That brought a confused murmur from the crowd—impressed but confused.

“Not helping… not helping…” whispered Darcy in a loud aside.

“No child has been kidnapped,” Fitzwilliam continued contemptuously—unfazed—loud. “The little boy is here with his mother, my wife, sir, my wife, I say, who was detained to help with the birth of this very man’s son!”—Oooohs and aaaahs and several “How very nices”—“An act of pure Christian charity, if ever I heard of one!”—“Yesssssss,” it sounded as if a snake was loose among the masses—“There was no intent to kidnap, no nefarious plan, only the concerned love of one mother for another and for that woman’s unborn child. My God, you should hang your head, sir, for making such a slanderous indictment! And in England.” Fitzwilliam’s explanation was repeated throughout the crowd for the benefit of those in the back who were straining to hear. At that point. the general mood began to solidify.

Not to be outdone, Darcy then elbowed his way forward—handsome, elegant, and superior, an Adonis. The women sighed. “And do you know who this man thinks he is… pardon me… do you know who this man is?” he pronounced loudly. People in the back began to bob and weave for a better look. Several then began to recognize the out-of-uniform Fitzwilliam, word spread, and the excitement grew.

“Yes, that’s right. None other than The Waterloo Colonel himself!”—“Nooooo!!!”— “Yesssss! The man who risked life and limb, in point of fact, was very nearly mortally wounded in the horror that was Waterloo. A lone soldier fighting for King and country, for the very freedoms we all take for granted as our birthright, willingly sacrificing everything, well, nearly, anyway, in the name of His Royal Highness King George and our beloved and sacred kingdom—our blessed land— our England.” The crowd began to nod vigorously and applaud. Many wiped away a tear or two.

A vendor on the street merrily commenced selling hot chestnuts from his cart, tuppence a bag.

***

While this altercation was taking place, a tall, white feather could be seen bobbing its way through the crowd, accompanied by people yelping, shrieking, and jumping to the side when it passed. It was Fitzwilliam who first heard the traditional verbal tirade that always preceded this particular visitor. “Grab your codpiece,” he groaned, tunneling his hair into tall peaks. “We’re doomed.”

“Out of my way, you common ruffian! Who are your people, you jackanapes?! Are you all escapees from some type of penal colony? Am I to be jostled and set upon by a confluence of desperadoes who have not as yet grasped even the merest concept of hygiene?”

Anxious for her first visit to her newborn grandnephew, Lady Catherine had planned to arrive in fine style. She was dressed in an outlandishly expensive Lady Collette outfit, including a brand-new tricorn hat purchased specifically for Tuesdays. The hat, which had been originally tilted rakishly upon her head, was now beginning to migrate forward, listing precariously over one eyebrow. She had fortunately decided against her new wig but did succumb to a light hair-powdering and one patch. The patch was also on the move.

Becoming more aggravated with each step, she stopped at the side of a portly gentleman who had been loudly laughing, rudely gesturing with his fingers. She banged her reticule across his head. “Who are you, sir, and who are your people?!” She vigorously shoved her hat back up from over her eye.

She had never been so furious, had never been so indignant. Her hair powder flew every which way as she shrieked about how this rabble should beg the forgiveness of God for exhibiting such impertinence in the presence of their betters, then loudly expressed England was doomed if this was to be its future!

“Stand aside, I say! Stand aside and let my aunt through!” Darcy reached for her arm and pulled her into the foyer doorway.

“Darcy, who are these hooligans?! I demand to know all their names, do you hear me? Jamison, get quill and paper. I want lists made and addresses taken.” Her umbrella banged down on the hand of one of the nearby officers.

“Take your filthy hand from my nephew’s door. How dare you, sir! Are you mad?! Do you know who I am?!” The awestruck crowd began applauding, even though they had no idea as yet who she was.

“Aunt Catherine, please calm yourself. I am perfectly able to handle this!” Even as he mouthed the words, Darcy knew that he had lost all control of the situation, becoming a supporting player in the drama unfolding upon his own doorstep.

“Madam.” The clerk’s voice broke. He began again. “Madam, we are representatives of the crown and have been granted the authority by the magistrate to regain custody of Harold Augustus Penrod by name, this very day or up to twenty-four hours hence. If Lady Amanda Penrod will return the child immediately to her ladyship, any and all charges will be dropped. If not, then we unfortunately will be forced to return with the selfsame magistrate to arrest Lady Amanda Penrod for”—he turned toward the crowd for support as his voice now crackled with uncertainty—“kidnapping?”

The crowd gasped politely, for good form only now, not so vehemently as before.

When the clerk turned back, he was suddenly confronted with the depth of fury being released from Lady Catherine’s eyes. He leapt a step in fear.

“ How dare you! I shall contact Liverpool himself about this insult to our family!” The runners who had positioned themselves alongside the man grew visibly ill at ease.

Recognizing now that Lady Catherine was easily the greater power of the two, the crowd began calling out rude remarks at the clerk and his retreating men.

“Jamison!” Catherine bellowed to her ever-present butler. “Go straight to Lord Liverpool’s house and bring my cousin here to me at once!” A great cheer rang out in the street at the prospect of the popular prime minister appearing. Several of the huge Bow Street Runners turned and fled, braving a gauntlet of taunts and whistles and kicks. The clerk repeatedly bobbed and weaved to avoid Catherine’s umbrella, his white knuckles still clinging to the doorframe. She suddenly pointed a bony finger in his face.

