émigrée for sure. But why was she on the run like this? What had she done that had two rough looking men in hot pursuit? Camilla didn’t like to jump to conclusions, but Thomas had told her that some of the émigrée women had turned to prostitution to support themselves and their families. Was the young woman such an unfortunate attempting to escape the clutches of the men who’d forced her into it? Who would be taking most of her money from her?

Camilla nodded. Behind her, the proprietorial Hawkins bristled with the indignation she must be trying to keep in check.

“Oui,” Camilla said, drawing upon her scant knowledge of the language. “Ils sont là.” And she pointed.

The woman glanced from side to side like a hunted beast, before returning eyes that now held hope to Camilla’s face.

Camilla’s motherly heart went out to her.

The woman’s magnificent eyes were so wide the whites appeared huge. But she shook her head with emphasis. “Je ne peux pas,” she whispered, her free hand stroking the baby’s downy head.

“Quickly. Get in,” Camilla repeated. The men were starting across the square, heads swivelling as they looked in all directions.

The young woman shook her head. “Je n’ai plus de temps. Vous ne pouvez pas m’aider, madame. C’est trop tard pour moi. Prenez l’enfant. Aidez le petit.” And she thrust the baby into Camilla’s arms.

Camilla’s instinctive reaction was to hold on tight to the bundle of baby and thick winter shawl, and as her own arms settled around the child, the woman bolted, away from the carriage and away from the square, her booted feet pounding on the sandy road as she vanished down Carlyle Street.

“Your Grace!” Hawkins was by her side. “Well, I never. The cheek of it. Here, give the dirty thing to me, your Grace, lest it mark your fine gown. It smells dreadful.” And she tried to take the child from Camilla’s arms.

But Camilla had already looked down at the little pink-cheeked face gazing back up at her, and been lost. The baby must have been several months old, for it was chubby and looked well-fed, and, despite the headlong flight of its mother, it smiled in evident delight to see her. It waved its arms, which, she could see now, appeared to be wearing a rather grubby lace-ornamented gown.

Waving Hawkins away with one hand, Camilla held on firmly to the child, her mind already made up. Fate had brought her to Mademoiselle Binet’s today, and had put into her arms this child in want of a safe home. The sort of safe home she had. “I’m quite all right, thank you, Hawkins. And I think I’d like to get this little one out of the cold as quickly as possible and into our warm nursery. We can make inquiries about his mother once he’s settled and fed. Thank you, Donald, if you will be so good as to assist me into the carriage, Miller can take us straight back to Grosvenor Square.” And, baby clutched to her own bosom now, she climbed into the carriage leaving the astounded Hawkins to follow her.

“I don’t know what His Grace will have to say about this,” Hawkins muttered under her breath as she settled herself opposite her mistress. But Camilla, used to Hawkins’s mutterings, ignored her.

*

His Grace, Thomas, Duke of Sherborne, was at home when his wife returned with more than she’d gone out to get. At forty-one years old he was still a handsome man with just a hint of gray in his perfectly arranged dark hair and no sign of a paunch, for he kept himself very much in trim with plenty of exercise, even when resident in London.

Camilla, still with the baby in her arms but more of its chubby pinkness on show now she was indoors, located him with little trouble in his study, having abandoned the still disapproving Hawkins in the hallway.

Thomas looked up from the book he’d been perusing as she burst through the door and could not help his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline in surprise. It was quite obvious she was bearing a baby with her. A baby wrapped in a decidedly grubby shawl. A baby that had about it the aroma of needing the attentions of a nursery nurse.

“Good heavens, my dear,” he said, without only a hint of mild surprise. “Where did you get that from? Surely not at your dressmaker’s? Are they offering them with every new gown you select?”

“A young woman thrust him into my arms,” Camilla said with a cheerful smile for him, and quite ignoring his sarcasm as she was used to it. “She refused my offer of assistance but asked me, in French, if I would help her by taking the child. So I did. And then she ran off. I think she was being pursued. Two quite disreputable men might well have been after her. She certainly looked terrified of something.”

Thomas rubbed his chin, something he was wont to do to give himself time to think. “A French young woman, or just one that could speak French?”

Camilla nodded, shifting the baby in her arms so Thomas could get a better look at it. “Quite definitely a native speaker, although she seemed to understand my English.” She rocked the baby a little and it cooed as though quite content to be with her now instead of the young Frenchwoman. It possessed large blue eyes and was quite the most attractive baby she’d seen since Ambrose was born.

“And she ran off and left it?” He sounded more surprised than ever.

Camilla nodded. “What could I do but bring him home.” She peered down at the child. “I have a feeling it’s a boy, but have not investigated that far yet.”

Thomas gave a sniff. “I think someone should. It’s a little malodorous, my love. I’ll ring for Woodhouse to fetch Martha.”

He did so, then came back to study the baby a little more closely. It was indeed, if one disregarded the pong, a very beguiling baby. Having been very much the sort of father who loved his child, he held out a finger to the baby who promptly grabbed it in its tiny fist and hung on tight. On the baby’s left wrist was a distinct, light brown birthmark in the shape of a heart.

His eyes widened. “He has an angel’s kiss.”

Camilla nodded, sure this was yet another indication of fate. “Can we keep him?” Not that she would be allowing Thomas to say no, but she liked him to think he was the decision-maker in their household. Even if he wasn’t.

Thomas freed his finger. Best not to get to like this child too much, as it would soon be going home to its mother. “My dear, this is someone else’s child. How can we keep it? I must make extensive inquiries to discover the whereabouts of its mother. And when we find her, he must go back to her. You must understand that I’m right.” Seeing the look on her face he relented a little. “But until we find her, you may install the dear little creature in the nursery with Ambrose and make sure it’s…he’s well looked after. I see no harm in that.”