Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade

“Yes,” Grey said bleakly. “Yes, he was. I thank you, Mr. Fraser.”

He received no answer save the rustle of hay, and left the stable, followed by the whickering of horses and Fraser’s tuneless whistle. Outside, the world had turned a soft, featureless white.

The fact that Fraser hadanswered him reinforced Grey’s suspicions regarding Geneva. The encounter in the chapel was not mentioned, but the memory of it was clear between them. His honor would not permit him to mention it, lest it be taken as a threat—but the threat was implied. Had he made it explicit, Fraser’s honor—and his temper—would likely have caused him to throw it back in Grey’s face, stubbornly refusing to say a word and daring him to take action.

So he had something. It wasn’t proof, either of Fraser’s relationship with Geneva or of his own father’s i

He kept thinking, and while he did not see Fraser again before his departure, those thoughts moved him to one final trial of curiosity.

“Might I pay my respects to the new earl before I go?” he asked, hoping that he sounded as though he were jesting.

Lady Dunsany looked startled, but Isobel of course found nothing odd in his request, assuming that naturally the world shared in her admiration for her new nephew, and led him happily up to the nursery.

The sun was shining—a pale and watery winter sun, but still sun—and the nursery seemed peaceful and calm. The curtains hung motionless in the schoolroom, and Isobel did not glance at the window where he had shown her how to break things.

The ninth Earl of Ellesmere was lying in a basket, swaddled to the chin in blankets, a woolly cap pulled snugly down over his ears. The child was awake, though; it thoughtfully inserted a fist in its mouth, round eyes fixed on Grey—or possibly on the ceiling; it was difficult to tell.

“May I?” Without waiting for the nurse’s permission, Grey scooped the child carefully up into his arms. He was noticeably heavy. He said as much, which caused both Isobel and the nurse to go off into raptures regarding the infant’s voraciousness, capacity, and various other revolting details not suitable for discussion in mixed company, in Grey’s opinion.

Still, he let them chatter, interjecting the occasional, “Ah?” of interest, and looking covertly into the child’s face. It looked like a pudding, slightly wet and glistening. It had eyes, to be sure—and he thought them blue, but his cousin Olivia had informed him that all children’s eyes were blue at birth. Its other features appeared negligible at best.

The woolly cap had strings, tied beneath the infant’s chin, and he nudged these with a thumb, thinking that he might be able to pry them up over the chin and thus dislodge the cap for a moment.

This seemed to a

“I only wondered—has he any hair?” Grey asked, in desperation. That produced a complete alteration in the women’s attitude; from reproach, they turned all eagerness, vying with each other to remove the baby’s cap and demonstrate the virtues of its scalp.

The child didhave hair. A soft darkish slick that ran down the center of its head like the stripe on a Spanish donkey.

“May I?”

The nurse looked as though she would prefer to hand the child over to a convicted ax murderer, but as Isobel nodded encouragingly, she reluctantly surrendered the little creature to Grey’s dubious care again.

He took a firm hold on the infant, making soft whistling noises through his teeth; that usually worked on strange dogs. He strolled to and fro across the room, joggling it gently, meanwhile maneuvering the little creature as unobtrusively as possible, so as to get the light behind it.

He thoughtthere was a reddish tinge to the hair—but could not swear to it.

“Is he not lovely?” Isobel petted the tiny stripe of hair lovingly. “I think he will look like my sister—see? He has her hair, I’m sure of it.”

With a sense of chagrin, Grey realized that, indeed, Geneva hadhad hair of a deep chestnut color. No answers here, then. He was trying to think how to return the child to the women without rudeness, but the boy settled the matter himself, by emitting a loud belch and decanting a remarkably large quantity of partially digested milk over Grey’s shoulder.

“Does he not make you wish to marry at once and have children of your own?” Isobel asked, fondly patting the baby’s back as the nursemaid—with bad grace—swabbed the offending mess from Grey’s clothes.

“I do believe I can contain my impatience,” he said, and both women laughed as though he had made some clever jest.

“Oh, look!” Isobel peered at the infant in delight. “He’s smiling, Lord John. He likes you!”

“Well, in fact…” the nursemaid began, eyeing the child’s rapidly reddening face thoughtfully, “I do believe…”

“Oh, dear!” said Isobel. A most unusual odor—sweet but foul—filled the air.

“I’m sure the sentiment is mutual,” Grey said politely, and bowed toward the infant. “Your servant, sir.”

It was not until he and Tom were halfway back to London that it occurred to him that he had never thought to ask the infant’s name.

Chapter 9

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