Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“You look like you’re about to call on a tax collector, Hawksford,” Jonathan remarked dryly, eyeing Richard’s rigid posture as their carriage slowed.
Richard did not return the smirk. “If I were, at least the outcome would be predictable,” he replied. “This meeting may end everything, or unravel far more than we expect.”
A couple of days had passed since Hyde Park, since the careful charade of domestic unity had been staged beneath too many watchful eyes.
Richard had spent those days pursuing threads: old ledgers, discreet inquiries, names whispered by men who owed him favors.
Mrs. Tallow had not been easy to find. Midwives rarely wished to be found by dukes.
Jonathan leaned back against the seat. “You’re tense.”
“I am focused,” Richard corrected.
In truth, his emotions had been in constant flux. There were moments when his thoughts strayed to Victoria: the quiet strength with which she held Melody, the way exhaustion softened her sharpness, the dangerous intimacy that hovered between them now like a storm that refused to break.
Then came the urgency of the problem: the infant, the whispers, the ever-present threat of scandal. Solving Melody’s mystery should have brought relief.
Instead, it only tightened the knot in his chest.
The carriage stopped before a modest London house set on a respectable but subdued street. No Mayfair grandeur here, no gleaming fanlights or ironwork polished to impress, but the brick was clean, the windows intact, the door well-kept. The sort of place that invited no curiosity.
Richard stepped down first. He adjusted his coat, straightened his shoulders, and knocked firmly, but without the authority he might use elsewhere. He did not wish to frighten the woman.
There was a pause. Then the door creaked open a cautious inch.
An older woman peered out, her grip tight on the edge of the door. Her hair was neatly pinned, her dress plain but clean. Her eyes, sharp with caution, were also kind.
Richard lowered his voice instinctively. “Mrs. Tallow?” he asked. “My name is Richard Weston. I’m the Duke of Hawksford.”
Her eyes widened slightly, but enough. He could almost see the calculations racing behind them.
“I am currently the guardian of a female infant named Melody,” he continued evenly. “I believe you were present at her birth.”
Silence stretched. Then the door opened a fraction more.
“Yes,” she said at last, her brows knitting. “Yes, Your Grace. I am Mrs. Tallow. I was present at Melody’s birth.”
Concern settled into her features, as though she had always known this moment would come. Richard felt a twinge of something like guilt; his title was a blunt instrument, and he was keenly aware of it.
“I assure you,” he said at once, gentling his tone, “that I mean no harm. I seek only understanding. For the child’s sake. And for her mother’s.”
Jonathan shifted behind him, deliberately unobtrusive.
Mrs. Tallow studied Richard’s face for a long moment, as though weighing his words against his bearing. At last, she nodded.
“Come inside,” she said quietly. “Better we speak indoors.”
Her home was modest but orderly. A kettle sat cooling on the hearth; a basket of folded linens rested near the wall. She gestured them toward two chairs separated by a narrow table, then took the seat opposite them, folding her hands in her lap.
“It was a home birth,” she began after he introduced her to Jonathan, her voice steady but subdued. “Private. Very private. Most women call me to their houses, but this one … she would not. She was frightened. Insisted on coming here.”
Richard leaned forward slightly. “Frightened of what?”
“Of being found,” Mrs. Tallow replied without hesitation. “Of being known.” She swallowed. “She paid me well. Too well, considering she did not appear high-born. Not dressed as such, nor mannered. But the money was clean, saved carefully, I think. She wanted secrecy above all else.”
Jonathan’s gaze flicked to Richard. Richard kept his expression neutral.
“She gave me a name,” Mrs. Tallow continued, “but I’m certain it was false. I have no doubt of it. She knew the child was illegitimate. And she feared—” Her eyes lifted, sharp now. “I could feel it in her demeanor. She feared someone powerful.”
Richard felt the chill immediately. Someone powerful.
The phrase echoed in his mind, unwelcome and familiar. A rival. A man with influence and cruelty enough to erase inconvenient truths. Someone who moved within the same social strata as he did.
His jaw tightened.
“She believed someone would come for the baby?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Tallow said softly. “She begged me not to speak of the birth to anyone. Said the child would not be safe if the wrong person learned of her existence.”
Richard exhaled slowly. “Melody is safe,” he said firmly. “I give you my word. No one will harm her while she is under my protection.”
The words surprised him with their sincerity. He meant them, utterly. Whoever feared the child enough to abandon her would find no easy victory here.
Mrs. Tallow hesitated again, then nodded. “I believe you, Your Grace. Power often hardens men, but—” She tilted her head. “Not all of them.”
Her gaze sharpened with resolve. “The mother spoke once of a seamstress. In Soho. A woman she trusted. Confided in. If she left any trace of herself behind, it would be there.”
It was not a name. Not what Richard had hoped for.
Still, it was something.
“A seamstress in Soho,” he repeated. “Thank you. That may yet lead us where we need to go.”
He rose, retrieving a small purse from his coat. “For your discretion. And your care.”
Mrs. Tallow accepted it with trembling hands. “It will help greatly,” she said, her eyes glistening. “May God guide you, Your Grace. And protect the child.”
Outside, the air felt colder.
“A seamstress in Soho? You’ll be looking for a needle in a haystack,” Jonathan remarked as they walked away.
“A large one,” Richard agreed grimly. “But we now know which field to search.”
He pressed his lips together, thoughts already turning. Soho meant risk. Exposure. Questions. It would require care, and, perhaps, allies.
For the first time, he considered seeking Victoria’s counsel.
The thought unsettled him more than any shadowed enemy. His heart and his mind were no longer aligned.
And that, he feared, was the greater danger.