Chapter 18 #2
The fight went out of her all at once. Her shoulders dropped and her hand trembled against Liliana’s back.
"Are you going to tell him?" she whispered, the mask slipping entirely, leaving her voice raw and stripped bare.
"His Grace does not know yet," Lord Ashmore said, his tone perfectly level.
"He is currently blinded by a rather specific set of complications, not the least of which is the lady currently occupying the morning room.
But the duke is a logical man, Miss Hartley.
He will verify the details eventually, and when he does, the ledger must balance. "
He stepped away from the wall, turning back toward the direction of the library. "If I may offer a piece of advice without charging a fee for it, I suggest you tell him yourself. And I suggest you do it before someone else presents the bill. Good morning."
He was gone before she could answer, his quiet footsteps fading into the long silence of the western wing.
The kitchen was a sanctuary of noise and steam, a sharp contrast to the cold terror of the corridor. Patricia was at the long wooden prep table, her forearms dusted with white flour as she aggressively kneaded a massive mound of dough, her movements rhythmic and fierce.
"Sit, sit," Patricia ordered without looking up, pointing a dough-covered thumb toward the small table near the hearth. "The boy told me the little one was burning last night. Is she fit?"
"She is well, Patricia," Thelma said, her voice sounding distant and hollow to her own ears as she slid onto the wooden bench. She placed Liliana on the table, holding her by the waist as the baby immediately reached for a wooden spoon. "The fever broke before dawn."
"Aye, they do that," Patricia grunted, lifting the dough and slamming it down against the table with a loud, satisfying thud.
"Like a sudden storm over the moors. Blows hot enough to melt the glass, then vanishes by breakfast. My brother Thomas, he was the same.
Give him a bowl of watered porridge with a bit of honey, Miss Hartley. It settles the belly after a sweat."
Thelma nodded, her fingers automatically guiding Liliana away from a bowl of raw salt. Her mind was entirely elsewhere, Lord Ashmore’s words echoing through her skull with the steady, heavy beat of a pendulum. Tell him before someone else does.
"You look like you’ve seen a fetch," Patricia said, her sharp eyes scanning Thelma’s pale face as she wiped her hands on her apron. "Go on, take a breath. The duke’s gone out anyway, looking over the estate after the downpour. He won't be back for his tea until late."
"He is out?" Thelma asked.
"Aye, but not for long," Patricia said, reaching down to scoop Liliana into her floury arms. "Tom from the stables said he only rode to the home farm to settle the drainage business himself instead of waiting on the bailiff.
Should be back within the hour, if I know him.
Leave the little bird with me. She can watch me cut the lard.
Go get some air before you faint into my flour bin. "
"Thank you, Patricia," Thelma said, rising so fast her bench scraped against the stone. "I'll wait for him in the study, if I may. I'd rather say what needs to be said the moment he's through the door than lose my courage waiting on the stairs."
She did not go to the gardens. She walked straight through the green baize door, her breath coming fast, toward the eastern corridor and the study where she meant to wait.
She reached the heavy, iron-strapped oak door of his private study.
The door was ajar, a narrow vertical band of gold light spilling out into the dark hallway.
Thelma paused, her hand hovering over the cold brass handle, her heart executing a fierce, irregular rhythm against her ribs.
She took one deep, stabilizing breath, pushed the door wide, and stepped across the threshold.
"Your Grace, I must speak with—"
The words died in her throat.
He was not there.
The room was silent, the high leather chairs empty, the fire in the hearth burning down to a quiet, crackling mound of red coals. But the room was not unoccupied.
Lady Daphne Vane was standing behind the duke’s massive mahogany desk. Her elegant morning gown of pale lavender silk was spread out around her like the petals of an expensive orchid, the fine lace at her wrists brushing against the dark wood.
She had a heavy, leather-bound estate folder open before her, her slim, gloved fingers actively turning the thick parchment pages with a practiced, methodical speed.
At the sound of the door, Lady Daphne’s head snapped up.
For one brief, microscopic second, her perfect features hardened into a sharp, defensive mask, her blue eyes narrowing with a calculation that looked entirely out of place on her delicate face.
But the look vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced instantly by a smooth, radiant smile that dripped with aristocratic sweetness.
With a deliberate, unhurried movement, Lady Daphne slid the folder shut, her palms resting flat against the leather cover.
"Oh, Miss Hartley," Lady Daphne said, her voice a light, melodic purr that seemed to mock the quiet of the room. "You quite startled me."
Thelma stood frozen by the doorway, her eyes tracking the movement of Lady Daphne’s hands. "My lady. I... I was seeking the duke."
"I am afraid you have missed him," Lady Daphne said, stepping out from behind the desk with a slow, graceful elegance that made her silk skirts whisper against the Persian rug. She walked toward the center of the room, her eyes scanning Thelma’s rumpled apron and loose hair with a cold, superior amusement.
"I was merely looking for some writing paper. Roman’s desk is always such a magnificent clutter of estate business, is it not?"
She stopped a mere two feet away, the heavy scent of her rose-water perfume completely obliterating the smell of old ink and woodsmoke that usually defined the room.
"Tell me," Lady Daphne said, her voice dropping into a tone of soft, patronizing concern as she tilted her head. "Is the little girl feeling better? The house was in such an absolute uproar during the night. I could hear Roman shouting all the way from the western gallery."
"The fever has broken, my lady," Thelma said, her voice stiff and tight. "She is recovering well."
"How fortunate," Lady Daphne murmured, her fingers tracing the delicate gold chain around her neck.
Her smile widened, but her eyes remained as cold and sharp as winter ice.
"Roman must be utterly exhausted. He was up with you in the nursery the entire night?
Was he not? Such a devoted guardian for a child with no name. "
She took a step closer, her voice dropping into a lower, darker register that made the hairs on the back of Thelma’s neck stand up.
"In fact, he was so eager to settle matters that he rode out before the sun was even up. He did not go to the home farm, Miss Hartley. He took the early express to London on a matter of urgent estate business. He won't be back until dinner at the very earliest."
Lady Daphne reached out, her gloved fingers gently brushing a stray, dark curl away from Thelma’s shoulder with a touch that felt like a threat. "He is so terribly protective of this house. One wonders what he will do when he finally finds what he is looking for in the city."
Thelma looked into the woman’s smiling face, the reality of her situation settling over her like a heavy shroud. She had finally chosen the right moment to tell the truth, but the clock had already run out.