Colin gave a weary groan. “Oh, I do hope it’s not going to be one of those Christmases,” he said, “where we all sit around asking whatever happened to so-and-so? Such a bore! I may as well ask you where Aunt Susan is this year. Or ask Emma where Lord Camford is hiding these days.”
“Susan is visiting her eldest daughter this year,” Lady Harriet replied, shrugging. “Emma?”
“What?” Emma said sharply.
“Your brother is asking about Lord Camford. She has not seen him since last year,” Lady Harriet answered, when it became clear that Emma would not.
Colin stared at her. “I confess I am amazed! I thought for certain he would come flying back into your arms the moment he received his divorce decree.”
“Annulment,” Emma said coldly. “It was an annulment, not a divorce.”
“Whatever. I should have thought he’d seek you out the moment he was rid of poor Julia.”
“I don’t know why you call her ‘poor Julia,’” Emma said crossly. “The scandal was of her own making, and she came out of it better than she deserves. Harry has given her the use of his Lincolnshire estate. She lives there with her parents and her two unmarried sisters, rent free.”
“Julia in Lincolnshire?” Colin shook his head. “I repeat: poor Julia! Only two unmarried sisters? So Octavia got Palafox, after all?”
“Oh, yes,” Emma said. “She persuaded Mrs. Allen to forgive him. He married Octavia, and the three of them live quite comfortably in Bath. Four of them, including the pug.”
“You would not give them Wingate?” Colin laughed.
“They knew better than to ask me.”
“Did you see that?” Otto cried, spinning around. “Isn’t he brilliant? He walked right to me. It must have been a dozen steps.”
“Bravo!” Emma said, even though she had missed the whole thing.
Colin could not pretend to be impressed. “Mimi can smile and blow bubbles at the same time,” he said, “with nothing but her own saliva.”
Otto frowned at them. “Come, Aleta,” he said, hoisting Lord Scarlingford onto his shoulder. “Let us go and show Mama what Baby can do.”
“I think I will invite Augusta to come and live with me,” said Lady Harriet, when the Duke of Chilton had left the room. “I don’t think Harry would deny me anything while my arm is broken. I’ll invite your Scotsman too, if you like,” she offered civilly. “Not to live, of course. Just to Christmas.”
“You go too far, old woman,” said Colin. “I believe I’ll go to my room now,” he told his sister, climbing to his feet. “I think I need a nap.”
“What about Mimi?” Emma asked.
Colin yawned. “What about her? She looks very content in the arms of her aunt.”
Mimi was still in Emma’s arms when Colin joined them in Emma’s sitting room before dinner. “Have you been holding her all this time?” he asked her. “You really do want one of your own.”
Emma laid a finger across her lips to shush him. “She’s sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake her,” she whispered. “I have been thinking, Colin,” she went on softly, when she was sure the baby’s rest had not been disturbed. “Don’t you think that little Mimi should see her father. He probably wants to see her.”
“All right,” he said, stretching out his arms for the child. “I’ll take her off your hands. You must go and dress for dinner. That’s a lovely spot of drool on your bosom, by the way.”
Emma relinquished the baby and climbed stiffly to her feet. “I’ll just come out and say it, shall I?” she breathed. “Colin, I think you should write to Lord Camford and ask him to spend Christmas with us. I think it’s the right thing to do, don’t you?”
Colin frowned slightly. “Why don’t you write to him yourself?”
Emma shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t! It would be better coming from you, don’t you think? Nicholas and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. But you’ve never had a quarrel with him, have you?”
“No. We’ve always gotten on very well,” Colin agreed. “I suppose I could write to him, if you want me to. But if you can’t even write the man a letter, won’t it be difficult for you to see him again?”
Emma laughed faintly. “Why? Because he didn’t seek me out after his annulment? He had no reason to. He’s at Camford House in London,” she added. “You should write to him soon.”
“I’ll write to him now,” Colin answered, carrying Mimi over to Emma’s writing desk, “if you will but lend me pen and paper.”
