Chapter 3
The society pages had a true gift for making a mess sound like the scandal of the century.
Roman folded the newspaper, set it down, picked it up again, and finally tossed it aside. It slid across the polished desk like it had a mind of its own. The headline stared back at him anyway.
A Duke, A Doorstep, and A Mystery Baby.
He had read the article twice already. It was the literary equivalent of poking a bruise.
The writer had made sure to mention, three separate times, that he was unmarried, twice that he’d been out of the country for six years, and once, in a particularly nasty flourish, that his late father had been blessed with a “robust constitution and a fondness for warm friendships with the opposite sex.”
Roman rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back in his chair.
The study fire had burned low, leaving the room gray and chilly.
He’d been awake since five, staring at the ceiling, thinking about shawls, baskets, and the way his mother had turned and walked back upstairs without saying a word when the baby first arrived.
Sleep had become a distant memory. Liliana had woken three times during the night. Each time, Roman had found himself outside the nursery door before he was even properly conscious, listening to Mrs. Ames trying to soothe her through the wood.
At half past two, the housekeeper had appeared in the doorway with the baby in her arms and said, dry as dust, “Your Grace, I believe she wants you.”
He’d taken Liliana without a word. For nearly an hour, he’d walked the long corridor, bouncing her gently against his shoulder until she finally quieted.
Every time he tried to put her back in the crib, she’d scrunched up her face and let out a warning whimper.
So he’d stayed, standing in the dark, letting her small fist grip his lapel as she drooled contentedly on his dressing gown.
She’s only a baby, he kept reminding himself. She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s not manipulating you.
And yet he’d remained there anyway.
The study door opened without a knock.
His mother swept in, dressed in dark gray as though she were still in mourning. Her auburn hair was pinned back tightly, and her pale gray eyes went straight to the discarded newspaper.
“You’ve seen it,” she said.
“I have.”
“Then you know what must be done.”
Roman tilted his head. “Enlighten me.”
She stopped on the other side of the desk and placed both hands on the wood, leaning forward.
“The child cannot stay here, Roman. Send her to an orphanage. Or find some distant relative. I don’t care where, but she must go.
Every day she remains under this roof, the gossip grows worse.
The papers are having a field day. People are already whispering about whose bastard she is. ”
“I’m well aware of what they’re saying.”
“Good. Then you know I’m right.”
He studied her. His mother looked as composed as ever, with perfect posture, steady voice, but there was something else in her eyes lately. Something tight. Almost afraid.
“The baby stays,” he said quietly.
“Roman…”
“I said she stays.” His voice remained even, but firm. “Until I discover who left her on my doorstep wrapped in our family shawl, she remains here. Under my roof. Where I can keep an eye on her.”
His mother’s fingers pressed hard against the desk. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“Then it’s mine to make.”
“Your father would never have allowed…”
“My father is dead.” The words came out sharper than he intended. He saw her flinch, just barely, before she recovered. Roman softened his tone. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. But he is dead. I’m duke now, and I’ve decided the child stays.”
His mother held his gaze for a long moment, jaw tight. Without another word, she turned and left the study, closing the door behind her with a quiet, pointed click.
Roman sank back into his chair and let out a long breath.
Well, he thought dryly. That went splendidly.
He had inherited the title on a Tuesday. His father had died late on a Monday, which meant Roman had spent that night searching for the key to his father’s desk, only to discover the next morning that the desk had already been cleared out.
His mother had been quietly running the estate for the final two years of his father’s illness. She had done it competently enough, but she had also made decisions Roman was still trying to understand.
In the eight months since, nothing in his life had felt ordinary. Not one single week.
The door opened again without a knock. Orson Mercer strolled in as if he owned the place, which, in a way, he always had.
He carried a folded paper in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other, looking like a man who had been awake since dawn and was already disappointed with how the day was turning out.
“You look terrible,” Orson announced.
“Good morning to you, too,” Roman replied dryly.
