Page 70 of The Number of Love
“He is, yes.”
Apparently that was far too much boring talk for the boys to suffer. The littler one bounced on his toes and tugged on his mother’s arm. “Maman, there werelions! Roary lions, but they no roared.”
Brook chuckled and pulled the smaller one into her lap, holding the larger close with an arm about his middle. “And these are my boys. William is the elder—the Marquess of Abingdon.”
“Bing,” the boy pronounced with a grin not unlike his mother’s.
“And my baby is little Lord Ambrose.”
“Just Am,” the little one corrected, one finger hooked in his mouth. “Not baby.”
“Of course not.” Brook took off both their caps, somehow keeping her grin out of her voice. “Did you behave for Grandpapa?”
“What would have been the fun in that?” Lord Whitby made himself comfortable in another of the chairs. “But I kept him from tumbling into that ‘roary’ lions’ den, so I deemed it a successful outing.”
Ambrose gave a belly laugh. “Grandpapa say lion eat my hand if I pet him.”
Bing smirked. “I told him if it did, he’d have to get one of those false ones that our new factory is making.”
“You have a prosthetics factory?” Interesting. Many of the nobilityMargot had met over the years seemed to think it beneath them to have a hand in anything related to a trade.
“There is a rather great need. It seemed a good thing to invest our resources in.” Whitby arched his brows at his daughter. “Though remind me to speak to you of that later, my dear. We still need to find more management. We may need to run an advert.”
Margot sat up straighter. Blinked. Listened. Waited for the numbers to chase her thoughts.
Nothing.
She folded her hands in her lap and drew in a breath. She couldn’t not speak just because God was still silent. “May I ask what sort of qualifications you require? I’ve a friend in search of a position. He is himself just recently back from the war, injured. He wears a prosthetic foot—and has actually altered it rather cleverly.”
“Really.” Eyes alight, Brook looked to her father. “Have you a card to give her, Papa? Someone with some engineering talent would be just the thing.”
“He would indeed.” Whitby reached into his pocket and came out with a card, which he rose to hand over. “And we’re trying to hire mostly veterans who have been injured. I daresay we would have a position for him somewhere, regardless of his skills. Has he any education?”
“Some, though I’m not sure of specifics.” Margot held the card for a moment. It was just a rectangle of card paper, cut at perfect right angles in the typical aspect ratio.
But to Redvers Holmes, it could be the future. She smiled and tucked the card into her handbag. “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know of the opportunity. And now I had better say farewell and get home.” It was already dark and no doubt cold, but she still wanted to stop by the park and see if Williams had made another play.
“I’m so glad you could join me.” Brook nudged Ambrose back to his feet and stood.
Her father took to his feet, too, with a huff. “Are you in trousers again? Brook Elizabeth—”
“I was riding!” She didn’t look repentant. If anything, she looked as mischievous as her sons.
“When? And why didn’t you change before your guest arrived?” With a shake of his head that did nothing to disguise the amused glint in his eye, Whitby turned to Margot. “Forgive my daughter. She thinks social conventions are in place solely to be challenged.”
“A proclivity I inherited straight from my recluse of a father.” Still grinning, Brook came over and clasped Margot’s hands. “Come again soon, please. And I’ll pass along the next journal.”
“Thank you. And thank you for having me.” She smiled, squeezed the duchess’s hand, and then shook the earl’s again too.
And could all but see Maman smiling at her. She’d managed a social engagement with two of England’s finest, and not once had her mother’s memory had to chastise her. Of course, they’d mostly been talking about mathematics and theoretical physics. But still.
The little ones said a farewell, too, and then Margot was shown out. The Stafford car sat waiting to take her home. She’d tried to turn down the offer, but Brook had insisted that the tube station was too far, at least after dark.
As she settled into the back of the automobile, handbag in her lap, she let her eyes slide closed. At home, she’d find the stack of newspapers still waiting. She’d gathered all she could find from the weeks surrounding Maman’s death, but she’d only made it through half of them.
There was nothing there. Not in the ones she’d searched. Granted, that meant nothing, but ... but it drained her to pore over the newsprint for hour after hour and find nothing. Nothing.
Was it really not there? Or had those numbers gone just as silent as the ones from the Lord?
