Page 2 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

Jessamine fled the room, and the door slammed behind her.

An hour later

Jessamine pressed her fingers into her eyes so forcefully they ached, but nothing prevented the flow of tears.

This grief felt as though it came from some place far beyond her, opening a cavernous hole in her heart and letting her bleed out.

She rocked back and forth on the uncomfortable wooden bench, attempting to hold the full force of her pain inside. The physician stood before her, blood on his perfectly white shirt, his sleeves still rolled to reveal his lightly haired arms.

“Dead,” Jessamine repeated, the ugly word resonating through her body.

Surely Rebecca could not be dead. Not her lovely, lively friend who had so much—so very much—love to give. Beautiful, vivacious Rebecca with a laugh that could light any room, and a smile that put the sun to shame.

Surely Rebecca could not be dead.

It simply did not make sense with the world as Jessamine knew it.

“I’m very sorry,” the physician said. “I did everything I could.”

This was just like Percy, the baby brother she’d lost. Jessamine could remember the day like it was yesterday, the scar it left on her memory now tearing open all over again. She recalled how it had felt to hold the tiny body in her arms—and how different such things had felt as a child rather than now as an adult—and to know that he was her brother, before her mother had gone into spasms.

The same thing, almost, had happened here. Jessamine had entered, and the mother had died.

“Did I…” She cleared her throat. “Was I the cause of⁠—”

“No,” the physician said, almost too quickly. “Not in the slightest, Lady Jessamine. I’m sure Lady Cartwell was relieved to see you. She said often that she was glad William would have a godmother who would protect him. I’ve seen the condition before, I’m afraid. Sometimes, the strain of giving birth is too great, and tensions within the body rise too high. In cases such as these, there is nothing anyone can do about it.”

Jessamine’s throat felt thick and painful, as though she had swallowed broken glass. “I see.”

“The ladies downstairs are waiting to hear. I will send William down when I have finished examining him.” He nodded briskly, rose from his knees, and left, calling to his assistants as he did.

A kind man, but a busy one, and not one prepared to take on the task of assigning care to an infant.

Jessamine rose. She felt as though she had nails in all her joints. How strange that grief could do this, make her feel as tired and achy as if she were an old woman long before her time.

She took the stairs slowly, making her way through the townhouse to where the other ladies were gathered.

The Minerva Club was a collection of ladies of the more radical bluestocking variety, most of whom believed there was more to life than merely marrying and siring a dozen babies for one’s husband. Though they were not, in general, opposed to marriage itself, if one could find a gentleman worthy enough. The Dowager Marchioness of Marwich, for instance, had been married before her husband died, and she was the patroness of the club.

Jessamine had only joined because of Rebecca, and she had not been a member for very long; she had not been in London very long. And now, Rebecca was dead, and somehow, she had to find a way to explain how this could possibly have happened to all Rebecca’s closest friends.

She stepped into the room, and all eyes turned to her, ladies freezing in their variety of activities. Some had books in their lap, some embroidery, one lady was writing letters, and several were pacing, but none, Jessamine was sure, were focused on their tasks.

“Well?” Lady Marwich demanded.

She had half risen, one hand on her stick, but her expression indicated she already knew the answer.

Jessamine shook her head, her eyes burning all over again. No matter what she needed to do, she could not stop crying. “She is…” Her voice failed her.

Temperance Sutton, one of Jessamine’s friends and one of the youngest members at twenty, came forward with her hands outstretched. “I’m so sorry, dearest. Rebecca is—was… She was one of the best of us.”

Jessamine drew in a deep breath, squeezing her friend’s hands. “She named her son William.”

“The child survived?” Lady Marwich said, eyes narrowed. “Then the Dunston name lives on.”

Considering Rebecca had, against her will, married an earl many, many years her senior, Jessamine doubted she cared in the slightest whether the Dunston name lived on. What was important was that her son lived on.

“We must decide what to do with the child,” Miss Evelyn Walters said, shaking her head slightly. “That is our first priority. Once he has a home, we may grieve Rebecca as she deserves to be grieved.”