Chapter 19
Leopold spent the journey back from London trying not to think about Phoebe. The estate business had been arranged before dawn and could not be postponed, though leaving Belgrave after the long night had felt abrupt even to him.
But he was far from successful in keeping his thoughts upon it. The carriage moved along the road as dusk settled over the countryside, the last gray light thinning behind the trees.
He closed his eyes briefly. He had spent most of the day telling himself that his thoughts were simply the result of interrupted sleep and too much work. He was tired, having been awake half the night.
His judgment was not at its best. Nothing more than that.
It had nothing to do with the woman who had somehow become part of his every waking thought without his permission.
He remembered the village: her laughing at Cecily’s latest opinion, her embarrassment in the draper’s shop, the look she had given him when he laughed, the way she had fallen asleep against his shoulder during Cecily’s fever.
He pushed the memories away. Isolde had been waiting at Belgrave for two days. He had agreed to give the courtship a chance. He had promised his mother he would try, even though he did not want to marry her then any more than he ever had.
That should have been enough. A respectable marriage would settle the scandal, protect Cecily, and make the household easier to defend. He would do what was required. That had always been his strength.
So why could he not stop thinking about Phoebe? Why did he feel so much different, so much more like himself, when he was near her, even when Cecily was not present? And why did it feel that marrying Isolde would remove something from his life that only Phoebe could offer?
By the time the carriage reached Belgrave, it was fully dark. Wilfred was waiting as the carriage came to a stop in front of the house.
“Your Grace.”
Leopold stepped down and handed off his coat and gloves. “Has anything happened?”
“Her Grace and Lady Isolde are waiting for you in the drawing room.”
Leopold paused. “Now?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Did they say why?”
Wilfred hesitated. “Lady Isolde said there was something you needed to know.”
Leopold’s expression tightened. He handed Wilfred his gloves.
“Can it not wait until morning?”
Wilfred shook his head, and Leopold thought there was sadness in his eyes.
“It seems that it cannot wait until then.”
Leopold nodded, his stomach knotting. Had something happened to Cecily? Or to Phoebe?
“Very well,” he said curtly, rushing away from the butler.
He crossed the hall and entered the drawing room. His mother was seated near the fire. Isolde stood beside the mantel. She turned when he entered and smiled.
“I am glad you are back.”
Leopold closed the door behind him. “What has happened?”
Isolde’s smile faded into something more serious. “There is something I believe you need to know.”
Leopold looked from her to his mother. Verity said nothing. He remained standing.
“Go on.”
Isolde drew a slow breath. “I made inquiries about Miss Redmond.”
Leopold’s chest began to feel compressed, as if a vice had slowly been released.
“Why?”
She continued. “I thought it was prudent.”
“Prudent.”
“Yes.” She held his gaze. “Your reputation matters to me.”
Leopold’s mouth flattened. “I was not aware we had reached that point.”
Isolde ignored the remark. “The agency has no record of placing anyone at Belgrave.”
Leopold stared at her. “What?”
“A month after your illustrious nursemaid appeared, one Miss Phoebe Redmond reported to the agency that she had been sent to interview for a job but was turned away with the claim that the agency had already placed someone. That job was meant to be here.”
He looked toward his mother.
“At Belgrave?” he asked.
Isolde nodded.
“The woman who was meant for the position is not the woman who now works here.”
Leopold shook his head, the words not making sense. He looked at his mother, but Verity remained still and silent.
“Mother, you were the one who made the agency inquiry,” he said. “How could such a mistake have been made?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I assumed that our current nursemaid must have been from the agency, as it would be impossible for anyone outside Belgrave to know exactly when we began searching for someone to fill that position.”
Leopold shook his head again, running a hand through his hair.
“That is just the point,” he said. “If what you say is true, that must mean that someone with no knowledge of our need for a nursemaid arrived before even the rumors of such a search began. It would mean that someone would have to be psychic to know before it became public speculation.”
“Or someone would have had to know about Cecily before that,” his mother said.