“I’ll hold her for you,” Emma offered as he seated himself at the desk, but he waved her away.
“As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of holding my daughter with my left arm while I write with my right hand,” he told her. “Go and get dressed. If I run into trouble, I’ll summon the nursemaid.”
When Emma returned twenty minutes later, the letter was written, the envelope sealed, and Mimi had been removed to the nursery. Colin brought the letter down with him and gave it to a servant. “Do you know,” he said, as he led his sister into the lounge, “I can’t help but feel a tiny bit responsible for that young man’s unhappiness. If I hadn’t been so determined to win my bet with Aunt Harriet, he might be safely married to Octavia.”
Emma snorted. “It doesn’t get any safer than that, does it? We need only ask Charles Palafox.”
“Well, perhaps Nicholas will have a happy ending, after all, in spite of everything.”
“Yes,” said Emma. “He’s young. I’m sure he will rally again.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Colin.
A light, feathery snow was falling on the morning that Nicholas arrived at Warwick.
Emma was sitting in the window of her sitting room with Aleta playing Fox and Geese. Colin and Cecily were playing piquet, and Otto was sitting next to the fire reading his newspaper.
“There’s a carriage coming up the road,” Aleta said suddenly, drawing the attention of the rest of the room. “Who do you suppose it is, Aunt Emma?”
“I don’t know,” said Emma, squinting at the vehicle as it came to rest outside.
“It might be Camford,” said Colin, coming over to the window for a look. “I can’t make out the crest on the door.”
Emma found her spectacles and put them on. “It can’t be,” she breathed. “It’s too soon. You only sent your letter two days ago, Colin.”
“By special messenger,” said Colin. “I think it is he.”
“He’s a tall gentleman,” Aleta reported. “He wears a blue coat. There is a lady with him, and a baby.”
That was enough to bring Cecily to the window. “Why, it is Lord Camford,” she said. “He always did favor a blue coat, I recall.”
“Never mind his coat,” Colin said impatiently. “Who is the lady?”
Lady Harriet came into the room to inform them that Lord Camford had just arrived. “That is no lady; it’s a woman. He has a woman with him—and a baby,” she added, brushing past Emma.
“You’re right,” said Colin. “It is a woman.”
“Definitely a nursemaid,” said Lady Harriet. “Foreign, by the looks of her. The child has red hair. Could it be Julia’s?”
“Nonsense. What would Nicholas be doing with Mr. Palafox’s baby?” Colin argued. “Besides, it’s walking. Julia’s baby couldn’t possibly be walking yet.”
“Uncle Colin!” Aleta complained. “I’m not supposed to know anything about Julia’s baby, remember? It’s a terrible secret.”
“And you still don’t know anything about Julia’s baby,” he answered. “That is not Julia’s baby.”
“Aleta, go to the nursery at once,” Otto commanded.
An argument ensued. Otto prevailed, of course, but by the time eleven-year-old Aleta reached the door, the butler had already opened it to announce Lord Camford. “Go on,” Otto commanded, and Aleta obediently left the room.
Emma hastily removed her spectacles and went forward to meet Nicholas. He had removed his hat and g
loves, but he was still wearing his greatcoat. The snow on his coat had melted, leaving dark speckles on the blue wool.
“Good morning, Lord Camford,” Emma said clearly, offering him her hand. “I believe you know everyone here.”
Nicholas bowed over her hand, “How nice to see you again, your grace, your grace, and…your grace,” he said, addressing Emma, Cecily, and Otto, in turn.
“Oh, never mind all that,” Lady Harriet said impatiently. “Just tell us about the baby! We’re all dying to know.”
“Yes, of course,” said Nicholas. “I saw you looking at us from the window. I completely understand your curiosity.”
“Then do us all a favor and cure it!” Lady Harriet snapped. “Is it your child?”
“Mine?” Nicholas was astonished. “Well, of course the child isn’t mine! What would I be doing with a child? Who would his mother be?”
