Page 22 of A Baby to Seal the Duke’s Fate

Honora dipped her head, hoping she was imagining the intensity with which he studied her.

“Hello,” she said. “I am Phoebe Redmond. The new nursemaid.”

The man’s eyes studied her face as understanding filled his eyes. Perhaps he had only been trying to figure out who she was.

“George Benson,” he said with a stiff nod before he, too, disappeared.

Mrs. Pritchard nodded, leading Honora to a set of stairs.

“Let me show you to the nursery.”

Honora nodded once more, the words catching before she could force them out. The thought of seeing Cecily again filled her with too much joy for a new nursemaid, so she fought herself to remain calm as she followed the housekeeper up the stairs and to the nursery.

Mrs. Pritchard opened the door. Honora had been in there previously, but she was not prepared for what she saw. She stopped in the threshold. Everything in the room was new.

There had been a makeshift crib before, and nothing else. Now, however, there was a brand new crib, curtains, a low chair by the fire, a washstand, and folded cloths by the hearth. Nothing looked as though it had been dragged from storage or borrowed from some forgotten room. It had been chosen quickly, but not carelessly.

Honora stared. She had expected the duke to be like many wealthy, titled society members would be and ignore, or even get rid of, Cecily. After all, if the child’s own grandfather could send her away so quickly, why should a duke who knew nothing about her show her more mercy?

Instead, she saw care and consideration, as though the duke had not been unwilling to help the child, but unsure of what he should do until the previous night.

“His Grace arranged all this?” Honora asked before she could stop herself.

Mrs. Pritchard looked at her sidelong. “He gave the orders.”

“That is not quite the same thing.”

“No,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “It is not. He chose the crib himself.”

Honora turned back to the small bed, startled despite herself. “He did?”

“Badly, at first. He thought the largest one must be best.”

Honora almost smiled. “For an infant?”

“I corrected him.”

“Bravely done.”

Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth twitched. “Frequently necessary.”

Honora looked at the room again, at the folded cloths and warm fire and blankets ready within reach. His effort was genuine, she thought, which unsettled her more than the room itself. It was easier to distrust a careless man. And the duke was clearly not careless.

Mrs. Pritchard spoke quietly beside her. “There is a basin in the washroom if you need it, and extra blankets in the cupboard. If there is anything else you need, His Grace has instructed me to see to it that you have it.”

Honora’s throat closed again. “Thank you,” she replied.

Mrs. Pritchard gave her a brief glance. “The baby is in the crib. She woke an hour ago and has been in good temper since.”

Honora stepped toward the crib. Cecily lay there with one arm flung above her head and the other curled around a small blanket. Her dark hair was mussed. Her cheeks were pink. She was staring at the ceiling with the solemn concentration of someone considering very serious matters of state.

Mrs. Pritchard stepped back and closed the nursery door behind her without saying another word. As the latch clicked, Cecily turned her head. The baby’s face changed, brightening with immediate recognition. A little sound escaped her, soft and pleased, and both arms began to move.

Honora gave a small, helpless laugh and gathered her up at once.

“Look at you,” she cooed, grateful to finally have a moment alone with her niece. “They are taking such good care of you.”

Cecily babbled against her shoulder, gripping Honora as though she might disappear if she did not.