Chapter 13
“The stitching is remarkably fine.”
Alastair stood in the morning room, the baby’s blanket draped across his palms like evidence at trial. Sunlight filtered through the windows, catching on the delicate embroidery—a pattern of roses intertwined with what might have been forget-me-nots.
He’d noticed it before, of course. One did not spend three weeks living with an infant without becoming intimately acquainted with every scrap of fabric in the nursery. But this morning, watching Rose sleep peacefully after her fever had finally broken, something had shifted in his perception.
The blanket was expensive. Not ostentatiously so, but quality nonetheless. The sort of thing a gentlewoman might commission for her own child, or perhaps receive as a gift from someone who cared enough to choose well.
It had to be someone who knew both of them. Someone who trusted them.
Alastair’s fingers traced the embroidered roses. Who could it have been?
The letter sat in his study drawer, locked away but never forgotten. The only people I can trust with my baby are Penelope Hartwell and Alastair Reed. Signed with a single initial: M.
M for...
No. He was constructing theories from nothing. Wishful thinking, perhaps, or the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights. Thomas would have told him. Wouldn’t he?
Yet the timing aligned with utter precision. Thomas had spoken of his mysterious woman six months ago—glowing, secretive, utterly transformed. And Rose appeared to be approximately three months old, which meant...
Alastair folded the blanket with unnecessary care, a deep frown between his brows.
If his suspicions proved correct, then finding the parents would not be the relief he’d imagined.
It would tear apart everything—Thomas’s life, some unnamed woman’s reputation, and this strange, fragile household that had somehow become more real than any home Alastair had ever known.
He should tell Penelope. Share his theories, his growing certainty that the child in their nursery connected to his oldest friend.
But what if he was wrong? What if his exhausted mind had invented connections where none existed?
And what if he was right, but the truth would only cause more pain?
The blanket felt heavier than it should. Alastair tucked it beneath his arm and left the morning room, his footsteps echoing through halls that no longer felt quite so empty.
He would find out the truth first. Then he would decide what to tell his wife.
* * *
Penelope adjusted the lace at Rose’s sleeve, smoothing fabric that required no smoothing, and tried very hard not to examine why her chest ached at the simple perfection of the baby’s sleeping face.
“She’s gained weight,” Lottie observed from her position by the nursery window. “Thriving, she is. You’ve done well by her, Your Grace.”
The title still felt borrowed, ill-fitting as a gown cut for someone else. Yet the warmth in Lottie’s voice suggested approval, perhaps even affection, and Penelope found herself absurdly grateful for it.
“We’ve done well,” she corrected quietly, though she wasn’t certain if she meant herself and the nurse, or herself and Alastair.
Probably both. Possibly neither.
Rose stirred, her tiny fist unfurling like a flower, and Penelope felt that strong instinct unfold in her heart again—the fierce, aching certainty that she would burn the world down before allowing harm to reach this child.
When had it happened? When had Rose transformed from a duty into something infinitely more precious?
Perhaps during those endless hours nursing her through fever.
Or maybe earlier, during ordinary moments—morning feedings, afternoon walks through the garden, the weight of her small body tucked against Penelope’s shoulder.
A thousand tiny instances that had accumulated into something she could no longer pretend to ignore.
She loved this baby. Loved her with the sort of ferocity that ought to have terrified her, except it felt too natural, too inevitable, to inspire anything but wonder.
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel drew Lottie to peer through the window. “Visitors, Your Grace. Looks like a lady’s carriage.”
Penelope’s stomach dropped. She’d grown comfortable in their isolation, in the quiet rhythm of life at the estate. The thought of facing society—of maintaining the careful performance their marriage required—made exhaustion pull at her bones.
“I’ll see who it is,” she said, smoothing her skirts and checking that her hair remained presentable. “Will you stay with Rose?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Off you go.”
The entrance hall felt cavernous after the nursery’s warmth. Penelope descended the stairs just as Hammond opened the door, and a familiar figure swept through in a flurry of travelling cloak and infectious energy.
“Finally!” Hyacinth Fairleigh pulled off her bonnet, revealing blonde curls only slightly disarranged by the journey. “I thought you’d forgotten civilization entirely. Or perhaps been kidnapped by highwaymen. I wasn’t certain which was more likely, given how thoroughly you’ve vanished.”
