Chapter 34
“Iheard His Grace did not return until well past two in the morning. Two!” The voice, sharp as a paring knife, came from the portrait gallery as Nancy crossed the upper hallway.
She slowed, wary. The next words fell in a delicious, conspiratorial murmur. “They say the Duke has a new mistress. London-bred, I wager. Who else would dare?”
“They call him the Rake Duke for a reason,” said a second, more skeptical. “Did anyone truly think he’d give up his pleasures for a Scottish wildcat?”
There was a gasp—a genuine, delighted thing—followed by the hush that always preceded the juiciest morsel.
“It’s every evening now. Last week, he missed supper three times.
The poor Duchess. She’s too clever by half, but you cannot outwit a man like that.
He’ll always chase what doesn’t belong to him. ”
“And yet—” This was the third, the youngest, barely more than a giggle. “Did you not hear? The Duchess herself might have a lover. There are letters.”
A beat of silence, then: “Then they are fit for each other!” And all three dissolved into laughter.
Nancy pressed herself flat to the wall, stomach flipping.
She had thought herself inured to the sound of servants’ gossip—had even cultivated a kind of pride in her notoriety, as if it were a badge—but today it cut.
Oscar and a mistress. It’s not possible.
He hardly has time for himself, much less the energy to keep two women on a string.
Still. There was something about the way the words landed, the oily certainty in the first girl’s voice, that left Nancy cold.
She ducked down the side stairs, moving fast enough that her slippers barely kissed the treads.
In her office, she found the world exactly as she’d left it: ledgers stacked with the fragile neatness of a house of cards, a cold cup of tea ringed with scum, a thin dusting of chalk on the handle of her chair from Clara’s last attempt at arithmetic.
Nancy sat, hands folded, and told herself to forget the gallery entirely.
You have work to do. You are not a child, to be wounded by rumors and kitchen tales. Oscar has his flaws—too many, some days—but he is not an imbecile.
She reached for her correspondence. Most was routine: an inquiry from the grocer about next month’s preserves, a note from the Women’s Group inviting her to a lecture on Enlightenment philosophy, a thick packet of legal documents requiring nothing but a signature.
At the bottom of the stack, she found a single envelope in heavy cream paper, addressed not to herself but to Oscar, the Duke of Scarfield.
Nancy frowned. This happened, sometimes—Wilks was nearly blind and the new footman even more so—but Oscar’s private mail rarely found its way to her desk. She was about to set it aside when her nose caught the faintest aroma of rose.
The envelope was sealed, but the scent was thick and cloying. She held it to the light: the hand was small, careful, but determined, every word pressed into the paper as if to leave a bruise.
Against her better judgment, Nancy slid a finger under the flap and broke the seal.
The letter inside was folded thrice, and the paper itself was pink—an expensive affectation, even among the titled. The writing was a flowing, continental script. Nancy read:
My Dearest Scarfield,
The hours we spent together last evening are already imprinted on my memory, and I find myself longing for the warmth of your embrace even now. The ruby necklace is exquisite; every time I see myself in the glass, I think only of your hands fastening it round my throat.
I wish you would not wait so long to come to me again. I fear your little Duchess will soon discover how skillfully you balance duty and pleasure.
Your ever-devoted,
—S
Nancy let the paper fall onto the desk. She stared at it, willing it to burst into flames, or perhaps turn out to be a page from some terrible play. Instead, it lay there, heavy as a stone. The rose scent clung to her hands, to her sleeves, wormed its way into her nose until she wanted to sneeze.
No. It’s a joke. Or a trap. Or one of Adrian’s infernal pranks, designed to make Oscar look the fool. This cannot be real.
Except for the necklace. The ruby. Last week, Oscar had brought home a necklace—she’d seen the box, deep red velvet, hidden among his ledgers.
He had said it was a gift for an associate’s wife, a token of gratitude for some political favor.
Nancy had not thought twice; Oscar was always cultivating allies, always three moves ahead.
She looked at the letter again.
Every time I see myself in the glass…
The air in the room went thin. Nancy set the paper down, arranged the other correspondence in a perfect line, then stood and crossed to the window.
She watched a pair of crows bicker on the lawn.
They circled each other, black wings flashing, then parted—one to the west, one to the cold shadow of the hedge.
Nancy pressed her forehead to the pane until the glass fogged.
When the first anger subsided, the pain hit. She felt it in her ribs, in the backs of her knees, in the soft place where her heart ought to have grown thick callus by now.
You knew better than to want this, Nancy. You knew better than to hope. It was always a contract, a transaction, never a true thing. He said so himself, a hundred times. Why would he stop now?
A spike of fresh anger steadied her. She snatched up the letter and left the office, stalking through the hallways until she reached Oscar’s study.
