“You shouldn’t shout,” his sister said in a repressive tone.
Melisande smiled at the girl. “His name is Mouse, and he is a grand dog indeed.”
Mouse seemed to grin before putting his nose into the mud near the edge of the pond. Boy and dog went back to investigating the water.
Melisande paused. She hadn’t much experience talking with children, but surely some things were universal? She nodded at the girl. “And what is your name?”
The child blushed and looked down. “Abigail Fitzwilliam,” she whispered to her toes.
“Ah.” Melisande’s mind worked as she looked from the child to her mother, whom she’d seen just the other night at the masked ball. Helen Fitzwilliam was the Duke of Lister’s mistress. The duke was a powerful man, but no matter how powerful the man in such si [mann Ftuations, the woman was still considered beyond the pale. She smiled at Helen Fitzwilliam’s daughter. “I am Lady Vale. How do you do?”
The girl still stared at her toes.
“Abigail,” a low feminine voice said. “Curtsy to the lady, please.”
The girl dropped a wobbly but pretty curtsy even as Melisande looked up. The woman who had spoken was beautiful—shining golden hair, wide blue eyes, and a perfect cupid’s-bow mouth. She must be a little older than Melisande, but she would outshine women both younger and older than herself. But then it wasn’t surprising that the Duke of Lister would choose a blindingly beautiful woman as his mistress.
She should walk away, not acknowledge the courtesan by either look or word. By the set of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s shoulders, that was exactly what the other woman expected. Melisande’s gaze dropped to the little girl, her eyes still firmly fixed on the ground. How many times had she seen her mother cut dead?
Melisande inclined her head. “How do you do? I am Melisande Renshaw, Viscountess Vale.”
She saw the flash first of surprise, then gratitude, on Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s face before the woman sank into a curtsy. “Oh! It’s an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Helen Fitzwilliam.”
Melisande returned the curtsy, and when she rose, found the little girl looking at her. She smiled. “And what is your brother’s name?”
The girl glanced over her shoulder to where her brother was squatting by the water, poking at something with a stick. Mouse was sniffing at whatever they’d found, and Melisande hoped he wouldn’t take it into his head to roll in something noxious.
“That’s Jamie,” Abigail said. “He likes stinky things.”
“Mmm,” Melisande concurred. “So does Mouse.”
“May I go see, Mother?” the girl asked.
“Yes, but do try not to paint yourself with the mud like your brother,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said.
Abigail looked insulted. “Of course not.”
She walked carefully over to where the boy and dog were playing.
“She’s a pretty child,” Melisande commented. Usually she disliked trying to make conversation with strangers, but she knew that if she was quiet, the other woman would take it as a snub.
“She is, isn’t she?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I know a mother isn’t supposed to notice, but I’ve always thought her rather lovely. They’re the light of my life, you know.”
Melisande nodded. She wasn’t sure how long Mrs. Fitzwilliam had been Lister’s mistress, but the children were almost certainly his. What a strange half-life it must be to be a man’s concubine. Lister had a legitimate family with his wife—some half-dozen sons and daughters already grown. Did he even acknowledge Jamie and Abigail as his own children?
“They love the park,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued. “I come here with them as often as I can, which, I’m afraid, i [ I’t ssn’t often enough. I don’t like coming when there are too many other people about.”
She said it matter-of-factly, without any self-pity.
“Why do you suppose little boys and dogs love the mud so much?” Melisande mused. Abigail was keeping her distance, but Jamie had stood and stomped at something in the muck. Mud flew up in great lumps. Mouse barked.
“The stench?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam guessed.
“The mess?”
Abigail shrieked and leaped back as her brother stomped in the mud again.
“The fact that it disgusts little girls?”