Page 75 of A Baby to Seal the Duke’s Fate

Barnaby’s expression remained pleasantly unreadable. “Just making sure.”

***

That evening Leopold sat in the study longer than he meant to.

The fire had burned low, the papers on the desk were tidied away, and the house was quiet enough that he could hear the faint movement of servants in distant rooms. He had a glass of brandy untouched at his elbow and no desire to drink it.

Instead, he sat with one hand on the arm of the chair and thought about the day.

Barnaby on horseback.

Barnaby’s warning.

Sabina in the library, arguing without retreat.

Sabina’s voice in the hall, low and certain.

Your nursemaid holds that baby like a mother and not like hired help.

It was not the first time someone had said something that rang too true for comfort.

Leopold looked toward the dark window and saw his reflection dimly against the glass.

Barnaby had said that what was happening in the nursery would not end well for a duke and a servant.

Sabina had said Phoebe held Cecily like a mother.

Those two comments, separate as they were, seemed to point in the same direction: that there was more to the nursemaid than anyone had yet to see.

Chapter 14

Honora was fastening Cecily’s little shoes when the voices reached the nursery.

Not loud, not at first. The nursery sat high enough above the front rooms that most conversations dissolved into little more than muffled echoes by the time they reached the upper corridor. These did not. Someone downstairs was angry.

Cecily looked up from where she sat on the rug, one shoe already on, and blinked toward the door.

Honora listened. A man’s voice, then a woman’s. She recognized them both at once. Leopold. Her Grace.

She hesitated. Cecily, deciding the interruption had lasted long enough, reached for the loose shoe and attempted to place it on her own hand.

Honora smiled faintly despite herself. “I know,” she murmured. “One moment.”

She finished tying the second shoe, lifted Cecily onto her hip, and stepped quietly into the corridor. The voices came more clearly now, the drawing room door downstairs standing half open.

Honora descended only as far as the bend in the staircase, where she could hear without being seen. She remained in the shadow beside the banister, Cecily resting comfortably against her shoulder.

Leopold stood near the fireplace. His mother faced him across the room, perfectly composed except for the rigid line of her shoulders.

“I know you wrote to the orphanage near Winchester.”

His voice was calm. It was also unmistakably angry.

She did not answer immediately.

“You made inquiries about placing a child there.”

“I did.” She offered the admission without apology. “It seemed necessary.”