"Of course she did," Gabe said, feeling himself sinking into a deeper pool of lies. "She—she did."

"That's lovely," Imogen said, kissing Mary on the forehead. "You must be sure to tell her so when she grows to the age of understanding. My father foolishly told Josie that our mother had not survived to hold her, and the idea has caused Josie an unnecessary amount of pain."

Gabe blinked down at Mary in Imogen's arms and tried to imagine himself weaving a complicated set of lies about a dead wife that he would, someday, tell his daughter. He couldn't imagine it.

Mary was starting to look a little tired. She was wearing a little dress that poofed out in all directions and made her look rather like a buttercup. She put her head back against Imogen's arm.

"Oh, she's a love," Imogen whispered.

Gabe nodded. Mary was looking around drowsily, probably searching for her nurse. But then her eyes caught on him and a little crooked smile hitched up one side of that rosebud mouth.

And she stretched out her arms. Gabe felt his heart fall into the bottom of his boots.

"Isn't that sweet," Imogen crooned. "Mary wants her papa, doesn't she? Here you are." And without further ado, she plopped the baby back into Gabe's arms.

Mary sighed, turned her head against his waistcoat, and went promptly to sleep.

Chapter 9

Parched

Contrary to his brother's uncertain assessment, Rafe woke early the next morning, quite aware that he had promised to give up whiskey. Not just whiskey, but wine. Ale. Everything. He didn't feel ill this morning, as was his characteristic sensation in the morning; he was too gripped by fear.

It took over an hour for him to talk himself into getting out of bed and into the bath. Of course he could give up the liquor. He'd said a million times that he would, hadn't he? It wouldn't be so difficult. It wasn't as if he was the sort of man who fell over a bottle of ale on his way to breakfast and never looked up from it. This was simply a matter of accepting the logical judgment that whiskey, lovely though it was, has ill effects on his body and his health.

And now he had a niece and a brother. A family who wanted him to stop drinking. Commanded him to do so, in truth.

He walked down to the breakfast room to find that a lively discussion was afoot. Gabe looked up at him with the expression of pure relief.

A second later, Rafe understood why. Griselda had decided to tackle the whole project of the play. It didn't make sense to her. Hell, it didn't make sense to him either, and poor Gabe was making a sad hash of explaining himself while trying to avoid blatant untruths.

Having no disinclination whatsoever to lie, Rafe waded in before Gabe perjured himself. Leave that to those who were already beyond redemption.

"This is all Gabe's fault," he said, allowing the footman to heap coddled eggs on his plate. Normally, he didn't eat in the morning, but here he was, turning over a new leaf. "He knocked down a young woman in London last year. While in a hackney, you understand."

That struck a chord with Griselda. "There's nothing worse than a drunken hackney driver," she said, waving away all the dishes on offer. "And London is full of them. I should like dry toast only," she told the footman. "Very dry."

"Precisely," Rafe said. "The driver reeled off the box, he'd had so much gin. Of course, my brother felt responsible for the young woman's well-being. He's a very responsible sort of man."

"Of course," Griselda said, adding: "No, no, I said dry. Without butter, if you please."

"The young woman was slightly wounded in the accident, and unfortunately that caused her to lose her part in a play. So of course—"

"What theater was it?" Imogen asked.

"Covent Garden," Gabe said.

"So this young woman…" Griselda stopped. "What does this young person have to do with our production? Never tell me that you gained an appreciation for the theater from this unfortunate incident, Mr. Spenser?" From the way she gazed at Gabe, Rafe could tell that visions of young men taken in by the reckless charms of immoral actresses were dancing before her eyes. Not so far off the mark, either.

"Of course not," Rafe said hastily. "But knowing of the fame of the Holbrook Court theater, Gabe offered her the chance to display her considerable talents before a large audience. We mean, of course, to invite the most important theater people from London."

"It seems to me well beyond the call of duty," Griselda said, a small frown creasing her brow. "A small gift to the Covent Garden would likely have ensured the woman a part in an upcoming production."

"She doesn't want just a part," Rafe said cheerfully, "she wants a lead. And no amount of money could have dislodged Eliza Vestris from the leading role at the Covent Garden, unless the owners caught glimpse of a future luminary."

"I trust she is a woman of moral repute?" Griselda asked. "Because if I understand you, Rafe, you plan to proceed on your mother's theatrical model. The duchess employed professional actors for the lead parts, but she filled the extras with people of our own acquaintance. That makes the moral fiber of the hired help extremely important."

Rafe hastened to answer that before Gabe would commit himself to further untruths that would keep the poor fellow up at night. "Absolutely above reproach. Devoted to her craft, naturally. Passionate about it." To a fault, he added silently.

"Well," Griselda said, looking unsatisfied but resigned, "I still fail to see who precisely is going to run this production, Mr. Spenser. Unless you are quite remarkable for a doctor of divinity, no one among this company has the slightest idea how to mount a theatrical production, particularly one to which will be invited one hundred and fifty people. The duchess worked extraordinarily hard at the task, and she had a great deal of experience."

Rafe opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. "Make no mistake, if you go forward with this production and in conjunction with the fascinating revelation that you are not only in possession of a half brother, but that you have welcomed him into the household, every single person you invite will appear on your doorstep. In fact, your play will likely be the social event of the year."

"I suppose that's true," Rafe agreed.

"I would definitely like a part," Imogen put in. "If the lead is being given to an actress, perhaps I could play a villainess. I would enjoy that."

She was saying it to bait him. Definitely. Devilish woman.

"I wrote a letter to the only woman I can think of with a passion about the theater akin to my mother's… that young woman your husband used to be engaged to," he told Imogen.

Imogen's eyes hardened slightly. "Miss Pythian-Adams."

"A lovely young woman," Rafe said with satisfaction. "She had memorized the entirety of a Shakespeare play, as I recall. I was certain that she would be overjoyed to be involved in a theatrical party and in fact, she has accepted. She and her mother should be arriving any day."

"She's coming here?" Imogen asked.

"By a happy coincidence, Miss Pythian-Adams happens to be rusticating in Somerset," Rafe said. "I believe that her last season was considered rather disappointing. After she was… jilted."