“How much do you want?” When he longed to wring Cecily O’Donnell’s neck, Percival instead affected bored tones.

Cecily rested her fingers on the décolletage of a gown that barely contained her breasts, a gesture intended to call attention to the pink flesh peeking through pale lace just above her nipples.

“This isn’t entirely about money, Percy. This is about what’s due the daughter of a man well placed in Society. I’ve heard you might stand for a seat in the Commons, and with your ambition and social stature, there’s no telling how high you might rise in the government.”

She threatened and flattered with equal guile, though as far as Percival was concerned, her words meant nothing compared to the documents she’d produced. Irrefutable evidence that the girl, Magdalene, could indeed be his daughter.

“Magdalene is a by-blow at best, madam. One you chose to keep from my notice until the moment suited you. Society will remark that and draw conclusions that will not devolve to the girl’s benefit.”

Cecily’s rouged lips compressed, suggesting this line of reasoning had escaped her consideration. “Society will keep its opinions to itself if we’re seen in company often enough.”

“No.”

The word slipped out with too much conviction, such that even Cecily couldn’t hide her reaction.

“You are not in a position to dictate terms to me, Percival Windham. I spread my legs at your request, and you will honor the resulting obligations.”

“I will never rise in government, will never even take a seat in the Commons if you’re seen hanging on my arm. His Majesty takes a dim of view of licentiousness, as does his queen.”

Cecily rose from her sofa on a rustle of skirts and marched up to Percival, her heeled slippers making her almost of a height with him. “Then you won’t take that seat. I’ve provided for this child every day of her life, seen her clothed, fed, educated, and disciplined. You will not turn you back on her without losing what reputation you have. I’ll bruit about details of our liaison your own brother will blush to hear.”

The scent of rice powder and bitterness wafted from her person. This close, Percival could see the fine lines radiating from her eyes, the grooves starting around her smile. He turned away and fixed his gaze on the clock that graced her mantel.

Esther was tired, her stamina and energy stolen by successive births. Cecily O’Donnell had given up her youth and her coin to nights at the theater, high fashion, and a succession of lucrative liaisons. Percival watched the hand of the clock move forward by a single minute and realized he could not leave the child in Cecily O’Donnell’s keeping. If a woman was to end up exhausted, worn out, and much in need of cosseting, then it should be because she’d sacrificed much to her children, and not to her own vanity.

And as for a seat in the Commons? Esther had not been enthusiastic about such a prospect. Percival tossed that ambition aside between one tick of the clock and the next.

He shifted his gaze to Cecily’s face. “I shall visit with my daughter now.”

Triumph flared in Cecily’s calculating eyes. He’d admitted paternity, though it meant nothing without witnesses. On instinct, Percival whipped open the parlor door to find a footman crouched by the keyhole.

Bloody damn, he’d been stupid. “You, sir, will take me to the nursery, now.”

Cecily sputtered several dire curses then fell into silence, though Percival knew she was merely planning her next series of broadsides.

Leaving the woman to sip her tea and plot his downfall, Percival went on reconnaissance through the upper reaches of the house. What he found disappointed more than it surprised. At the head of the stairs, Cecily’s bedroom was still a temple to elegant indulgence. The bed hangings, curtains, and pillows were all done in matching shades of soft green brocade, and a single white rose graced the night table. Beyond the bedroom, the house grew increasingly chilly, and on the third floor, there was not a carpet to be found.

The footman knocked on the nursery door, which was opened by the child herself.

“Hullo.”

Percival glowered at the footman. “Leave us.”

The man withdrew, looking unabashedly relieved.

“May I come in?”

She drew the door back, revealing a room made sunny—also downright cold—by the lack of curtains across the windows. In the middle of the bare floor sat a worn mess of fabric, yarn, and stuffing that might once have been a doll, along with five wooden soldiers, one of whom was missing part of a leg.

The grate held no fire.

“I was taking tea with the regimental officers. Would you like to join us?”

He’d freeze if he spent much time in this room. Maggie did not seem aware of the cold. Her braids were ratty, her short dress stained at the hem, and her pinafore fastened with a knot rather than bow at the back.

“Tea would be lovely.” He loathed the stuff.

Maggie took him by the hand—her little fingers were like ice—and drew him into the room. “I will make the introductions. You may sit there.” She settled onto the floor with a fluffing of her pinafore and dress that bore a disquieting resemblance to her mother’s pretentious manners. Percival lowered himself across from her, haunted by the memory of visits with his boys in their cozy, carpeted nursery—a room full of books, toys, and comforts.

While Percival felt despair clutching ever more tightly at his heart, little Maggie spun a fantasy of a polite tea with elegant service, crumpets, servants, and a cozy fire in the grate, which the imaginary footman tended about every two minutes.

When he could tolerate her play no more, Percival interrupted his daughter’s diatribe on whose wig was the most ridiculous at last night’s soiree.

“Maggie, where is your nurse?”

Her gaze narrowed on him, showing displeasure at having to give up her fictional tea party. “I haven’t a nurse. Mrs. Anglethorpe is the housekeeper. Burton is our maid of all work, and if Mama wants me, Burton fetches me.”

“Then who dresses you, child?”

Downy little brows twitched down. “I dress myself. I’m not a baby.”

She was not. He knew exactly how old she was, and she was not an infant. She was a handful of months older than Bartholomew.

“Who cares for you, Maggie?”

She studied him with an expression of consternation. “Burton says Mama loves me, but I can take care of myself.”

The despair weighting Percival’s heart threatened to choke him. He could not abandon this child to the care of her mother. He simply could not—his honor would not allow it, and in some way, even his standing as Esther’s husband would not allow it. For a moment, he considered confiding in his wife, but even if Esther were inclined to be understanding, there was nothing she could do to still Cecily O’Donnell’s vile tongue.

Percival rose and shed his jacket. “I want you to have my coat.” He draped it around Maggie’s shoulders. It fell nearly to the floor on her, which was good.

She drew it closed at the lapels and gave it a sniff. “It smells like you, and it’s warm.”

“Exactly the point. When was the last time you ate?”

She glanced at the battered doll and the worn soldiers.

“I mean real food, for God’s sake.” At the exasperation in his tone, her expression shuttered, and that… went beyond causing him despair. No child of her years should have instincts like this, should have circumstances like this while her mother sat two floors below, swathed in lace and warmed by a blazing fire.

“Come with me, Miss Maggie. We’re off to the kitchen.”

When he’d seen the child seated before bread, butter, jam, and hot tea, Percival forced himself to rejoin Cecily in her lair. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him without his coat, but she said nothing until the door was firmly closed behind him.