They ran together all the way to the manor where the black coach sat waiting like a giant, squat spider. Her heart swelled with dread, and her stomach threatened to release everything she’d consumed that morning, but she swallowed the bile working its way up her throat and pushed past the spider and through the door.
“Alfie,” she squeaked. “I must find Alfie.”
“Up the stairs to the nursery.” Atlas stood before her, his large hands on her shoulders, trying to comfort, failing. Not his fault. “Tefler will have been taken to Mother, likely. I’ll face him first. Will you let me?”
“Yes.” For Alfie, she would. Wasn’t that why she’d married this man? So he could fight the monsters for her? It seemed a cowardly thing now, to flee while he fought her battles. But… Alfie. She flew up the stairs and found him right where he usually was in the mornings, in the nursery. But not curved over a desk shaping his letters with meticulous concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth.
He stood in a corner of the room scowling at his nursemaid. His legs were spread into a wide stance and his arms crossed over his chest. He’d pointed his chin down and narrowed his eyes, andholy Hepplewhite, she knew that stance, had often seen Atlas take it when he disapproved of something.
He saw her as soon as she rushed into the room, and so did the nursemaid, who held her hands out, palms up.
“Please do help me, my lady. Young Alfred refuses to go downstairs, and there’s a gentleman to see him.”
“He doesn’t have to go downstairs.” She strode across the distance separating them and crushed him to her side. “He stays right here.”
The nursemaid’s hands dropped. “He says he’s the lad’s grandfather.”
“And I’m his mother. Where is Lady Bromley?” Franny would never allow Alfie to be taken from them.
“She’s at the maypole with the marquess and marchioness. Mr. Smith’s gone to get them, and I’m to bring him”—she nodded to Alfie—“downstairs.”
“Not anymore, Daisy. Thank you, but Alfie will stay right here.”
“I’m not going downstairs, Mama.”
She dropped to her knees and pulled her son into her arms. “I know. Of course you’re not. Atlas is with Lord Tefler right now. He’ll take care of everything. He won’t let you go anywhere.”
Alfie’s body, stiff as a soldier’s, collapsed against Clara’s chest, trembling. “I like it here. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave Atlas and Grandmama and the others.”
She kissed the top of his head again, again, and again. “You won’t. You won’t. I won’t let him take you. Atlas won’t let him.”
But they could not stand there whispering their hopes into the air all day. They must act. Run? Or face the monster? Only one choice, really.
Clara stood, her hands on Alfie’s shoulders. “Remain here.” She turned to Daisy. “Lock the door behind me. Let no one in but Lord Atlas or myself.”
Daisy, face pale, nodded.
Clara stroked Alfie’s hair, banished the fear from her eyes and from her voice. “I’ll return shortly. After I send Lord Tefler off. Play with your soldiers, yes?”
“Yes.” Said with a firm jaw and hard eyes, and it almost broke Clara to see her son so strong when he should not have to be.
She marched from the room but did not make her way to the stairs until she heard the click of the door’s lock. When she reached the ground floor, she found Matilda, Raph, and Franny entering from the front door. Reinforcements to make Clara’s heart braver than before.
“Are we too late?” Matilda asked, her hand over her prominent belly.
Raph’s arm hung around his wife’s shoulders, and his entire body seemed taut and poised for battle. “The coach is still here. We’re not too late.”
Franny took Clara’s hands. “Never fear, Clara dear. We’ll send him packing.” She threw her bonnet to the floor and marched down the hall, hair loose and streaming down her back.
Oh dear. She looked the very picture of a warrior queen, a Boadicea, but such a show of force, of oddity for the peerage would not endear Lord Tefler, might frighten him to extremes.
“Franny, come back!” Clara rushed after her, Raph and Matilda at her heels. “You cannot face him like that.”
“Like what? Enraged?” Electricity crackled around the older woman.
“Your hair. You must put it up. Lord Tefler is… enamored of propriety, of the proper way of things, and if we’re to convince him Alfie is better here than in his care, we must be?—”
“Pictures of perfect propriety.” Raph dragged a hand though his hair. “Bollocks. We’re about as far from that as can be.”
