Chapter 3
Edward woke up to the merciless brightness of the morning. The curtains, traitorously drawn back, let in a flood of pale gold that struck him square in the eyes. He groaned, dragging an arm across his face.
“Cruel, abominable daylight,” he muttered. “Has the London weather no respect for suffering men?”
His head throbbed in time with the distant clang of carriage wheels.
The gentlemen’s club had been livelier than usual—too much brandy, too much laughter, too many men congratulating themselves on their own mediocrity.
He had stayed longer than he ought, if only to avoid the echo of his own thoughts.
He sat up slowly, the sheets a tangle around his waist. “Hargreaves!” he called, his voice hoarse. “Coffee. And a pistol, if the coffee fails.”
The valet appeared moments later, unbothered by the state of his master—one might even say resigned to it. “Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve brought coffee. And a note.”
Edward took the cup first, inhaling like a drowning man reaching for air. “Note?” he repeated, squinting.
“Delivered at dawn,” Hargreaves elaborated. “By a footman from Moreland House.”
Edward frowned. “Moreland House? Lady Beatrice Moreland?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He accepted the note, its wax seal still crisp.
Beatrice Moreland. Elegant, composed, and entirely too clever for comfort. The sort of woman who could cut a man with her words and then smile as though she had done him a favor.
He turned the envelope between his fingers. “Dawn, you said?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
Edward arched an eyebrow. “That can’t be good news. No one writes respectable notes at dawn.”
He unfolded the note and scanned its contents, before handing it back with a clipped motion.
“Shall I have the carriage readied?”
Edward sighed and downed the rest of his coffee. “You may. If Lady Beatrice has gone to the trouble of disturbing my conscience before breakfast, it must be dire.”
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching. His reflection in the mirror regarded him with mild reproach—his hair a tousled mess, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the faintest shadow of regret beneath his green eyes. He smirked at it.
“Well,” he said aloud, “let’s see what catastrophe the morning has prepared.”
By the time his carriage rattled toward Moreland House, the city had begun to stir—vendors shouting, milk carts rumbling, and that peculiar mix of fog and ambition.
Edward leaned back against his seat, the open note still resting on his knee.
He didn’t know what game Lady Beatrice was playing, but she had chosen the time when he had no defenses—morning.
Whatever it was, he doubted he would like it.
Though perversely, that only made him urge the driver to go faster.
The butler, grave as a tombstone, led him into the drawing room without a word. The curtains were still drawn, the air smelling faintly of flowers and perfume.
Lady Beatrice stood by the hearth, her back straight, her hands folded too precisely—except for the faint tremor in her left thumb.
Edward had not expected warmth when he arrived at Moreland House, but he had expected reason. Instead, he was greeted by Lady Beatrice’s stony silence.
“What,” he began, brushing a bit of frost from his sleeve, “is so urgent that you’ve summoned me at an hour when even the sun is still deliberating?”
Before she could answer, a sound rose from somewhere near the hearth. A soft, unmistakable cry.
Edward froze. “Good Lord,” he breathed. “Is that…?”
“A child,” Lady Beatrice said flatly.
“Yours? How has Miss Verity missed such a scandal?” he asked, half out of curiosity, half to see her reaction.
Lady Beatrice stiffened. “Mine? Mine? How dare you, Your Grace?”
“Dare I—?” He blinked. “My dear lady, I meant no—”
“Do not dear lady me!” she snapped. “How dare you send your own child to my house and act as though I am at fault?”
Edward stared at her, open-mouthed. “My—my what?”
“Your child!”
“My—” He let out a disbelieving laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
“I have never been more serious,” she said through gritted teeth. “A baby, delivered to my house at midnight, wrapped in a blanket bearing your crest! What am I to think?”
“That someone at the embroidery shop has a poor sense of humor?”
“This is not a joke, Your Grace.”
Edward ran a hand through his hair, still mussed from the night before. “You think I’m in the habit of dropping infants at respectable homes?”
“Considering your—your reputation,” she said, as if the word itself were a curse, “it’s not beyond imagination.”
“My reputation, my lady, is exaggerated by gossiping matrons and bored debutantes.”
“And fueled by your own conduct,” she retorted. “I’ve heard the stories.”
He smirked. “Most of them are lies.”
“Most?”
He gave a helpless shrug. “Some are improvements on the truth.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward, muttering something that might have been a prayer—or a curse.
Edward stepped closer, peering into the basket. “Well, whoever the little creature belongs to, it’s certainly not mine. He has far too little hair.”
“It’s a girl,” Lady Beatrice snapped.
They both looked at the basket as the baby gave another indignant wail.
Edward pointed helplessly. “That creature cannot possibly be mine. I’ve never seen her before in my life!”
