Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(33)

Henry bared his teeth. “The hell she is.”

The earl scowled. “Now look, boy.”

“Oh, but…but I can’t marry him,” Cecilia—the real Cecilia—said. “I’m already married.”

All heads turned to her.

She smiled shakily and linked her arm with that of the young man who had stood with her this entire time. “To Hubert. Hubert Waffling. We were married just this last spring.”

The marchioness’s eyes narrowed.

Waffling spoke suddenly—perhaps to forestall any idea the marchioness might have of replacing him. “And she’s with child.” He looked down at his wife, stark love emblazoned on his rather plain face. “Our child.”

The Earl of Keating stood, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he glared at Henry. “Then Lady Joanna. You’ll marry the sister.”

Joanna abruptly got up and ran from the room. Seymour cast the most hostile look at the earl that Henry could ever remember having seen on his friend’s face and followed her.

Henry looked at his father.

The old man scowled. “Listen to me, boy.”

He couldn’t talk to his father right now without saying something he would regret.

He turned to go to Mary.

But she and Lord and Lady Caire were gone.



It had always been too good to be true, Mary reflected listlessly as the Caire carriage rolled through the London night. She wasn’t a fairy-tale lady, an aristocrat, the daughter of a loving family, Henry’s fiancée.

She was just plain Mary Whitsun, a foundling left on an orphanage step like so much rubbish. It all really had been a dream.

“I think a nice hot cup of tea when we return,” Lady Caire said gently. “I always feel better after a cup of tea.”

Mary was aware that her mistress was looking at her with a worried expression, but she couldn’t seem to find the words to answer her.

Lady Caire took her hand. Mary and she were sitting on the same side of the carriage while Lord Caire was across from them, a silent presence. Beside him was his mother, the elder Lady Caire—a dashing lady nearing seventy.

She said, “Angrove is obviously Mary’s father. She ought to apply to him for support.”

“Oh,” Mary said. She hadn’t thought about the matter, but now that she did, it was obvious. “I must’ve been left at the home by one of his mistresses.”

The younger Lady Caire squeezed her hand. “Probably, though we may never know for certain.” Her brows drew together. “Do you want to try to make him acknowledge you?”

“No, my lady,” Mary replied at once. Lord Angrove had been a cold man even when he’d thought her his legitimate daughter. She didn’t want to think how he’d be now that it was obvious that she was his bastard.

She might be an impoverished maid, but she had her pride.

The elder Lady Caire cleared her throat delicately. “I’ve thought about repairing to Paris for the winter. Perhaps Mary Whitsun could join me as my companion.”

“That sounds like it might be a lovely plan,” the younger Lady Caire said uncertainly. She glanced at Mary. “Of course you needn’t make a decision right now.”

Lord Caire stirred. “What did Lord Blackwell mean when he accused Fitzgerald of trying to kill you?”

“Oh,” Mary whispered, realizing. “He must’ve been after me all along.”

“What, dear?” the elder Lady Caire asked, leaning forward.

Mary inhaled. “Henry…” She swallowed. A nursemaid shouldn’t call a viscount by his given name. “That is, Lord Blackwell and I were shot at. Twice. My lady’s maid was hit on her arm. She’s still favoring it.” She tried to smile and failed. Lane wasn’t her maid anymore. She was back to being lower on the servant ladder than a lady’s maid. “I thought someone must be trying to kill the viscount, while he was worried for me.” The memory of Henry’s concern almost brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them down. “I suppose Lord Blackwell was right. That man—Mr. Fitzgerald—was trying to kill me. How odd.”

She gave a small shiver at the thought, but really the whole thing was overshadowed by everything else that had happened that night.

The younger Lady Caire shot a worried glance at Lord Caire. “Darling, you should have told us. I’m sure we had no idea living at the Earl of Angrove’s house was so dangerous.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t,” she protested at once. “Lady Angrove was so nice to me, and my sister—” She cut herself off abruptly. Jo wasn’t her sister anymore, was she? “Lady Joanna was very, very sweet,” she finished in a whisper.

Lady Caire wrapped her arm around Mary’s shoulders.

She leaned into Lady Caire’s warmth. Normally she would never ride in a carriage with Lord and Lady Caire. She was the nursemaid. The servant, no matter how kind and loving Lady Caire was to her.

It wouldn’t matter, she tried to tell herself as she blinked back tears. She’d been a servant before, and she could go back to that. She was lucky she had a position to go back to. Many girls in London didn’t.

She was fortunate, really. She had a job and food and a place to lay her head. A kind mistress and lovely children to look after.

It was just that in real life nursemaids didn’t marry the sons of earls. Henry was lost to her forever.