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“Thank you very much, Mr. Gyfford,” she said, walking into the room. “Just a glass of water would be lovely.”

The room was empty. Blue carpet stretched quietly to the windows overlooking Limpley Stoke’s central square. Henrietta turned around to inquire about the whereabouts of the children’s father, but Mr. Gyfford was bowing to the man who just walked in the door.

< 3 =

The Throes of Grief

Her first thought was that he was like a Greek god—the intelligent kind, not the pouty, dissipated type. But if he was a Greek god, he must be the patron of tailors, because he was by far the most elegant man she had ever seen. Rather than wearing dark brown, as most men did while traveling, he wore a double-breasted coat with fawn-colored labels and pale yellow trousers. His boots had a brilliant shine and curved tops unlike those on any boots she’d ever seen. Moreover, his neck cloth was edged in lace and billowed around his neck in a complicated fashion.

His eyes flickered over her rumpled dress, and she thought she saw his nose twitch. Undoubtedly she smelled like sour milk and vomit. The odor was making her stomach turn. But he said nothing, merely shifted his attention to Josie, whose scowling little face was uncannily like to her papa’s, with the same golden brown hair and the same arched brows. He showed no particular dismay at the fact that the little girl had clearly measured her length on the ground. Instead he asked, with an air of mild inquiry, “Did you get so filthy playing in the courtyard, Josie?”

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Henrietta’s smoldering resentment broke into speech. “I find it difficult to believe, sir, that you regularly exhibit as little concern for your own children as you have displayed today. These two children were not playing in the courtyard. Instead, they had made it a fair distance down High Street, having crossed two thoroughfares. And as it is market day in Limpley Stoke, there are moments when I fear for my own life crossing High Street!”

To his credit, he looked somewhat dismayed. “In that case, I am in your debt,” he said, bowing. But his next question made him akin to a devil, in her opinion.

“I gather that is Anabel you’re holding, then?” he asked. Henrietta raised her eyebrows with a look of disdain. “Is it too much to hope that you would recognize your own child?”

“There is no special exertion required,” he pointed out.

“The sad odor that adorns her person identifies her as Anabel. Gyfford, I had no idea that you would be able to locate a suitable nursemaid so quickly, even if she does seem”—he gave Henrietta a lazy smile—“somewhat agitated. I am quite certain that you will be able to keep these creatures in good order, miss. If I might just ask about your former employment?”

Gyfford and Henrietta spoke at the same moment.

“I’m not—”

“She is not a nursemaid,” Gyfford said in horrified tones.

“May I present Lady Henrietta Maclellan, Mr. Darby. Her father was the Earl of Holkham.”

Henrietta narrowed her eyes as Mr. Darby bowed with elegant abandon. She had little interest in further conversation with a dandified fop who didn’t recognize his own children. This polished version of a man was just as inept as the rest of his sex.

The man himself obviously had no idea of his iniquity. “I gather that Anabel expelled her lunch with her usual grace,”

he said, his beautifully shaped nose twitching a bit. “I heartily apologize, Lady Henrietta. And”—he almost looked 20 Eloisa

James

sincere when he said it—“I am grateful that you rescued these two little wanderers. Their nurse was not herself this morning, and I suppose that they escaped while she was in hysterics.” He turned to Gyfford with a charming smile and bowed. “Could you spare a barmaid to accompany us to my aunt’s house?”

Gyfford failed to shut the door in his hurry to do Mr. Darby’s bidding, so Darby did so himself. He seemed to move with a kind of leashed elegance, like a great cat she’d seen in a traveling circus. A prickle of annoyance moved up Henrietta’s spine. It must be so easy to be born like that, with a perfect body, from his lean legs to his long eyelashes. Suddenly she was aware of the hair falling down her back and the stains down her dress. She’d likely never looked worse in her life. But the babe she held reminded her of the truly important issue. Here was a callously neglectful parent. It was up to her to show him the error of his ways. Luckily, ever since she opened the village school, she had ordered every book she could find that offered child-rearing advice.

“A barmaid is unsatisfactory,” she announced. “You must find a proper person to care for your children.”

He turned back to her. “I apologize. Did you say something?”

“You appear ready to hand your children over to any woman who walks into the room. Perhaps this barmaid will be as careless as your previous nurse. Did you know that the woman has been forcing little Anabel to wear wet clothing in a grossly mistaken impression that it would cure her of vomiting? Were you aware of that, sir?”

He blinked at her as if a tree had broken into song. “No, I was not. And I agree with you that it seems unlikely to solve the problem.”

“Children should be treated with kindly intent at all times,” Henrietta said, repeating her favorite line from Rulesand Directions for the Well Ordering and Governing of Chil- Fool for Love

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dren. “Why the noted child-rearing expert, Mr. Batt, says that—”