“I understand,” Mr. Elms said, gathering up his estate book. “May I take it that you approve of the plans for new hedgerows, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Hugo said, going to the door. “If you’ll forgive me.” And with that, he headed downstairs. It was stupid beyond all measure, but he had missed them. All of them, even little Joan, who wailed every time she saw him.

His sister was surrounded by footmen, one holding her high-plumed bonnet, another her exquisite French muff, a third her perfumed gloves. “Surprise!” she called, waving at him.

The entry was filled with Wildes. The boys were in their Eton coats, so his sister must have picked them up from school. Alaric was pummeling North in the shoulder and Horatius was barking a lecture. Not to be left out, four-year-old Betsy looked ready to leap into the fray, but she noticed his arrival.

“Papa!” she shrieked, running toward the stairs. All heads turned, and the babble of voices rose higher.

Hugo scooped Betsy up into his arms and gave her a kiss. North, Parth, and Alaric ran to him. They stopped a foot or so away and bobbed bows, and then as he put Betsy down, all three of them hurled into his arms. Leonidas followed, grabbing one of his legs, and even Alexander struggled to be put down and trotted toward him. Only Joan buried her face in her nanny’s neck and refused to look at him.

Ophelia had made him feel like an inadequate father, but he wasn’t.

His heir, Horatius, advanced two steps, and swept him an exquisite bow. “Your Grace,” he said.

“Horatius, you ass,” he said, “come give me a hug.”

His eldest submitted to an embrace, but reluctantly. Hugo made sure not to crush his cravat, as it had obviously taken a good deal of time and starch to achieve such perfect folds.

Then Hugo walked to Joan’s nanny, and with a nod, took his little girl, talking before she had a chance to start crying. “I missed you, Joanie.” Looking down at the smaller children, he said, “Do you all know what I saw the other day on Bond Street? Something the older boys dearly loved when they were small.”

“What?” Betsy asked.

“Wooden horses!” he said, laughing as he looked down at their excited faces.

“Children’s trinkets,” Horatius said, in as lofty a tone as an eighteen-year-old could manage.

“There was also a shop selling Spanish daggers,” Hugo said. Horatius’s eyes brightened. Joan seemed to have forgotten her fear of her father; she was sucking two fingers and staring with round eyes.

“Louisa,” Hugo said to his twin, raising his voice because Leonidas and Betsy were clinging to his legs, demanding horses now. “This is a welcome surprise.”