Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“An entire box of rubbish,” Frances murmured, “and naturally, that is the first interesting thing I have found all morning.”
She had come to the library with the admirable intention of choosing a book and the somewhat less admirable intention of avoiding the accounts Andrew had left for her opinion upon the east sitting room curtains.
The accounts were not difficult. That was the problem.
They were perfectly simple, perfectly dull, and so thoroughly domestic that Frances had felt an immediate need to escape them.
The library had seemed the safest place.
It was one of the finest rooms in Sinclair House, though she had not yet said so aloud to Andrew.
The shelves rose nearly to the ceiling, dark and gleaming, with brass ladders fixed to their rails and long windows overlooking the side lawn.
Morning light fell in narrow panes across the carpet.
The air smelled of leather, dust, and beeswax polish, with the faintest trace of smoke lingering from last night’s fire.
Frances had meant to look for a novel. Instead, she had found a wooden crate near the writing table, half-hidden behind a chair and stacked untidily with old newspapers, pamphlets, and folded scandal sheets.
It was obviously meant for removal. A length of fraying twine lay coiled on top, as though someone had begun bundling the papers and then abandoned the task. Frances knew she ought to leave them alone. She also knew, with perfect clarity, that she would not.
She crouched beside the box and lifted the first paper.
“The Morning Trumpet,” she read under her breath. “Promising title. Entirely lacking in modesty.”
The date was nearly four years old. She skimmed it quickly, finding nothing but a tedious account of a baron who had argued with a bishop at dinner, and an actress whose jewels had supposedly come from three different protectors.
She set it aside and took another. Her fingers moved faster.
She told herself she was only curious. That was not a crime. Curiosity was a natural consequence of intelligence and under no moral obligation to apologize for itself.
Besides, these papers were public. They had been printed, circulated, read by any number of bored ladies over breakfast. If Andrew happened to appear in them, it was hardly her fault.
Frances unfolded a crumpled column and scanned the page.
“Ah,” she whispered. “Here you are.”
The headline was printed in unnecessarily dramatic type: The Duke Who Never Dances Twice.
Frances settled back on her heels.
“The Duke of Sinclair was observed at Lady Pembroke’s assembly last Thursday, where he displayed his usual talent for smiling warmly and remaining entirely unreachable.”
She paused.
“Well,” she admitted softly, “that is not inaccurate.”
She continued reading.
“His Grace honored three ladies with a dance, yet none with a second, leaving several hopeful mothers to wonder whether the duke’s heart is made of marble or merely very expensive ice.”
Frances looked toward the closed door, as though Andrew might materialize to defend himself.
“Expensive ice,” she repeated. “I wish I had written that.” Then she frowned. “No. No, I do not.”
She folded the paper and placed it beside her. The next mention came two months later: Sinclair Smiles, Society Sighs.
Frances rolled her eyes before reading further.
“It must be acknowledged that few gentlemen possess His Grace of Sinclair’s gift for making every lady in a room believe she has been particularly noticed while ensuring not one of them can claim any true encouragement.”
She lowered the paper.
“That is rather a talent, unfortunately.”
Another sheet offered another title: A Duke Too Charming to Catch.
“Mamas with marriageable daughters are advised not to set their hopes upon Sinclair. His Grace remains as courteous as ever, as handsome as rumor insists, and as elusive as a promise made by a politician.”
Frances snorted softly. The baby would have liked that sound, she thought absurdly, then caught herself and returned to the paper.
There was nothing useful there, nothing about children, nothing about a woman hidden in the country, nothing about old debts, strange visits, secret attachments, or anything that might explain why Andrew had taken a child into his house under cover of silence.
It was the same portrait society had always painted of him: charming, remote, courteous, unobtainable.
She went deeper into the crate. Dust rose and made her nose itch. She shifted onto the carpet, with her skirts pooling around her, and unfolded a scandal sheet that had yellowed at the edges: Sinclair and the Widow’s Fan.
Frances blinked. “Good heavens.”
She read on.
“At Lady Bracknell’s musicale, the Duke of Sinclair was seen retrieving a fan belonging to a certain merry widow whose admiration for younger gentlemen is well known. The exchange lasted no more than ten seconds, which was quite long enough for half the room to invent a history between them.”
Frances shook her head. “So they have always been ridiculous.”
Frances lowered the page. A faint smile touched her mouth despite herself. She could imagine him doing precisely that: amused, polished, just close enough to seem warm and just distant enough that no one could accuse him of belonging to the moment.
She searched for nearly half an hour.
The pile beside her grew. The box emptied. Her knees began to ache, and a strand of hair slipped free near her cheek. Still, she continued, half irritated by her own persistence and half convinced that the next paper must contain something more.
But Andrew, it seemed, had been remarkably dull before becoming the most interesting problem of her life.
There were mentions of his estate, his charm, his refusal to marry, so frequent and so amused that society had evidently made a sport of failing to catch him.
At the very bottom of the crate she found a column dated several weeks before the first scandal about the baby had appeared. Her pulse quickened. She smoothed it upon the carpet and read: A Duke in the Country.
“The Duke of Sinclair has lately been much absent from town, preferring, it seems, the solitude of one of his smaller country properties to the pleasures of London. One hopes His Grace has not grown weary of society, though society has certainly not grown weary of him.”
She read the next line quickly.
“No lady has been observed as the cause of this retreat, which will disappoint those who prefer romance to estate management.”
Frances let out a frustrated breath.
“That is all?”
She searched the rest of the page, but the column moved on to a marquess’s waistcoat and a countess’s unfortunate poem.
