Harmonia was the entire length of the table away from her father-in-law, but he expected her to step and fetch like an unpaid scullery maid. When Champlain had been alive, he’d been able to jolly her past her frustrations with Stapleton. Champlain had been a fellow traveler on the journey to wrest pleasure from the dull business of waiting for Stapleton to die.

How was it Harmonia could miss such a frivolous, self-indulgent husband more each year? She aimed a smile at the liveried footman standing at the sideboard—Wilbur, and a lovely fellow he was too—and Wilbur set the toast rack at the marquess’s elbow.

“I can ask de Beauharnais to take on a second commission,” she said, “of me and Nicky, but I am having my own portrait done first.”

Stapleton looked up from his steak. “You aren’t exactly in the first blush of youth, Harmonia. Why memorialize the ravages of time?”

When the marquess peered down his nose like that, he looked like an arrogant ferret. “I am barely six-and-twenty, sir. You are twice my age, and you had your portrait done last year.” De Beauharnais had pronounced the result flattering and workmanlike, for he was too much of a gentleman to criticize a fellow artist.

Endymion was nothing if not diplomatic, which was why Harmonia—who was closer to eight-and-twenty, truth be told—wanted him doing her portrait. That, and he doubtless needed the money.

“I could remarry,” Harmonia said, pouring herself a second cup of chocolate. She ought not to indulge—her dresses were still larger than they’d been before she’d carried Nicky—but joys in her life were few, and a cup of hot chocolate was prominent among them.

“Remarry?” Stapleton chewed his steak. “Yes, I suppose you could. Remarry whomever and wherever you please, in fact. Marry an American. They’re a lusty bunch, I’m told. The boy stays with me, though. The boy will always stay with me.”

Stapleton’s authority over Nicky was not quite absolute. Champlain, bless him for an occasional flash of rebellion, had proclaimed before witnesses that Nicky was to grow up under his mother’s loving guidance, and in her household. He’d specified in his will that during Nicky’s minority, Harmonia was to have a London residence if she so desired, but he’d failed to spell out details other than that. Stapleton was the child’s guardian, and thus Stapleton held the legal reins.

Harmonia loved her son to distraction, but much more of Stapleton’s dismissiveness and meddling and she would be tempted to do Papa-in-Law an injury.

“I’m taking the carriage out this afternoon,” she said. The weather was still fine enough to enjoy a day of shopping and paying calls.

“No, you are not. I have committee meetings to attend. Where’s the butter?”