Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“This is absurd.”
Andrew let the scandal sheet fall slightly in his hand, though his gaze remained fixed on the offending column. The paper crackled faintly as he turned it back, as if it might somehow read differently the second time.
It did not.
He exhaled through his nose, releasing a quiet, controlled sound, and crossed the length of his study.
The Duke of Sinclair… illegitimate child… concealed in the country. Absurd.
He lowered the paper at last and looked toward the man standing discreetly near the door.
“Have you read this, Carter?”
His butler inclined his head. “I have, Your Grace.”
Andrew studied him for a moment. Carter was not a man easily unsettled, yet that was exactly how he appeared.
“And?” Andrew asked.
Carter folded his hands before him. “I’m afraid it is already being discussed, Your Grace.”
Andrew gave a short, humorless breath. “Of course it is. That is its purpose.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned back to the window, with the paper still in his hand. Outside, the grounds lay quiet beneath a pale sky, with the early spring air carrying none of the tension now coiled within the walls of his house.
He had seen such things before, not about himself, but about others. Names dragged through ink, reputations reshaped by implication and suggestion. It was the favorite pastime of a society that professed refinement while delighting in destruction.
He had always dismissed it. He intended to dismiss this as well.
“It is nonsense,” he scoffed.
Carter did not immediately respond.
Andrew glanced back at him. “You do not agree?”
“I have no opinion on its truth, Your Grace,” the butler replied carefully. “Only on its effect.”
Andrew’s mouth tightened slightly. “Which is?”
“It has already begun to spread.”
Andrew looked down at the page again, his eyes skimming the lines with growing irritation.
The language was calculated. He could see that plainly enough.
It was not a direct accusation so much as a slow tightening of implication.
Still, it was enough to provoke curiosity and to invite speculation.
By evening, half of London would be repeating it as fact.
“Let them talk.” He waved a dismissive hand.
Carter inclined his head, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Andrew moved to his writing table and set the paper down among his correspondence, though the act felt faintly inadequate, as if he were attempting to bury something that refused to remain still.
“This is precisely the sort of idle invention that thrives for a week and is forgotten the next,” he continued. “A new scandal will appear, and this one will fade with it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“There is nothing in it worth addressing, despite the fact that it is rather specific. But that only makes it more entertaining, and therefore, more profitable for whoever chose to write it.”
Carter gave a small nod. “That is often the case.”
Andrew leaned back slightly against the edge of his writing table, folding his arms. He had no intention of allowing such nonsense to disrupt his morning, much less his affairs.
There were matters of actual consequence awaiting him, such as tenants to consider, accounts to review, and decisions that affected lives in ways far more real than ink upon paper.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Andrew called out.
Carter opened the door, and Philip Ashwell, the Duke of Thorne, entered without ceremony.
Even before he spoke, he altered the air of the room. Philip always did. He carried silence with him like a second coat, like something dark, heavy, and close-fitted. He was still in travelling dress, with gloves in one hand, and another folded paper in the other.
“Your Grace,” Carter said quietly.
Andrew gave a brief nod. “That will be all, Carter.”
The butler withdrew at once, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, Philip said nothing. He only looked at Andrew. Then he lifted the paper in his hand.
“Is it true?”
Andrew’s brows drew together. “Is what true?”
“This.” Philip tossed the paper onto the desk between them.
The title flashed at him: Nobility in Name Only: The Sinclair Scandal Breaks.
“And why,” Philip added, “is my sister-in-law’s name now entangled in it?”
Andrew stared at him. “What have Frances or Sophia to do with any of this?”
Philip’s jaw tightened. “Read it.”
With growing irritation, Andrew picked up the paper. It was not the same scandal sheet as before, though the style was instantly familiar. It was sharp and clever. His gaze moved over the opening lines, and then, despite himself, he slowed.
The writer did not deny the rumor outright.
Instead, she dismantled it. She questioned the convenience of society’s sudden moral outrage, observed that men of true vice were rarely those most hastily condemned, and pointed out that a gentleman’s willingness to shield the vulnerable might easily be twisted by idle minds into proof of guilt.
