Page 27 of Better Than a Duke
Beckett grinned. “If Mrs. Silbern is joining us, then I leave you to compose rhymes. If she isn’t, though, I would like another set of eyes on the two of them. The idea of being outnumbered gives me the shivers.”
With a bob and a smile the governess walked past him into the house. “I admire the way children become bosom friends so easily. I suppose it’s because they don’t care about politics or property. It’s enough if they both enjoy painting birds and talking about horses. And in this instance, each has but one parent. Perhaps that’s what it is.”
“Whatever it is, it’s come at a good time for both of them.” He followed her into the house.
Iris had mentioned that there were days she’d made weak soup for dinner. She’d done the cooking, then, or at least some of it. Her husband had been a second son, with no title or properties that he knew of. As challenging as raising Rebecca could be, he couldn’t imagine doing so while worried over their next meal. And yet Edmund was good-natured and well-mannered, if a bit over-serious. Iris Silbern, on the other hand, was a tempest. One with every right to be defensive, short-tempered, and sharp-tongued. Remarkable that her circumstances hadn’t beaten her down, really.
“Brubbie, we must go!” Rebecca yelled from the front of the house.
“Oh dear.” The governess handed the flowers and detritus over to a junior footman and gathered her skirts. “Thank you, George. On my way, Lady Becks.”
Beckett made his way outside behind the females and stepped into the barouche to await their return. His head groom had written notes about some of the animals going up for auction today at Tattersall’s, and Beckett pulled them out to look over them again. There was no guarantee that any of these half dozen ponies would still be available, but he had the heights and weights and ages, and knew more than enough about horseflesh to choose similar animals if that became necessary.
“They’re both coming!” Rebecca announced, bouncing up beside the low-slung carriage. “What’s that?”
He flapped the paper at her. “I told you, I have an errand. It’s a lovely day, and I thought you and your friend and your friend’s mother might wish to accompany me.”
“It is a lovely day.” She climbed into the barouche and plunked herself down beside him. “I tried singing this morning, and I don’t think the orange slice permanently damaged my throat.”
“Those of us who adore your singing are thrilled,” he said, attempting to drive the image of Rebecca silent and grabbing at her throat yesterday, her face going blue as she choked, from his mind. Thank God she hadn’t been in that room alone. Thank God for Lady Pauline Grenedy. He should have proposed to her the moment Rebecca was secured. He would have, if the thought had crossed his mind—which for some reason it hadn’t until now.
“Good morning,” Edmund said, clambering into the barouche to sit opposite Rebecca. “How’s your throat?”
She patted her neck. “Much better.”
“Good.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling well today, Lady Becks,” Iris Silbern said, allowing Butler to help her into the carriage. “Most young ladies would be overset for days.”
“Oh, yes. Being overset is a great deal of trouble, though. Thankfully, I recover very quickly. Brubbie says I’m made of iron.”
Iris’s mouth quirked as she sat down facing Beckett. “A handy thing to be, especially during high winds.”
Rebecca laughed. “Everyone would have to hold on to me to keep from being blown away!”
“If you were a princess, you could demand your weight in gold from your suitors, and you’d be rich,” Edmund suggested, leaning his chin on his arms on the carriage’s low frame as they rolled into the street.
“But my husband could never carry me over the threshold.He’d have to drag me.” Beckett’s daughter snorted. “It would be fun.”
“Where are we going, Lord Hentrose?” Edmund asked, glancing at the marquis.
“An errand,” Beckett answered.
“Is the errand going by the Tower? I want to see where King Richard had the princes murdered.”
“I’m afraid the errand is in the opposite direction, Edmund.”
“Oh, could we guess, then?” Rebecca asked, imitating Edmund and leaning her arms and chin on the side of the barouche.
Beckett glanced at Iris, who smiled. The odds were that one or the other of them would figure it out before they arrived, but it was a thankfully short drive. “You may. I’ll only give you… eight guesses, though.”
“Is it to the House of Lords?”
“Becks, don’t blurt things out. We only have eight guesses,” Edmund said, shifting over to sit beside Rebecca.
Beckett likewise shifted his seat to the one beside Iris, giving the children room to plot. “Seven guesses, now. No, it is not the House of Lords.”
“He said it was an errand,” Rebecca whispered. “So I thought either the House of Lords, or… a bank? A solicitor?” She jabbed a finger at her father. “Those aren’t guesses. Not yet.”
