Chapter 13
“Your Grace?”
Mrs. Hart appeared, composed as ever, notebook in hand. Beatrice still marveled at how the woman moved, silent as a well-organized thought.
“Yes, Mrs. Hart?”
“Your Grace, it is about the florists,” Mrs. Hart said tightly.
Beatrice sat at her writing desk, the window cracked just enough to let in a mild breeze. Sunlight was creeping slowly across the floorboards in slanted stripes, warming the rim of her teacup. She had not touched the tea—she had forgotten to drink it before it cooled.
The letter before her refused to behave, her thoughts drifting between tasks, obligations, and the little girl she had grown used to checking on before her day started.
She exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She had slept poorly. She always did when she knew the day would demand tough decisions.
“What have they done now?” she asked, bracing herself.
“The florists are inquiring whether they should remain or return later.”
Mrs. Hart paused. “There is a good number of them, Your Grace.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “How many is a good number?” She twisted in her seat. “From whom?”
Mrs. Hart consulted her notes, though Beatrice suspected she already knew the answer. “Lady Strafford’s deliveries. They’ve… multiplied.”
Beatrice frowned. “How many?”
“Seven,” Mrs. Hart replied. “That we know of. The sixth footman believes more may be coming up the drive.”
Beatrice pressed her fingers to her temples. “Seven? Whatever for?”
Mrs. Hart’s mouth twitched. “She said she wished to ‘brighten your mornings,’ Your Grace.”
Beatrice glanced toward the corner of the room, where three towering vases already stood—roses, peonies, and something violently pink and spiky whose name she refused to learn. They looked as though they were plotting a floral coup.
Very fitting, considering Lady Strafford’s reputation. The woman could turn even a simple morning call into a display, and Beatrice suspected the flowers were merely her way of entering the house before she could do so in person.
Upon Beatrice’s arrival at Bath, Lady Strafford had labeled herself the friendly neighbor. She had a reputation for taking promising young wives under her wing, introducing them to the right promenades and agreeable teas.
“Brighten my mornings,” Beatrice muttered. “At this rate, I’ll be forced to sleep among them like a hedgehog.”
Mrs. Hart did not smile, but her eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement. “Shall I disperse them?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “Far and wide. Preferably in places where I don’t have to see them glaring at me.
Send one to the kitchens and let the maids enjoy it.
Give one to Cook. She’ll enjoy pretending she’s running a fashionable establishment.
One in the stables, perhaps—it will be the first time Lady Strafford contributes to the feed. ”
A faint smile touched Mrs. Hart’s mouth. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“And if Lady Strafford sends more—”
“I will intercept them,” Mrs. Hart promised.
Beatrice exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Hart opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the door swung open with such force that it struck the stopper.
“Your Grace!” the footman blurted, breathless as he hurried in after the intruder. “My deepest apologies, I was just about to—”
But Lady Portwell was already in the room. She swept forward as though the house belonged to her, feathers trembling on her hat, her rings flashing, her skirts rustling like an approaching storm.
Beatrice knew Lady Portwell well enough. Their London residences were only a few doors apart, which meant an inevitable stream of unneighborly calls over the years.
Lady Portwell had always been prone to sweeping into a room with news about her daughters and opinions delivered as though they were facts.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed, her arms spread wide in triumph. “My dear, my dear, I simply had to ride over the moment I heard the joyful news!”
The footman, red-faced and mortified, bowed low. “She did not wait, Your Grace. I tried to—she insisted—my apologies, truly—”
“That will do,” Beatrice said gently, releasing him from his misery.
He retreated with visible relief, while Lady Portwell planted herself in the center of the room, smiling as if she had done a miracle rather than intruded on a duchess’s morning.
Beatrice groaned inwardly as she stood up. “Lady Portwell,” she greeted slowly, schooling her features into something that aimed for polite and landed closer to strained. “I… was not expecting you.”
Lady Portwell’s gloved hands fluttered as though batting away the very idea of expectations. “My dear girl, duchesses never expect. One simply arrives to adore them. I know this because I raised my daughters to marry dukes.”
Of course. Of course, she would say that.
Beatrice barely suppressed a sigh. It was a well-worn boast, one Lady Portwell deployed at every opportunity, even though none of her daughters had married dukes.
Or marquesses. Or anything more exalted than respectable baronets with a fondness for hunting and pudding.
She behaved as though titles were merely running late.
Beatrice forced pleasantness into her voice. “It is… very thoughtful of you to call.”
