Page 9 of A Baby to Seal the Duke’s Fate

Cecily had survived because she had been home with Honora that evening, asleep in her cradle, pink and warm and entirely unaware that the world had split in half.

Honora closed her eyes for one brief moment and then opened them again before the grief could take hold of her properly.

It was easier that way.

Or perhaps it was not easier. It was simply what she had become good at.

She sat up, rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand, and looked toward the cradle in the corner of the room.

Empty.

That was the first thing her mind found now, every morning. The cradle where Cecily often ended up when she had restless nights in her nursery. The little bundle beneath the small blanket. The place where Cecily should have been, as she always was, making small, impatient sounds and demanding to be lifted.

Perhaps a maid heard her fussing in the night and put her back to sleep in the nursery, she thought.

Honora swung her feet to the floor and stood. The room was cold, the sort of chill that settled into the bones and made all grief feel older than it was. She crossed to the basin, washed her face, and caught sight of herself in the mirror.

Twenty-six. Pale. Hair pinned badly because she had pinned it in the dark. Eyes that looked as if they had not slept since the coach accident, which in truth was not far from the reality.

She had not slept a full night since.

She rose, fed herself whatever she could manage, fed Cecily, walked in the garden if the weather allowed, wrote lists she did not need, and tried not to think too long about any one thing at a time. By the time night came she was so weary she could scarcely keep her head up. Then Cecily slept in the cradle beside her bed, and Honora slept in scraps around her, waking at every little sound.

This was the shape of her days now.

She dressed quickly, buttoning her plain morning gown with fingers that still felt stiff from sleep, and left her room.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every floorboard seem to creak. She crossed the hall and turned toward the nursery.

Even before she reached the door, she knew something was wrong.

The door stood open. The door was never open when Cecily was inside, to prevent the noises of the house from disturbing her when she slept. Suddenly wide awake and completely alert, Honora stepped inside.

The nursery itself looked wrong in a way that took her mind one second too long to understand. The crib was empty.

Honora stopped dead.

The blanket was gone.

The little wool shawl Celestine had insisted on making for Cecily was gone too. The wooden rattle Celestine had bought before Cecily was born, the one Cecily liked to chew on when her gums hurt, was gone from the side table. The extra clothes, the folded muslin, the small stack of toys, the basket of laundry, all of it.

Gone.

For one heartbeat, Honora could not breathe.

Then she crossed the room in three quick steps and stared at the bare mattress as if she might somehow make the baby reappear by looking hard enough.

“Cecily?” she said.

Nothing.

Her pulse began to hammer.

She turned toward the door and found her father standing in the corridor outside.

Gideon Bellamy had the expression of a man who had already done what he came to do and had no intention of apologizing.

He was dressed neatly, as always, coat buttoned, hands clasped behind his back, with no sign that he had just emptied a nursery of a child. Yet Honora suddenly knew that was precisely what had happened, even though she could not fathom why he would do such a thing.