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“Fallen into the common belief that I’m good for nothing but clothing, Rees?” He said it gently, but there was an edge there. Henrietta could just imagine the look in Darby’s eyes.

“Don’t be an ass,” Rees snapped back. “I think you are exactly what you’ve appeared to be since we were both in short-coats. A dandified nib with a pretty face and a prettier way with the rapier. Don’t tell me you’ve been making music on the ’Change? I would have heard about it.”

“The lace, Rees, the lace.”

“I thought the lace was nought more than a hobby. And didn’t you import most of that from France? Must be impossible these days.”

“Since the war cut off supplies from France, I’ve become the foremost importer of lace from Belgium. In the last five years, I’ve extended my reach. I own Madame Franchon’s on Bond Street. Madame de Lac’s in Lumley—”

“Franchon’s,” he interrupted. “You own that place that sells lingerie? Purveyed your lace cuffs into a fortune, have you?”

“Precisely.”

“Hell, the way women spend money on clothes, you must be worth more than I am. You, the very glass of fashion, dabbling in trade.”

“Money would have naught to do with my decision to marry,” Darby said, and silence fell in the library. 228 Eloisa

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Esme had looked at Henrietta, eyes alight with laughter.

“Rees is probably contemplating murder, merely to save Darby from himself,” she whispered. “Lord, but the man hates marriage!”

“I don’t think Darby thinks much more of it,” Henrietta had mumbled.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Esme had replied. But Henrietta knew the truth of it. Darby was getting a bad bargain in this marriage. No children. And no money, because he didn’t need it. Approximately fourteen times a day Henrietta resolved to write Darby a letter and break off their engagement, if one could call it that.

And fourteen times she changed her mind, metaphorically bared her teeth at the future, and thought: I will take what I want. It’s hard enough that I can’t have children; I deserve to have Josie and Anabel. She longed for them with an ache that sank into her very bones. She couldn’t help dreaming of teaching Josie how to read, or singing Anabel a lullaby before she slept. They need me, she told herself. That proved to be a soothing thought. Josie and Anabel did need a mother. And she was quite sure that no one else would love them the way she would, because another woman would likely have children of her own. And then that woman might neglect Josie and Anabel, or favor her own children over them.

The very thought made Henrietta shudder. Having been lucky enough to grow up with a loving stepmother didn’t blind her to the possibilities.

She went every day to Esme’s nursery and played with the girls. Anabel was a perfect cherub, always toddling around with her arms stretched out for a hug.

Josie was not a cherub by even the most generous assessment, but she was interesting. She divided the day between Fool for Love

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screaming tantrums and playing with the tin soldiers that had belonged to Esme’s brother.

The problem was that while Josie and Anabel needed a mother, Henrietta herself was beginning to lose confidence in her own mothering abilities. Oh, she hadn’t thrown any more water on Josie. But that wasn’t saying that she hadn’t had the impulse. She had. And it was a terrible thing to contemplate. Would Josie be better with a different mother?

Esme’s nanny had a placid way of simply patting Josie on the shoulder whenever she started shrieking, and saying, “I’ll speak to you when you feel a wee bit calmer, my duckling.”

Henrietta tried to copy her. But she could feel her teeth starting to clench whenever Josie broke into the “I’m a little motherless girl” routine. What if she actually turned out to be a bad mother to Josie?

She frantically leafed through Bartholomew Batt’s advice about governing children in their younger years, but it was disconcerting to find how useless his advice seemed to be in the face of Josie’s tantrums. Who cared if Mr. Batt believed that wet nurses had a tendency to drink too much, thereby passing on alcoholic tendencies to children? She wasn’t nursing Josie, but spending time with her was likely to drive her to drink. Josie did like it when she told fairy stories. Perhaps it was just a matter of their growing accustomed to each other. On the fifth afternoon following the dinner party, Henrietta was seated on a short stool, surrounded by tin soldiers in battalions, trying to fight off the excursions of an enemy spy who kept sneaking over the battlements (her skirts) and attacking her troops, when Darby walked into the room. He was wearing a single-breasted sage-colored morning coat with double-gilt buttons, and his pantaloons were of a pale, clinging fawn. His waistcoat was of dark green striped silk, and he was carrying an amber-headed cane that was the precise color of his pantaloons.

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Josie leaped up and shrieked, “Simon!” She dashed across the nursery. Darby looked enormously relieved and gratified as she skidded to a halt a mere inch from his pantaloons.

“Thank you very much, Josie,” he said, stooping down. “I appreciate your forbearance.”

She scowled, not seeming to know what to do next. With a sigh, Darby reached down and scooped her up, carefully avoiding his pale trousers. His sister seemed to be taller than she had been last week, if that was possible. A lanky leg dangled in front of him, one little pointed boot dangerously close to his crotch. She stared directly into his eyes in a most disconcerting fashion. “You’re my brother Simon,” she announced.

“We are both aware of that.” Darby looked over at Henrietta. Why wasn’t she coming to rescue him? What was he doing, holding a child? He disliked children. In fact, what was he doing in the nursery?