Chapter 7
Leopold met Miss Redmond in the study after breakfast, exactly as he had said he would.
He had not intended to make it a formal summons.
He had simply told Mrs. Pritchard to ask her to send for her before she became too busy for the day and had expected, at most, a few minutes of practical discussion about Cecily’s feeding and sleep.
He was at the desk when Miss Redmond was shown in. Barnaby had not yet arrived, the fire was low, and the morning papers lay folded at the edge of the blotter where they waited for him to read them again.
Miss Redmond stepped into the room with the same quiet composure she seemed to wear as naturally as her gloves. But he noticed that she looked rather tired, and he wondered if Cecily was struggling to sleep.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said.
“Good morning.”
She waited.
Leopold gestured to the chair opposite his desk, but she did not sit at once. She remained standing with her hands lightly folded, attentive and still. It was the sort of stillness that suggested either discipline or exhaustion. Or perhaps it was both.
“How is she?” he asked.
Miss Redmond’s face brightened.
“Cecily is well, Your Grace.”
He watched her closely. “Eating?”
“Yes.”
“Enough?”
She paused, and he thought she was trying not to smile. “More than enough, to be sure.”
Leopold looked at her. “You hesitate to say it.”
The faintest hint of color touched her cheeks. “She has a healthy appetite.”
He found himself smiling.
“I shall take that as a good sign.”
“The best, Your Grace.”
“And her sleep?”
There was a longer pause. Once again, Leopold noted the darkness beneath her eyes.
“She is a little more restless.”
Leopold nodded, strangely relieved that the nursemaid had answered him honestly, if a bit vaguely.
“She is still suffering with her teething?”
“Yes.”
“Badly?”
“I would not say badly.”
He gave her a dry look.
Miss Redmond smiled weakly. “Perhaps badly, then.”
Leopold returned the smile. “That sounds more honest.”
She dipped her head.
He considered her for another moment. “Does she wake angry or only offended?”
A flicker of amusement passed across her face. “She is not yet willing to distinguish between the two.”
“That seems sensible.”
“She would agree.”
Leopold found himself watching her rather than the notes in front of him. It was not merely that she answered well. She answered carefully, and with only enough detail to be useful.
It was as if she was not sure if she should elaborate. Or as if she did not trust him with elaborative details. And yet her answers were confident and certain, as though she could read the child’s mind.
Most nursemaids would struggle in the first few days of caring for a child until they learned that child’s specific cues and sounds. But Miss Redmond seemed to know what to do as if Cecily could tell her exactly what was wrong or what she needed.
He folded one hand over the other, thinking again about what his mother had said.
The issues with the child were obvious enough, to be sure.
But it seemed like Miss Redmond knew the perfect solutions, not for just any infant, but for Cecily in particular.
“You speak about her as though you have known her longer than five days.”
Miss Redmond’s fingers paused against each other before she forced them loose again.
It lasted only a second, but he saw enough to know the question had struck somewhere tender.
“I have been with children before, Your Grace.”
“That was not what I meant.”
“No.”
He waited.
She held his gaze. “I know how babies behave.”
That answer was too neat by half.
Leopold kept his face calm. “You said you have cared for a child this young before.”
“Yes.”
“Whose child?”
“A family in the country,” she said.
Barnaby would have called that a dodge. Leopold called it a lie. Or at least a partial truth. She had said she worked in Wiltshire before. But the way she spoke then was as if she was trying to pretend she had never said it. Or like she forgot that was the name of the town she had mentioned.
He nodded once as if the answer had satisfied him, though it had not. “And the child?”
Miss Redmond’s eyes stayed on him. “Would you like to further discuss her teething?”
He could hear the subject change before she made it explicit. She had not misunderstood him. She had taken a deliberate turn with the conversation.
He glanced at the papers on his desk and let it go. “If you believe it needs further discussion.”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “It is making her unhappy and restless, especially late at night. A cold cloth helps. So does walking her when she starts to fret, though neither seems to work for more than an hour or two at a time. I thought perhaps some teething sticks and some chamomile that I can use to infuse water to rub on her gums might help.”
