Page 36 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“I have to show him to Michael,” Peter said, scrambling to his feet with sudden urgency, reaching down to lift the heavy wooden crate. “Michael hasn’t seen an animal since the stray hound got into the stable last winter. He’ll want to see how Pickles eats!”

“Peter, wait,” Fanny said gently, rising and placing a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder before he could sprint toward the terrace doors.

Peter halted, his brow furrowing as he looked back down the sunlit corridor of the south wing. “He’s upstairs. In the room with the drawn curtains.”

Fanny felt that cold, familiar knot of unease tighten in her stomach.

Ever since she had arrived at Hilgrove Manor, Michael had been an invisible presence. Whenever she climbed to the east nursery to seek him out, Veronica was always there, standing in the doorway with that tight, polite smile. Her eyes were flat and watchful, offering a seamless list of excuses.

‘Master Michael is resting, Your Grace. Master Michael had a fitful night. Master Michael is far too sensitive for visitors today.’

The boy was seven years old, living behind heavy oak doors in perpetual isolation, while his brother and sister moved through the drafty stone halls like ghosts.

“We shall bring Pickles to him soon,” Fanny promised softly, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. “Let Pickles settle into his new home first, Peter.”

Peter looked down at the crate, his small shoulders slumping slightly. “Veronica won’t let him in. She says Michael isn’t allowed to have things from outside. She says it makes his head hurt.”

Fanny stared at the boy, her pulse giving a sharp kick against her ribs.

“Stay here with Pickles, Peter,” Fanny said. Her mind was made up. She offered the boy a warm, conspiratorial smile as she gathered her skirts. “I shall return in a few moments, and we will see about finding a saucer for his water.”

Peter beamed, nodding vigorously as he dropped another dandelion into the crate. “I will make sure he doesn’t run away! Though he is very slow.”

“Keep a sharp eye on him nonetheless,” she replied with a quiet laugh, turning back toward the terrace doors.

Fanny made her way back into the shadowed cool of the ground-floor gallery. The quiet of Hilgrove Manor was never an empty silence; it was dense with unsaid things and the heavy ticking of clocks marking time in corners where laughter ought to have lived.

As she passed the open doors of the small morning parlor, a rigid, narrow silhouette caught her eye.

Emily stood by the tall sash window, her back turned to the room, her small hands balled into tight fists against her white pinafore.

“Emily?” Fanny stepped across the threshold, her voice gentle. “Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

The little girl spun around, her dark curls whipping against her collar. Her chin came up, her small jaw locking into a tight, severe line that looked agonizingly like her father’s.

“You should not have let Peter keep that horrid thing,” Emily said sharply, her voice trembling with a sudden, fierce heat.

Fanny paused, tilting her head. “You mean the tortoise?”

“It is a dreadful idea!” Emily took a frantic step forward, her chest heaving as she crossed her thin arms. “Peter is only seven, Your Grace! He cannot care for a wild beast! He will forget to feed it, drop the crate, or leave the latch open, and the stable dogs will get it! And then the creature will die, and it will be all my fault, because I am responsible for my brothers!”

Fanny paused. “Emily.”

The girl stopped, chest still heaving, jaw still set.

“Before we go any further,” Fanny tilted her head, “would you do something for me?”

Emily blinked. “What?”

“Call me Fanny.”

A small furrow appeared between the girl’s brows. “That is not proper.”

“It is if I say it is.” Fanny kept her voice matter-of-fact. “Your Grace makes me feel like a judge at the assizes. I am not sentencing anyone. Fanny will do perfectly well.”

Emily considered this. “Father will not approve.”

“Then we shall not tell him immediately.”