“ Marvel not at this, for the hour is coming in which all that are in graves shall hear this voice. And they shall come forth, they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation! ’” Catherine’s arms were stretched out before her as she bellowed to the sky.

The crowd went mad. “Brava! Brava!” they screamed.

Several people lost very fine hats as they sailed through the air.

The runners began to flee the crowd in earnest for their lives. Only one person, the clerk, had remained for the entire, terrifying soliloquy of Lady Catherine. “Your ladyship,” he begged, he whined. “Please! There is no need to bother our dear prime minister, no need to get into such a fever. Nothing can be done this day, I am sure. Can’t help but think this is just some sort of misunderstanding.” After bowing nearly to the floor, the man turned and fled as if chased by the devil himself but called over his shoulder as he ran, “You still have only twenty-four hours to return the child.”

He was chased down the block by a rain of snowballs and hats.

Chapter 11

“From where in bloody hell did that come?” A bewildered Darcy turned toward his aunt after closing the foyer doors, still reeling from the vision of her bowing to the cheering masses.

“I have no idea.” Inhaling deeply, she stared dreamily up into the heavens, her lips pursed dramatically. “It’s something from the Bible, I believe. I would have been a remarkably proficient actress, you know.” She smoothed the sides of her coiffure, tucking any stray hairs back beneath her now properly positioned tricorn hat with feather. She then dusted the hair powder from her shoulders and smartly snapped her nomadic patch back onto her left cheek. “Of course, so would Anne, if her health had permitted her.” They all turned to stare at Anne, who had snuck in behind her mother. She narrowed her eyes to squint back at them all and weakly coughed.

***

“All right, young man.” When they reached the center of the room and stood before the fireplace, she turned to confront Fitzwilliam. “Where is this female with whom you have been ensconced?” She held up her hand when he attempted to form his angry rebuke. “Save your breath. I know all about that disgusting inn and your scandalous behavior. It is her son of whom they speak, I imagine. By God, I think you have finally crossed the line this time, young man. This has all the potential of becoming a greater ton scandal than even you could imagine!”

As a fuming Fitzwilliam again attempted to open his mouth to respond, Amanda called out from the bottom of the stairs, “Richard?”

She looked small and pale and drab standing alone in the doorway, dressed once again in her detested dark grey jumper and high-necked black blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a severe knot.

“Aha! So there you are!” Catherine turned. Her whole body seemed to twitch into place as her hands folded primly before her. “Madam, how dare you cause my family this humiliation, this mortification, this…”

“Silence, Catherine!” shouted Fitzwilliam. “I warn you to think very carefully before you say anything.”

Uncaring of all else, Amanda walked past Catherine and up to her husband. “Have they finally come for him?” Her voice was barely audible.

Fitzwilliam nodded, his eyes shining with his heartbreak for her; she looked frightened and so vulnerable. He wanted badly to hold her and kiss away the sadness. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he gave them a gentle squeeze. “We had a visit from a representative of the magistrate. He came with a court order for Harry.” A premonition of disaster made him pause before continuing. “I am afraid Harry must return to your mother-in-law within twenty-four hours. I am so sorry, my love.”

Amanda closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her mouth, giving herself time enough to tamp down her emotions. “It is no more nor less than I expected. Well, there’s nothing more to be done, I suppose.”

Fitzwilliam cupped her face with his hands, and she smiled back bravely, blinking away her tears. “That’s my good girl.”

“If you would help me find Harry’s shoes, I will return with him immediately. We don’t want her to be any more upset than necessary.”

Fitzwilliam nodded and began to tuck in his shirt. “We can then go directly to our solicitors and see what will be our next action.”

“Let me know what they tell you as soon as you are able, Richard, if you would. Perhaps you can send a message over with Georgiana when she visits Emily, only please ask her to be as discreet as possible. I will warn Emily.” Amanda looked composed as she searched the room for her child’s things. No one could tell her heart felt as if it were shattering.

“Fitzwilliam, I demand a word with you!” Catherine could barely speak; she was absolutely furious at being so ignored. “What is going on here?”

“Not now, Aunt!” His movements had stopped, and he glared down at Amanda’s bent head.

“Oh, William, I have left my new cloak in the colonel’s suite. I trust that is acceptable.” Seeing her son’s shoes on the side of the settee, she bent to retrieve them, her movements heavy and slow. With growing sadness, she felt each step, each decision, each action that was taking her farther away from her beloved husband. She scratched her forehead, trying to remember all the little things she wanted to tell him. “Richard, I put the wedding ring in your top drawer. It will be safer here.”

“My home is completely at your disposal, Amanda.” Darcy watched in sadness as his cousin’s face drained of color. An ominous silence had filled the room.

“Fitzwilliam!”

He ignored his aunt’s repeated call and grabbed Amanda’s wrist, pulling her before the fireplace to speak in relative privacy. “What do you mean, Amanda, ‘Send a message with Emily’?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Why would I have need to send a message to you with Emily when you will be accompanying me, at my side at all times?”

Amanda stared, blinking at her husband for several moments before speaking. “Whatever do you mean, Richard?”

“You heard me well enough, I think. Harry may be returning to Penwood, but you certainly cannot. I would never allow you to return to that life.” The forbidding scowl on his face disguised his growing alarm. “No. You will remain here with me in Darcy’s home. Harry will be returned to his grandmother, and he will be fine there. You said yourself that she adores the boy. He will be very well looked after.”