Chapter 18
What a fool I have been.
Oscar sat in his study, hands tented, and replayed the events of the previous evening with the precision of a vivisectionist. Every word, every muscle twitch, every minute humiliation—catalogued, annotated, and preserved for future torment.
The argument with Nancy, her face rigid with disgust, the open contempt in her stare as she swept past him—retribution had rarely felt so exquisite.
He had earned it, of course, but that did not make it easier to endure.
He attempted, once more, to read the letter on his desk. It might have been written in Sanskrit for all the sense it made. He let his gaze drift to the window, where the winter sun glared in as if to audit his many failings.
It was Adrian’s fault, in part. The man was an irritant by design—oily, irrepressible, always seeing more than was welcome.
But the rest was Oscar’s, and he accepted it as such.
He had, after all, gone into the marriage with open eyes and a full appreciation of his own defects.
Nancy deserved better. The children deserved better.
Even the staff—silent and long-suffering—deserved better.
He set the letter aside and stood, pacing a neat perimeter around the study.
He wondered, not for the first time, how other men bore the burden of family.
Or, more precisely, how they bore the risk of failing those who depended upon them.
His own father had managed by being absent in all ways but the material.
Perhaps that was the trick: deny affection, deny pain.
Oscar stopped at the drinks cabinet, regarded the decanter with suspicion, and then poured himself a glass of water instead. There was work to be done, and no sense compounding disaster with inebriation.
At the appointed hour, his solicitor arrived. Harvey was a man of sixty, dry as old bread, with the bearing of a bishop and the wit of a second-rate fence. He had overseen Rowson business since before Oscar’s majority, and they had long since dispensed with the pretense of warmth.
“Your Grace,” Harvey intoned, bowing just enough to satisfy the law.
“Harvey. Sit.” Oscar gestured at the visitor’s chair, then sat behind his desk with an air of reluctant command.
The solicitor produced a ledger and a sheaf of crisp documents.
“I have prepared the summaries you requested, Your Grace. All properties within a day’s ride of London, with full inventories and maps.
” He set the stack between them. “I took the liberty of including the Westmoreland parcels, in case you require greater seclusion.”
Oscar leafed through the topmost folio, forcing himself to attend. The lists were comprehensive: square footage, tenant history, water quality, and even the provenance of each stand of trees. Every property was itemized as if he might be called upon to defend it in a court of law.
“Thank you, Harvey,” Oscar said. “You have outdone yourself. Again.”
“It is my pleasure,” Harvey replied, in a tone that suggested it was anything but.
Oscar scanned the summaries, cross-referenced in his mind with his own memories.
The Cambridge estate was too remote; the Cornish property too bleak.
Of the London houses, only the one on Hanover Square met his standards for security and privacy, but he doubted Nancy would consent to live within half a mile of Parliament.
He set the papers aside. “None of these will do,” he said.
Harvey’s left eyebrow crept up. “None, Your Grace?”
“They are sufficient for an ordinary wife and family,” Oscar said, “but not for Nancy. Or the twins.” He said the words as if tasting them for the first time.
“If you recall, the arrangement is for two months’ cohabitation, after which the Duchess may take up residence elsewhere, provided the children are comfortable and safe. ”
Harvey nodded. “I recall.”
Oscar steepled his hands. “If I am to relinquish the children to another household, it must be practical.”
Harvey considered. “You wish me to locate a suitable property, or build one to your specifications?”
“Both,” Oscar said. “Begin at once. Spare no expense.”
Harvey’s eyes glinted. “Of course, Your Grace.” He made a note in his ledger, then cleared his throat. “If I may—”
Oscar waved him on.
“There are more immediate matters,” Harvey said. “The Duchess has requested additional funds for the running of Scarfield Manor. The nursery in particular. And the kitchen staff.”
Oscar frowned. “Is there a deficit?”
Harvey shrugged. “Only the usual sort. The cook’s gout, the stable master’s debts, the cost of feeding two children who, by all reports, possess the appetites of wolves.”
Oscar allowed himself a rare smile. “Authorize whatever the Duchess deems necessary. She is mistress here, not I.”
Harvey made another note. “It shall be done.” He waited, perhaps hoping for more instructions, but Oscar was already lost in thought.
The solicitor gathered his things, bowed, and departed with the efficiency of a man who had mastered the art of leaving.
