Chapter 24
In Which Flogging, Caning, Brooding, Prats, and Blatherskites Feature; And a Funny Belly Leads to Rumination …
“Hey-ho, steady on, Kinsale. This isn’t the Epsom Derby,” called Marcus, Lord Hartwell.
He was riding one of his horses alongside Phinn’s new phaeton as Phinn bowled along Rotten Row in Hyde Park.
Christopher, who was sitting beside Phinn, was holding onto his sailor hat and laughing with glee, while Tom, seated at the back of the small carriage, was urging Phinn to go faster.
Brutus, sitting between Phinn and Christopher, was grinning his doggy grin as his jowls flapped in the breeze.
“Go on, Lord Kinsale,” Tom cried. “We need to flog Lord ’Artwell. Let’s beat ’im to the end of the Row!”
“Flog me?” rejoined Marcus in mock outrage.
“I’ll have you know, m’laddo, that the only one who’ll get an absolute caning is Lord Kinsale.
Last one to West Carriage Drive is a rotten egg.
” And then the viscount gave his fine bay gelding a nudge with his heels, and man and horse shot off toward the end of the riding path in a flash.
Phinn laughed. There was not a hope in Hades that they’d be able to catch Lord Hartwell.
And there was no way in hell that he’d urge the pair of matched grays pulling his phaeton into anything faster than a brisk trot.
Not if Phinn wanted to live to tell the tale.
Because if Miss Davenport heard that he’d driven his carriage hell-for-leather down Rotten Row with her son and Tom on board, he wouldn’t just receive a flogging.
She’d have his guts for garters, of that there was no doubt.
“Awww, why are you going so slow, Lord Kinsale?” asked Christopher. “I’m not afraid to go faster. My papa used to take me—” The boy broke off and Phinn looked down at him.
“Your-your papa used to take you out in his carriage? Some-something like a phaeton? Or a gig or a dog cart?” Phinn knew he shouldn’t question the boy about his father, but after his encounter with Miss Davenport last night, he couldn’t deny that curiosity was eating away at him about the boy’s sire.
But Christopher wouldn’t be drawn on the subject.
Phinn sighed inwardly. He supposed it really wasn’t any of his business.
He just wanted to make sure that no cur had hurt Mina Davenport.
He had no reason not to believe her assertion that she hadn’t been ill-used by a man.
But still, she had a son and no husband.
And neither Christopher nor his mama would say a word about Christopher’s father.
Deciding he’d best leave sleeping dogs lie, Phinn concentrated on driving his phaeton safely to the end of Rotten Row. He was bone-tired, but he needed this excursion to reinvigorate him after his late night. And to take his mind off a certain governess and her sweet kisses.
Sweet Jaysus, Miss Davenport’s kisses. Unschooled yet totally perfect.
Last night, when Mina Davenport had been in his arms, Phinn’s head had been reeling like he’d downed a full bottle of whisky.
And the astonishing aftereffects of those kisses …
Phinn still couldn’t quite believe that his stammer had utterly vanished, at least temporarily. It was truly astounding.
Magical.
Even though it would pain him, Phinn would keep his promise that last night’s “kissing lesson” would be a once-only occasion. He wouldn’t be that man who pressed Mina Davenport for more than she was willing to give, just for his own selfish pleasure or gain.
He would never, ever hurt her. He’d rather put out his own eyes.
Which was why he’d offered to take the boys off her hands this morning.
In hindsight he should have given Miss Davenport the whole day off.
He was well aware that she hadn’t had a rest day since she’d begun working for him.
And she’d been working day and night. Not only did she teach and take care of Tom and her own son, but she’d also been catering to his needs by providing elocution and etiquette lessons.
The poor woman must be exhausted. When Phinn got back to Kinsale House, he’d make sure that the governess took the rest of the day off to do whatever she liked.
It was the least he could do. Between himself and a housemaid or two—there was a veritable battalion of them at Kinsale House—they’d take good care of Christopher and Tom.
“Crikey! What’s that?” cried Tom, interrupting Phinn’s musings.
The boy’s voice was wreathed in wonder as he stared at the Crystal Palace, a magnificent construction of iron and glass which lay alongside Rotten Row and dominated the southwest end of Hyde Park.
Three times the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, the majestic building housed a spectacular trade show, suitably dubbed the “Great Exhibition.” Whenever Phinn laid eyes on it, he always thought that the sparkling glass edifice resembled a huge mythical creature—a shining dragon perhaps—slumbering in the sun. It truly was an awe-inspiring sight.
