The Duchess of Haverford adored all her grandchildren, acknowledged and secret, official and unofficial, those descended from her and those born to her wards, her step-children and others she regarded as her own, though not by blood.
Nia and Tony Wakefield were special, and she was thrilled to have them to herself for the afternoon. With one year between them in age, they had become close since Tony was added to the Wakefield family. Between them, they took care of all the younger ones, sometimes leading them into mischief but always protecting them from danger.
They bickered like brother and sister, too. They were currently arguing about who should have the last strawberry tart, each topping the other with claims about their worthiness for the privilege.
“I read five stories to the littlies last night at bedtime,” Nia said.
Tony scoffed. “Which you thoroughly enjoyed. I took William to the chamber pot ten times this morning.”
Of course, every single child was special in his or her own way. But Antonia Wakefield, who had been born Antonia Virtue, was the first child of her elder son, her darling Anthony. Or at least the first she knew about. Long after Eleanor’s wild boy had lost sight of the lover who refused to be his mistress, Eleanor kept an eye on her and her daughter, offering the mother work to help her keep her pride and independence while making ends meet.
Then Nia’s mother Prue married David Wakefield, base-born half brother to Eleanor’s two sons, and one of her favourite protégés. At long last, Eleanor could claim a grandmother’s role in the dear child’s life.
Tony was the first child of her younger son, whose marriage had taken him to the other side of Europe, where he was raising a large family in a tiny grand duchy that his wife ruled. Tony was not only special in his own right. He was the sole representative in England of the offspring of her beloved Jonathan.
“There is a solution, my dears,” she told the pair. “I could send for more strawberry tarts.”
They looked at one another and laughed. “An efficient suggestion, Aunt Eleanor,” Tony agreed. He winked. “If slightly less fun.”
He had a thread of the wicked, had Tony. He had been raised in a country village until his mother died, but he had come to London to find his father with little information to identify the man, and had spent several years on the street until Anthony’s wife found him in a maths class she was teaching in a ragged school.
Recognising that he was the image of his uncle in a portrait of Anthony at the same age, she had made sure to introduce them, and before long Tony had his choice of families: Anthony, his Uncle Haverford; Jonathan, his father; David Wakefield and his wife Prue, mother to Mia.
Tony chose the Wakefields, explaining that he knew nothing about being a prince’s son or a duke’s, but David and Prue were enquiry agents, and he figured that was something he could grow up to do.
“If it is not too much trouble, Your Grace, more strawberry tarts would be delightful,” said Nia, who was sometimes rather too proper for a girl of fourteen. Prue said that Tony was good for her, teasing her into mischief or temper, depending on the occasion.
“For you, my darlings,” Eleanor said, “nothing is too much trouble.”
