Free Duchess 02 - Surprising Lord Jack by Sally Mackenzie Page B

or worse.
    His face—his nose and mouth—were so tiny and perfect. He was just a baby, a poor infant whom no one cared about. She glanced at Jack. Except Jack. For some reason, Jack cared.
    She heard a faint noise and looked down again.
    Had the baby’s eyelids fluttered? She stared, trying not to blink so she wouldn’t miss any movement, no matter how slight. Yes! She’d swear his lashes stirred and his mouth moved in a weak little sucking motion.
    She let out a long breath. “The baby’s still alive, my lord!”
    Jack grinned, his eyes on the road. “Excellent. We are almost in Bromley.”
    “What exactly is in Bromley?”
    He shot her a quick glance before looking back at the road. “I’ll tell you, but you must swear you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”
    How odd. “I promise.”
    “I’ve got two houses there, actually. One for women who want to”—he paused and glanced at her—“er, change their professions and another—the one we’re going to now—for abandoned children. It’s not large, which is one reason I must keep it secret. I couldn’t begin to take in all the poor infants who would be deposited on my doorstep if everyone knew about it.”
    “I see.” Though she didn’t really. Why would the youngest son of a duke care about helping whores and bastards? There must be something more to it . . . of course. The house must be a way for Lord Jack to hide his by-blows. Though this baby couldn’t be his . . .
    She shook her head. It was impossible to understand the male mind. Men, as Viola said, let themselves be led around by their cocks. Look at her father, cavorting in the South Pacific. Or worse, Frederick. He’d actually married his theater trollop, who he’d likely dump at Landsford.
    Well, if he did leave his wife at Landsford, it was no business of hers. She would not be around to clean up the mess. From now on Frederick could manage the estate and deal with Aunt Viola, who would not be at all happy about the trollop.
    Jack slowed the horses, turning them into a long, gravel drive that led to a sprawling country house of redbrick and stone. “Baby still all right?”
    She could finally loosen her death grip on the curricle. She stroked the infant’s soft cheek. The baby turned—
    “Oh!” She jerked her hand back. “He started sucking on my finger.”
    “An excellent sign. Ah, and here is our welcoming committee.”
    A stout man with silver hair and an enormous nose came out the front door accompanied by a crowd of little girls and a brown-haired young woman in a severe gray frock. The little girls, dressed in a bright rainbow of colors, ran ahead laughing toward the curricle. If it wasn’t February with snow still on the ground, they could pass for a human flower garden.
    Not all these children could be Jack’s. He might be London’s premier rake, but even so, he couldn’t have this many daughters, could he? Yet each little girl looked as delighted to see him as if she were indeed greeting her own father.
    Or so Frances assumed. She couldn’t know for certain; she’d never seen her father.
    Shakespeare leapt up and barked enthusiastically.
    “Sit, sir,” Jack said, and the dog plopped his bottom back onto the seat, his tail thrashing back and forth. He was ready to jump down into the crowd the moment he was given permission.
    “Milord, Milord Jack!” the girls called.
    “Look, Milord Jack’s got a doggie,” a girl with blond braids said. She looked at Frances. “And another boy.” This was not said with the same enthusiasm.
    “Girls, please ,” the woman in the gray frock said when she caught up. “Lord Jack wants to see your best manners.”
    “No, he don’t, Miss Bea.” A chubby girl with a mop of bouncing black curls frowned up at the woman. “He don’t want to see our best manners; he wants to see us .”
    “ Doesn’t , Jenny. He doesn’t want to see your best manners.” The woman laughed, her face softening so that she looked quite