"Yes?" "It's Finchley, er, John." "You may come in." He did not come in. He eased the door open and stood at the threshold, peering at her. "Will you be going to Trent Square today?" "I used to go every day, but now just twice a week. That's when I instruct at the pianoforte." She noticed that his face fell, and she quickly amended her reply. "However, it always gives me great pleasure to go there. Should you like to go see your ward today?" A smile tugged at his mouth. "I should. I've gotten something for Georgie." She was relieved it was the lad—and not the lad's beautiful mother—whom her husband wished to see. "What?" "I had a miniature cricket bat made for him. The carver assured me it was the perfect size for a lad of three." Her husband conveyed far more excitement over a three-shilling bat than he had over a gelding that had cost a hundred guineas. It pleased her that he'd thought of the little fatherless lad instead of pursuing his hedonistic activities. Then she realized he must have been at the carvers the preceding afternoon when she'd feared he was with a ladybird.
