Chapter Nine #3
“If Your Grace will forgive me, it may be better done by the bell. Mr Pritchard will understand the necessity, and Miss Winthrop should be gone before anyone has cause to wonder.”
Petalia’s voice came from behind the screen, quieter now. “Mrs Holroyd is correct.”
He hated that she sounded tired.
“Very well,” he said.
He rang. Pritchard came, took in the scene with one glance, and became so carefully expressionless that Edmund knew the butler understood everything.
Orders were given. The east corridor was to be cleared.
No servant was to pass that way until Mrs Holroyd had escorted Miss Winthrop to her room.
The ruined gown was to be wrapped and taken away discreetly.
Discretion, Edmund knew, had arrived too late.
When the dressing gown came, Mrs Holroyd helped Miss Winthrop into it behind the screen. Edmund kept his back turned. He did not see her emerge, but he heard the faint brush of fabric and the careful step she took into the room.
“Your Grace,” she said.
He turned then because she had addressed him, and because refusal would have been cowardice.
She stood beside Mrs Holroyd, pale but upright, the borrowed dressing gown fastened to her throat.
His coat was folded over one arm. Her hair had loosened during the struggle with the gown, and one strand lay against her cheek.
She looked wounded, dignified, and impossibly vulnerable in a garment never meant for a library.
He took one step forward and stopped.
“Miss Winthrop,” he said, his voice rougher than he wished, “I am sorry.”
Her expression altered, not with forgiveness exactly, but with recognition that he meant the words as plainly as he was able.
“It was an accident,” she said.
“One that should not have happened.”
“No. But I am not badly hurt.”
Mrs Holroyd adjusted the dressing gown at her shoulder with brisk gentleness. “We should go, miss.”
Petalia held out his coat. “Your Grace.”
“Keep it until you reach your room.”
“That would be unwise.”
“Many things are already unwise this evening. Warmth at least has practical merit.”
Their eyes met.
She understood what he was offering and what accepting might cost. She also understood, he thought, that refusing the coat now would not undo the fact that she had already worn it behind the screen.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, and drew it over her arm again rather than around her shoulders.
Mrs Holroyd led her towards the door. Pritchard waited in the corridor, face grave, posture rigid. Edmund remained by the window until their footsteps faded.
Then he turned to the room.
The library looked like evidence. The tea stain spread across the table. The broken cup lay in fragments. Her gown, wrapped now in a towel, had left a dark mark where it had hung over the screen. The air smelled of tea, rain, salve, and disaster.
He walked to the table and placed both hands upon its edge.
He had done nothing dishonourable.
He had turned his back. He had sent for Mrs Holroyd at once. He had given his coat because she was burnt and half-dressed behind a screen. Any decent man would have done the same.
Any decent man would also have seen, before tonight, that his attention to her had become visible.
The tea was not the scandal. The accident was only the lamp set to tinder already laid.
He thought of the hot bricks in the carriage, the inn room, the tea ordered from the village, the cloak from household stores, the library key placed in her palm, the late conversations, the reports read twice, the way his gaze sought her in rooms where she had no reason to be.
Each act defensible alone. Together, they formed a shape.
And servants, he knew, were better at reading shapes than their masters ever wished to admit.
The door opened again.
Pritchard stood there. “Miss Winthrop has reached her room, Your Grace. Mrs Holroyd is with her.”
“Good.”
The butler did not leave.
Edmund looked up. “Say what you came to say.”
Pritchard’s face remained perfectly controlled. “Your Grace, several members of the household witnessed portions of the accident. Mrs Holroyd has instructed the maids not to speak of it. I have given similar instruction below stairs.”
“And will they obey?”
A pause.
“They will try, Your Grace.”
It was the honest answer, and because it was honest, it condemned them.
Edmund looked towards the ruined tea tray. “Send a rider to Lady Maria at first light.”
Pritchard blinked once, the only sign that the order surprised him. “To Lady Maria, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Tell her there has been an incident at Wrenfield involving Miss Winthrop’s reputation. Use those words. No others. She will understand quickly enough and travel faster than is good for her horses.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“And Pritchard.”
“Your Grace?”
“If any servant repeats a word outside this house before Lady Maria arrives, I will know who spoke, who listened, and who failed to stop it. Make that understood without theatrics.”
“I shall make it understood.”
The butler left.
Edmund remained in the library until the fire had burnt low and the rain had softened against the glass.
He did not return to the report. He did not touch the wrapped gown, though his eyes went to it again and again with a guilt that had nothing clean to do with desire and yet could not pretend desire had no part in the evening’s ruin.
He had seen almost nothing.
A hand around the screen. Damp fingers trembling. The outline of her behind the barrier. His own coat disappearing into her grasp.
Nothing improper.
Enough to destroy her.
At last, he crossed to the window. In the dark glass, his reflection looked back at him, scarred, unshaven, wild-haired, and stripped of every comforting lie. He had thought himself dangerous because of grief, temper, and the face the accident had left him.
He had not considered that wanting to protect a woman could become dangerous too.
By morning, the servants would have a version.
By tomorrow, even contained, the story would press against the walls of Wrenfield.
A governess had been alone with the Duke after dinner.
Tea had spilt. Her gown had come off. She had worn his coat.
Maids had seen. Mrs Holroyd had silenced people too sharply, which would only convince them there was something worth silencing.
Miss Winthrop had arrived at Wrenfield with one bag and a hard-won respectability.
His household had put all that at risk.
Edmund closed his eyes.
The damage, unfortunately, had required less than a minute.