Chapter 2
The young man’s breath came in short bursts. He clutched the basket as though it might vanish if he loosened his grip.
“Begging your pardon, miss—my lady,” he stammered, his eyes darting between Beatrice and Cecily. “I’m looking for Miss Verity. Someone left this at the print house, saying it was to be delivered to her. I was given an address in this part of town, but I-I can’t find it.”
Beatrice’s stomach twisted.
Miss Verity.
The name struck her like a stone dropped into still water, small yet sending ripples everywhere at once.
“I’m sorry, you said—?” Cecily began, her voice sharp.
The young man tugged at the blanket and lifted the cover. Beneath it lay a tiny bundle. It was impossibly small, wrapped in fine muslin, its faint breath fogging in the cool night.
Beatrice gasped when she saw a tuft of dark hair. A fragile hand twitched once, then stilled.
“Oh!” Cecily stepped closer, her hand flying to her mouth. “Beatrice—oh heavens, it’s really a baby.”
Beatrice could barely breathe. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her mind spun between disbelief and something far colder—fear.
The young man swallowed. “I only take deliveries, my lady. Didn’t know what was inside at first, I swear it. But I can’t keep it. The note said that Miss Verity would know what to do.”
Beatrice swallowed thickly. “I see.”
The words came out even, astonishingly so, considering she felt the ground tilt beneath her. She reached for the basket before Cecily could speak, her hands trembling.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “You’ve done your duty. I will see to the delivery myself.”
Relief flashed across the young man’s face. “Truly, my lady?”
“Yes. You can leave.”
He looked relieved to be rid of it, sketched a quick bow, and took off down the street, vanishing into the shadows.
The baby whimpered—a fragile, bewildered sound that made Beatrice’s heart twist in ways she couldn’t name.
Cecily turned to her sharply. “Beatrice, what are you doing?”
“I—” Beatrice looked down at the sleeping infant, then back up, her composure assembling itself by sheer force of habit. “It’s cold, Cecily. Whatever else we decide, we cannot leave it here.”
Cecily hesitated, only for a moment, before nodding curtly. “Very well, bring it inside.”
Beatrice pushed the door closed, her arms aching beneath the basket’s weight. The moment they crossed the threshold, the baby let out a wail that rang through the entrance hall like a bell.
The sound echoed off marble and gilt, far too loud for midnight.
Within seconds, footsteps sounded upstairs. Lady Moreland appeared at the top of the staircase, a candle in hand, her night robe trailing behind her.
“Beatrice?” Her voice caught halfway between confusion and alarm. “What on earth—”
Beatrice turned slightly so the light fell over the basket. The wailing grew sharper, a plea that made her heart twist.
“Oh, heavens.” Lady Moreland descended quickly, before setting the candle on a side table. “Tell me that isn’t—”
“It is.” Beatrice steadied her voice, though her heart was racing. “A boy from the print house brought it. He said it was left for… for Miss Verity.”
Lady Moreland’s eyes widened. “Miss Verity? That dreadful woman who fills the papers with drivel?”
Beatrice hesitated. “So it seems.”
Lady Moreland clasped her hands together, aghast. “And you accepted it? Beatrice, you should have let the boy continue his search for Miss Verity! Bringing such a thing into our home is madness.”
“I couldn’t leave it out there,” Beatrice said softly. “It’s freezing.”
“Freezing or not, this—this is dangerous.” Lady Moreland’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, as though the walls themselves might overhear. “If anyone discovers an abandoned baby in Moreland House—good Lord, what would people think? You must think of your reputation.”
Beatrice flinched at the word, not because it wasn’t expected but because it always came so quickly. Reputation, the invisible leash that governed their lives.
“Mother,” Cecily said carefully, stepping closer, “surely no one saw—”
“That is hardly the point,” Lady Moreland cut in, her composure cracking. “Once gossip begins, it will spread like wildfire. You think the ton would stop to ask how the child came here? No. They would concoct their own tales—wicked ones. They would say you—”
“Enough.” Beatrice’s voice was quiet but firm. She looked down at the baby, whose cries had softened to small, hiccupping breaths. “Whatever people may say, there is still a baby here, and she is helpless.”
Lady Moreland exhaled shakily, as though struggling between propriety and pity. “And what do you mean to do? Keep it?”
“I mean to see it safe.”
“That is not an answer,” Lady Moreland replied, though her tone had softened. “Beatrice, my dear, think sensibly. We could send word to the parish or to some discreet home—”
“No.” Beatrice looked up at her. “I will not send the child to strangers. I only need to find out who left her, and why.”
Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her brow, weary and bewildered. “You take too much upon yourself. Always have. This is not your burden to bear.”
Her words echoed through the hall, brittle and sharp.
But Beatrice barely heard her.. She set the basket gently on a chair and loosened the blanket.
“There now,” she whispered, brushing back the edge of the fabric. “You poor thing.”
The baby blinked, dark lashes fluttering against skin so pale it seemed translucent.
Something gleamed on the blanket. Beatrice frowned. Near the hem of the fabric, the threadwork shimmered faintly in the candlelight. At first, she thought it was some ordinary embroidery, but then her gaze landed on the familiar crest stitched into the corner—the rampant lion and twin stars.
Her breath caught.
The Wrexford crest. The same she had seen embossed on Wrexford House’s stationery.
Her fingers went numb.
Lady Moreland was still speaking as she paced—something about servants, discretion, damage beyond repair—but the words faded away, drowned by the child’s quiet breaths and the thunder of Beatrice’s heart.
Her breath caught. She stared, uncomprehending, before whispering, “No… it cannot be.”
Cecily leaned closer. “What is it?”
Beatrice swallowed hard. “The crest… it’s the Wrexfords’. There’s only one man who could claim it.”
Cecily frowned, searching her face. “You mean, the Duke?”
A soft rustle of skirts drew Beatrice’s gaze upward. Lady Moreland had shifted closer, her gaze fixed on the baby.
She frowned. “The Wrexford crest… on a foundling?”
The baby whimpered again, and Beatrice gathered her closer, her mind a flurry of disbelief and dread. “Yes,” she said quietly. “This belongs to…to him. To his household. A baby girl.”
Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her temple, visibly wrestling with dread and etiquette. “You cannot be the one to handle this. Let Wrexford’s servants collect the child. Quietly. No one needs to know—”
“No.” Beatrice’s voice was firm. “I will not abandon her, at least not tonight.”
“Beatrice,” Lady Moreland warned, “you must think of your reputation.”
Beatrice lifted her chin. “My reputation is not so fragile that it cannot withstand sheltering an innocent child for a single night—” She broke off, glancing down.
The infant’s tiny fist had caught the edge of her sleeve, clinging with surprising strength.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The crackle of the fire filled the silence.
Finally, Beatrice met her mother`s eyes. “If the Duke is responsible,” she said steadily, “then we will not be silent.” Her voice lowered. “He will answer for this.” She drew a long breath. “I must send for him at once.”
Cecily’s eyes widened. “At this hour?”
“Yes.” Beatrice’s voice did not falter. “He must come here in the morning. If this child were delivered to our house, bearing his family crest, he deserves to know before anyone else.”
Lady Moreland gave a curt nod, and Beatrice turned to the nearest footman. “Bring me paper and ink, quickly.”
He bowed and disappeared, returning moments later with a small tray.
Beatrice sat at the side table and gently passed the baby into Cecily’s arms. “Hold her for me.”
“She’s heavier than she looks,” Cecily murmured, awkwardly cradling the baby. “Good heavens, Bea, what will people say?”
Beatrice uncapped the inkwell, her hands trembling. “Let them say whatever they want. I cannot leave this unanswered.”
The candlelight flickered as she wrote, her pen scratching swift, deliberate strokes:
Your Grace,
An urgent matter requires your presence at Moreland House at first light. I beg you to come without delay.
She signed her name and sealed the letter with the Moreland crest, pressing it firmly before handing it to the footman.
“See that it reaches the Duke of Wrexford tonight,” she instructed. “No excuses. If his servants question you, say that Lady Beatrice insists on it.”
When the door closed behind him, the echo seemed to linger far too long.
Beatrice turned back to her sister, who was now rocking the baby in her arms.
“What are we supposed to do until morning?” Cecily whispered.
“Keep her warm,” Beatrice replied softly, brushing the child’s cheek with her fingertips. “And pray that the truth, when it comes, does not destroy us all.”
The baby sighed, the sound small and human and terribly fragile. Beatrice’s throat tightened. She drew a deep, shaky breath and looked toward the window, where the night pressed against the glass.
Cecily was still by the fire, the baby now sleeping against her shoulder. Beatrice gently took the child back, studying her tiny features—her rosebud mouth, the faint dimple at her chin. Her mind spun in silent chaos.
The Wrexford crest. Edward’s crest.
She drew the baby close, her pulse quickening.
Is this Edward’s daughter?
The thought struck her like lightning. It was terrible, impossible, and yet all-consuming.