“No, I mean it. You look worse than yesterday. Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.”
Orson raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘some.’”
“Enough.”
Orson clearly didn’t believe him, but he let it go. He dropped into the leather chair across from the desk, set his coffee down, and unfolded the paper. “I’ve been digging into that shawl.”
Roman leaned forward, suddenly alert. “And?”
“The stitching is old. The embroidery and the weave match the household linens that were standard here at Langley about thirty years back.” Orson paused, tapping the paper.
“Whoever left the baby did it deliberately. They didn’t just grab whatever was nearby; they used something specific from this house.
Someone who had access to the family’s private stores kept that shawl for decades and chose it for a reason. ”
Roman absorbed the words in silence. Thirty years. The shawl had been tucked away for longer than he’d been an adult. Someone had held onto it, waiting… or perhaps simply unable to let go of the past.
Orson continued carefully, “Your father had… friends. Connections. It’s not impossible that he…”
“I know what you are suggesting,” Roman cut in quietly.
“I am not suggesting anything.”
"You are suggesting my father may have had a child outside his marriage," Roman said. "That she is somehow connected to this baby."
Orson said nothing. Which was its own kind of answer.
"The shawl is old," Roman continued, turning it over in his mind. "Decades. My father was ill for the last two years of his life, bedridden by the end. He did the arithmetic without wanting to.
"He would have been dying when she was conceived. So either the timing is wrong, or she is not his child directly. She could be a grandchild. A child his child had."
Orson exhaled slowly. "It is one possible reading of the facts."
"It is the one that fits," Roman said, and turned toward the window.
He walked over to the tall window. Outside, the gardens lay gray and skeletal, the trees bare against a heavy sky. In the distance, he could hear faint, fretful crying echoing through the halls. Liliana had cried on and off for most of the past two days.
The doctor insisted she was healthy, only unsettled, missing the familiar arms that had cared for her before.
Roman had hired a temporary nursemaid from the village, a Mrs. Cooper who smelled faintly of onions and seemed convinced that vigorous bouncing could solve any problem.
Liliana hated it. She hated everything it seemed.
“I’ll keep digging,” Orson said from behind him. “A woman doesn’t just appear with a baby on a duke’s doorstep and vanish into thin air. Someone saw something. Someone knows more than they’re saying.”
“Do what you need to do,” Roman replied.
The study door opened a third time. Mrs. Ames, the housekeeper, stepped in with her usual calm authority. She had been with the family for twelve years and moved through the great house like a ship in full sail, steady, unruffled, and impossible to ignore.
“Your Grace,” she said, “the young woman from the agency has arrived for the nursemaid position.”
Roman turned from the window, surprised. “Already? I wasn’t expecting anyone until this afternoon.”
“She arrived quite early, Your Grace. She’s waiting in the entrance hall.”
Roman nodded. This was one decision he refused to leave to chance. Liliana had already been through too much. He would meet every candidate himself, look them in the eye, and decide who was fit to care for the little girl now under his roof.
Orson rose as well, falling into step beside him as they headed for the door.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Orson asked.
“No. Stay here and keep working on the shawl.”
“I can do both.”
Roman gave him a pointed look. “I have seen you try to do two things at once, Orson. It rarely ends well.”
Orson laughed, a short, surprised bark. He held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Fine. I shall stay here and stare at old pieces of fabric like a proper detective. But I want to meet her later, this new nursemaid. I’m curious to see if she’s as terrified of you as everyone else seems to be these days. ”
“I’m not terrifying.”
“You’re a duke. You're built like a man who could throw another man through a wall. You haven’t smiled in eight months. You’re terrifying.”
Roman shook his head and left the study without another word, Orson’s quiet chuckle following him down the corridor.
The entrance hall carried the deep chill of late autumn, the kind that seeped into old stone houses and refused to leave. Someone had left the front door ajar too long, or perhaps it was simply October settling into the bones of Langley Hall. Roman rounded the corner and paused.
