Prologue #3
His Grace, Thomas, Duke of Sherborne, was at home when his wife returned with more than she’d gone out to get.
At forty-one years old he was still a handsome man with just a hint of gray in his perfectly arranged dark hair and no sign of a paunch, for he kept himself very much in trim with plenty of exercise, even when resident in London.
Camilla, still with the baby in her arms but more of its chubby pinkness on show now she was indoors, located him with little trouble in his study, having abandoned the still disapproving Hawkins in the hallway.
Thomas looked up from the book he’d been perusing as she burst through the door and could not help his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline in surprise.
It was quite obvious she was bearing a baby with her.
A baby wrapped in a decidedly grubby shawl.
A baby that had about it the aroma of needing the attentions of a nursery nurse.
“Good heavens, my dear,” he said, without only a hint of mild surprise. “Where did you get that from? Surely not at your dressmaker’s? Are they offering them with every new gown you select?”
“A young woman thrust him into my arms,” Camilla said with a cheerful smile for him, and quite ignoring his sarcasm as she was used to it.
“She refused my offer of assistance but asked me, in French, if I would help her by taking the child. So I did. And then she ran off. I think she was being pursued. Two quite disreputable men might well have been after her. She certainly looked terrified of something.”
Thomas rubbed his chin, something he was wont to do to give himself time to think. “A French young woman, or just one that could speak French?”
Camilla nodded, shifting the baby in her arms so Thomas could get a better look at it.
“Quite definitely a native speaker, although she seemed to understand my English.” She rocked the baby a little and it cooed as though quite content to be with her now instead of the young Frenchwoman.
It possessed large blue eyes and was quite the most attractive baby she’d seen since Ambrose was born.
“And she ran off and left it?” He sounded more surprised than ever.
Camilla nodded. “What could I do but bring him home.” She peered down at the child. “I have a feeling it’s a boy, but have not investigated that far yet.”
Thomas gave a sniff. “I think someone should. It’s a little malodorous, my love. I’ll ring for Woodhouse to fetch Martha.”
He did so, then came back to study the baby a little more closely.
It was indeed, if one disregarded the pong, a very beguiling baby.
Having been very much the sort of father who loved his child, he held out a finger to the baby who promptly grabbed it in its tiny fist and hung on tight.
On the baby’s left wrist was a distinct, light brown birthmark in the shape of a heart.
His eyes widened. “He has an angel’s kiss.”
Camilla nodded, sure this was yet another indication of fate. “Can we keep him?” Not that she would be allowing Thomas to say no, but she liked him to think he was the decision-maker in their household. Even if he wasn’t.
Thomas freed his finger. Best not to get to like this child too much, as it would soon be going home to its mother.
“My dear, this is someone else’s child. How can we keep it?
I must make extensive inquiries to discover the whereabouts of its mother.
And when we find her, he must go back to her.
You must understand that I’m right.” Seeing the look on her face he relented a little.
“But until we find her, you may install the dear little creature in the nursery with Ambrose and make sure it’s…
he’s well looked after. I see no harm in that. ”
He was rewarded by one of his wife’s widest smiles. “Oh, thank you, Thomas. You won’t regret this one bit.”
“Now, let me fetch paper and a pen, and you can give me a description of the mother. I’ll employ a private inquiry agent, and we’ll have the little chap back with his mama in no time.
” Missing the look of rebellion in his wife’s eyes as he turned to his desk, he picked up a pencil and paper. “Tell me. What did she look like?”
Camilla looked back down at the baby and made her second fateful decision of the day. “Quite old, with hair already going gray. Short, bad-tempered looking. Ugly. I really think she didn’t want to keep the baby.”
She watched Thomas write this down, her conscience eased by the comforting thought that she would be giving this child a far better home than the frightened Frenchwoman could have, even if she was his real mother.
Those awful men, she reasoned, might even have killed the child if they’d caught the mother.
She had no way of knowing how right she was, though.
Woodhouse, the butler, arrived in response to Thomas’s tugging on the bell. “You rang, Your Grace?”
Camilla shook her head. “No need to call Martha. I shall carry this little darling upstairs to the nursery myself and introduce him to Ambrose. He’ll be delighted to have a new little brother to play with. I think we’ll call him Gabriel, because of his angel’s kiss.”
“He’s not—” began Thomas, but his wife had already gone. He sighed. “Staying.”