Chapter Two #2
“You concealed it admirably last night.”
His mouth hardened by the smallest degree. “Last night you arrived at my door with a child in your arms, and a letter apparently written by a deceased woman. Under the circumstances, I considered myself restrained.”
“How fortunate for us all that Your Grace was in a temperate mood.”
Martha made a quiet sound near the window, but Beatrice did not look at her. If she did, she might lose what little composure she had managed to gather.
Ravenshaw’s gaze moved briefly to Martha, who curtsied with excellent obedience and remained precisely where she was. Her posture made it plain that she intended to hear every word of the conversation unless removed by force, and perhaps even then with protest.
The duke returned his attention to Beatrice. “Since I have already admitted a physician, lit fires, and allowed a baby to sleep beneath my roof, I should like to know whether I am harbouring misfortune, scandal, or both.”
“Those are not the only possibilities.”
“In houses such as ours, Lady Beatrice, they are usually the first two to arrive. Now, I have waited until morning, which I consider generous. Begin.”
“With which part?”
“Whichever version casts the least suspicion on either of us.”
“They reflect no discredit upon us, Your Grace. They are facts about people who have been treated badly.”
“People become facts the moment they threaten reputations. I have lived long enough to know the speed at which the conversion occurs.”
“Then reputations are poor currency, and I am sorry for anyone who considers them the more important one.”
A muscle moved in his jaw. He looked at the letter, then at the cradle where Ned slept with his fist curled against his cheek, and then at Beatrice.
“Your sister. Lady Helena. Last night you told me she is deceased, and that it was she who sent you to my door.”
“Yes.”
“And the quarrel with your father, the one that put you on the road in a storm. Tell me how it came about.”
“Martha told me what my father intended for the child. In the hallway of my father’s house, while a dinner gathering continued in the room behind us.”
“You went to your father.”
“I went to my father and told him I intended to keep the child. My father told me the child was to be sent north if I did not send him away. I told him I would not permit it and he replied that if I could not be governed I was welcome to leave his house.”
“He turned you out.”
“He gave me a choice designed to ensure I would comply. When I did not comply, the choice became a sentence.”
“And so, you ran.”
“I left. There is a difference, though I grant you it looks similar when done in the middle of the night with a valise and a baby.”
“I packed in the dark, Your Grace. In under twenty minutes, with the baby sleeping. We brought what we could carry,” Martha said quietly.
“I shall write you a letter of commendation,” Ravenshaw said.
“I would settle for breakfast, Your Grace.”
“It is being arranged.”
“Then I am content.”
Ravenshaw turned back to Beatrice. He had filed one piece of the story away and was already reaching for the next.
“The child. I asked you last night whether the boy was yours, and you did not answer.”
“I told you I could not answer safely.”
“We are no longer in a hall full of servants, Lady Beatrice. We are in a room with your maid, your baby, and a man who has already ordered a physician, a nursery, and a fire on your behalf. I believe I have earned a degree of honesty.”
“The boy is mine in every way that matters.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give you, and it is true, and the fact that it does not satisfy your requirements is a limitation of your requirements, not of my honesty.”
“You are aware that evasion, repeated often enough, begins to resemble deception.”
“And you are aware, Your Grace, that pressing a woman for answers she has told you she cannot safely give begins to resemble the behaviour of the man she is trying to protect the child from.”
The words landed harder than she had intended. Ravenshaw’s expression tightened, and for one moment the controlled surface cracked and what showed through was something that was neither anger nor shame but lived somewhere between the two.
“Lord Voss,” he said, after a silence that lasted longer than either of them wanted. “The ring you showed me last night. Is Voss involved with this child?”
Beatrice went very still.
“Your face has answered before your mouth could construct a suitable evasion.”
“My face is tired, Your Grace. It is not in full command of its diplomatic faculties.”
“That much is evident. Is Voss the child’s father?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“You just did.”
“I answered nothing. You are reading conclusions into silence, which is a habit I would respectfully suggest you examine.”
“I am reading conclusions into a woman who goes white at the mention of a man’s name. That requires no particular skill of interpretation.”
“My lady…” Martha began.
“I know, Martha.”
“He is not asking because he is cruel.”
“I know that as well.”
“Then perhaps he deserves a little more than you have been giving him, seeing as he has not yet thrown us out and the fire is very warm.”
Beatrice looked at her maid, and Martha looked back with the steady, unsentimental expression of a woman who had been right about enough things in fourteen years of service that her opinion had acquired the force of gravity.
“Voss is not a man to be trusted,” Ravenshaw said. His voice had gone quieter, and carried something personal. “He is not a man to be pitied, or reasoned with, or reformed by affection. Whatever promises he made, whoever he made them to, they were designed to serve his purposes and no one else’s.”
“Whatever promises he made,” Beatrice said carefully, “were not made to me.”