“Oh, nonsense, Your Grace!” Lady Portwell trilled, drifting further into the room as though carried by a personal breeze. “Why, the moment Mrs. Rathbone told me—and I assure you, she is never wrong—I said to myself, Lady Portwell, you must go at once. At once!”
Beatrice blinked. Mrs. Rathbone, the most unreliable source of information in London. Truly, fate was mocking her.
“I see,” she murmured.
“You do.” Lady Portwell nodded vigorously. “One must call on a new mother. Staying away would be unthinkably cruel. And you—oh, you sly thing, keeping her hidden from all of us!” She gave a delighted gasp. “Such news should be well-handled.”
“Hidden?” Beatrice frowned.
“Yes, yes, modest as ever,” Lady Portwell rattled on, brushing away her confusion like a speck of dust. “But do not fret. I shall take matters into hand. I shall oversee everything.”
Beatrice’s jaw tightened. “Oversee what, precisely?”
“Why, the arrangements!” Lady Portwell clasped her hands with the fervor of a revivalist preacher.
“Christenings do not organize themselves. One cannot allow a titled child to remain nameless, heaven forbid. And I will not have it said that the Duchess of Wrexford ditched the proper rites with her firstborn.”
Beatrice nearly choked. “My—excuse me?”
Lady Portwell sighed, as though Beatrice was being intentionally obtuse. “Really, my dear, one mustn’t be shy at times like this. Babies arrive in every household. Even ducal ones.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Some simply arrive sooner than others. So, naturally, a christening follows.”
Beatrice felt her heart stutter. “Lady Portwell,” she said carefully, each word chosen like a fragile teacup, “there has been a misunderstanding.”
She placed herself squarely before Lady Portwell, praying the woman would listen.
“I beg you to pause for a moment,” she continued, keeping her tone measured. “It is rather difficult to correct a falsehood while being trampled by its bearer.”
Lady Portwell gave a tinkling laugh, utterly missing the rebuke, which only made Beatrice’s spine stiffen further.
“Oh, Beatrice.” She patted her arm with such familiarity that even Mrs. Hart froze.
“You cannot expect me to believe that the rumors are unfounded. Why, I’ve spoken to three houses—three—who all confirmed that the Duchess of Wrexford has a baby tucked away upstairs.
Not to mention the circulated newspaper.
” Her voice lowered to a theatrical whisper.
“And I always recognize the truth when it arrives wearing the scent of scandal.”
Mrs. Hart made a strangled sound that she disguised as a cough.
Beatrice inhaled through her nose. “Lady Portwell, you shouldn’t believe gossip. The ton repeats more nonsense than fact.”
“Of course it does,” Lady Portwell agreed brightly. “But the nonsense is almost always… illuminating.” Her smile turned beatific. “In any case, I came to see for myself. And clearly—”
A small cry drifted through the adjoining door, and Lady Portwell went utterly still, her fan stilling mid-flutter. Her eyes lit up with predatory triumph as her body angled toward the sound.
Beatrice felt her stomach drop straight through the floorboards.
“Oh,” Lady Portwell breathed, her hand rising to her throat. “There it is.”
Beatrice stepped forward at once, blocking the older woman’s view of the adjoining door. “Lady Portwell,” she began, every syllable a warning. “There is no—”
Lady Portwell raised a finger, silencing her with offended grandeur. “My dear, please. I heard the child just now.” Her eyes gleamed. “Where is she?”
“She?” Beatrice repeated, not moving an inch. “How did you know it was a girl? Lady Portwell—”
“So it is a girl!” Lady Portwell crowed. “Oh, how charming. Girls are such delicate, lovely creatures, though occasionally troublesome, as we well know.” She winked, which made it infinitely worse. “Come, come, do not be modest. Where are you hiding her?”
But she was already moving, her skirts rustling decisively as she stepped around Beatrice.
“Lady Portwell,” Beatrice warned, stepping back into her path, “you do not have leave to wander through my home.”
Lady Portwell stopped short, blinking as though encountering an unfamiliar custom. “My dear girl, when one comes to celebrate a birth—”
“There has been no birth,” Beatrice cut in, sharper than she had intended.
Lady Portwell’s eyebrows flew up. “And yet,” she said, her voice sweet as sour milk, “I hear a child’s cry.”
Beatrice’s stomach lurched. She opened her mouth—she had no idea what she meant to say—but Lady Portwell, flushed with purpose and hunger for scandal, had already slipped around her once again.