“Here.”
Templeton was the sort of man who had a huge desk containing at least forty pigeonholes. Each of those would be assigned to part of the duke’s estate: bastard children likely off in a lower corner somewhere, in a position of shame. The horror in his eyes surely resulted from a confusion of pigeonholes.
“Your Grace?”
“Collect them,” Villiers said briefly. “Wait—isn’t there one of them living with its mother?”
Templeton coughed. “If you’d given me some warning, Your Grace, I would have brought the list.”
“There aren’t that many, for God’s sake,” Villiers barked. “Surely you know their situations?”
Even a duke could read the criticism deep in Templeton’s eyes.
“I handed those children over to you,” Villiers said.
“They are well cared for,” Templeton said, a little bluster entering his voice. “You can find no fault in the record.”
“I’m not looking to do so. I’ve simply changed course. The children are coming to live here. All but, perhaps, the one who lives with the mother. I’m not having any mothers.”
Templeton cleared his throat, took out a small notebook. “No mothers,” he said weakly.
“Should be easy enough to round them up. Simply go to their addresses, relieve their current minders of responsibility, and bring them here.”
“Here?” Templeton looked around the room a bit desperately, his gaze skewing upwards.
Villiers had to admit that his library almost veered into a parody of himself—but then, so did he. Last year he’d had the vaulted ceiling painted with a riotous mural depicting life on Mount Olympus. He had long thought of Greek myths as a storage house for the male imagination (Jove’s seduction of Danae in a rain of gold coins was a particularly efficient fantasy). It struck him as amusing to house his literature collection in a room that implied it was all about the bed.
Jove was here, there, and everywhere. Now a bull, now a swan, but always in pursuit of a lushly nubile (and naked) nymph. He had instructed the artist to forget the idea of painting any of those little Italian cupids, the ones with limp, small penises, and concentrate on breasts instead.
The painter had taken to his task with a great deal of enthusiasm. Villiers was still discovering new breasts that he hadn’t noticed previously.
Templeton clearly did not approve. Unfortunately for him, Villiers didn’t give a damn about his opinion.
“That will be all,” he said, looking back down at the papers on his desk.
“Your Grace,” Templeton implored.
Villiers layered his voice with a combination of irritation, annoyance, and possible violence. “Yes?”
“Who shall care for these children?”
“Mrs. Ferrers will manage them. You might mention it to her. She’ll hire some nursemaids or some such, I’ve no doubt.”
Templeton gulped.
Villiers raised his eyes again. “If you’re afraid of my housekeeper, Templeton, just let me know and I’ll inform her myself.”
Templeton rose to his feet, regaining a semblance of dignity. “I bid Your Grace a good morning,” he said, bowing.
A thought struck Villiers. “Templeton.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Bowing again.
“Would a sensible—nay, a charitable—person believe that I ought to recover these infants myself?”
Templeton’s mouth hung open.
“I wonder what Miss Tatlock would say?” Villiers mused to himself.
“Miss Tatlock?” Templeton stammered.
“Actually, her name is now Mrs. Dautry, since she married my heir,” Villiers murmured. “I did give you that letter, didn’t I? Yes, I surely did. With instructions to change the details of my will, I believe. I am quite certain that the line of descent is now assured. She will likely produce any number of clucking infants—and all within the bounds of wedlock, which is surely more than I can say for myself.”
“Yes, Your Grace—that is, I am aware of that, Your Grace.”
“She would think I should fetch the children myself,” Villiers said, making up his mind. “Very well, Templeton. Send me a note in the morning with the relevant names and addresses. I shall try to fit it in. I have a very busy few days ahead of me. I promised the Duchess of Beaumont I would visit Vauxhall tonight; I am promised for several games of chess at Parsloe’s, and now this.”
He lowered his chin.
His solicitor’s voice was a predictable squeal, but there was an extra edge of scandalized horror there. Villiers heard it with interest. Why should his solicitor be afraid at the idea of him rounding up his illegitimate infants?