There was no sign of Gilbourne. On her way back to her guest chamber, Matilda did stumble across the earl’s silver-haired valet, Augustin, deep in conversation with the housekeeper, Mrs. Harris.
“You do it,” Augustin was saying as he attempted to thrust an armful of tattered rags at Mrs. Harris. “I cannot.”
“I categorically refuse.” The housekeeper backed away as though the valet’s well-tailored arms held hissing vipers rather than scraps of yellowed linen.
“You can’t refuse,” Augustin said desperately. “Everyone else has already refused, and you’re the only one left.”
“If you think for one moment that I could bear to put—” Mrs. Harris caught sight of Matilda and clamped her teeth together with an audible click.
Matilda stepped closer. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m away from my post, is what’s wrong,” said the housekeeper. Keeping her gaze averted from the beseeching valet, Mrs. Harris spun and stalked off without another word.
Augustin slumped his spine against the wall, cradling the old rags as though hugging a swaddled infant.
“What have you got there?” Matilda asked.
“Nothing.” The valet closed his eyes and sighed. “Just some rubbish the earl wants me to burn.”
Matilda stepped forward and peered closer at the scraps in Augustin’s arms. The material appeared to have once been a white linen tablecloth or similar, until it had been torn into four surprisingly even strips. In any case, the scraps were far too serviceable to be destroyed in a fire.
“I’ll take them,” she offered.
Augustin’s eyes flew open in obvious horror. “What?”
“I’m from the countryside,” she explained. “We would never burn anything that could still be put to good use. If Mrs. Harris has no need for more rags, I could—”
“They’re not rags,” Augustin interrupted, his voice strangled.
Matilda frowned and reconsidered the pieces. The material was too thick and soft to be a tablecloth, nor was there quite enough fabric for that purpose.
She said slowly, “It’s… a baby blanket?”
Terror flashed across the valet’s face, followed immediately by a suspiciously blank expression.
“It is a baby blanket.” Matilda stared at it in confusion. “Is there a baby?”
Augustin paused, then shook his head.
“Was there a baby? Is Gilbourne a father?”
The valet’s face cleared, as though this were safer ground. “My lord has never had a wife or any children. He has no wish for either.”
That made sense. In fact, the blanket was old enough for the white fabric to have yellowed. “Was this Gilbourne’s blanket from when he was a baby?”
Augustin hesitated again. “No.”
“Then who did it belong to?”
At her question, the valet’s face once more resumed its hard-as-stone mask. He made no answer at all. Not even to tell her to mind her own business.
“How long have you been working for Gilbourne?” she asked.
“Since before my lord was born,” Augustin answered with obvious pride. “I was valet to the earl’s father.”
“But… I thought he perished in an accident when the earl was small.”
“When he was barely an adolescent, yes. When the lad was orphaned, my lord was sent to his godparents. Lady Stapleton was compassionate enough to insist no servant be summarily dismissed until such time as the new earl came of age and could make decisions for himself.”