“It’s the Crystal Palace,” explained Christopher.
“It’s got ever so many wizard things to see inside.
Pink glass fountains and stuffed giraffes and tigers and a coat made out of poodle fur.
You can even see photographs of the moon!
And over there”—he pointed toward the Serpentine—“are dinosaur statues. Miss Davenport called it a Dinosaur Court.”
“Bleedin’ ’ell,” whispered Tom.
“So you’ve vis-visited the exhibition with your ma—I mean, you visited the ex-exhibition with Miss Davenport?” Phinn asked Christopher.
“Yes, and my godmama, Lady Grenfell,” said the boy. Then his expression changed—grew melancholy. “But she’s in heaven now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to … to hear that, Christopher,” said Phinn gently, even though curiosity began to prick.
The boy’s godmother had been a noblewoman?
But then Christopher did speak with a refined English accent just like his mother.
And he was certainly well educated and au fait with social etiquette.
Even more so than Phinn. It certainly sounded as if Miss Davenport and her son had been very well-connected at some point.
But now she was a Parasol Academy governess …
Phinn wasn’t sure what to make of this new tidbit of intelligence that Christopher had innocently shared about his late godmother. But he wouldn’t press the child for further information lest he cause distress. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He understood loss and grief all too well.
Aloud he said, “I-I haven’t been inside the Crystal Palace, but I think that’s something we-we should all do together. And soon, before … before it ends next month.”
“Cor blimey, I would love that,” declared Tom.
“Me too,” agreed Christopher.
“Done,” said Phinn. “I will speak with Miss Davenport about organizing an excursion when … when we return home.” The boys were still chattering excitedly about the prospect of seeing the Crystal Palace exhibition when Phinn steered his phaeton over to Lord Hartwell.
Marcus, who’d well and truly “flogged” them, had already reined in his gelding beneath a large elm tree at the end of Rotten Row.
Marcus dismounted as Phinn helped the boys down from the phaeton. “Well, you lot took your time,” the viscount said with a grin. “I was starting to think I should have brought lunch with me. I could have eaten it while I waited.”
Phinn laughed. “Back … back home, you’d be called a blatherskite,” he said.
“Blatherskite?” Marcus snorted. “Better that than being a slowpoke. My seventeen-year-old sister can drive a phaeton faster than you drive yours, Kinsale. I was about to send out a search party for you.”
Phinn just shook his head and laughed at the good-natured ribbing.
One thing he enjoyed about his interactions with Lord Hartwell was that he never reacted to Phinn’s frequent moments of stammering.
He never had. It made Phinn feel … comfortable.
Like he could be himself. It was the same when Phinn was with Miss Davenport.
Well, not exactly the same way. But he felt seen and heard and valued by both of them. And for that he was grateful.
Phinn turned his attention back to Christopher and Tom, who’d started playing a game of fetch with Brutus. The pug was having the time of his life, running pell-mell after a stick from the elm tree. Phinn smirked to himself. Better a stick than a mauve velvet rabbit.
Even though Phinn had told himself that he wouldn’t go digging for information about Mina Davenport and her son, he suddenly found himself asking Marcus, “Do you, by any chance, hap-happen to know of a Lady Grenfell?”
“Grenfell, Grenfell …” Marcus frowned and lightly tapped his riding crop against his thigh. “I can’t say that I do. I could ask around if you like.” He gave Phinn a considering look. “Any particular reason?”
“No, it’s a name … a name I heard recently,” said Phinn. “It’s not in connection with anythin’ specific though.”
Marcus shrugged. “If you say so.”
Phinn cast his gaze toward Rotten Row, watching the passersby. He really should leave well enough alone. Mina Davenport’s history, and the identity of her son’s father, really was none of his business.
If only he could shake off the idea that there was something wrong in her world …
He should really begin ferrying the boys and Brutus back to Belgravia before the crowds in Hyde Park got too thick.
And then Phinn blinked in surprise. But who should be riding past on a fine black steed but the same golden-haired fellow with the distinctive “Sir Walter Raleigh” style mustache and beard that Phinn had spied outside of Hatchards?
The same man who’d apparently startled Miss Davenport.
So much so, she’d tried to hide from him.
Phinn’s “goolies” still contracted painfully at the memory.
“Marcus,” Phinn said in a low voice, “do you see that fair-haired chap ri-ridin’ by on that strappin’ black stallion … Dodo you know him by any chance?”