The young woman stood near the staircase, half-turned away from him, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She was studying the large portrait above the landing with quiet concentration.
Her gray gown was plain and well-worn, and her auburn hair had been pinned into a simple, practical knot. She wasn’t tall or short, beautiful or plain in any way that immediately announced itself, yet Roman found himself watching her longer than he should have.
There was something about the way she held herself—very still, almost unnaturally so.
The kind of stillness that came from keeping tight control when everything inside you felt ready to unravel.
He noticed it in the rigid set of her shoulders and the way her fingers were laced together a little too tightly.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps.
For the briefest moment, something flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, or a flash of recognition. Then it was gone. She smoothed her expression into polite composure and sank into a neat curtsy.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I am Miss Hartley. Miss Eliza Hartley. I’m here for the nursemaid position.”
Her voice was calm and clear. She met his eyes steadily.
“Miss Hartley,” Roman replied. “You’re earlier than we expected.”
“I apologize if that’s inconvenient, Your Grace. The coach made excellent time from the village.”
“It is no inconvenience at all. Please, follow me.”
He led her into his study, wanting a proper conversation before allowing anyone near Liliana. The agency’s recommendation letter had been brief and positive, but it told him almost nothing useful. He sat behind his desk and gestured for her to take the chair opposite.
Miss Hartley sat with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap. She didn’t fidget or glance nervously at the door. Her eyes were striking up close, warm brown eyes. He’d never seen anything quite like them.
“The agency speaks very highly of you,” he began.
“That’s kind of them.”
“It says you spent two years with the Ashworth family in Bath.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Their youngest was a lively little boy. He turned three just before I left.”
“And before Bath?”
“I held a private position with a family in Somerset, Your Grace.”
Roman asked a few more gentle questions about her experience.
Her answers came easily, though he sensed a certain carefulness to them.
Still, she didn’t seem nervous exactly. Just…
focused. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about her felt a little off. Not wrong, exactly. Just strange.
He stood. “Come with me. I’d like you to meet Liliana.”
The nursery was at the far end of the first-floor corridor, the sunniest room in that wing.
Roman had chosen it deliberately and had everything prepared in a rush—a new crib, soft blankets, toys, and stacks of clean clouts.
He had been told babies go through quite a few of those napkins every day.
The staff had given him odd looks at the speed of it all. He hadn’t cared.
Mrs. Cooper was rocking in the chair by the window, Liliana in her arms. The baby wasn’t crying for once, but she looked miserable, face red and blotchy, tiny fists clenched, gray eyes staring toward the window as if searching for something familiar.
Miss Hartley stopped just inside the doorway.
Roman watched her carefully. For a second, her composure slipped. Her expression shifted into something raw and unguarded, almost painful. Then she caught herself and drew in a slow breath.
Liliana turned her head.
The baby looked at Miss Hartley. Miss Hartley looked back at the baby.
And then Liliana, who had spent two days enduring everyone around her with gray-eyed resignation, tolerating Roman, suffering Mrs. Cooper, accepting comfort without ever quite settling into it, suddenly reached out with both small arms and let out a soft, eager sound that was half-cry, half-laugh.
Mrs. Cooper blinked in surprise. “Well, that’s new.”
Before Roman could speak, Miss Hartley crossed the room in quick, sure steps.
She lifted Liliana from Mrs. Cooper’s arms as naturally as breathing.
The baby quieted instantly. She tucked her head under Miss Hartley’s chin, one tiny fist curling tightly into the fabric of her gown, her whole body relaxing as if she had finally come home.
Roman stood watching, strangely moved.
It was odd. More than odd. But for the first time in two days, Liliana wasn’t crying.
He made his decision.
“The position is yours, Miss Hartley,” he said.
She looked up at him, eyes bright, and gave a small nod. “Thank you, Your Grace. I won’t disappoint you.”