Nothing.
Andrew had gone to the country. The child appeared later. Society had noticed his absence but not its meaning. Frances sat back and pressed the heel of her hand lightly to her brow.
“Very useful,” she told the newspapers. “You have confirmed that my husband was handsome, admired, evasive, and irritatingly private. A revelation indeed.”
That was when the library door opened. Frances started so violently that a pile of papers slid from her lap. Mrs. Carter paused on the threshold with a neatly folded list in one hand.
“Oh, Your Grace! Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
Frances gathered the nearest paper with what she hoped was dignity. “Not at all, Mrs. Carter. I was merely…”
She looked down at the chaos of old scandal sheets around her. The housekeeper’s brows lifted, polite but unmistakably curious.
Frances cleared her throat. “Investigating the past failures of the press.”
“I see, Your Grace.”
“You wished to ask me something?” Frances said quickly.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mrs. Carter came farther into the room. “Cook asked whether you would prefer the apricot tart again for dinner.”
“Yes, please. And perhaps something plain as well, in case the tart offends His Grace on principle.”
“I shall tell Cook,” the woman nodded, smiling.
Mrs. Carter glanced again at the papers. Frances pretended not to notice.
Mrs. Carter, being a housekeeper and therefore professionally incapable of failing to notice anything, asked gently. “May I ask what you are doing with the old newspapers, Your Grace? I believe Mr. Carter had them set aside to be thrown out.”
“Oh,” Frances said, much too quickly. “Nothing.”
Mrs. Carter’s expression remained pleasant.
Frances placed one paper atop another. “That is, I noticed them here and thought I might look through them before they were discarded. There are occasionally interesting things in old newspapers.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Though I cannot say the scandal sheets are usually very enlightening.”
“No,” Frances admitted dryly. “That has been my conclusion as well.”
She stood, brushing dust from her skirt, and tried not to look like a woman caught rummaging through refuse for secrets about her own husband.
Mrs. Carter moved toward the crate. “Shall I have them taken away?”
“In a moment,” Frances urged.
The housekeeper paused. Frances knew this was her chance. She had not intended to question Mrs. Carter, but the opportunity stood before her in a neat cap and a kind expression, and Frances had never been particularly skilled at ignoring opportunity.
“Mrs. Carter,” she began carefully.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“You have been with His Grace a long while, have you not?”
“Eleven years this autumn.”
“Then you must know the household very well.”
“I hope so.”
Frances looked down at the newspapers, then back up. “And yet, when the baby arrived…”
Mrs. Carter’s face softened at once.
Frances hesitated. She disliked herself a little for continuing, but not enough to stop. “Was it known where she came from?”
The housekeeper folded her hands at her waist. “No, Your Grace.”
“No one knew?”
“No one in the house.”
Frances searched her face. There was no evasion there, no careful fear of speaking too much. The sweet woman offered only honesty.
“His Grace brought her here?” Frances asked.
“Yes, with the nurse and the necessary arrangements. We were told she was to be cared for, and so she was.”
“And no one asked questions?”
Mrs. Carter smiled faintly. “A house full of servants always has questions, Your Grace. But His Grace gave none of us answers.”
That sounded painfully familiar.
Frances exhaled. “Of course he did not.”
Mrs. Carter’s gaze was sympathetic. “I would tell you if I knew. Truly. But I do not think anyone here knows more than that.”
Frances believed her. It was unexpectedly disappointing.
“I see.”
Mrs. Carter’s expression grew gentler. “If I may say so, Your Grace, the little one is very fortunate.”
Frances looked up. “Fortunate?”
“To have you and His Grace to care for her.” The housekeeper’s smile warmed. “Whatever the circumstances were before, she is safe here. That matters a great deal.”
It was a simple thing to say. Perhaps even an obvious thing. Yet spoken without suspicion, without gossip, without the sharp curiosity that had followed the child everywhere, it touched Frances more deeply than she expected.
Safe here.
Was she? Frances hoped so. Fiercely, suddenly, she hoped so.
“She deserves to be,” Frances said quietly.
“She does,” Mrs. Carter agreed. “And I think she knows it, in her own little way.”
Frances almost smiled. “She knows when she is hungry, certainly.”
“That is a very important beginning.”
A small laugh escaped Frances before she could stop it. Mrs. Carter’s eyes brightened with approval, as though laughter in the house were as useful as clean linen.
“I shall tell Cook about the tart,” the housekeeper announced. “And have one of the footmen return for the papers later, unless Your Grace wishes to keep them.”
Frances looked down at the scattered columns. They had given her nothing: Andrew, evasive; Andrew, admired; Andrew, in the country; Andrew, always keeping himself just beyond reach. Nothing useful, and yet not nothing.
“No,” she said slowly. “They may be taken away.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Carter dipped a curtsy and left the library. Frances remained among the old papers for a moment after the door closed. The room was quiet again. Sunlight had shifted across the carpet, catching the black ink of a headline near her shoe: A Duke Too Charming to Catch.
Frances bent, picked it up, and looked at the words one last time.
Charming? Yes.
Difficult? Certainly.
Impossible to catch? Perhaps. But not impossible to follow.
She folded the paper and set it back in the crate with the others. Mrs. Carter knew nothing. The gossip columns knew nothing. The house knew only what Andrew had allowed it to know.
Still, someone had known enough to ask questions. Someone had known enough to start the first whisper. And Frances, though oddly warmed by the thought of the baby safe beneath this roof, felt curiosity settle inside her more firmly than before.
There was a truth hidden somewhere, and sooner or later, she would find where it had been placed.