Page 1 of A Baby to Seal the Duke’s Fate

Chapter 1

Leopold Harcourt had been awake since dawn. The morning had begun with letters, as most mornings for the Duke of Belgrave did.

Then there were the estate accounts, a note from the steward about the west field fence, a reply to the tenant in Northbridge over the drainage on his land, and a short list from Mrs. Prentiss in the kitchen about what would be needed for the week because the new cook disliked ordering for a house she did not yet understand.

Leopold had answered each one with the same steady care.

His father used to say that a man with a title did not have the luxury of being tired.

Leopold had once believed that was nonsense. Then his father died, the title of duke fell to him, and the nonsense became the shape of his days.

He sat at the desk in the study with his shirtsleeves rolled up, a stack of correspondence on his left, the household ledger open in front of him, and a cup of tea gone cold at his elbow.

The room smelled faintly of ink, fire ash, and old paper. The clocks in the hall had already chimed nine, but the light through the window still had a pale, early quality to it.

Leopold dipped his pen again, read the line once more, and made a note in the margin.

“No, and also no,” he said aloud to nobody in particular.

Behind him, the door opened.

He did not look up at once. “If this is about the hayward accounts, I have already written to—”

“My lord.”

The voice was Wilfred’s. Usually calm. Usually dry. But it lacked those qualities so much that Leopold looked up, curious.

Wilfred stood in the doorway with an expression Leopold had never once seen on him in eight years of service. It was not alarm exactly—the butler was too disciplined for that—but certainly not his normal, almost bored composure.

Leopold set down his pen. “What is it?”

Wilfred did not move. “There is a matter on the front steps.”

Leopold frowned. “A matter.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“A person?”

Wilfred’s mouth twitched. “More or less.”

Leopold stared at him, then looked back down at the ledger. “I am in no mood for riddles.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So tell me what is on my front steps.”

Wilfred’s eyes shifted once, in a direction that suggested he would vastly prefer not to answer the question in words. “A basket.”

Leopold blinked. “A basket?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He waited for the rest, but Wilfred only stood there, hands folded behind his back, the picture of a man determined not to be the one who announced something absurd and had to defend it afterward.

Leopold set his pen down carefully. “What sort of basket?”

“That,” said Wilfred, with the faintest emphasis, “is best seen.”