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“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Mary said, her cheeks pink.

“There is no need.” Rosalind smiled at the windswept little girl. “I am happy to hear that you are counting, Edith. How high can you go?”

“Up to twenty,” she said proudly.

“Up to twenty, Your Grace,” her mother prompted.

Edith tried again. “Up to twenty, Your Grace.”

“That is very commendable.” Rosalind drew back the cover on her basket. “I believe you should manage to count the contents of my basket very easily, then.”

Elsie, who had sidled up to her mother when they’d first entered the parlor, suddenly appeared ready to venture closer. She and Edith inched toward the basket.

“It smells good,” Edith said.

“It does,” Rosalind agreed. She tipped the basket slightly so the girls could see inside.

“Buns!” Elsie cried. “It’s buns!”

“How many, Edith? Can you tell me?” Rosalind asked.

Edith screwed her little face in concentration and began counting. “One, two, three, four, five, seven—”

“Six,” Rosalind corrected.

“Six, seven.” Edith looked up. “There’s seven buns.”

“And is that enough for your family?”

“Yes.” The little girl nodded furiously. “There’s only four people in my family.”

“Perfect. I shall leave them here for you,” Rosalind said.

Both little girls broke into beaming smiles.

“Mama, did you hear?” Edith said.

“I did.” Mary smiled at her daughter and then turned back to Rosalind. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”

“It is my pleasure,” Rosalind said. “I was fortunate to visit the Finley Park kitchen at just the right time.” She rose, and Mary pushed herself to her feet. “I will leave now, with the hope that you may rest once I’m gone.” She handed Mary the basket. “From what His Grace has told me, the other tenants live some distance away. Do not hesitate to send word to the house if your condition worsens.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Good day, girls.”

Edith tugged on Elsie’s frock, and the two of them managed stumbling curtsies. “Good day, Your Grace.”

The return drive to Finley Park was just as lonely as the outgoing one had been, and by the time the carriage rolled up in front of the portico, Rosalind had determined that if Sebastian had not already emerged from the workshop with the last five pages of his project completed, she would make another Chelsea bun delivery—this time to her husband.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” Vickers said as she entered the house.

“Thank you, Vickers.” She handed him her redingote, hat, and gloves. “Tell me, is His Grace in his workshop still?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.”

“Has he asked for luncheon?”

“No, Your Grace.”