“You’re leaving London?”

This did seem to occasion surprise. “My husband has asked it of me, so yes.”

A shaft of anger accompanied those words, and yet, Percival had asked it of her, he hadn’t ordered her to go.

Mrs. St. Just squared her shoulders, which let Esther realize she and this woman were the same height—and what metaphor did that speak to? “Then you can take Devlin with you.”

And this was cause for surprise all around, because Mrs. St. Just seemed as startled by her own pronouncement as Esther was.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You either take him with you, or I’ll approach his lordship in public and make the same request. I’ll demand money. I’ll let all and sundry know Moreland’s spare has a son on the wrong side of the blanket.”

The woman was daring herself to do these things. Esther heard that in her tone and saw it in the wild uncertainty in her eyes.

“Sit down, Mrs. St. Just.” Esther managed to settle onto a sofa with no little dignity, which was at complete variance with the wobbling of her knees. “What are you saying? That you’d expose your son to avoidable scandal? That you’d disgrace yourself and embarrass my husband over a bit of coin?”

The woman got herself to a chair, but half fell onto it, as if blind with drink or great emotion. “I’m saying that, yes. Devlin’s father has obligations to him. Nobody would argue that.”

No they would not, though despite those obligations, despite the cold hearth and her obvious need, Mrs. St. Just had yet to inform Devlin’s father he even had a son.

“When was the last time you ate, Mrs. St. Just?”

She shook her head.

“I gave you a bracelet, and that bracelet should have bought a load of coal and put food in your pantry.” Esther let a bit of ire—ire for the boy—infuse her tone.

“That money is for Devlin. Where he sleeps, we keep a fire, and there’s food enough for him. I bought him a coat too, because he’s growing so quickly…”

She closed her eyes and stopped speaking. Esther watched in horror as a tear trickled down the woman’s cheek.

“Here.” Esther reached into her reticule and withdrew a shiny red apple, one of the many weapons a mother would arm herself with prior to a coach journey with children. “Eat this. Eat it right now, and we will talk about your son… about Devlin.”

And they talked, mostly about the boy. Esther let Kathleen be the one to fetch him, the one to explain that he’d be staying “for a time” with the chocolate lady and that he was to be a good boy when he met his papa.

“Papa has the horses.” To the little fellow, this was a point in Papa’s favor.

“He does,” Esther said, “and we’ve a cat too, though I’m not supposed to know she sleeps in the nursery when she’s done hunting in the mews.”

From his perch on his mother’s lap, young Devlin assayed a charming and all-too-familiar smile. “I like cats. Cats like to play.”

“They do. Tomcats in particular are fond of their diversions.” Esther rose, wanting abruptly to get on with her day and all the drama it was likely to hold. She did not doubt that she had made the right decision, though it would by no means be an easy decision to live with—for any of them. “Shall we be on our way?”

She did not reach for the child. Mrs. Just hugged him, whispered something in his ear, and let him scramble to his feet. He parted from his mother easily, secure the way every child should be secure in the idea that his mama would always be a part of his life.

Mrs. St Just rose slowly. “Fetch your new coat, Devlin, and then come right back here.”

He pelted off, his footsteps sounding to Esther exactly like Bart’s and Gayle’s… like his brothers’.

“Your ladyship is wrong about something.”

Esther regarded the other woman, seeing weariness and sadness but also peace in her gaze. “I think you are making the best decision for your son,” Esther began. “And I will of course write to you, as promised, though I wish you’d agree to write back to him.”

“A clean break is better. I don’t want him to miss me. That’s not what you’re wrong about.”

“You will enlighten me?” The defensive note was unbecoming, if understandable.

“Your husband, his lordship… he loves you. He is not disporting with anybody, though I’ll grant you the man is an accomplished flirt.”

This, from Percival’s former mistress?

Esther jerked her mittens out of her pockets. “Mrs. St. Just, a certain sympathy of feeling between us as mothers of small boys is not an invitation for you to presume in any manner—”

A thin, cold hand touched Esther’s knuckles. “He loves you. He told me so in the king’s English when he came here to ask me about your ailments. He was beside himself with worry, risking all manner of talk just to be seen stabling his horse in the mews. He said you were stubborn, but he said it like he admired you for it, and he did not want to be asking the physicians, because they spread gossip.”

Esther abruptly sat back down. “Percival was here?”

“Just the once, and he went no farther than the parlor. He offered help before he left, and I did not… I did not want to take it, but then I realized my pride would not keep Devlin in boots, which was why you found me in your mews.”

The child came banging back into the parlor. “I’m ready. We can pet the horses, right?”

“We can pet every one,” Esther said, wondering where the ability to speak had come from. “Your papa can tell you their names.”

A few beats of silence went by, while Mrs. St. Just hugged her son again. He wiggled free, clearly anxious to make the acquaintance of his papa’s horses.

As they walked with him to the front hallway, Esther had to ask one more question. “What did you tell him—tell his lordship, I mean?”

The question apparently required no explanation. “I told him you were worn out from childbed and pregnancy. You needed red meat and rest, also light activity and a time to repair your health before you carried again. I trust you’re feeling somewhat better?”

“I am.” All the breakfast steaks and misplaced menus made sense, though little else did. “I truly am.”

She felt better still when she realized that presenting Percival with his son would likely generate a minor scandal. People would think they’d quarreled over the boy—which they well might—and pay less attention to the women Percival trifled with in Esther’s absence.

“You won’t be staying at this house,” Percival assured his daughter. “We will find you a nice accommodation and somebody to look after you who takes the job to heart. You’ll like that.”

Though Percival would not like it one bit.

“Why can’t I stay with you?” Little Maggie rode before him through the park like she’d been around horses since birth, which had to be blood telling, because her mother would not have allowed it.

“I wish you could.” He wished it with his whole heart, else how would he know she was safe from her infernal mother? And yet, if she dwelled under his roof, her mother—her legal custodian—would always know where to find her and be able to snatch her back. “This is a small house, and you would not have your own bedroom.”

“I don’t need my own bedroom. Burton used to sleep in my room, when I had a fire.”

“Maggie, you will never want for a fire again, and your soldiers will all have two legs.”

“I like Colonel George. He was very brave about losing his leg.”

She chattered on about the colonel perhaps being considered for a knighthood, though he’d rather be a general. Percival turned Comet into the alley that led to the mews, glad in his bones that Esther had already departed for Morelands. With luck, he could have Maggie situated somewhere not too far away by sundown, and then he and Cecily O’Donnell would come to whatever understandings were necessary to keep the girl safe.