Page 53 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
There was a music to this woman’s speech, the accent so familiar.
The lady took Graciela’s free arm as they moved down a wide path through the garden. “There now, they haven’t bothered with an introduction, but I’m Sirena, James’s wife.”
“James?”
She waved a hand. “Lord Bakeley. I’ve already had a tumble with your Reina this morning. Aye, she’s charmed all of us, she has, including my James. We’ve found some old toys for her, and we must buy her more. At the moment, Perry has her in hand so your Francisca and the nursemaids can rest a bit. She’ll not nap, though, she won’t, that little mite. But I hear Charley has the power to sprinkle the Dustman’s powder.”
Her head was spinning. “The Dustman?”
Sirena laughed. “It’s a fairy character.”
“And not an Irish one,” Charley said.
“So they say. They say that, like our Charley, the Dustman is not a bit Irish.” Another jolly laugh followed. “But I say magic that puts children to sleep and gives them sweet dreams must be Irish.” They entered through the servants’ door and Sirena leaned closer. “Charley has a reputation as a lady’s man, but I don’t believe it for a second. He’s but sprinkling fairy dust and putting them to dreaming about his great prowess.”
“Sirena.” Charley turned to face them, aghast. “Don’t listen to my bawdy sister, Gracie. She is Irish, you know.”
Sirena punched his arm. “So I am, and here’s another one.”
Mr. Gibson had followed them in.
“My father’s surgeon is an Irishman. He does not have your red and golden hair, though.” Her heart twisted. O’Malley had always teased her that he was black Irish, descended from the wrecked survivors of the Armada, and they were cousins many times removed. He had sailed with Papa on this voyage. If Papa was lost, so was O’Malley.
Charley lifted her hand. “One skirmish at a time, Gracie. If your father and his Irish surgeon are alive, we’ll find them. But we must first deal with Kingsley and Carvelle.”
His eyes begged her to trust in him. His gaze, his touch, warmed her.
Mr. Gibson clamped a hand on Charley’s shoulder. “Kincaid is here.”
He blinked, squeezed her hand, and smiled. “You have straw in your hair,” he whispered. “And your gown is ripped. And you’ve lost that fashionable hat.”
“And it is all of your doing,” she whispered back.
“Yes.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “A pity we cannot finish it.” He lifted her hands and kissed them both. “Will you come with us? Or will you go up with Sirena to change and check on Reina?”
Oh, he was clever—he was offering her a choice. She sensed he did not want her with him when he spoke to Kincaid, yet he would not forbid it. And he knew how strong the pull was to the child.
“Reina must come first, and then I will change and find you, and you will report the news to me.”
He grinned and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “At your command, my lady.”
And then he was off, knocking elbows with his brother. At the doorway he looked back and smiled.
Her heart lurched.
Qué tonto. What a fool.
She must forget passion. She must reach for intelligence, before she tumbled head over ears into loving this Englishman.
Bakeley and Kincaidsat in the library, heads bent over papers. They both looked up when Charley and Bink entered.
“How did you fare?” Bakeley asked.
Bink cast him a quizzical look and went for the table laid with cold meats. Charley swiped a hand through his brow, went to the sideboard and poured a drink.
“That bad?” Bakeley asked. “Or that good?”
“A bit of both,” Bink said. “And a wild ride at the end. The villains ambushed us.”