Her eyes flashed. “And yet she was delivered to my house, bearing your crest. Explain that.”
“Explain—? I can’t explain lunacy!” He threw his hands up.
“You tell me,” she shot back. “It bears your mark.”
“It bears a mark,” he corrected. “My family crest happens to appear on hundreds of items. Towels, trunks, and stationery—none of which I’ve ever found crying.”
Lady Beatrice took a step toward him. “Do not make light of this! Do you understand the position you’ve put me in? If anyone hears—”
The door opened before she could finish.
Lady Moreland swept in, her expression thunderous.
“What on earth is all this noise about?” she demanded. “Beatrice, what have you—” She stopped short when she spotted the basket. “Oh. Oh, dear heavens. I`d hoped you`d change your mind on keeping the child here..”
Lady Beatrice turned. “Mama, I was just explaining—”
“Explaining?” Lady Moreland’s voice rose, almost incredulous. “You are alone here with a man—a duke, no less—with no chaperone, and now you are hiding an infant in my drawing room. Have you entirely lost your mind?”
Lady Beatrice did not flinch. “It was not a social call. And the child is not being hidden.”
Lady Moreland rounded on Edward. “You!”
He blinked. “Me?”
“Do not feign ignorance, Your Grace! What sort of depravity compels a man to send his—his illegitimate child to a stranger’s house?”
Edward’s jaw dropped. “My lady, I assure you—”
“Assure me of nothing! You young men think yourselves invincible, flinging ruin wherever you go! And now my daughter’s name is dragged into your—your scandals!”
“Mama, please,” Lady Beatrice interjected. “We don’t know yet—”
“Oh, we know enough!” Lady Moreland cried. “The blanket bears his crest! His family’s mark! What clearer proof could there be?”
Edward’s patience thinned. “Proof? Forgive me, Lady Moreland, but if every monogrammed cloth in London is to be taken as evidence of paternity, we’d all be running orphanages!”
Lady Moreland gasped, clutching her pearls. “How dare you take that tone—”
“Because I’m being accused of fathering strangers’ babies before breakfast!”
“You think I wanted this?” Lady Beatrice scoffed. “That I enjoy having gossip dumped at my doorstep?”
“Then we agree,” Edward said dryly, “that neither of us is pleased with the arrangement.”
“Pleased?” She nearly laughed. “You call this pleasing? My mother is half beside herself, and I—”
“Half?” Edward drawled. “I’d have guessed three-quarters.”
“Edward—Your Grace!”
“Your Grace!” Lady Moreland corrected sharply. “Show some respect!”
“Respect?” Edward gestured helplessly to the basket. “I’ve walked into your home, been accused of fatherhood, and barely had a sip of coffee. Forgive me if I’m short on formality.”
Lady Moreland’s voice trembled. “If the ton learns of this… if word gets out… it will ruin you both. My daughter’s name cannot appear in the same breath as yours and a… baby!”
As if on cue, the butler entered, holding a folded newspaper. His face was pale. “Forgive the interruption, my lady,” he said cautiously. “But this has just arrived. The morning edition of the Mayfair Gazette.”
Lady Moreland frowned. “Now? Leave it on the tray.”
“I thought,” the butler added carefully, “you might wish to see the front page.”
Edward took the paper before anyone could stop him. His eyes scanned the headline, then widened.
“Scandal,” he read aloud. “The Duke of Wrexford has a child with Lady Beatrice Moreland. Signed, Miss Verity.”
The room fell silent.
Lady Moreland gave a strangled gasp.
Lady Beatrice turned deathly pale. She snatched the paper so fast that the corner tore. “That’s impossible!”
Edward’s head snapped up. “Of course it’s impossible! We don’t have a child.”
“Not that,” she said breathlessly, her fingers tightening on the paper. “It’s impossible that Miss Verity wrote this.”
He stared at her, brow furrowed. “What on earth are you talking about? Of course she did. Who else would dare print something this—this nonsense?”
Lady Beatrice shook her head, a tiny frown creasing her forehead. The edges of the paper quivered between her fingers. “No, it just can’t be her.”
Edward gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You seem remarkably familiar with her, Lady Beatrice.”
That silenced her.
He noticed it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the hesitation that didn’t fit the perfect composure he had come to expect. Something shifted between them, subtle but sharp.
His voice softened, curiosity cutting through irritation. “Lady Beatrice… why do I get the sense that you know far more than you ought to?”
The room suddenly felt smaller. Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her forehead as if willing the day to vanish altogether.
Lady Beatrice drew in a breath that trembled, the newspaper seemed to shrink in her hands. Then she folded the paper and set it on the table between them.
When she finally met his gaze, hers was calm, almost defiant.
“Because,” she admitted quietly, “I am Miss Verity.”