Page 39 of The Not So Perfect Duke

Chloe held up half a biscuit. “Share.”

Blast it all.

His heart melted a little more. “No, sweetheart, it is all for you. Enjoy. Eat slowly.”

“She has taken to you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Seddon said softly. “Chloe hardly speaks or interacts with anyone.”

“How long has she been here? And how old is she?”

“She could be between 5 and 7 years of age; I am not sure—”

“I’m 5 years old!” Chloe stated firmly, her mouth full of biscuit. A few wayward crumbs fell to her pinafore, and Damon absently brushed them away.

“Are you, poppet?” Damon replied, amused.

“I’ll be 6 years old when it snows and Christmas comes. That’s what Mama said.” Chloe nodded to punctuate the point and took another bite of the sugar biscuit.

“Well,” Mrs. Seddon gaped, “That is the most she has said since she arrived four months ago.”

“I believe Chloe understands more than she let on. Where is your Mama, sweetheart?” Damon asked.

“Dead.”

Succinct and to the point. If the tiny tot even knew what death meant. Damon sat Chloe on the chair next to him just as MacClery, Thomas, and Patrick entered the room with plates, utensils, and a platter of food. Behind them, the older children carried glasses, a milk container, a teapot, and mugs. The children cheered.

God above, it resembled a maudlin scene out of a Dickens novel, with starving orphans, well-meaning adults, and villains aplenty, with the likes of Browning, his late, but not lamented, father, and the unknown hubristic men involved.

“Me and lads aren’t much for cooking,” MacClery announced. “But we managed scrambled eggs and sausages.”

The footmen moved efficiently around the table, laying out the dishes and serving the food. Damon picked up a knife and fork and cut Chloe’s sausages without thinking. He looked up to find Mrs. Seddon smiling at him.

“This looks wonderful, Mr. MacClery. Thank you all so much.” Mrs. Seddon dabbed at the corner of her eye with the hem of her apron.

“Mrs. Seddon, there will be much to plan and discuss on how to go forward,” Damon said solemnly. “This place will have to be assessed to see if it is fit for long-term habitation.”

“If it is all the same to you, Your Grace, I would like to be involved in this project. Being an underbutler is a dull job and not needed at Queen Anne’s Gate,” MacClery said, sliding his gaze toward Mrs. Seddon.

She blushed in response.

Well, throw a budding romance into the Dickens blend, Damon thought with amusement. But MacClery had a point regarding the underbutler. Would Chellenhome become a permanent concern? As Mrs. Seddon said, there were more children alone on the streets than orphanages to take them in.

All Damon knew? He wanted nothing more than to discuss all this with one person—Althea. He yearned to see her. Talk to her. Hold her.

Admit it.

Romance was bourgeoning for him, as well. And for once, he embraced the sentiment.

Chapter 13

Althea sat in her study, looking over the ledger and taking copious notes. It was past eight o’clock, and no sign of Damon. She had stayed at Queen Anne’s Gate as long as possible, but there was quite a flurry of activity there. Furniture was being carried out, and hammers and saws could be heard off in the distance. As it grew close to the dinner hour, Althea decided to head home, as it wasn’t fair that the staff should see to her meals.

During the afternoon, Althea had interviewed everyone. However, nothing she gleaned from the discussions could assist with the Chellenhome aspect of the case. Many staff were recent hires and not privy to most of the goings on. Only a handful of people had been there longer than five years: MacClery, the butler; Mrs. Canning, the cook; and the upstairs maid, Roberta.

Sybil entered the room carrying two mugs of tea, and she placed one on the table in front of Althea. “Still pouring over that ledger?” she asked as she took a seat in front of the desk.

“Yes. You remember me speaking of Olivia Durham?”

“On the Duke of Watford case? The lady who married the duke?”