Mrs. Warbler rose. Like all the matrons, she had a secret soft spot for the earl. They always forgave his antics, even in the face of his obvious disdain for them. They didn’t know him the way Clarissa did.
“It is fine, my lord,” Mrs. Warbler said. “Is there a way I can be of service?”
“I pray so.” He hadn’t even looked in Clarissa’s direction. “I don’t know what to do with her.”
“Her?” Mrs. Warbler echoed.
At that moment, a wee foot with a tiny shoe popped out of the top of one of the blankets.
“Oh, God,” Marsden said with genuine alarm. He righted what he was carrying and a goblin’s head with a halo of straight black hair and an expression of outrage popped up out of the bundle.
A baby?
Clarissa knew she wasn’t the only one shocked.
The child scrunched her eyes, looking slightly confused.
Clarissa rose to her feet. “My lord.” She didn’t mean the title as a sign of respect but as a true, horror-filled cry to a higher deity. “Were you holding that baby upside down?”
“I fear so,” he admitted, appearing almost as shocked by the child in his arms as the other women were. “I mean, momentarily . . . apparently.”
The child’s face crumpled. “Oh, no, here it comes. She never stops,” he muttered, a beat before the baby screamed her outrage. And Clarissa understood. The child protested his callous treatment of her—oh, yes, Clarissa could commiserate too well.
She reached for the baby. She was the only one to move. The other women were too stunned.
To her surprise, he held on. “She’s mine,” he said.
“Do you know what you are doing?” Clarissa asked.
“No.”
“Well, then, let me have her.”
He did, practically shoving the child into her arms.
Chapter Three
Women do have their place in society . . . although I’m not quite certain where.
—Book of Mars
The moment Mars handed his infant daughter off to Miss Taylor, he wanted to collapse with relief.
Dora was safe. She was here with women. They would know what to do. He could relax.
Of course, he would rather Miss Taylor not be here. He didn’t have the patience, especially right now, for her self-righteous huffing and puffing. Oh, she was easy on the eyes with her golden hair and well-endowed figure, even in such a dowdy dress. In fact, in spite of her being no taller than a sprite, Mars thought her possibly one of the loveliest women in several parishes around—but then she would open her mouth and it was always to criticize him.
Wasn’t she supposed to be off being a companion to some old, rich hen in London? Isn’t that what he’d heard?
Well, apparently she had returned and was sipping tea at Mrs. Warbler’s table along with Reverend Summerall’s wife. Damn his luck.
The worst insult was that Dora immediately stopped her soul-rattling cries. Instead, she looked at Miss Taylor as if the spinster was her hero.
Mars consoled himself, and his still pounding head, by reaching for the only bottle on a table covered with teacups. He had missed his strong tea and Port this morning and he still dearly needed it. “Please tell me this is Port?”
“Sherry,” Mrs. Warbler answered.
“She is soaking wet,” Miss Taylor declared as if this was news to Mars.
“Yes,” he agreed, hefting the sherry. “She is. She needs a dry whatever she has to have.”
“A clout,” Mrs. Summerall said as if trying to be helpful. “A rag will do of course but a clout is designed for a baby’s bottom and has ties to hold it in place.”
“Oh,” Mars responded, wondering why anyone would think he knew about such a thing. He really didn’t even want to know now.
“Do you have a dry clout?” Miss Taylor asked in that arched voice of hers.
“If I did, she wouldn’t be wet.” He sniffed the top of the bottle and shuddered. Sherry was such a vile drink.
“With all due respect, my lord,” Mrs. Warbler said, “is this a social call?” He understood her suspicion. There wasn’t a soul in the village who didn’t know that he avoided the Matrons of Maidenshop. They were barely on cordial terms. He’d not minced words when denouncing their power and manipulations, and yet here he was.
“Sherry will have to do,” he muttered to himself just as Dora restored his faith in her and broke down into tears—again. He turned to the maid, “I need a cup of very strong and hot tea.”
The maid glanced at Mrs. Warbler who, thankfully, nodded her assent. Mars didn’t know what he would have done if his request had been denied. Probably tipped the bottle right in front of them, and that would have outraged their feminine sensibilities.
Then he remembered he owed his hostess an answer. “This isn’t a social call but a desperate plea for help.” Yes, he could be that honest. To Miss Taylor he said, “Is that enough explanation for you?”
She shot him a look that said clearly, What is wrong with you? followed by a glance in the direction of the other women as if to say, Isn’t he a disappointment?
He was.
Although, to find the answers, he’d braved putting himself into the center of their little coven. That must count for something. It also made his daughter’s crying easier to take now that he wasn’t the sole one in control. He hated feeling inept.
“Did you even bring a sucking bottle?” Miss Taylor wondered.
“A sucking bottle?” he repeated blankly. “Yes, that is what she needs. She’s hungry. She must be. But what to feed her?”
“Where is her mother?” Mrs. Summerall asked.
“Gone.” He wasn’t going to tell them that Deb had foisted the baby on him before she went off to accept another man’s protection. Or even make the excuse that he truly was a responsible lover who always took precautions with his partners because obviously, he had not been completely successful.
No, he’d keep all of that to himself. Poor Dora didn’t need any more counts against her than being abandoned. He’d seen what Miss Taylor had endured over the years. His daughter would be treated better.
With a beleaguered sound, Miss Taylor shifted the baby into the crook of her arm as if she’d practiced the move. Then she did something he would never have thought of doing—she bent one knuckle and offered it to Dora. His child latched on to it as if desperate and began sucking. “When did she last eat?”
Mars didn’t understand why Miss Taylor thought he’d have a clue about Dora’s eating schedule. Although something tickled the back of his still drink-hazy brain that he should know. However, before he could frame an answer, the maid returned to the room holding a cup and saucer and a fresh pot of tea. He could have cried at the sight. She placed the dishes on the table in front of him and poured the steaming brew into a cup. He uncorked the sherry and topped the cup off. “Bless you,” he whispered to the maid and the world. “Bless you, bless you.” He sat in the nearest chair, ready to take a sip.
“Well, I’m so pleased that we have met your needs, my lord,” Miss Taylor snapped.
“You don’t sound pleased.” He took a swallow of tea. The sherry wasn’t half-bad and his body wanted to groan with the pleasure. “And I wish I could answer your questions, except I don’t know the answers. Dora has been in my care for all of—what? An hour? Maybe a bit more? Wait. She was fed shortly before being given to me.”