“Or he was really tired, like Drue.”

“Perhaps.” She stood from the table and returned the book to the shelf. “Why don’t you go to bed? I will bring Drue in.”

Tommy nodded. “Thank you, Diana. I like when men come. It makes mama happy.”

Diana nodded, then paused. Lord Bryant’s visit hadn’t made Charlotte happy; she had been happy before they’d arrived. What did Tommy mean by that?

“Have other men been coming to the house?”

Tommy’s eyes went wide, and he clapped a hand over his mouth. His eyes flew to the bedroom, where his mother’s humming sounded as cheerful as Diana had ever heard it.

“Did a man come to visit your mama?”

Tommy took a deep breath. “I’m not supposed to tell.” His face scrunched together, and he bit into one of his fingers.

She leaned forward and then stopped herself. She couldn’t press Tommy for more information. Not when his mother had asked him to keep it a secret. But if Charlotte was meeting with someone, why wouldn’t she tell Diana?

“If you aren’t supposed to tell, then don’t. Despite what Lord Bryant said, you really should listen to your mama. It was your mama who told you not to tell, right? Not the man?”

He nodded, eyes still wide and solemn.

“Well, then you did the right thing by not telling me. I’m proud of you.”

Tommy’s face brightened a little at that. She walked him over to the room where Charlotte was still humming. The tune seemed different now . . . laced with meaning. Charlotte wasn’t cheering up on her own; someone had helped her. And that someone was a man. With all the men no longer coming to the office, Diana had become complacent. But if anyone had heard about her agreement with Charlotte, that would mean Diana wasn’t the only woman the men could target. She would have to talk to Charlotte about this as soon as possible.

After peeking in to make certain Tommy made it to his mama, Diana pushed herself away from the doorway and inched over to the rocking chair. She tipped her head to one side. Lord Bryant looked different when he slept—younger, like when he smiled at her earlier as she galloped around the room. It was as if his mask had been removed, and here he was in reality. Not Lord Bryant, but Everton. A person, not a title. A title couldn’t sleep in a rocking chair with a three-year-old boy snoring softly on his arm.

But a man could.

His dark hair was tousled, as it often seemed to be when they were together. It hadn’t been tousled at the ball—it had been parted and styled as if his fortune had depended on it. Her fingers ached to push the thick portion that had flopped forward onto his forehead away from his eyes. She was a lunatic, it seemed. One simply didn’t touch a man’s hair when he was sleeping. If nothing else, it would be a terrible intrusion. And she had intruded upon Lord Bryant quite enough.