She did not lower her gaze at this question. She smiled instead. ‘Indeed? Do gentlemen discuss such matters?’
He narrowed his eyes, ‘Was it you whom my wife met with Devlin—Lord Devlin?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘Yes, my lord. She kindly spoke to me.’
He ought to wring Devlin’s bloody neck. How dare he put Serena in such a position, to speak to one such as this Miss England? He glared at her.
But at the moment she looked more like a timid young girl, nervous and uncertain. It was difficult to maintain his anger.
‘May I be excused, my lord?’ Her cheekiness had fled, at least. He wished to ask more questions, but could think of none.
‘Deddy?’ A small voice sounded from the doorway, and Miss England turned pale.
Ned turned to come face to face with a tiny child, no more than a baby, rubbing her eyes and yawning.
The very image of his brother.
N ed stared at the child, a doll-like little girl who clutched a wooden horse in her hand. Even the toy was like one Devlin had carried with him at that age. She had blue eyes instead of green. Even so, this little girl was a female version of Devlin twenty-five years ago. The child stole a wary glance at him and ran to Miss England, who scooped her up in her arms.
‘I want Deddy,’ the child said.
Miss England flushed.
‘Daddy?’ Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.
The young woman blinked rapidly.
‘The child’s word for papa?’ Perhaps the child had picked up the Scottish term from the faithful Bart.
Her eyes darted. ‘No, indeed, for a…a…toy.’ She looked at the girl. ‘Go above stairs now, sweetling. Mama will be up directly.’
The child flung her little arms around Miss England’s neck. ‘No!’
Ned remembered that feeling. Chubby arms clasping his neck, the awesome knowledge that such devotion could be directed at him. His littlest brother, following him everywhere when he was home on school holiday. Worshipping him. Needing him.
‘She is Devlin’s child.’ He did not ask.
A panicked look flashed across Miss England’s face. She recovered quickly, meeting his eye. ‘She is my child.’
Her child? She looked barely old enough.
The little girl studied him with wide lash-fringed eyes. ‘Who zat, Mama?’
‘He is the Marquess,’ she responded.
His title would mean nothing to the child. But it would warm his heart if he again heard a childish voice call him Ned.
The little girl squirmed and her mother set her down.
Ned squatted to the child. ‘And what is your name?’
‘Winette,’ the shy little voice said, a thumb popping into her mouth.
‘Winette?’ He looked to Miss England.
‘Linette,’ she said.
Ned smiled at the child. ‘That is a splendid horse you have, Linette. May I see it?’
Linette thrust the hand holding the horse in Ned’s face.
‘A splendid horse, indeed. Does your horse have a name?’
She released her thumb. ‘Deddy’s horse.’
Ned glanced at Miss England. Her hand had flown to her mouth. With a halting gesture, he touched Linette’s dark curly hair. His brother used to run to him for comfort, he recalled. Ned would mop up his tears and stroke his hair just like this.
‘Markiss play?’ the little girl asked, cocking her head and batting her eyelashes.
Ned laughed and ruffled the child’s hair, a smile lingering on his lips. Yes, he would like to play again, to sit on the floor and gallop a wooden horse.
He stood instead. ‘I shall take my leave, Miss England. Please tell my brother he shall hear from me.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She hurried to fetch his hat and gloves and to open the door for him. The child hovered behind her, and he gave the little girl a final smile as he walked out of the door, his barouche pulling up in front of the house.
Linette ran out the door, pointing. ‘Horse! Horse, Mama!’
Miss England rushed out to grab her. Ned caught the child first and held her until Miss England took her hand. Regretting he had to leave the child, Ned continued towards the barouche. He stopped, a thought interrupting the plan half-formed in his head.
He turned back. ‘Miss England?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Are you married to my brother?’
Surprise flashed across her face and she blushed deep red. ‘No, my lord.’
He continued on his way, climbing onto the barouche and snapping at the rungs while his tiger leapt on to the back.
From an alleyway across the street, black eyes watched the retreating vehicle and glanced back at the mother and child re-entering the house.
What was meant by that tender scene? Lord Farley wondered. The Marquess of Heronvale going all mawkish over Madeleine’s child? Perhaps the man’s fancy ran toward young ones. Rumour said he had no fancy for his ice-maiden wife.
Farley tried to calculate what small fortune a marquess might spend for the rare chance to dally with such a child. He rubbed his hands at the thought.
Perhaps he should have sold the child to settle his debts instead of giving up Madeleine. Madeleine had become so much more difficult since the child was born. He should have got rid of it straight away.
Cursed chit—Madeleine had vowed to slit her own throat if he so much as touched the child, and he’d decided to keep her happy. He’d counted upon her being grateful enough to come willingly to him, like the first time when she’d been flushed with delight. That was what he desired again.
Farley leaned against the lamppost. He removed a pinch of snuff from its box and inhaled it. After a spasm of sneezing, he glanced back at the door she’d walked through, recalling the sway of her hips. She was made for seduction. If ever there was a woman created for passion, it was Madeleine.
So why did she withhold that passion from him? It enraged him. He thought he’d taught her a lesson when he forced her to become the bribe in his crooked games. He’d intended to offer her only a few times, but she’d made him a tidy profit. Men would come to his establishment every night, hoping to win time with her, especially if he offered her only every now and then. Then they returned often, losing more blunt each time.
While she was fat with child she’d earned him nothing. If he’d been in London he’d have dealt with her before it had grown too big to get rid of, but one did not refuse an emperor’s summons or, to be more accurate, one from an emperor’s emissary. Not when the emperor paid well for information gleaned from brandy-loosened tongues and gentlemen desperate to settle gambling debts.
He should have taken her to France with him, but that night before he left she’d angered him, and it had suited him well enough not to set eyes on her for a while. Besides, she’d become something of a patriot. More than once he discovered her poring over newspapers filled with stories about the war. If she had discovered his business dealings with Napoleon, she might have been stupid enough to pass the word to some fool willing to put country above fortune.
Stepping out of the alley onto the pavement, Farley gazed once more at