The door was open. He sat behind his desk, the familiar scowl deepening as he read over a stack of papers.
His hair was a little wild, shirt sleeves rolled back to expose the fine, pale veins at his wrist.
He looked up at her, and for the first time in memory, Nancy could not read what lived behind his eyes. He looked tired. Or furious. Or both.
“I came to deliver your correspondence, Oscar,” she said, slamming the letter onto the desk with more force than she’d intended. “Your mistress misses you dearly. Especially your hands. She seemed particularly fond of your skill with jewelry.”
Oscar stared at the envelope, then back at Nancy. He said nothing, but the color drained from his face.
She waited. When he still didn’t move, she snatched up the letter and shook it at him. “Do you deny it? Did you think the servants would not talk, or that I would not eventually find out?”
Oscar took the letter, scanned it, and then stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “What in the world are you talking about, Nancy?”
She laughed, sharp and joyless. “I am talking about your habits, Oscar. The ones you were so famous for. Did you really expect me to stand here and smile while you parade your lovers through half of London?”
He threw the letter onto the desk. “I have no idea who this is from. S? That could be any number of women.”
Nancy braced her hands on the edge of the desk. “Well, it isn’t me. I have never owned a pink envelope in my life. Nor have I worn a necklace you gave me, ruby or otherwise.”
Oscar’s mouth twisted. “You believe this.”
She shrugged, a movement designed to hurt both of them. “I don’t have to believe it. The house staff already does. You have made me a laughingstock, and you don’t even have the decency to lie well.”
His eyes darkened. “You think I have a lover? Is this your way of absolving yourself?”
Nancy blinked, stunned. “Of what?”
He rose, looming over the desk. “You have letters, too. Shall I read them aloud? The poems, the anonymous declarations of undying affection? I have seen them, Nancy. The flowers, the pressed rose, the books. Did you think I was blind?”
The room spun. “Those were not from anyone I know. I assumed they were some prank—possibly Adrian, possibly even you.”
He snorted. “Of course. Everything is always a joke to you, until you are the one with the knife in her back.”
Nancy felt herself shaking. “You truly believe I have a lover?”
He shrugged. “Why else the secrecy, the long afternoons at your desk, the hours unaccounted for? Why else refuse even the pretense of a proper marriage?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Because I do not want you. Because you made it clear from the beginning that this was never about love. Or even comfort. We agreed. You told me, in this very room, that you would never ask for more than my name.”
He was silent. His hands clenched at his sides.
Nancy straightened, smoothing her skirt with a mechanical grace.
“You are a grown man, Oscar. You can do as you please. But I will not have the staff snickering every time I walk into a room. I will not have you embarrass me any longer. From now on, keep your affairs outside this house, or I will make certain you regret it.”
She turned, intent on leaving with some fragment of dignity. At the door, she paused. “If you wish to end the marriage, do it cleanly. I do not require alimony, nor will I fight for the estate. All I ask is that you do not drag the children through your mess.”
Oscar’s face was unreadable. “You would take the twins from me.”
She met his gaze. “They are my family because they are Teresa’s children. I acknowledge that you have more right to them, but I will not leave them here to be raised among lies.”
Oscar said nothing.
Nancy left the room, her skin buzzing, her mind alight with fury and shame. She made it to her chambers before the tears came.
She had not cried for years, not at the loss of her mother, not at her own failures, not even at the death of Teresa. But tonight, alone among the silk pillows and the bottles of rosewater that now made her ill, Nancy wept until she could barely draw breath.
When the last sob faded, she sat at her writing table and began to make a plan.
The hilltop house would be finished next week; the roof had been repaired, the water closets installed, and most of the furniture delivered. It was meant to be a retreat, a place for the twins and for herself, far from the toxic fog of London. If she left now, no one could stop her. Not even Oscar.
You do not have to ask permission. You never did.
She summoned her lady’s maid, a clever girl with quick hands and a sharper tongue. “I will be leaving at first light tomorrow,” Nancy said. “Pack what you can for me and the twins. The rest can follow.”
The girl’s mouth fell open, but she caught herself in time. “And the Duke?”
Nancy shook her head. “He has business in town. We will not disturb him.”
The girl curtsied and fled, leaving Nancy alone.
She wrote a note to her mother. The words would not come, so she settled for the truth.
Mother—
I am moving to the country for a time. The children need the fresh air, and I need the peace.
Please do not worry. I will write again when I am settled.
With love,
N
She sealed the letter, then lay back on her bed, eyes open to the shadows chasing each other along the ceiling.
Somewhere, a clock struck midnight. She wondered if Oscar was home. She wondered if he cared. She wondered if he would even notice she was gone.