Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(4)

Mary took off her bonnet and hung it on a hook along with her shawl and then went to her bed and sat on it, smoothing the pale-blue coverlet. Above the bed was a small shelf fastened to the wall. On it was her little collection of books, each carefully saved for and agonized over before being bought.

She folded her hands in her lap.

She had lived in this room since the age of fourteen, when Lady Caire had married Lord Caire. Lady Caire hadn’t been born to the aristocracy—far from it. Prior to her marriage she’d helped manage the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in St Giles. Mary had known Lady Caire all her life. Her earliest memory was of Lady Caire picking her up after Mary had fallen and scraped her palms. Mary had buried her face in Lady Caire’s shoulder, trying to stanch her tears. The older woman had smelled of lavender and baked bread, and Mary had wrapped her arms around Lady Caire’s soft neck and known love.

So when Lady Caire had brought her to Caire House, Mary had been overwhelmed with happiness. She knew very well how lucky she was to find such a good position with a kind mistress—especially since she was an orphan with no family.

Mary sighed and stood, glancing around her simple room. This…this was a good life, and she was content with it. Dreams of living as a lady were nothing but folly—even if they were accompanied by beautiful male dimples.

Nodding to herself, she left her room.

The floor below housed the nursery, and Mary could hear giggling as she walked down the hall.

She came to the nursery room door and peered in, discovering at once the source of the merriment. Lady Caire, usually quite a dignified lady, was on the floor, her brown hair coming undone down the side of her face, her cheeks red with laughter and her two-year-old son perched on her stomach. Beside her, sitting straight-backed on the floor and looking a bit more reserved, was a lady with black hair highlighted by a striking white streak. This was the Duchess of Montgomery—Lady Caire’s sister-in-law. In the duchess’s lap was a delicate little three-year-old girl solemnly watching the proceedings.

Tobias Huntington—better known to his intimates as Toby—caught sight of Mary in the doorway and clapped his hands. “Mimi! Mimi!”

“It’s Mare-ee,” his mother enunciated clearly but obviously without any real hope of being heeded. She sighed and smiled up at Mary. “I do hope he’s not still calling you Mimi in ten years’ time.”

Mary shook her head. “I doubt he will, my lady.”

Toby was now holding his arms in the air and making urgent clasping motions with his pudgy little fingers. Mary walked over and picked him up, inhaling the scent of clean baby as he smooshed his face into her neck.

“Oof,” Lady Caire said, sitting up gingerly. “He may be getting too big to be playing horsey anymore.”

“Although it is rather adorable,” the duchess murmured, bending to place a kiss on her daughter’s wispy blond curls.

Lady Caire smiled at her sister-in-law.

“Mama,” said the sixth person in the room, Annalise Huntington, aged eight, who was curled in a chair with her cat, Lord Sneaky, “I don’t think you should play with Toby that way. It’s not at all proper.”

“No, it certainly isn’t,” said her mother. “But that didn’t seem to bother you when I played horsey with you.”

“I,” said Annalise, sticking her small nose in the air, “am too old for horsey. Only babies like Toby play horsey. Papa says that I have grown so old that soon I may ride a proper horse instead of a silly pony.” She shot her mother a sly look from under her eyelashes.

“Does he?” Lady Caire asked in a rather dark tone that did not bode well for Lord Caire.

The door opened and a beautiful man with golden hair entered.

“Papa!” cried the tiny girl in the duchess’s lap.

Toby twisted so abruptly in Mary’s arms to see the newcomer that Mary nearly dropped him.

“Titania, my fairy queen.” The Duke of Montgomery swept an elaborate bow to the room. “My lady and my darling wife, Master Tobias, Miss Annalise, and, of course, the ever-present Mary Whitsun, I bid you all greetings, felicitations, and a wish for a delightful evening.”

Mary’s lips thinned as the ladies greeted the duke. Here was a prime example of a handsome gentleman one couldn’t trust.

The duke bent and whispered something in the duchess’s ear as he plucked their daughter from his wife’s arms.

Bright pink flooded the duchess’s face. “Val.”

He grinned, unrepentant, at his wife’s stern look, and swung his daughter up onto his shoulders. “Come, Titania, your walnut-shell carriage awaits, drawn by dragonflies and coached by a tiny black beetle. Away will we to dance like dandelion fluff upon the wind!”

He spun in a circle, holding his giggling daughter securely on his shoulders, and slipped out the door.

The duchess rose from the floor. “I can’t think why I bothered to let him name our daughter Persephone Eve if he’s just going to call her Titania at every turn. At least I put my foot down and wouldn’t let him name her Clytemnestra Aphrodite.”

“Oh goodness, yes,” Lady Claire said with a little shudder.

The duchess straightened her skirts. “I’d better find out what Val intends to do with Persephone. The last time I left them alone he nearly bought her a pearl tiara.” She bent and pressed her cheek to Lady Caire’s. “Thank you for having us over for the afternoon, dearest Temperance. I know Persephone loved seeing her cousins.”