“How fun!” Over her son’s head, Brook said, “Papa, this is Margot De Wilde, about whom I was telling you earlier. Margot, my father, the Earl of Whitby.”

“How do you do, my lord?” Margot slid her empty coffee cup onto the table nearest her and held out a hand to shake.

Lord Whitby took it with a sparkle in his eye to match his grin. “Ah, the mathematician! Yes, Brook was telling me how excited she was to find someone with whom to discuss that journal. And your brother is the violinist, I believe?”

“He is, yes.”

Apparently that was far too much boring talk for the boys to suffer. The littler one bounced on his toes and tugged on his mother’s arm. “Maman, there were lions! Roary lions, but they no roared.”

Brook chuckled and pulled the smaller one into her lap, holding the larger close with an arm about his middle. “And these are my boys. William is the elder—the Marquess of Abingdon.”

“Bing,” the boy pronounced with a grin not unlike his mother’s.

“And my baby is little Lord Ambrose.”

“Just Am,” the little one corrected, one finger hooked in his mouth. “Not baby.”

“Of course not.” Brook took off both their caps, somehow keeping her grin out of her voice. “Did you behave for Grandpapa?”

“What would have been the fun in that?” Lord Whitby made himself comfortable in another of the chairs. “But I kept him from tumbling into that ‘roary’ lions’ den, so I deemed it a successful outing.”

Ambrose gave a belly laugh. “Grandpapa say lion eat my hand if I pet him.”

Bing smirked. “I told him if it did, he’d have to get one of those false ones that our new factory is making.”

“You have a prosthetics factory?” Interesting. Many of the nobility Margot had met over the years seemed to think it beneath them to have a hand in anything related to a trade.

“There is a rather great need. It seemed a good thing to invest our resources in.” Whitby arched his brows at his daughter. “Though remind me to speak to you of that later, my dear. We still need to find more management. We may need to run an advert.”

Margot sat up straighter. Blinked. Listened. Waited for the numbers to chase her thoughts.

Nothing.

She folded her hands in her lap and drew in a breath. She couldn’t not speak just because God was still silent. “May I ask what sort of qualifications you require? I’ve a friend in search of a position. He is himself just recently back from the war, injured. He wears a prosthetic foot—and has actually altered it rather cleverly.”

“Really.” Eyes alight, Brook looked to her father. “Have you a card to give her, Papa? Someone with some engineering talent would be just the thing.”