Page 99 of When We Touch

And then. “Truly, forgive me, my lady. I had no right. My temper was unduly provoked by the fear and horror in the streets. I’ll take care not to invade your privacy again.”

Then he was gone.

* * *

Mireau was truly at a loss.

He had the cab take him to Moorhaven first, but when he saw that Lord Jamie’s coachman was there, he quickly changed his mind. The child was going to get hungry.

All right. He had to get her out of the City of London.

He needed some things for her, and definitely, more money. And so he instructed the cabbie to take him to Mayfair.

With relief, he saw that Justin had not returned. He hesitated. Hold the cab and leave the child in it?

He couldn’t.

Swearing, he hurried from the cab with the baby, praying no neighbor would notice. In the house, he ran straight into Clayton.

The slender, ever perfect butler-valet stared at him, and then, to his amazement, broke into a smile. “A babe, Monsieur Mireau?”

“Clayton . . .” Mireau thought fast. “Oh, God, Clayton, may the Lord forgive me! The wee babe is. . . mine. Her mother has recently departed, and God forgive me my sins! I can’t have them fall upon her.”

Clayton arched a brow high in his gaunt face. He looked at Mireau as if he were a total reprobate. But then he sighed softly. “The sins of the father should never be visited upon a poor wee babe!”

“God help me, man! What can I do? I’d never have anyone know. Ah, look at her, Clayton! She’s a sweet innocent.”

“I might have an answer, Mireau.”

“Yes?” Mireau was hopeful.

And Clayton sighed. “I’ve three sisters. They live north of the city, far north, in a bit of a cottage in the woods.”

“Would they . . . care for her? I’d earn the money for her upkeep. I’d . . . I’d give up dreams of writing. I’d get a . . . egad, I’d get a real job!”

Clayton reached for the baby. “Pack some things, Mireau. I’ll get this wee precious thing a bite to eat, appropriate for her size, and write you a note.”

“Bless you, my good man!” Mireau hadn’t really intended to go on his knees to the butler—they just gave.

“Up, up, my fellow!” Clayton protested.

“No one must ever know,” Mireau said.

“The note will not identify you as her father,” Clayton assured him. “I’ll say that she was an orphan. But hurry. You’ll have to take your cabbie . . . it will be a very expensive ride.”

“Whatever the price.”

“Hurry, then!”

Mireau raced up the stairs, quickly gathered money and a few goods that might be pawned, and hurried back down the stairs.

Clayton had bathed the girl, cleaned her wee clothing as best he might. She was happy, smiling, saying a few words, laughing as Clayton helped her down a glass of milk. She carried a crust of bread in her tiny hand.

Clayton looked a bit like a jester, playing with the child. But his smile evaporated to a look of sheer sternness and censure as he greeted Mireau again. “They’re lonely up there. Never married, and make their way with a fine garden and a few good animals. They brew a few medicinal teas and the like. ’Tis very small; the wee lass will do well, and be dearly loved, I daresay. But you! You will mend your ways!”

“By God above us, I swear I will!” Mireau vowed.

“No more sinning!”