Although the bastard was buried and gone, Rolanddetestedbeing in George Shaw’s townhome. His back and neck ached after the night on the floor. The breakfast, while well enough prepared, tasted like ashes. The absence of his reluctant hostess and the mournful silence of the servants was interminable. As was the peculiarity of their circumstances.
He was an unmarried duke. She was a widow. He had spent the night at her home. On her floor. While he had been certain to return to his guest chamber to assuage Pippa’s concerns, Roland was more than acquainted with the atmosphere belowstairs in any household. He took interest in everyone in his employ, from scullery maid to groomsman to gardener to butler. And that was how he knew not one of Pippa’s servants believed he had slept in the chamber he had been given.
But he also could see that each of them possessed a loyalty and protectiveness toward her. They would not carry tales or gossip. If they did? Well, doing so would only further his cause. Pippa would likely find herself far more inclined to accept his offer of marriage if it meant she could ward off scandal that would harm her daughter.
He forked up some eggs, contemplated them, and then settled the entire affair back upon his plate. The silence was deafening and eternal. He could not continue to pretend any of this was ordinary. In fact, it was quiteoutof the damned ordinary. His presence here, George Shaw’s villainy, the intruders who had dared to attack Pippa and infiltrate her home on two separate occasions…
It was all ridiculous.
Ludicrous, really.
And he wanted to know how she was doing. Two hours had passed since he had slipped from her chamber. Playing the guest was a role that grew old.
“Does Mrs. Shaw not ordinarily take breakfast?” he asked the slight footman who was presiding over the morning meal.
The lad was wiry. And young. Little wonder the fellow had not stood a chance at deterring intruders from finding their way into the home. There were lions, and there were kittens. This chap was decidedly a kitten.
“She may be visiting the nursery first,” the footman said. “Some days, she prefers to visit with the little Miss Shaw before breakfast.”
Ah, yes. Her daughter. Thinking of Pippa as a mother still seemed surreal to Roland, in part because he had once imagined her being the mother to their children together, and also in part because she had been very guarded aboutthe little Miss Shawwhen he had inquired.
His decision was made.
He lowered his fork with calm deliberation. “Where is the nursery, if you would be so kind as to orient me?”
“On the second floor, Your Grace,” the footman said. “It will be the third door on your left down the hall.”
Roland had already risen from his chair, the breakfast he had no desire to consume forgotten. “Thank you.”
He would have found the nursery on his own eventually. He would have found Pippa on his own eventually as well. But having an indication of the direction he ought to take reduced the amount of time he would waste in searching for both.
Deep in his thoughts, Roland left the breakfast room. The paintings on the walls in the great hall caught his attention. A series of landscapes, they were stunning in their exquisite devotion to detail and light. And he would have been in awe of them had he not already possessed the series, having purchased it himself.
Roland had acquired the Dumas pictures from an unimpeachable gallery. There was only one way that it was possible for the same series of paintings to be adorning the walls of Pippa’s townhome.
George Shaw had either commissioned or purchased forgeries.
And he had been bold enough to put them on display where his guests would see and appreciate them. He wondered how long the paintings had been hanging in their places of honor, and whether or not Pippa knew they were not originals.
Hell.He did not need to wonder. She had no inkling.
On a weary sigh, he ascended the stairs, taking them two at a time. Bad form, and he knew it. Especially for a duke. But then, he had neverfeltlike a duke, and he was making haste to find Pippa once more. In truth, he also wanted to meet her daughter.
The notion of a miniature Pippa was intriguing. He wanted to meet the child. Marrying Pippa would necessitate becoming a part of both their lives. But he would not force himself upon them. Pippa had already been faced with a great deal of upset, upheaval, and pain.
As for the child…
“Char-char want a walk.”
The definitive, diminutive demand reached him as he approached the open nursery door. He had to stop. Pippa’s daughter looked so much like her. Chestnut curls, the same nose, yet bright-blue eyes instead of hazel. She had issued the directive to Pippa, who was holding her daughter in her arms.
There was a nursemaid who looked as if she was conducting her best impression of a storm cloud, dressed in drab black, who saw him first. Her shoulders went back, her narrowed gaze landing upon him with stern precision.
“Sir?”
He bowed, his gaze finding Pippa’s and holding there. Her expression was not guarded, precisely, but neither was it welcoming.
“Your Grace,” she greeted him, opting for formality. “Good morning to you. What brings you to the nursery?”