Leopold nodded, though the answer settled uneasily beside all the others. And the more he listened to her speak, the more he could not escape what his mother had said about her accent. And she constantly avoided talking about the other children she said she had cared for.
“Very well,” he said. He might not have believed she was telling the full truth, but he did believe she was genuinely concerned for the child and knew what was in her best interest. “I shall see to it that you have those things before the day ends.”
Miss Redmond curtsied and smiled softly.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
He had just opened his mouth to ask another question when the door behind him opened.
The dowager entered without waiting to be invited. “We need to speak.”
Miss Redmond dipped her head, silently excusing herself.
Leopold waited until she was gone. Then, he set down his pen. “About what, precisely?”
“The scandal is worsening.”
“I am aware.”
“It is in every society page.”
“So I have noticed.”
“And the version growing in town is becoming less favorable by the hour.”
Leopold gave a short, dismissive motion with one hand. “That is no surprise.”
“It should be enough to convince you.”
“Of what?”
“That the child must be sent away.”
He answered evenly. “No.”
The dowager looked at him as though he had not understood. “Leopold.”
“The child stays.”
“Do not be obstinate.”
“I am being consistent.”
“She is not yours.”
Leopold’s voice cooled. “That has not changed.”
The dowager stepped closer to the desk. “Then why are you doing this? You are destroying the family’s reputation over a baby who was left on your doorstep.”
The sentence left no room for tenderness, which was perhaps what made Leopold’s temper rise.
Leopold looked at his mother. “She stays until I know where she came from.”
The dowager’s eyes flashed. “And if you do not like the answer?”
“I will still need it.”
“Answering questions is easier than living with them.”
Leopold’s jaw tensed. “I am not sending her to an orphanage.”
The dowager’s expression hardened further. “Then you are making a mistake.”
“Perhaps.”
“You do not seem to understand how quickly this can turn.”
“I understand exactly how quickly it has turned.”
“That is not enough.”
“It is all I have at the moment.”
For a moment they faced each other across the desk in complete silence.
At last, his mother sighed. “If you continue to keep the child here, people will begin to ask the sort of questions you will not like.”
Leopold held her gaze. “Then I will answer them.”
“No, you will not.”
His mouth flattened. “You have said your piece.”
“I have not finished.”
He waited.
The dowager studied him for a moment. “You may find the truth less convenient than you expect.”
Leopold frowned. “What does that mean?”
For the first time since she entered, the dowager hesitated. It was brief, almost nothing, but he saw it.
“Nothing,” she said.
He stared at her. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting.”
She turned before he could press him further, crossed to the door, and paused with her hand on the frame. “Leopold,” she said, without looking back, “do not assume you know what you are protecting.”
Then she left, shutting the door behind her.
The silence she left behind was heavy. Leopold remained where he was until the sound of her footsteps faded, one hand still braced against the edge of the desk.
His mother had warned him before, about tenants, creditors, unsuitable acquaintances, and every small social risk she believed might stain the Harcourt name. But she had never warned him like that.
Not with fear beneath the command.
He looked toward the closed door, then back at the papers on his desk.
For the first time, he wondered whether the question was not simply where Cecily had come from, but who already knew the answer.
***
That evening, Barnaby ruined that by appearing in the study with a chessboard under one arm and a look of calm intent that meant he intended to annoy Leopold until either the game or the night was over.
“Your mother seems to be in quite a mood,” Barnaby said, seating himself across from the desk.
Leopold glanced up from a memorandum. “Does she?”
Barnaby nodded emphatically.
“She moves about with the air of a woman who had discovered an outbreak of stupidity and blamed you for it.”
Leopold set the memorandum aside. “That narrows down nothing.”
Barnaby smiled faintly as he arranged the pieces. “She is fond of you in her own alarming way.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No, but it is true.”
They played in silence for several moves.
Leopold lost his bishop early.