“That’s entirely up to you, I should think,” said Lady Harriet.
“Tell us!” Emma said. “Who is the child?”
“It’s Michael Fitzroy,” Nicholas answered.
Emma stared at him. “Michael!”
“The younger, of course,” Nicholas said quickly. “His mother came to see me in London. She has married again, you know.”
“Yes,” said Emma. “I knew that.”
“Her husband, the Conde da Fonseca, is a very…interesting…gentleman,” Nicholas went on, looking rather grim. “He refuses to accept the child, in no small part because he has red hair—the child, I mean, not the Conde. The Conde has black hair, like most Portuguese. He has taken his wife back to Portugal, but he will not allow her to keep the boy, I’m afraid. The poor lady came to me in tears. She pleaded with me to bring the child to his father’s family. I have done so.”
Otto was the first to speak. “If, by interesting you mean the man is a thorough blackguard, then yes! I think the Conde very interesting indeed! She simply left the child with you?”
“It was her husband’s idea to leave the boy with an attorney,” said Nicholas, “but he indulged the Condesa in her wish to leave him with me. I suppose there was no one else to ask, really. The rest of her acquaintance had already left London to go home for Christmas.”
“That was very good of the Conde, I’m sure,” Lady Harriet said acidly. “To indulge the poor woman!”
“How she must be suffering,” Emma murmured. “To be separated from her child.”
“Yes,” Nicholas agreed. “It was very sad to watch. However, given the way his stepfather feels about him, it is probably for the best that the child be with his father’s family.”
“We will take him, of course,” Emma said quickly. “Let him be brought in,” she ordered Carstairs, who had not left the room. “And send someone to find the duke and bring him here. Tell his grace it is urgent family business. And Lord Grey should be here, too. This concerns him as well.”
“There are some legal papers that were handed to me,” Nicholas said, when Carstairs had gone. “They are sealed, as you can see,” he went on, taking a leather pouch from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. The pouch was stitched closed. He handed it to the Duke of Chilton. “The child has one trunk, containing a few items of clothing, and a small box filled with letters and keepsakes from his mother. And this.”
He brought a flat velvet box out of his pocket. “The nurse gave it to me in the carriage,” he said, handing it to Emma.
Even before she opened it, Emma knew what the box would contain. “These are the emeralds I gave her,” she said sadly, “as a wedding present.”
“I doubt the Conde approved the return,” Otto said. “Was there anything else, Camford?”
Nicholas shook his head.
“Surely, the man gave you some money,” Colin said indignantly. “Enough to cover the expense of bringing the boy here!”
“I would not have accepted the offer of money,” Nicholas told him, “had such an offer been made. However, it was not.”
“This is unforgivable!” cried Emma. “The man should be whipped at the cart’s tail!”
“You will be reimbursed, my lord,” Otto told Nicholas. “I will see to it myself.”
“That will not be necessary,” Nicholas said quietly but firmly.
Otto knew better than to insist. “I believe we can safely assume that the child has been left on our hands without a penny to scratch himself with. Those emeralds are all he has.”
“But Michael did not die a poor man,” Emma objected. “His widow was very well provided for.”
Otto shook his head. “When Lord Michael died, his fortune became his widow’s property. When she remarried, unfortunately, that fortune became her husband’s. I shall be very surprised if the Conde bothered to make any provision for his stepson. And now,” he added, “Lord Camford must feel he is intruding upon a very private conversation. Perhaps someone would be good enough to show him to his room.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Nicholas replied. “However, I think I should stay with you a little longer. As far as I can tell, neither the nurse or the child can speak a word of English. Two years of disuse have not improved my Portuguese, but I may be helpful. I can make the introductions, anyway.”
“That is very good of you,” said Emma. “Thank you.”
Carstairs returned to the room alone. “I have sent runners to fetch his grace and Lord Grey,” he told Emma. “However, in the case of the child, he was in such a state of anxiety, I thought it prudent to let his nurse take him to the nursery.”
