“You’ve assured yourself the girl is well and hale, and you know she’s yours. If I say you’ll accompany me to the theater tomorrow night, Percival, then accompany me, you shall.”

He hated this woman. Hated her with an intimate, burning passion that was not for himself but for the small child left shivering and alone hour after hour.

He was going to rescue this child, though he must wait until Esther had removed to Morelands to implement that plan. Hatred fueled the most ironically pleasant smile he’d ever manufactured. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Try not to dress like the trollop you are.”

“She didn’t ask how much I wanted, she asked how much I needed.” Kathleen St. Just fell silent rather than try to explain to her son why desperate schemes were rioting through her brain.

Devlin glanced up from where he was laying out playing cards on his mother’s bedspread, this room being the only one with even a meager fire. “The lady who gave me chocolate was nice. The horses were wonderful.”

The deck he was playing with lacked several cards, and try as he might to pair each one with a match, his game was doomed. Being a child, he hadn’t figured this out, and Kathleen wasn’t about to tell him.

“That lady is your papa’s wife. She’s kind.” And for that kindness, Kathleen wanted to hate her, which was of no moment whatsoever. “Also very rich.”

They spoke Gaelic, which was a sign of how tired Kathleen was. Bad enough Devlin was illegitimate, worse yet if he sported a brogue as he got older. “I received another letter from Mr. O’Dea.”

Devlin glanced at her when she switched to English. “Mr. O’Dea lives back home.”

Back home was a place the boy would have little memory of, or so Kathleen hoped. She’d visited only once during Devlin’s short lifetime. “He does. He asked after you.”

Devlin made no reply, remaining focused on his cards. Billy O’Dea always asked after “the boy,” but his sentiments regarding Devlin were one reason why Kathleen hadn’t made any more trips back to Ireland. With the tolerant pragmatism of a man who knew exactly how Kathleen earned her livelihood, Billy—like Kathleen’s own family—believed Devlin’s best chance for a good start in life lay in throwing the boy on his father’s charity, and Billy was not wrong.

He was also not going to offer marriage unless or until Kathleen heeded his advice. On that tired thought, wind rattled the glass and fluttered the curtains, bringing an icy draft into the room.

And winter was only getting started. Kathleen thought of the vile things Gregory Pelham had whispered in her ear as she earned her coin with him like a doxy in his mews, and wanted to retch.

“One day soon, we’re going back to visit your papa’s wife again.”

Devlin turned up a pair of queens and smiled. “Will she give me more chocolate?”

“Yes. She’ll give you more chocolate. As much chocolate as you can drink.”

Without making a sound, Kathleen started to cry.

“Your papa has asked us to return to Morelands. You’ll like that, won’t you?” Esther adopted the cheery tones of a parent bent on deceiving small children, though from the look Bart and Gayle exchanged, she’d failed miserably.

Gayle kicked at the dead leaves on the frozen ground. Bart dropped Esther’s hand and skipped ahead a few steps. “I like the park. If we go home, we can’t play in the park. Papa visits with us more here too. I like when Papa visits.”

Gayle echoed the complaint as they wandered along the Serpentine, cold winter sunlight bouncing off the water in the middle of the lake. Near the shore, ice had once again formed. Esther resisted the urge to find a rock and pitch it hard at the ice, lest the boys complain about missing the Serpentine too.

“Papa will be home at Christmas,” Esther said, “and that’s just a few weeks away.” Though Percival hadn’t promised to return to Morelands at Christmas.

Bart’s face lit up with glee as he pointed at a rider coming down the path on a chestnut stallion. “There’s Papa! Maybe he’ll let me ride home with him!”

Predictably, Gayle planted his mittened fists on his little hips. “That’s not fair! You got to ride with Papa last time, and it’s my turn.”

Percival Windham was so handsome, he nearly took Esther’s breath away. Mounted, he had a sort of rugged elegance that the painted town dandies in their clocked stockings and high heels would never achieve. And yet, that wasn’t why she loved him. She loved him because when he spotted them, he swung off his horse and held out his hands to the boys.

“My first and second lieutenants, scouting the wilds of Hyde Park in search of the general’s beautiful, lost daughter. I see you’ve found the poor, wandering damsel.”

“That’s not a damsel,” Gayle said, grabbing his father’s hand. “That’s Mama.”

“Why so it is.” Percival made her an elaborate bow, likely for the sake of his sons. Esther bobbed a curtsy for the same reason, when she wanted to tear a strip off her handsome, charming, randy husband for no reason in particular.

“Take me up, Papa!” Bart started. “I want to ride on Comet.”

“It’s my turn,” Gayle bellowed over his brother’s pleading.

Percival picked Gayle up and sat him on Comet’s empty saddle, then swung Bart up behind his brother. “Hush, the both of you. If you spook my horse, you’re likely to land in something objectionable, and your mama will not be pleased. Madam?” He winged his arm at her, and Esther felt a lump lodge in her throat.

“My thanks.” She tucked her hand over his arm, while with his free hand, Percival led the horse—now sporting a pair of pirate princes intent on plundering London from the back of their equine ship.

“Are you prepared to leave for Morelands in the morning, Wife?”

No. “Almost. There are a few things that can’t be packed up until shortly before we leave, and things the children will want in the coach.”

“A storybook or two?”

“Several storybooks, their favorite blankets, their soldiers.”

They strolled along, a young family to all appearances indulging the children’s high spirits on a chipper day.

Esther spoke at the same time as her husband, their unison perfect.

“I’ll miss you.”

From Esther’s perspective, they were both speaking the truth, but the missing would be very different for each of them. She would miss her husband with a bodily ache and a heavy heart, and more than a dollop of resentfulness. He would miss her with a passing wistfulness, particularly on the nights when his mistress could not accommodate him.

The thought sent a spike of nausea through Esther’s belly.

“Madam, are you well?”

She’d put her hand over her middle. Behind them, Comet clip-clopped along, and the boys plotted terror on the high seas of Mayfair

“I do not want to return to Morelands, Percival. There is no reason for it.”

He remained silent until they approached the gate that would see them onto Park Lane. Percival paused, the horse coming to a halt behind them.

“Will you go because I ask it of you, Esther? I will join you at Christmas if I have to walk every step of the journey back to you in my bare feet.”

Now was the time to tell him, no, she would not go. She would not so easily let him drift into the liaisons and affairs that eventually attended every titled marriage, save the eccentric few. Now was when she should join battle, except Percival’s eyes held such a grave request, she could not form the words.

She nodded, and they turned out of the park and onto the busy streets of Mayfair.

“You’re not off to the levee this morning, Husband?”

Esther looked tired to Percival, making him wonder if she’d waited up for him. When he’d dragged himself home after an execrable evening at the theater, Esther had been abed, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wake her. His hesitance hadn’t stemmed from consideration for a woman who’d be trapped in a freezing coach with her children all day but rather from guilt.