Lady Dearing's Masquerade by Elena Greene Page B

schedule of visits to Rosemead Park is outside of enough! You are jeopardizing your reputation, all you have worked for.”
    Jeremy kept his countenance serene. He’d expected another lecture. Perhaps he deserved it for the risk he was taking.
    “Think of his vision,” said Bromhurst, gesturing toward the plump, benevolent figure of Coram.
    Coram and his wife had been childless, too.
    “Think of the branch hospital. Think of the infants we turn away now. Think of their fate.”
    Workhouses. Poorhouses. The parks. The Thames.
    “I have not forgotten them. And I promise you I’ll not allow my present course to affect the branch hospital project,” he said through his teeth.
    “You cannot have thought how our patrons, people like Tobias Cranshaw, would regard any rumors linking your name with Lady Dearing’s. You must give up this obsession with Mary Simms.”
    “Cranshaw will understand my determination to fulfill Cecilia’s last wishes.”
    Yet another wealthy patron who was convinced that his marriage to Cecilia had been perfect. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. To find peace. To finally make things right.
    “Mary is well enough in Lady Dearing’s care, I’m sure,” Bromhurst continued.
    “How can I be sure all is well? Mary and the other children ran away the day I was supposed to meet them!”
    “What of it? Children do such things. We have hundreds of foundlings to care for, Jeremy. Leave these four be. Lady Dearing dotes on them. Is that not enough for you?”
    He faced his friend, Bromhurst’s advice drilling into his resolution. Was it wrong to persist? Yet it felt even more wrong not to do so.
    “No. In my experience, love is not always enough. I must be sure.”
    Bromhurst’s face twisted. He knew the old rumors. “Oh, very well, go if you must.”
    “Thank you.”
    Bromhurst nodded, but his brows were still creased with worry.
    * * *
    Stay here and ride your rocking horse, lambkin, Nurse had said, then she’d taken the breakfast tray away. Jeremy wished Nurse would remember he was five years old and too old to be called lambkin. And he was too big for his old rocking horse. He had a pony now.
    Comet awaited him in the stables. The house was finally empty of all its guests, and he was going to ride out for a picnic with Mama and Papa. How could Nurse expect him to just play by himself? Maybe he should go wake Mama. Maybe she’d overslept or forgotten.
    Jeremy got up from his chair and left the nursery, feeling very bold. He strode down the hall enjoying the clomping sound of his boots, until he stopped. He could hear Mama and Papa arguing again. Why did they have to do it this morning?
    He would end it, he decided, marching on. They always stopped arguing when he was there. He’d make them stop now.
    But even though he stomped his feet as hard as he could when he got near, they didn’t notice. Through the closed door he heard them say names he didn’t know, and words he didn’t understand. Bastard. Whore. Damnation. Christ. The last one he knew but it didn’t fit with what they were saying.
    He was going to stop it.
    He pounded on the door, feeling brave. He would make it right. They would be happier when they stopped arguing.
    The shouting continued, so he pushed the door open and walked in. Papa was standing in the middle of the room, in riding clothes, Jeremy saw with relief. And Mama stood by the hearth, also in her riding habit.
    They had not forgotten.
    “Mama,” he called, but she didn’t notice him. His father was still shouting, using new words. Strumpet. Cuckold. It sounded like some sort of bird. Then his mother said something about geese and ganders he didn’t understand. But before he could puzzle out why they were talking about birds his father suddenly dodged to one side.
    Jeremy barely had time to recognize the thing spinning through the air—one of the shiny candlesticks Mama kept on the mantle—then it struck him on the forehead. He howled with pain. Mama