Chapter 6
“Isee Lady Burnham’s footman has eloped with the cook.
Again. ‘Dreadful Temptations in the Pantry’,” Nancy’s mother, Moira, read, relishing each syllable.
“The footman was last seen in Southwark, wearing only a cravat and a single shoe. The authorities are combing the area for clues and clothing. Nancy, do you hear this?”
Nancy sat perfectly still, her spoon orbiting the same patch of tea. “I hear,” she said. “I simply refuse to engage.” Her mind was filled with worry, trepidation, and all manner of thoughts about Scarfield.
Moira’s green eyes narrowed. “You are not yourself this morning, darling.”
“That is untrue. I am precisely myself.”
“Then explain the inattention.” Moira ruffled the paper, searching for fresh ammunition. “Usually you offer a witticism about the lower classes liberating their passions. Or at least a comment on Lady Burnham’s taste in kitchen staff.”
Nancy forced a smile. “It’s difficult to compete with a man in only a cravat.”
Her mother looked unconvinced. “Your father would say it is a sign of moral decay in the younger generation. I prefer to think it is a sign of ingenuity.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Are you certain you are well?”
Nancy looked into her cup, hoping for clairvoyance. “I am distracted,” she admitted. “Nothing more.”
“Is it Teresa and the twins?” Moira asked.
“Yes.” Nancy’s answer was too quick to be credible. “They are in need of—” She waved a vague hand. “They are all alone…”
Moira sighed. “That is a problem for their uncle, darling.”
Nancy did not dignify this with a reply. She thought instead of Clara’s wild hair and Henry’s stubborn grip on his rabbit, and of the way the house at Scarfield seemed designed to erase all evidence of childhood. If he says no, what then? She would not, could not, abandon them.
Her spoon clattered in the cup, and her mother’s gaze was sharp enough to draw blood.
“Whatever you are scheming, I wish you would at least tell me,” Moira said. “You know I despise being left out of a good plot.”
Nancy smiled, softer this time. “I have nothing to plot.”
The lie was elegant, and it might have held had not the butler chosen that moment to glide in with a letter on a silver tray. He presented it with the caution of a man offering a live snake.
“For you, my lady.”
Nancy took it. The seal was dark blue, pressed hard enough to bruise the paper. Her heart hitched as she recognized the crest.
She slit the letter with her nail, unfolding it so quickly she nearly tore the page.
Lady Nancy,
Return to Scarfield at once. We must speak.
There was no signature, and not even a please. Of course. The only man in London less courteous than my father is the Duke of Scarfield.
Moira arched an eyebrow. “Urgent?”
“Not particularly,” Nancy said, folding the letter into her palm. “It is nothing.”
Moira studied her. “You’re a dreadful liar.”
Nancy stood, nearly overturning her chair. “I ought to call on Fiona. She sent word last night, wishing to see me.” It was not even a plausible lie. She regretted it the moment it left her mouth.
Moira’s eyes narrowed further. “Before you have finished breakfast?”
“I find it easier to converse with her on an empty stomach.” Nancy glanced at the untouched eggs, then at her mother, then at the clock. “I will return by luncheon.”
Moira tapped her chin. “See that you do. And if you encounter any footmen in states of undress, do at least take notes.”
Nancy managed a real laugh. “You’re incorrigible, Mother.”
Moira looked at her over the rim of the scandal sheet. “Gallagher women must take their pleasures where they find them.”
Nancy bent to kiss her mother’s cheek, then swept out, the letter tight in her fist.
She found her coat and hat in the entryway and was halfway to the door before the butler caught up. “Will you require the carriage, Lady Nancy?”
“Just my own two feet,” she said, already stepping into the cold morning.
It was the only way to steady herself for what waited at Scarfield.
An hour later, Nancy stood before the doors of Scarfield Manor. There was a madness to returning so soon—she knew it. But nothing in her life had ever been set right by waiting, and she was not about to start now.
She approached the entrance. The footman opened the door with the resigned air of a man braced for artillery fire. “His Grace is expecting you, my lady.”
