Page 21 of A Baby to Seal the Duke’s Fate

“A quality always appreciated in this house.”

“By His Grace?”

“By everyone who hopes to finish a morning’s work before luncheon.”

The corridor beyond was lined with portraits and dark wood paneling. Belgrave was older and larger than she had expected, and its rooms had a peculiar ordered emptiness, as if it had been long maintained by people who never quite relaxed inside its walls.

Mrs. Pritchard continued. “The kitchen is at the rear, easy enough to find by the smell of food. The nursery is upstairs, which we will get to shortly.” She paused outside a small sitting room, where a tall, bald gentleman stood just inside the door, holding a stack of papers and mulling them over with quite a bit of seriousness.

“Mr. Sayer, the steward, manages the accounts and the matters that require fewer emotions,” she said, gesturing idly toward the gentleman, who gave Honora a curt nod, barely taking his eyes off the papers to do so. “And the Viscount Dunsmere, who is goodness knows where right this moment, comes and goes, mostly to interfere with the duke’s peace and call it assistance.”

Honora looked at her. “I met the viscount briefly. He seems to enjoy flustering the duke.”

Mrs. Pritchard snorted.

“He is His Grace’s best friend. He manages nothing apart from his mouth, and he does not do that well.” The words were harsh, but there was a warmth that Honora did not miss. The viscount was clearly well liked, even if he could be a thorn sometimes.

Honora nodded. Had she not been so anxious, the dry humor might have amused her.

“And the duke ?”

Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth twitched. “He believes he manages himself.”

Honora had been expecting some observation like that. She said nothing.

Mrs. Pritchard glanced at her and started to look away. But she must have seen something on Honora’s face, because she paused.

“You may speak plainly here, Miss Redmond. We do not require poetry. And you have filled a position we all feared might not be reasonably filled before the poor child cried herself into sickness. You do not have to fear that anything you say will get you punished or judged.”

Honora almost smiled, though she stopped herself. “That is fortunate.”

“It is. For more than just you.”

Honora looked at her. “You are kinder than you first appear, Mrs. Pritchard.”

“Then I must be slipping.”

“I shall not tell anyone.”

“See that you do not.” Without another word, she resumed the tour.

Mrs. Pritchard introduced her to the staff one by one in the corridor outside the nursery suite. A younger maid, who was introduced to her as Susan Ross, red-haired and freckled, nodded shyly.

“I can help with laundry any time you need, Miss,” she said, her voice as soft and warm as her wide gray eyes.

Honora nodded, smiling warmly for the first time since she arrived.

“Thank you, Miss Ross,” she said.

The maid blushed bashfully.

“You can just call me Susan,” she said. “We are all servants, after all.”

Honora nodded, swallowing, testing her false name before speaking it aloud again.

“Then call me Phoebe,” she said, hating the taste of bile that followed it.

The maid nodded, then quickly vanished. A moment later, an older footman with thin gray hair and a round belly carried a stack of folded linens past them and looked at Honora as though he was trying to remember whether he had seen her before.