“Oh, of course,” said Emma. “Thank you, Carstairs. I should have anticipated as much. The other children will be of more use in comforting him than any of us could possibly be. I’m sure it would be overwhelming for him to meet us all at once, but, perhaps, Lord Camford, you might introduce him to me? I am his aunt, after all. I suppose I shall be the one to raise him.”
“I should be happy to make the introduction,” he said instantly.
“How does one say ‘welcome’ in Portuguese?” she asked, leading him from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Bem-vindo,” he answered. “And then you might say, Eu sou sua Tia Emma. I am your Aunt Emma.”
The rudimentary Portuguese lesson soon wore itself out, and they walked in silence. As they came to the door of the nursery, Emma said to him, “You, of course, have a special reason for wanting to see the nursery.” She tried to sound cheerful.
Nicholas looked at her blankly. “I do?”
“Yes, of course. Mimi is here, you know. Did you not get my brother’s letter?” she asked, as he continued to look confused. “Colin’s letter?”
Nicholas shook his head. “I have not had the pleasure of receiving any communication from your brother. I did, however, receive your letter.”
Emma stared at him. “My letter!” she exclaimed.
“As I was leaving London, my manservant put the afternoon post into my hand. I went through it on my way here. Your letter—I believe I have it committed to memory, I have read it over so many times these last two days. ‘My dearest Nicholas,’” he recited, closing his eyes, “‘it has been almost a year since I last had the pleasure of seeing you, and almost two years since I have had the pleasure of holding you in my arms.’”
He opened his eyes and looked down at her warmly.
“I didn’t write that,” she said, horrified.
Nicholas frowned. “It was your paper,” he argued. “It was your handwriting. It was your signature. I suppose this really isn’t the time to discuss it,” he added, changing his tone. “You must have other things on your mind at present. I understand that. But do not deny that you wrote to me. Do not deny that you still love me.”
“As you say, this is not the time to discuss it!” said Emma. “I must see to the child.”
“When?” he insisted, catching her hand as she began opening the door to the nursery. “May I come to your room after tea? Before dinner? After dinner? Emma, we must talk about this letter of yours. I will n
ot let you me push me away again.”
“After tea,” she heard herself whisper. “You remember the way, I presume?”
“Yes, very well.”
They went into the nursery. Little Michael Fitzroy was sound asleep in bed with his watchful nurse sitting beside him. Emma spoke briefly to the nurse, with Nicholas translating as best he could. Then Emma brought Nicholas to see the other children. Lord Scarlingford was playing with blocks on the rug, and Princess Mimi was nursing.
Nicholas immediately got down on the rug to play with the boy and Emma brought Mimi to him. “Would you like to hold her?” she asked. “You could sit in the window seat; it’s nice and warm.”
“All right,” he said agreeably. “I’m not very good with babies. My cousin, Lady Catherine, had a little girl earlier this year. All I do is make her cry. The baby, I mean. Not my cousin. I’ve not yet made her cry.”
When he was settled in the window seat with the child in his arms, he looked down at her. “So small! How old is she?”
Emma sat down beside him, touching the baby’s hand. “About three months.”
“She would have been conceived at Christmas, then.”
“Yes, of course. Isn’t she sweet? Colin just adores her. He’s had all these funny little costumes made for her.”
“She looks like her mother,” Nicholas said warmly.
“Oh, no, she looks like her father,” Emma argued, smiling. “Definitely.”
Nicholas frowned. “She doesn’t look anything like von Schroeder,” he objected.
“Schroeder!” Emma repeated. “But he is not her father, Nicholas. You are!”
Nicholas shook his head. “As much as I would like to think so, I know that isn’t possible, Emma. You and I have not been together in two years.”
“What has that to say to anything?” Emma wanted to know. “I am not the child’s mother. You think that I am her mother?” she exclaimed.
His eyes widened. “Aren’t you? If you’re not her mother, then why am I holding her?”
“Nicholas, this is Elke’s child! Your child.”
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