She asked whether the ton had become so desperate for spectacle that charity itself must now be counted as seduction.
She remarked, with a dryness Andrew recognized at once, that those who most enjoyed shredding reputations were often those with the most to fear from scrutiny themselves.
It was expertly done.
He read one line again, silently.
Perhaps the greater scandal is not what society imagines the Duke of Sinclair has done, but how eagerly society demands a woman and child be sacrificed to make the story pleasing.
Andrew’s fingers tightened around the page.
He could hear Frances’ voice in the sentences, not merely the intelligence, but the sharpness she kept tucked behind civility, the cool disdain for hypocrisy and the refusal to let injustice pass unchallenged once it had properly caught her attention.
Philip’s voice cut across his thoughts. “Well?”
Andrew looked up. “Frances wrote this?”
“She did.”
“Why would she involve herself?” he asked.
“That,” Philip said, “is a question I came here hoping you could answer.”
Andrew set the page down. “I cannot.”
Philip watched him for a long moment. “The original story is already circulating everywhere. This piece has only fed it.”
“She is defending me.”
“She is,” Philip agreed flatly. “And the ton has decided a lady does not defend a gentleman so publicly unless there is something personal behind it.”
Andrew’s expression hardened. “That is ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Philip concurred. “But that has never once prevented society from embracing it.”
A brief silence fell. Andrew glanced again at the paper on his writing table: clever, composed, dangerous in its own way.
Frances had not written like a lovestruck fool trying to rescue a man’s name.
She had written like someone offended by cruelty and determined to expose it. It ought to have helped.
Instead, all it managed to do was attach her to the matter.
He felt a flicker of annoyance, unfair perhaps, but real. “She should have left it alone.”
Philip’s gaze sharpened. “On that, at least, we agree.”
Andrew let out a breath. “I did not ask for her assistance.”
“No. But she has given it, and now people are talking.”
Andrew frowned. “What precisely are they saying?”
Philip’s expression darkened further, if such a thing were even possible. “That Miss Norton defends you because she knows more than others do. That you are secretly attached. That perhaps the child is only one part of a larger scandal being badly concealed.”
Andrew gave a short laugh devoid of humor. “Oh, for crying out loud! They improve the story by the hour.”
“They will do worse by evening.”
Andrew looked away, toward the window, though he saw nothing beyond it. “This is madness.”
“It is gossip,” Philip corrected him. “Madness would almost be preferable.”
Andrew said nothing.
After a moment, Philip stepped nearer the desk. “If there is nothing in this story, stamp it out. Publicly, if necessary. If there is something in it…” He stopped.
Andrew’s gaze snapped back to him. “There is nothing between me and Miss Norton.”
“That is not what I asked.”
The words landed with uncomfortable weight.
Andrew held his stare. “Why should Frances care enough to do this?”
Philip’s face remained unreadable. “Emma says guilt is a powerful motive.”
Andrew frowned slightly.
“She believes Frances blames herself still for old harms done through careless words,” Philip explained. “If so, she may have thought this a chance to set something right.”
That, maddeningly, sounded plausible.
Andrew looked down again at the page. The lines were clever enough to wound the original writer and bold enough to draw notice.
He could imagine Frances writing them with that cool, focused intensity she wore when truly provoked.
He could imagine her lifting her chin after the final sentence, dissatisfied only because the blow had not struck hard enough.
Why involve herself in his affairs? Why indeed?
Philip turned at last toward the door. “Whatever her reason, deal with it, Sinclair. Quickly.”
Andrew did not answer.
Philip reached the door, laid one hand on the brass knob, and pulled it open. In the sudden space beyond, a sound rose through the house.
A baby’s cry.
It was small, sharp and undeniably near. Everything in the room seemed to stop. Philip went still, with his hand still on the door. Then, very slowly, he turned back.
His face had changed. The reserve remained, but a cold realization settled as well. Andrew did not move. Philip’s eyes held his.
“You…” he said, but was cut off by another thin cry, which echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
“It is true?” Philip asked. “You have a child?”