Oscar slumped in his chair, the weight of the empty room pressing in. He supposed he should have felt lighter, having at least made some tangible progress toward securing the twins’ future. But instead, he was hollow, as if each act of prudence only served to deepen the void inside him.
He brooded for a while, then stood and circled the room again.
He paused at the piano, running his hand over the keys without pressing a single one.
He could almost hear Nancy’s laughter, could almost see the way her face lit up when she was in her element.
He could also remember, with mortifying clarity, the moment her eyes shuttered and all warmth drained away.
He ran a hand through his hair, then strode to the bell pull and summoned the housekeeper. There was nothing for it but action. If he were to mend things with Nancy—and, by extension, the children—he would need to do more than brood and purchase real estate.
Mrs. Tullock appeared, brisk as ever, hands folded in front of her. “Your Grace.”
“I require your assistance,” Oscar said. “Something out of the ordinary.”
Her eyebrows barely moved, but he sensed her skepticism. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He leaned in, and outlined his instructions in a low voice. As he spoke, Mrs. Tullock’s eyes widened, then narrowed, then—at the end—gleamed.
“I will see to it at once,” she said, and departed.
If anyone had told Nancy that a duchess’s life consisted of forty percent staring at ledgers and sixty percent staring at the wall while mustering the will to tackle said ledgers, she would have believed them instantly.
The accounts were not difficult—after the first week, she’d mastered Mrs. Tullock’s devilish system of double-entry—but they were infinite, like Sisyphus’s stone if the stone were also prone to multiplying every time you set it down.
She drew a face on a scrap of paper, gave it horns, and titled it “The Duke of Receipts.” The effect was pleasing.
A rap at the door startled her into respectability. Mrs. Tullock entered with the crisp step of a woman who had never once considered sitting down.
“Your Grace,” she announced. “A message from His Grace.”
Nancy raised a brow. “Is he dead? Or is it only the creditors this time?”
The housekeeper did not dignify this with a reply. “He has taken the children out for a morning constitutional. He requests that you join them. The carriage is prepared and waiting.”
Nancy stared. “He requests, or he commands?”
Mrs. Tullock’s lips twitched. “If it is all the same to you, Your Grace, I prefer not to know.”
“Wise,” Nancy said, rising and tossing the ledger on the desk. She reached for her gloves, then paused. “Did he say where they were going?”
“Only that it was a matter of some urgency, and you are not to bring any household business with you.” Mrs. Tullock’s eyes darted to the “Duke of Receipts.” “Especially not that.”
Nancy scrunched the paper and tossed it in the bin. “Fine. I am going. If the creditors arrive, tell them I have fled the country.”
Mrs. Tullock nodded and vanished, as housekeepers do.
Nancy made her way to the carriage, still bemused by the summons. She could not imagine why Oscar would take the twins on an outing without her—he barely managed them at home. Was this a punishment, or some novel form of trial? Or perhaps a declaration of war?
The carriage rolled out, and Nancy leaned back, watching the familiar landmarks pass by. Her mood was strangely light, and she tried not to read into it. The day was bright, the air sweet, and the world, for once, seemed inclined to humor her.
They reached a park she recognized, though the coachman took a winding, secluded path rather than the main avenue. The carriage stopped at the edge of a copse, where a lake sparkled beneath a screen of willows.
On the bank, Nancy spied a blanket and—surely not—a positively improper heap of food. At its center sat Oscar, his infamous blue coat abandoned to the grass, sleeves rolled up, and an expression of pure, unguarded perplexity as Clara and Henry attempted to demolish the picnic with brute force.
Nancy stepped down from the carriage, not sure whether to laugh or retreat. The children saw her first. Henry, jam-smeared and victorious, broke into a run that concluded in a collision with her shins. His hands were sticky and, after his embrace, so was her skirt.
“Duchess!” he crowed, as if she had descended from the sky.
Clara was only a beat behind, winding herself around Nancy’s waist. “There is a whole basket of biscuits and uncle will not let us eat them all,” she announced.
Nancy ruffled Clara’s hair, then gave Henry a stern look. “Are you plotting against the Duke, or simply conducting experiments in digestion?”
“Both,” Henry said. “But mostly eating.”
Oscar called from the blanket, “You are late, Duchess. If you wish to eat, you had better act before the twins disassemble the basket and use it for kindling.”