It might make him a weakling, but he took her defense gratefully. A part of him railed against his own cowardliness. A man—even a man without the power of speech—shouldn’t hide behind a woman’s skirts. Apollo ducked his head, avoiding both women’s gazes as he strode to the door. This had been a mistake—he’d known it from the first. He should never have given in to the temptation to come here. To try to associate with other folk as if he were a normal man still.
A small, damp hand caught Apollo as he made for the door, and such was his disquiet, he nearly pulled away.
But he remembered in time and stopped.
Indio looked up at him, his hair in wet spirals, dripping onto his nightshirt. The boy had his brows drawn together, but underneath his stern expression there was hurt. “Are you leaving?
Apollo nodded.
“Oh.” Indio let go of Apollo’s hand and chewed his bottom lip. “Are you coming back? Daff wants you to.”
Since Daffodil was presently asleep on the hearth, this seemed extremely unlikely.
Apollo frowned, not knowing how to reply. He shouldn’t return. It was a danger to himself—and not only in the sense that his identity might be discovered.
“Please do.” Miss Stump’s voice was quiet, but when he glanced at her, her expression was firm.
He held her green gaze a moment more and then looked back at the boy and nodded.
The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. Indio’s face was taken over by his grin and the boy surged forward as if about to hug him. Only at the last minute did he pull himself back and hold out a hand instead.
Apollo’s palm engulfed the boy’s but he shook Indio’s hand as if he were a duke in velvet instead of a seven-year-old in damp linen, with bare feet.
He wished he could say something, but in the end all he did was nod again and walk out the door.
Still, he heard the old maidservant as she spoke to Miss Stump: “You’re a fool.”
THE PROBLEM WITH writing witty dialogue, Lily thought bitterly the next afternoon, was that ideally one should actually be witty in order to write wittily.
At the moment Lily felt about as witty as Daffodil—who was chasing a fly. As Lily watched, the little dog jumped on the old settee and snapped at the fly, missed—again—and nearly toppled off the back.
Lily groaned and laid her head in her folded arms. It was a sad thing indeed when one felt as intelligent as Daffodil.
“Uncle Edwin!” Indio had for once stayed close to the theater and his shout of ecstasy could be clearly heard through the door.
Lily hastily tidied her writing table, straightening the papers and picking up a quill that had fallen to the floor.
A second later the door to the theater burst open and Edwin Stump ducked inside, a wrapped parcel under his arm. He didn’t duck because he was so very big—he stood but a few inches taller than Lily herself—but because he was carrying his nephew on his shoulders.
Maude trailed behind with the remains of their washing in a basket. The maidservant glared sourly at Edwin.
“Oof!” Edwin exclaimed as he tumbled Indio onto the settee and set his package by it. Daffodil immediately leaped on the boy, licking his giggling face. Edwin turned to Lily, his hand pressed dramatically to the small of his back. “I think he’s put on a stone or more since I last saw him.”
“Mayhap you should visit more often,” Lily said, rising. She crossed to hug her brother and then stood back to examine his face.
Edwin Stump was eight years her senior, and looked nothing like her. This was probably the result of their having different fathers. Mother had been in her heyday as a leading actress when she’d started increasing with Edwin. He was the result of a happy liaison with the younger son of an earl. Eight years later, gin and happenstance had taken their toll on Lizzy Stump. By that time her beauty had been ravaged by drink and disappointment, the earl’s younger son was long gone, and she no longer commanded the lead—or even a secondary role—in plays. As a result Lily had been conceived after a night of drinking with a common porter—a fact her mother was apt to bring up in moments of high emotion.
Edwin had a long, thin face, dominated by black arching brows that stood out like signposts of his temperament in his fair complexion. His smile was a V of merriment with more than a dash of mischievousness, completely impossible to ignore. His black eyes could dance with joyous spirits or glower with ill intent—and they were quick to change. Lily had more than once heard Maude muttering under her breath that Edwin was the Devil’s bastard—as much fey as mortal. Lily had to admit that if she believed in such nonsense she’d think Edwin a magical creature herself.
He had, after all, saved her on more than one occasion from her mother’s drunken neglect when she was a girl.
“Would you like some tea?” Lily asked.
“Have you anything stronger?” Edwin threw himself on the settee beside Daffodil and Indio.
The settee wobbled ominously and Lily sent it a worried glance. “We have wine,” she said reluctantly. Edwin’s jaw was unshaven, his bristles in dark contrast to his snowy wig.
“Then pour me a glass, there’s a lass.” He smiled at her winsomely.