Leopold stilled. He had considered that Phoebe’s knowledge might come from caring for another child—her niece, she had said—but his mother’s words gave the possibility a sharper and more troubling shape.
“You believe she knew Cecily before she came here?” he asked.
Isolde held up a paper. “I made several inquiries through my own connections in Wiltshire. The woman calling herself Miss Redmond is actually Honora Bellamy.”
Leopold’s stomach dropped. “Honora Bellamy.”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“An unmarried woman from a failing gentry family in Wiltshire.”
Leopold said nothing.
Isolde’s voice remained calm. “She is twenty-six. Her family has been struggling financially. She has a sister who died several months ago.”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
“I told you,” she said simply, not offering any further explanation.
What Isolde said made a bit of sense. But her demeanor raised just as much suspicion as Phoebe, or Honora, or whoever she was, had done the night before.
“Even if all this is true, what does this have to do with Cecily?” he asked, his frustration becoming apparent. “And what would be the point?”
She took a small step closer. “The child is hers.”
Leopold’s expression hardened. “No.”
Isolde did not flinch. “She is the baby’s mother.”
“That is impossible.”
“Is it?”
Leopold’s suspicion sharpened. “That child was abandoned by an uncaring, thoughtless soul. And no such person would return to care for the child they abandoned. It could not be more evident that Phoebe adores Cecily, and that she could never abandon her. I am sure we have all seen that.”
Isolde nodded.
“I am afraid it is true,” she said, her voice filled with carefully practiced sympathy. “She left the child on your doorstep herself.”
“No.”
“She wrapped the baby in your family shawl.”
Leopold’s breathing changed. Isolde saw it.
“She knew the scandal would draw attention, that the duke would be compelled to keep the child while he investigated where she came from. Then she could enter your household under a false name.”
Leopold stared at her. The explanation was insane. It did not make sense that a woman could ever believe she could get away with such an egregious hoax.
And yet, the false name, the unexplained familiarity, the agency confusion, the way Cecily had reached for her, the question about cold compresses, the bag she had never unpacked, the fact that she had known things she should not have known about Cecily that he told himself were just general things that she could have known about any child all came to mind.
He felt the first crack of doubt. Not in Isolde. In himself. Had he been deceived?
Isolde went on, gently enough that the words sounded almost kind. “The entire thing was arranged: the baby, the false name, the position, everything.” Her eyes remained steady on his. “She intended to enter Belgrave and become indispensable.”
Leopold felt the old anger rise. “Why?”
“Because she needed a future.”
His voice dropped. “For herself.”
“And for her child.”
Leopold turned away. The fire cracked behind him. He stared into the flames.
Isolde said, “She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She has been good with Cecily.”
“I do not deny it.”
“She cares for her.”
“Of course she does. She is the child’s mother.”
Leopold closed his eyes. He remembered Phoebe sitting on the floor beside the crib. The way she read, the way she held Cecily, the way she looked at the baby when she thought no one was watching. His own mother had pointed out how maternal Phoebe had seemed to be toward the child.
“She has been able to soothe Cecily when no one and nothing else could.”
Isolde spoke again. “That does not make her a nursemaid. I believe it offers more proof of her relationship with the child.”
Leopold turned back.
“She used her own child as a prop to infiltrate your household.”
He stared at her.
“I still do not understand what she would gain by leaving Cecily and then returning here, when Cecily would be cared for, regardless of her presence.”
Isolde looked as though she was explaining etiquette to a child.
“That woman wanted access to you. And perhaps more than access.”
Leopold’s jaw clenched. “You think she wanted to seduce me.”
Isolde’s expression was sympathetic. “I think she knew exactly what she was doing.”
Leopold looked toward his mother. His mother sat perfectly still and suspiciously silent. She did not meet his eyes. That mattered more than it should have.
He looked back at Isolde. “How certain are you?”
“Very.”
“You verified the agency records.”
“Yes.”
“And the Bellamy family.”
“Yes.”
“The child.”
“Yes.”
