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“My?” he prompted.
“Heathen child,” she spat out.
Logan took a step forward, but a sharp tug on his sleeve brought him up short. Joseph had slipped from his chair and now clutched his arm.
“Papa, please don’t,” he whispered.
Truthfully, Logan hadn’t been sure what he was going to do, consumed by the anger roaring through him and the pain of seeing his son’s pale, anguished face. He wanted to make the world safe for Joseph, to shield the lad from those who hated him simply for who he was.
And he hadn’t a damn clue how to do that.
“Joseph, please come sit by me,” Donella said, reaching over to take the boy’s hand. She glanced up at Logan. “Mr. Kendrick, your tea is getting cold.”
Her challenging gaze silently urged him to step back from the brink—to think of Joseph before his guilt-fueled anger.
He mustered a smile as brittle as thinning ice and patted his son on the head. “Aye, go sit with Donella, lad.”
Logan resumed his seat and forced himself to take a gulp of his tepid tea. Donella laid Joseph’s serviette across his lap, all the while talking soothing, cheerful nonsense. He barely heard the words, too busy watching his son.
When Joseph refused to meet his gaze, Logan’s heart plummeted right through his heels and drilled into the floor. What a cock-up he’d made of things—again. Only Donella’s quick action had saved him from doing something monumentally stupid.
The waiter approached their table, nervously smoothing his hands over his starched apron. “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”
“Just the bill, thank you.”
With alacrity, the man returned with the receipt. Logan paid, then rose to usher Donella and Joseph out.
“Joseph, go with your father,” Donella said. “I’ll follow you in a moment.”
When Logan frowned, she simply gave him a bland smile. He took Joseph’s hand, taking care to keep him well to the other side as they passed near Mrs. Ferguson’s table. When the old shrew cast Logan a triumphant smile, he had to throttle back on the overwhelming desire to dump the contents of the teapot over her head, especially after he heard Joseph quietly sniff.
While he’d had worse moments in his life, ones of tragedy and despair, this incident brought out a deep, quiet sorrow. It was as if something small but precious had been snuffed out before it truly got a chance to grow.
A tremendous crash sounded behind them, followed by outraged shrieks.
Holding fast to Joseph, Logan turned to find Mrs. Ferguson and her companions wearing the contents of their tea service. Mrs. Ferguson’s bodice was particularly drenched, but all three women sported bits of cakes, tarts, and creams down the fronts of their gowns. Broken plates and teacups were strewn about the floor in a thorough mess.
Donella looked only mildly regretful as she surveyed the wreckage.
She righted the small table, which had apparently toppled dead-on into Mrs. Ferguson’s lap. “Dear me, what a dreadful mess. However did that happen?”
Mrs. Ferguson, dripping both outrage and clotted cream, heaved to her feet. “You deliberately tipped the table onto my lap. I saw you do it.”
Donella pressed a neatly gloved hand to her chest. “Surely not. That would be aterriblyrude thing to do to someone. Rather like calling them horrible names.”
Mrs. Ferguson swelled up like a turkey as she glared at Donella. Logan expected her to begin gobbling like a turkey, too. At the moment, however, she seemed too furious to get another word out.
Their waiter bolted back into the room, gaping in dismay at the level of damage.
Logan snagged him by the elbow. “I’ll pay for the damage,” he quietly said. “And a little extra, if you can minimize the fuss.”
The waiter shot him a sharp glance, then winced when one of Mrs. Ferguson’s companions let out another shriek.
“Raspberry jam stains on my best pelisse,” she wailed. “And I just bought it the other day. It wasfrightfullyexpensive.”
Logan and the waiter exchanged another glance.
“Sendallthe bills straight to me at Kendrick House,” Logan said.
