He huffed out a breath of laughter as the doctor’s man helped him get into his coat. ‘Oh, eminently, Miss Wilmott. After all, I have not been back in Town long enough to acquire a reputation for being anything else. Shall we go?’
Thomas, looking as disapproving as only an old family retainer could, walked Moonstone up to the front steps and handed the reins over to Sophie. She took them with a word of thanks, tempered by the knowledge that Thomas would tell Parrott, who would most certainly have a word in your ear, my lord, with Step Papa. The worst of it was, she was certain that both he, and Mama, would be delighted to think their daughter had been driving a duke about town when in fact the only reason she was doing it was out of guilt – and concern for any person who was hurt, naturally. The wicked little inner voice gave a sarcastic laugh.
‘What is your address, Duke?’ She crossed St James’s Street at a brisk trot into Little Ryder Street and then turned right into Bury Street. Despite her bravado she did not intend to drive the direct route down St James’s Street with its throngs of club-bound gentlemen and its numerous coffee houses.
‘You know your way around the side streets,’ Cal observed as they negotiated the left turn into King Street past Almack’s assembly rooms.
‘All the better to avoid the traffic in this area. Piccadilly is a dreadful crush most days.’ They emerged into St James’s Square and she slowed Moonstone to a walk.
‘Clockwise round,’ Cal said. ‘The dark green front door. Thank you, Miss Wilmott. I have rarely been involved in a more entertaining traffic accident.’ He got out of the phaeton, his hand lifting automatically to his missing hat. ‘Now, there is a scandal – hatless duke in St James’s. My valet will probably resign on the spot.’
‘Papa!’ A diminutive brunette in a green frock half ran, half tumbled down the steps and hurled herself at Cal, her arms fastening around his leg.
Papa? He is father to this – what? – five year old? No wonder he was good with that infant in the park. Then the implications hit home. A child meant a wife. And all the time the wretched man had been flirting with her.
‘Isobel.’ Cal scooped up the wriggling armful one-handed and was rewarded with a smacking kiss on his bruised cheek and the application of a pair of thrashing feet to his sore hip. ‘Where is Nanny?’
‘Lost.’ Her big brown eyes, so like her mother’s, widened in a mock innocence. And that had been one of Madeleine’s little tricks too. The child was going to be a handful by the time she was putting her hair up and her skirts down, and he would have to buy himself a shotgun to deal with the young men.
‘You mean you lost her,’ he scolded. ‘Now, behave properly and say good afternoon nicely to Miss Wilmott. Miss Wilmott, Lady Isobel Thorne.’
Now what was wrong? Sophie’s blue gaze had all the warmth of an ice crystal, for all that she smiled at Isobel.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Isobel. I am pleased to have met you, but perhaps you should not run out into the street. Your nanny will be worried about you.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’ The little madam quivered her lower lip and turned tragic toffee-brown eyes on Sophie. ‘I’m a very good girl. Truly.’
‘You are a minx,’ Cal corrected absently, still watching Sophie who blushed, lost all of her poise and mumbled,
‘I am very glad to hear that. Your mama must be very proud of you. Good day, Duke. I trust your arm will cease paining you very soon.’ She dropped her hands and the dapple was into its stride and heading towards York Street before he could respond.
So that was what that was about: when she saw Isobel she had thought him married, believed he had been flirting with her despite it. How very flattering that it should matter to her. Cal grinned, warmed by the rush of masculine smugness. It had been a while since he had enjoyed flirting with a pretty woman and a very long time since he had encountered a well-bred young lady who had made him want to. Miss Wilmott, seen in the broad light of day and with his full attention on her and not on the confrontation with his family, was frankly beautiful. Well worth pursuing, and the suspicion that Cousin Ralph had his eye on her only added a pinch of spice.
Nanny Jenkins was standing in the open doorway, hands on hips, shaking her head at him. He had hired the fierce little Welsh widow in Calcutta in the days following Madeleine’s death and she had bustled into his life, a scolding bundle of warmly loving efficiency. Cal had been left with an infant, a guilt-inducing awareness that he was free and an almost irresistible urge to stop wandering, come back to England, see if he could finally lay his ghosts. Nanny Jenkins had taken one long, assessing, look at him and pronounced, ‘The little one should be home. You’ll be taking a passage as soon as you can find a ship.’ It was an order and for once in his life, Cal did not demur.