Leopold shook his head slowly. Everything she said seemed built on facts.
Facts that were arranged into a story. He did not know where one ended and the other began.
He was also not convinced that the facts added up to the story Isolde was telling.
Something still did not seem right to him.
His mother’s odd silence did little to ease that feeling.
Isolde reached for his hand and then stopped before touching him. “I am sorry.”
He looked at her.
“I only investigated because I care about you,” she said, “and I could not stand by while someone used you this way.”
Leopold’s expression hardened.
Isolde lowered her hand. “I know you wanted to believe the best of her.”
Leopold said nothing.
“She counted on that.”
The words were quiet, almost gentle. They hurt anyway.
Isolde stepped back. “I would never have said anything if I did not believe you needed to know.”
Leopold’s gaze went once more to his mother. His mother remained silent, her face still. She did not look at him. He knew, suddenly, that if he asked her whether Isolde was telling the truth, she would not tell him the truth. If what she said was a lie, she would never admit it.
Leopold turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“The nursery.”
Isolde’s expression changed, and she almost looked startled and worried. “Leopold.”
He did not answer, only left the room.
The corridors were dark. Most of the household had gone to bed.
The lamps burned low, leaving long shadows along the walls.
Leopold walked toward the nursery, unsure what he expected to find.
He only knew he needed to see her, needed to hear her answer, needed to know whether he had been a fool.
The nursery door was slightly open. He pushed it wider.
Phoebe sat beside the crib, Cecily in her arms. She was singing softly, a lullaby, her voice quiet, warm, and unguarded, the same voice he had heard once before in the corridor.
The sound stopped him before he entered. He remained in the doorway and listened. Cecily’s eyes were closing. Honora stroked her back and continued singing. Leopold felt something twist in his chest. Then he thought of the name.
Honora Bellamy.
He stepped inside. The nursemaid did not see him right away. She focused entirely on the baby, an expression of pure contentment on her face.
There was nothing smug or sinister, nothing that indicated her thoughts were occupied with schemes or deception.
In fact, the innocence in the gentle smile she was giving the child did not appear capable of any malice at all.
It was a foolish thought, he was sure. But it made him less confident in what Isolde had told him.
At last, he made a decision. He positioned himself so that the nursemaid would have to turn to see him before he spoke.
“Honora,” he said, his heart pounding as he prayed that she would not react.
But his heart fell when she turned to look at him.
For a brief second, her expression was the same as when he had called her Miss Redmond, as if she was simply answering to her name.
But another second later, she seemed to realize what she had done.
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to find words to recover the moment.
“Your Grace, I came to talk to you this morning…”
With her reaction, her realization, and her leap into what he was sure was going to be some excuse about why she had lied to him, he understood. The woman in front of him was not Phoebe Redmond. It was indeed Honora Bellamy. Isolde had been telling the truth.
He took another step forward. “I know who you are.”
Honora’s face went pale.
Leopold continued. “I know about the baby.”
Her arms tightened around Cecily. “Your Grace...”
“You will leave Belgrave in the morning.”
She stared at him. “No.” The word came out so quietly he almost missed it. Then she shook her head. “Please.”
Leopold’s expression hardened. “You lied to me.”
“I can explain.”
“There is nothing you can say that I am willing to hear.”
She stood, Cecily still in her arms. “Please, you must let me...”
“I trusted you.”
The words escaped before he could stop them. The woman he now knew to be Honora froze. Leopold felt the admission immediately. He wished he had not said it. But it was true. He had trusted her, more than he had realized, more than he should have.
“You used a baby to lie your way into my house.”
Honora’s face crumpled. “No. You do not understand.”
Leopold stepped back. “I understand perfectly. Tomorrow morning. You will be gone no later than that.”
“Your Grace...”
He turned. Behind him, Cecily began to cry. The sound followed him into the corridor.
Leopold kept walking. He did not turn around.
But with every step, the hollow place inside him grew larger, and doubt still lingered. Was he doing the right thing? Was there something more he did not yet know?