“Indeed, sir.” Fighting a grin, Bradshaw bowed.

Gerrard heard the shrieks before he opened the parlor door. The instant he did, silence fell. Three heads jerked up, pinning him with accusatory stares-then his nephews and niece realized who’d dared to interrupt their playtime.

They came to life like demons. Uttering ear-splitting cries of “Uncle Gerrard!” they hurled themselves at him.

Laughing, he caught the eldest, Christopher, and dangled him upside down. Christopher shrieked with joy; laughing, Gregory jumped up and down, peering into his brother’s upturned face. Therese joined in. After shaking Christopher thoroughly, Gerrard set him down and, growling like an ogre, spread his arms and swept the younger two up.

Juggling them, he walked to the chaise facing the fireplace.

From the armchair angled before the hearth, with her youngest son, Martin, bobbing on her knees, Patience smiled indulgently up at him.

His broad shoulders propped against the side of Patience’s chair, Vane grinned; he’d been wrestling with the three older children when Gerrard had walked in. “What brings you our way? Surely not the chance to have your hair pulled by our resident monsters.”

Disengaging Gregory’s and Therese’s death grips on his previously neat locks, Gerrard fleetingly returned the grin. “Oh, I don’t know.” Setting the pair on the chaise, he dropped down to sit between them. He looked from one to the other. “There’s a certain something about them, don’t you think?”

The children crowed, and seized the opening to bombard him with tales of their recent exploits. He listened, as always drawn in by their innocent, untarnished view of mundane events. Eventually, they tired. The boys slumped on either side of him; Therese yawned, slipped from the chaise and crawled into her father’s lap.

Vane dropped a kiss on her soft curls and settled her, then looked at Gerrard. “So what is it? There’s obviously something.”