His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(79)
“I promise, cross my heart, that I will come back,” Hessian said, coming around the rear of the coach. “You must promise me that you’ll not have so much fun at Uncle Worth’s that you disdain to rejoin my household.”
Daisy squeezed Hessian tightly around the neck. “Uncle Worth is nice, but you’re my…” Little brows drew down.
Hessian kissed her forehead. “Precisely, I am yours to keep, forever. Worth, take the best care of my Daisy. No stuffing her with sweets or choosing a pony for her so she’ll like you better.”
Worth took the child from his brother. “Not even one pony?” Because that was what he must say to keep himself from bursting into tears.
The footman Kendall made another graceful leap over the garden gate, a tied bundle in his hand. “I’m ready, my lord!”
“So one observes,” Hessian said. “Up you go.”
The coach rocked as Kendall climbed up to the box, and the horses, knowing well what a boarding passenger presaged, shifted in the traces.
“Worth,” Hessian said, pulling on his gloves, “you will take as good care of my Daisy as you would of your own dear child. If you must buy her a pony, it shall be the handsomest, sweetest, best-behaved pony in the realm. Do I make myself clear?”
For the first time in years, yes. The real Hessian Kettering was coming clear to his own brother. Greater love hath no man, than he who will cede to another the pleasure of buying a girl her first pony.
“I understand completely, your lordship. Daisy, shall we wave the coach on its way?”
She rested her head against Worth’s shoulder. “He promised. He can go now. I will name my pony Grampion.”
Hessian brushed a kiss to the child’s cheek, smacked Worth on the arm, and climbed into the coach. “That is the best name a pony could ever have,” he said, peering down through the window. “My love stays with you, Daisy. Remind Uncle Worth to open the bedroom curtains at night.”
He blew the child a kiss—when did Hessian start blowing anybody kisses?—and the groom raised the steps and closed the door.
Worth retreated a few feet, the coachman gave the command to walk on, and the coach rolled down the alley at a sedate—unremarkable—pace.
“I miss him,” Daisy said. “Will he really come back?”
Don’t cheer her up, Hessian had said. Admit that her sadness is appropriate and then distract her from it. Had Hessian’s own grief and sadness taught him that strategy?
“He will absolutely come back, or you and I and Auntie Jacaranda will collect your friend Miss Lily and trot up to Scotland to fetch him home.” As plans went, that was a pale sketch compared to the field orders, lists, maps, and calendars Hessian had put together on very short notice.
No matter. Worth’s plan was sincere and sound, and he had two weeks to talk his wife into it.
“Would you like some breakfast?” he asked. “I could use a serving of toast and chocolate.”
“I’m supposed to make you take me to look at ponies,” Daisy said. “This will cheer you up. His lordship said.”
The coach turned onto the street at the end of the alley.
Godspeed, Brother. “One never shops for ponies on an empty stomach or in one’s nightgown. Are you packed for your visit with me and Aunt Jacaranda?”
“Do you still miss him? I still miss him.”
“Yes, Daisy. I still miss him.” And will every minute for the next two weeks. Doubtless, only Lily Ferguson is missing him more.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
Hessian’s schedule was rooted in common sense: Lily was to walk in the park before noon, when Oscar would still be abed. If the weather was foul, she would alternate outings to Gunter’s or the toy shop at the same hour, and on Sundays, she’d contrive to visit with Jacaranda after services at St. George’s. If all else failed, she could ride in the park at dawn and be assured of crossing paths with the Earl of Rosecroft.
Every day, she’d have at least one opportunity to communicate with an ally, or to flee Walter Leggett’s household temporarily—or permanently. Worth Kettering had a coach in readiness to take her to Dover should desperate measures be called for.
In the past week, Lily had been to services once, the park three times, the tea shop twice, and the toy shop once.
She was once again taking the air in the park, a maid trailing behind. The maid alone would not have sufficed as a chaperone, but Jacaranda Kettering waited on a bench not thirty yards away.
She was a striking woman, statuesque and sturdy. “You are punctual,” she said as Lily took a seat on the same bench. “A commendable trait.”
“Uncle expects it of me.” Along with perfect manners and unfailing obedience.
Jacaranda’s gaze turned to her husband, who had taken the baby for a stroll along a path fronting the Serpentine.
“You expect punctuality of yourself,” she said. “How are you?”
Hessian had asked Lily that same question, once upon a time. From Jacaranda, the query was leave to recite a report, not an invitation for Lily to unburden herself.
“The earl’s calendar helps,” Lily said, something of a revelation. “I usually resent being told what to do, where to go, when to dress for what outing, but this is my agenda, not my uncle’s. When I rise in the morning, I’m focused on an objective of my own. I am not some gormless private in the military, waiting to be told on which battlefield I’ll dodge bullets.”