Even Baby befriended the creatures.
Dragging a hand across his sweaty forehead, Simon leaned over to unlatch the window. Some of the heat fled. Noontime air swirled inside, smelling of grass and countryside and afternoon.
Yet another one gone by without the answers he needed.
Urgency twinged him. Yesterday, before his last stop at Gray’s Inn, he had spent his day waiting for the mysterious turnkey to depart Newgate. He never did. Now what?
He had already tried to speak with the prison warden.
Instead of granting Simon an audience, they had denied him access into the prison at all. As if he was some sort of filthy rat, the Scotsman had mumbled a minced oath and waved Simon away.
Next time he would break through the door with his fists and boots.
“Papa, me can keep this one?” Mercy sprang next to him, presenting a white-bearded monkey perched on a treetop. “Him is named Monkey.”
“He is yours then.”
A grin flushed her face and she barked a low animal sound—more in likeness to a dog than a monkey—as she bounced the toy across Simon’s knee.
Humor tickled him. A chuckle rumbled out.
The sound must have been foreign, for John glanced up with surprised delight, lowering his tin tiger. His nose crinkled. “That’s a dog noise, Mercy.” His words tripped on a laugh of his own.
Mercy giggled.
Then John hooted.
Shaking his head, Simon tried to keep back the flood of laughter, but it spilled out anyway like an unstoppable current. Strong enough, nearly, to sweep away all the strain in his body, until little mattered but Mercy’s silliness and—
A small knock sounded at the open turret door.
Sucking in air, Simon glanced up and stilled. “Miss Whitmore.” He stood faster than he meant to and wiped wet eyes.
With a bashful tilt of her head, Miss Whitmore stared at the three of them—smiling.
Why did the smile arrest him? Why did he find it odd, like a mother who had just stumbled upon an endearing scene of her children instead of strangers? Had he not seen her smile before?
Of course he had.
Many times.
But never like this, with such a mark of joy and loving astonishment.
Loving.He resisted the word, as Mercy raced for the woman in the doorway and hugged her legs.
Even John approached her. He grinned up at her, chuckling all over again, as he told Miss Whitmore of all the toys they had discovered in the old black chest and the funny noises Mercy made when she played.
Miss Whitmore’s easy voice, her glistening eyes, responded to everything—all effortlessly, it seemed, as if patting Mercy’s back and laughing at everything John said was something she had been doing all along.
Had so short a time in the forest made her this comfortable with them? That niggled him. Mayhap entranced him too.
“Mrs. Fancourt said I might find you here.” In one sweeping glance, she took in the sight of his paintings. He could not read whether the old relics of his childhood pleased her or not. “I did not wish to disturb, but I have a small matter I should discuss with you.”
“Alone, I presume?”
She glanced down at his children with another warm smile, nodding.
“Very well. John, take your sister back to the nursery.”