“Is he.” Nancy swept past, not waiting for the butler’s guidance. She found her own way to the study.
Oscar stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed. The room was both warm and cold, and almost stifling.
He did not turn as she entered. “You made excellent time.”
“I walk quickly when motivated.” She dropped into the chair facing his desk, crossing her legs with military precision.
He was silent, as if waiting for her to continue.
Nancy matched his silence, then: “If you summoned me for small talk, you might have chosen a less severe font.”
He turned then, the blue of his eyes sharp as a morning blade. “I was under the impression you wished for an answer. Or is it only women who enjoy suspense?”
Nancy gripped the arms of her chair. “I prefer conclusions to games.”
“Excellent.” He moved to the other side of the desk, placing it between them like a barricade. “Then tell me, Lady Nancy. Was your offer last night sincere? Or was it desperation, or a—what do you call it—a performance of loyalty, to impress your dearly departed friend?”
Nancy’s lips curled. “You can’t conceive of someone acting from anything but self-interest, can you?”
“I am a man of the world. I have met very few people who do.”
She looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for help in the chandelier. “If you need a blunt answer, here it is: I have no interest in being anyone’s wife. Least of all yours.”
Oscar’s face did not move, but the tension in his jaw was visible. “Yet here you are, demanding marriage.”
“I do not want it. But I will endure it. For the children.”
He said nothing.
She pressed on. “I never expected to be the marrying sort. I thought I would read every book in London, then retire to a scandalous life of obscure opinions and good whisky. But then those two angels lost their mother, and if you have even an ounce of decency, you will understand what it means to lose your only harbor in a world of storms.”
Oscar stared, silent.
Nancy hated the silence. She wanted him to fight, to mock, to storm—anything but this icy absence. “Say something. Or is your only emotion contempt?”
He leaned forward, hands folded in front of him. “You think me heartless.”
“Only mostly.” She shrugged. “But not entirely. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
He picked up a pen, tapping it against the blotter. “And what if I accept?”
The question sat between them, raw as an open wound.
Nancy let herself look at him—really look: the shadows under his eyes, the cut of his cheekbones, the way his fingers curled with something not quite as steady as he wanted her to believe. “Then I suppose we are to be the world’s most miserable married couple.”
“Not miserable.” Oscar looked past her, toward the window again. “Efficient. The twins remain here, with every advantage. You retain your independence. My name is protected from further scandal. We both win.”
“You think so?” Nancy asked.
He met her gaze. “Don’t you?”
She laughed, a sharp bark. “I think we will drive each other mad within a week.”
He almost smiled. “That is possible.”
She leaned back, folding her arms. “Are we to draw up contracts, or simply shake hands?”
Oscar set the pen down. “You may name your terms.”
She thought. “I want the children’s education under my control. No sending them away to schools that produce more monsters like you.”
“Done,” Oscar said, too quickly.
She blinked. “You will allow it?”
“They are not cattle, Nancy. If you wish to tutor them yourself, I will not interfere.”
Nancy drew a breath, then another. “And I want a say in the management of the household. No locking children away in attics or denying them birthday parties.”
He nodded, still unreadable.
“And I refuse to be paraded at society events for the amusement of your peers.”
His mouth twisted. “I never cared for such things.”
“Then we are agreed.”
He held out his hand. She took it, expecting cold, and instead found it warm, the grip steady and somehow—no, she would not say gentle, but it was not cruel.
He let go, then stepped back, as though needing the distance to compose himself. “We will need a special license.”
Nancy blinked. “You wish to do this now?”
Oscar’s voice was very quiet. “The ton will tear us both apart if we leave the children in limbo. You know how they gossip.”
“I do,” Nancy said. “I simply didn’t expect efficiency to be the top priority in a proposal.”
He walked to the window, staring out at the gathering storm. “If we are to do this, I would rather it be clean and immediate. No time for anyone to poison the process with rumor or regret.”
There was a pause. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. Nancy found herself standing. Her heart raced as the significance of what she had done hit her.