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the confusion, the weight of secrets she couldn’t name—Penelope felt a smile tug at her lips. “Hyacinth. What are you doing here?”
“Saving you from rural tedium, obviously.” Her friend crossed the distance between them, catching Penelope’s hands and studying her face with the sort of intensity that made dissembling impossible. “You look... different.”
“I look exhausted. Rose had a fever, and we’ve barely slept—”
“Not exhausted.” Hyacinth’s brow furrowed. “Well, yes, exhausted. But also... I cannot quite put my finger on it. You seem...” She trailed off, concern painting her features. “Settled. Which is rather alarming, considering the circumstances of your marriage.”
Heat crept up Penelope’s neck. She withdrew her hands, busying herself with removing Hyacinth’s travelling cloak. “The circumstances haven’t changed. This is still a marriage of convenience.”
“Mm.” The sound carried profound scepticism. “Yes, I can see how convenient it is. That must be why you’re blushing.”
“I’m not—”
“Where is the dashing Duke?” Hyacinth glanced around the hall with undisguised curiosity. “I must say, I expected more... debauchery. Aren’t notorious rakes supposed to festoon their homes with evidence of vice?”
“He’s likely in his study.” Or the stables. Or anywhere that maintained the careful distance they’d established after that moment in the nursery, when he’d kissed her forehead and left before either of them could acknowledge what was building between them. “Would you like tea?”
“Tea would be lovely. And gossip. I’ve brought enough scandal from London to last you a month.”
They settled in the drawing room, and for the first time since arriving at the estate, Penelope felt the weight of normalcy—of friendship unchanged by marriage or babies or the complicated tangle of her feelings.
“Sir Edmund has been quite persistent,” Hyacinth announced once the tea had been poured. Her tone suggested this was meant to sound pleased, but something in her expression fell short of the mark. “He called twice last week. Mother is beside herself with joy.”
“And you? Are you beside yourself?”
“I am... appropriately grateful.” Hyacinth stirred her tea with unnecessary vigour. “He’s everything I said I wanted. Wealthy, handsome, excellent connections. Mother has already begun planning the wedding breakfast.”
“Has he proposed?”
“Not yet. But it is only a matter of time, I believe.” She set down her cup with a decisive click. “Which is wonderful. Exactly what I hoped for when I determined to find a husband this Season.”
Penelope studied her friend’s face—the careful brightness, the slight tension around her mouth. “You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’m perfectly convinced.” Hyacinth reached for a biscuit, then seemed to forget why she’d picked it up. “It’s just... do you ever wonder if wanting the right things means you’ll actually want them once you have them?”
Before Penelope could formulate a response to that decidedly philosophical question, the drawing room door opened. Alastair entering, followed by his estate steward.
“Forgive the interruption,” Alastair said, his tone warm. “I heard we had a visitor.”
“Miss Fairleigh is here,” Penelope managed, grateful her voice remained steady. “My friend from London.”
“How delightful. I trust you’ve brought sufficient scandal to justify the journey?”
“Trunkloads, Your Grace.” Hyacinth’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but Penelope watched her gaze slide past Alastair to the man standing slightly behind him.
Mr. James Crawford was perhaps thirty, with the sort of steady, capable bearing that came from honest work rather than inherited title.
His coat was well-made but practical, his hands showed signs of labour, and when he met Hyacinth’s stare with quiet confidence, something shifted in the drawing room’s atmosphere.
“Mr. Crawford assists with estate matters,” Alastair explained, though his attention remained fixed on Penelope in a way that made her skin warm. “I believe we were discussing the drainage issue near the south pasture?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Crawford’s voice was pleasant, educated despite his station. “Though I can return later if you’re entertaining.”
“Nonsense,” Hyacinth said, her tone perhaps a shade too bright. “Don’t let us interrupt important... drainage discussions.”
Crawford’s lips twitched. “Drainage is rarely important until one’s fields flood, Miss...?”
“Fairleigh. Miss Hyacinth Fairleigh.” She lifted her chin slightly, and Penelope recognized the gesture—her friend’s way of reminding the world of her superior position. “Of the Hampshire Fairleighs.”
“A pleasure.” If Crawford was impressed by her lineage, he showed no sign of it. “I won’t keep His Grace long. The matter is relatively straightforward.”