The Accidental Bride by Jane Feather

for the front door, Juno plunging ahead of them. A manservant moved with alacrity to let them out.
    A nursemaid was coming down the stairs, a baby in her arms. Portia took the infant, who had stopped wailing and was regarding the occupants of the hall with grave blue eyes. His hair was as red as his father’s.
    “This is Viscount Decatur, sir.” Portia introduced her infant with maternal pride.
    So Rufus Decatur had a legitimate heir. Cato felt the sharp stab of envy. He glanced at Phoebe, whose speedwell blue eyes returned his look without so much as a flash of self-consciousness.
    “A handsome child,” he said with as much warmth as he could muster. “I’m glad you’ve had company in my absence, Phoebe. Is there anything else I should know about?”
    “Ah, well, yes . . .” Phoebe began with enthusiasm. “Gypsies. You should know about the gypsies, sir.”
    “And what should I know about them?”
    “I found two of their orphaned children in a ditch.”
    “A ditch?”
    “Yes, it’s a little complicated.” Phoebe pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “But I know you’ll agree that I did the only thing I could do.”
    Cato remembered the cabbages. “Were you perhaps digging in this ditch when you found these orphans?”
    “No, of course not,” Phoebe said with some heat. “It was a ditch on the home farm and it was full of mud and water.”
    “Ditches do tend to be,” Cato murmured.
    “You are not being serious, sir,” Phoebe accused with that militant gleam in her eye again. “It’s a
very
serious matter.”
    Cato ran his hand through his hair, ruffling the crisp dark thatch from the widow’s peak to his nape with the familiar gesture that as always made Phoebe’s belly lurch with desire.
    “I stand corrected,” he said dryly. “Perhaps we should continue this in my study.”
    He moved away from her across the hall to the door to his sanctum. Phoebe followed with impetuous step, her words preceding her.
    “You see, as I understand it, there had been a fight for leadership in the tribe, and the children’s father, who had been the chief, was overthrown in a knife battle and he died of his wounds. So his children were left in the ditch, because the new chief took his enemy’s wife for his own and he didn’t want the other children to be a threat . . . in case one of the other families in the tribe decided to challenge his leadership. Like Romulus and Remus exposed outside Rome.”
    Cato closed the door. “Why is my wife concerning herself with internecine strife among the Romanies?”
    “I could hardly leave the poor little things to die in the ditch,” Phoebe pointed out. “They were on your land, my lord, apart from any humanitarian considerations. You wouldn’t wish it said that—”
    “Now, justa minute, Phoebe. These are gypsies. They are not my tenants and they have no claims on my charity.”
    “Well, what’s that got to do with it?” Phoebe demanded. “They’re little children. Of course I had to help them.”
    “And just how did you help them?” Cato went to the sideboard to pour himself wine.
    “I fostered them in the village, but I had to promise that we would pay for their keep. No one has enough to spare for two more mouths. But
you
do.” She regarded him with the air of one who has delivered the coup de grace.
    “I don’t care for your tone, Phoebe, I’ve told you that before,” Cato said coldly.
    “Then I ask pardon, my lord. But when you seem not to understand the importance, how else can I make you see what has to be done?” Phoebe met his frigid gaze steadily.
    “And you are to be a judge of my actions, of course,” Cato said. “I think you have said all you can possibly have to say.” He bestowed a curt nod upon her and very deliberately picked up some papers on his desk.
    Phoebe hesitated, then she accepted her dismissal and left the study, closing the door with exaggerated care behind her.
    Cato let the papers fall to the desk. He