He stared at the board. “That was careless.”
Barnaby’s eyes did not lift. “You have been careless this whole game.”
Leopold moved a knight. “I have not.”
“You have.”
Leopold looked at him. “About what, exactly?”
Barnaby made his next move and then folded his hands. “Your mother said something to you this afternoon that you are still turning over.”
Leopold’s expression sharpened. “You are observant.”
“I am bored. It helps.” He grinned, as if revealing some grand illusion trick. “And with her mood considered alongside your distraction, it is not difficult.”
Leopold sat back in his chair. “She said I may not like the answer when I find out where the baby came from.”
Barnaby’s gaze lifted then, steady and interested. “And what do you think she meant?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you have a theory?”
Leopold was quiet for a moment. “It sounded as though she already knew.”
“Why would she keep such a secret from you?”
Leopold shrugged.
“That is one question I keep asking myself, and I cannot think of a single reason.”
Barnaby nodded.
“Perhaps it is as simple as more rumors she heard long before that baby showed up here.”
Leopold thought for a moment, then shook his head.
“She hates scandal, but she would never behave so irrationally over mere speculation.”
“So you believe she is keeping some kind of secret?”
Leopold nodded slowly.
“I suppose I do think that,” he said. “It is at least a prominent thought.”
Barnaby looked at the board for a moment, then back at him. “That is unpleasant.”
“Yes.”
“She could mean any number of things.”
“Could she?”
Barnaby’s mouth quirked. “You sound as though you would prefer a simpler problem.”
Leopold moved a pawn with more force than necessary. “I would prefer a problem that had not arrived wrapped in shawls and society gossip.”
Barnaby’s expression was dry. “That would be a remarkably inconvenient preference for a duke.”
Leopold did not answer. He tried to be irritated at Barnaby’s ceaseless jesting. But he had to admit, at least to himself, that even though he could not laugh, his friend trying to show him that it was not the most serious trouble in the world did lift his spirits, if only a little.
Barnaby studied him. “You are worried.”
Leopold made a low sound of protest. “I am thinking.”
“That is usually how it begins.”
Leopold gave him a flat look. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet you continue playing.”
Before Leopold could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Mrs. Pritchard entered with a tray of post in one hand and a folded note held on top of it.
“Your Grace,” she said, “there is a letter.”
Leopold frowned. “From whom?”
Mrs. Pritchard glanced down at the top sheet. “Mr. Bellamy.”
That name landed oddly, though it was not immediately familiar.
Leopold straightened. “Bellamy?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Barnaby’s eyes flicked to Leopold’s face. “Do you know him?”
“I do not believe so.”
Mrs. Pritchard set the tray on the side table. “He asks after a young woman who may have traveled to this part of the county.”
Leopold looked at the letter. “A young woman.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Did he say who?”
“No.”
“Or where from?”
“No.”
Barnaby leaned back in his chair and folded one leg over the other. “That sounds promising.”
Leopold ignored him and took up the letter. The handwriting was respectable, firm, and practical. Nothing flamboyant.
Nothing urgent enough to suggest panic, though there was an edge in the phrasing that told him the writer had reasons to care.
He read quickly. It was a simple inquiry.
A request for information. An expression of concern over a young woman who had traveled unexpectedly and might have come to this part of the county. Nothing more.
Leopold set it down. “A father looking for a runaway daughter, most likely.”
Barnaby’s eyes remained on him. “Most likely.”
Leopold glanced back at the board, then at the post tray. “It is not my concern.”
Barnaby said nothing.
Leopold picked the letter up again, skimmed it one more time, and then set it back on the tray with the rest of the post.
Barnaby studied the board, then moved his queen.
“Checkmate,” he said, sitting back with quiet satisfaction.
Leopold stared at the board. It was the first time Barnaby had ever checkmated him.
Normally, he would have been in utter disbelief.
But right then, all he could think about was how his life was becoming stranger and more baffling every day.
And all the mystery and confusion seemed to revolve around a baby and a secretive nursemaid.