The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [50]
“Excuse me,” the duke said. He slipped his arm from Georgiana’s. “Allow me.” He unhooked the latch.
“You needn’t, Tarquin,” the dowager said. “I always signal my arrival thus. One wouldn’t want the poor souls to run out half-clothed or some such. We would all be mortified.”
Without a reply, the duke opened the gate and held it open for all of them to pass. Their bright bonnets and parasols seemed doubly so in contrast to the battered house and its neglected garden.
Then the front door popped open and children began to spill out, all bobbing up and down in a frenzy of curtsying.
“A very good afternoon to you, Mrs. Knockem,” the dowager said, nodding at a plain, tired-looking woman with red, knobby hands. All the children were lined up by now. “Avery, Andrew, Archer,” the dowager said, nodding to each child. “I’m Alfred,” the littlest boy said. “Archer is in the pub.”
The dowager frowned. “In the pub, Mrs. Knockem? Surely Archer is extraordinarily young to be imbibing spirits.”
“Our Archer is bringing home a penny a week washing mugs, Yer Grace. We’re right proud of him.”
“A penny is certainly not to be overlooked.” The dowager looked at the line again. “Good afternoon, Audrey and Amy. Where is Anne?”
“She’s inside, feeling a bit poorly,” their mother replied, her hands twisting in her apron.
“Not in the family way, Mrs. Knockem?” the dowager inquired. “I understand she is walking out with the butcher’s youngest.”
“Oh no,” Mrs. Knockem said, blinking madly. “Our Anne is a good girl. She’s sat in a patch of something, and she’s all covered with little bumps. We do call it the purple itch hereabouts.”
The dowager gestured to the footman. “Bring the basket inside. Mrs. Knockem, if I might be so bold, one of my guests, Miss Georgiana Lytton, has quite remarkable skill at curing skin ailments.”
Olivia leaned over and breathed in her sister’s ear, “Lady Althea should just call for her carriage and return to London now.”
But Lady Sibblethorp was apparently not ready to give up the fight. “My daughter, Lady Althea, has also made an extensive study of minor skin ailments,” she said magisterially. “We shall examine the girl.”
Mrs. Knockem didn’t look particularly happy about the imminent house invasion, but she seemed to realize that there was no stopping a flood once the riverbank was breached. She fell backward a step, blinking even faster.
Georgiana stepped forward. “Mrs. Knockem, you must be so worried. Could you tell me more about what happened?” She walked into the house, her arm tucked under Mrs. Knockem’s, her head bent to hear her description.
The dowager waved Lady Althea and her mother into the house, and then turned. “You shall not be welcome, Duke,” she said. “And Miss Lytton, I’m sure you understand that the canine must remain outdoors.”
“I don’t know anything about skin infections,” Olivia put in, hoping madly that the dowager would touch something and catch a case of purple bumps.
“Quite,” the dowager stated. The door shut behind her.
Olivia sighed.
Then she realized that she was standing in front of the line of small children, who didn’t seem inclined to mill about the way children normally do. They were rather dirty and thin. And they looked anxious. “Let’s see,” she said to the eldest. “Your name is Apple because you have lovely red cheeks.” She looked to the next. “You look very fast, so you must be Arrow. And this must be Apron because—”
“I’m not Apron,” the small boy said indignantly. “That’s for a girl!”
“Hmmm,” Olivia said. “Then how about Ant? You are about the size of a peasecod.”
“I’ll get bigger,” he said stoutly.
“Very true.” She could see smiles popping up. The line had broken, and now they were clustering around her. “Let’s try the girls. You must be Apricot, since your hair is a lovely shade of ginger that I heartily envy.”
The girl giggled. “Me gram says it’s the color of the devil’s beard.”
“It’s not the most flattering of