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Authors: Tessa Harris
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Sir John of Sir Montagu.
“Indeed. I had business with my associates in the judiciary.”
“You hatching some plan?” croaked Sir Henry, his breathing still labored.
A smirk settled on Sir Montagu’s lips. “You know me too well, Henry,” he replied. “I needed to sound out the legality of a certain proposal I wish to set in motion.”
“And from the look on your face, your mission was a success?” ventured Sir John.
“Have you ever known me to fail?” An air of self-satisfaction enveloped the lawyer, just as surely as if he had been wearing a cloak.
“So you will make us privy to your plans?” asked Sir John.
“They involve my charge.”
“The lovely Lady Lydia?” asked Sir Henry.
Sir Montagu nodded. “The very same. As you know her father, God rest his soul, wanted me to look after her in the event of his death and I have not discharged my duties lightly.”
“So you are still on the hunt for a suitable husband for her?”
Malthus nodded. “Indeed, John. Like Fetcham, Boughton was in need of an heir.”
“Was?” reiterated Sir Henry.
Sir Montagu sipped his claret. “Yes, events have taken a most interesting turn, gentlemen.”
Sir John arched a brow. “And what might that be?”
The lawyer paused for effect as if he were in a courtroom. “I believe Lydia gave birth to a son and that he may well be alive.”
The two other men let out a collective gasp.
Sir John jumped in first. “Born on the right side of the sheets?”
Sir Montagu waved his hand dismissively. “That rake Farrell was the father, of that I am sure, so the boy’s legitimacy is a mere technicality.”
“And how did you come by this information?” pressed Sir Henry.
“I was an executor of Farrell’s will. There were bills, letters. I traced them.”
“So you have found the boy?” asked Sir John.
“My man is on the trail as we speak.”
Sir Henry breathed deeply and took a gulp of claret. “Well, there’s a turn up for the books.”
“Indeed.” Sir Montagu nodded. “And who could resist a noblewoman with a ready-made son?”
Sir John was not so sure. “And what about that surgeon chap from the Colonies. There’s talk, Montagu. You should see the way they look at each other.”
“A good point,” he replied. “And this is where I need your help.”
Both men looked at Sir Montagu, then eyed each other quizzically before leaning forward in unison. “We’re all ears, dear fellow,” said Sir John.
Chapter 9
“Y es?” greeted the woman warily, a rosy-cheeked child whimpering on her hip. Her full breasts jumped from the top of her bodice as she bounced it up and down to quiet it.
“Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas, removing his hat and bowing politely.
“Yes,” she repeated. Only this time more confidently.
“Good day to you. I am Dr. Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said, gesturing to Lydia, who stood apprehensively at his side.
At the name Farrell, the woman’s piggy eyes widened and her snout twitched.
“Farrell, you say?”
Lydia stepped forward anxiously. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mistress Pargiter?”
The dame looked uneasy. Her small eyes darted to the floor and back and she jounced the baby on her hip, even though the child was no longer fretting.
“Mistress Pargiter?” pressed Thomas.
“Yes. Yes, that name does mean something,” she replied.
Lydia saw the look of embarrassment on her face and decided to compound it. “Captain Michael Farrell was my husband.” Her voice was reedy with emotion. “And that was my son you consigned to the workhouse.”
The woman pursed her lips, as if biting her tongue. Then, looking up and down the street, to see if anyone was watching, she said, “You’d best come in.”
She showed Lydia and Thomas into a small, shabbily furnished parlor. A young girl was polishing a card table. Down the hallway another baby cried.
“Take him,” the widow instructed, handing over the child on her hip. “And see
“Indeed. I had business with my associates in the judiciary.”
“You hatching some plan?” croaked Sir Henry, his breathing still labored.
A smirk settled on Sir Montagu’s lips. “You know me too well, Henry,” he replied. “I needed to sound out the legality of a certain proposal I wish to set in motion.”
“And from the look on your face, your mission was a success?” ventured Sir John.
“Have you ever known me to fail?” An air of self-satisfaction enveloped the lawyer, just as surely as if he had been wearing a cloak.
“So you will make us privy to your plans?” asked Sir John.
“They involve my charge.”
“The lovely Lady Lydia?” asked Sir Henry.
Sir Montagu nodded. “The very same. As you know her father, God rest his soul, wanted me to look after her in the event of his death and I have not discharged my duties lightly.”
“So you are still on the hunt for a suitable husband for her?”
Malthus nodded. “Indeed, John. Like Fetcham, Boughton was in need of an heir.”
“Was?” reiterated Sir Henry.
Sir Montagu sipped his claret. “Yes, events have taken a most interesting turn, gentlemen.”
Sir John arched a brow. “And what might that be?”
The lawyer paused for effect as if he were in a courtroom. “I believe Lydia gave birth to a son and that he may well be alive.”
The two other men let out a collective gasp.
Sir John jumped in first. “Born on the right side of the sheets?”
Sir Montagu waved his hand dismissively. “That rake Farrell was the father, of that I am sure, so the boy’s legitimacy is a mere technicality.”
“And how did you come by this information?” pressed Sir Henry.
“I was an executor of Farrell’s will. There were bills, letters. I traced them.”
“So you have found the boy?” asked Sir John.
“My man is on the trail as we speak.”
Sir Henry breathed deeply and took a gulp of claret. “Well, there’s a turn up for the books.”
“Indeed.” Sir Montagu nodded. “And who could resist a noblewoman with a ready-made son?”
Sir John was not so sure. “And what about that surgeon chap from the Colonies. There’s talk, Montagu. You should see the way they look at each other.”
“A good point,” he replied. “And this is where I need your help.”
Both men looked at Sir Montagu, then eyed each other quizzically before leaning forward in unison. “We’re all ears, dear fellow,” said Sir John.
Chapter 9
“Y es?” greeted the woman warily, a rosy-cheeked child whimpering on her hip. Her full breasts jumped from the top of her bodice as she bounced it up and down to quiet it.
“Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas, removing his hat and bowing politely.
“Yes,” she repeated. Only this time more confidently.
“Good day to you. I am Dr. Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said, gesturing to Lydia, who stood apprehensively at his side.
At the name Farrell, the woman’s piggy eyes widened and her snout twitched.
“Farrell, you say?”
Lydia stepped forward anxiously. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mistress Pargiter?”
The dame looked uneasy. Her small eyes darted to the floor and back and she jounced the baby on her hip, even though the child was no longer fretting.
“Mistress Pargiter?” pressed Thomas.
“Yes. Yes, that name does mean something,” she replied.
Lydia saw the look of embarrassment on her face and decided to compound it. “Captain Michael Farrell was my husband.” Her voice was reedy with emotion. “And that was my son you consigned to the workhouse.”
The woman pursed her lips, as if biting her tongue. Then, looking up and down the street, to see if anyone was watching, she said, “You’d best come in.”
She showed Lydia and Thomas into a small, shabbily furnished parlor. A young girl was polishing a card table. Down the hallway another baby cried.
“Take him,” the widow instructed, handing over the child on her hip. “And see
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