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There was no hesitation from her fierce and loyal companion. The duke turned around and disappeared into his mansion. Verity lurched to her feet, and instantly groaned at the sharp cramp which shot through her hips and legs. A slight panic gripped her chest.
“He took little Thomas,” Artie said, appearing stunned and a bit lost. Then he darted away, running after the note that danced to the tune of the wind. He caught it and brought it over to Verity. With trembling fingers, she opened it.
He is your problem now.
She recognized her sister’s handwriting, and a tortured sound escaped Verity. Catherine had called her own sweet baby a problem and discarded him as if he were trash, on the doorstep of a duke.
“I’ve never seen you cry,” Artie softly said.
It was then she realized hot tears coursed down her cheeks. Verity furiously swiped away the telling weakness. Little Thomas was her nephew, her family, a baby she had been caring for since he had existed in Catherine’s womb. It was Verity who had seen him first, who had held him when he took his first cry, as Catherine had fainted from exhaustion. Verity had bathed him for the past year and three months; she had read to him at nights when he woke the small cottage with his mighty and beautiful bellow. It was only Verity who had loved and cared for him with her whole heart. Catherine had always been an indifferent mother, but there were lovely times when she had shown that she loved him in the way she smiled at him and kissed his brows and inhaled his baby scent. But there had always been pain and sadness in her smile, and the melancholy she had fallen into after birthing Thomas had never left.
Still, Verity never thought Catherine would have taken Thomas from his home, from those who loved him and left him with a stranger. Verity glanced down at the note once more, sorrow slapping her body with harsh pounds. It hurt. Everywhere. Catherine had not even referred to little Thomas by name and listed out what he enjoyed, like taking long baths while Verity sang and played with him.
He is your problem now.
“Artie,” she said hoarsely.
“Yes, Verity?”
“We are not leaving without little Thomas.”
Artie lifted his chin and squared his bony shoulders. “Wot is the plan? I carried me dagger.”
So loyal and brave. Verity wanted to hug him; instead, she ruffled his ginger hair. At ten years of age, he already fancied himself a man. “Perhaps we should ring the doorbell first. Then if we meet a wall, we might bring out the dagger,” she said with a teasing smile.
Artie was a fighter, and that was the reason he had survived harsh winters and life until she had stumbled upon him stealing from their small gardens. Despite Catherine’s worry, he might rob them of the little they owned, Verity had taken Artie in their lives and her heart. She had not regretted it once. He was her brother.
“Wot are we going to do?”
“It is very simple, Artie. Little Thomas does not belong to the duke. I will ask him for my nephew, and he shall hand him over.”
“Wot if he says no?”
“He has no reason to,” Verity said staunchly.
He had no reason to take him up either. She shrugged aside that worrying thought. The duke was a human being, and it was a kindness not previously attributed to him that he had taken up the baby. That was it, a simple kindness. There was no reason for her to fret so. Still, her belly quivered, and nerves rioted inside. Smoothing down the skirts of her gown and hating that the hem had been muddied, Verity squared her shoulders and marched from behind the large willow tree toward the forecourt of the imposing mansion.
