The duke smiled a little. “As all clever servants do, Mrs. Nelson. I have never thought it a betrayal of duty to confess such details when doing so would assist one’s mistress or master.”
“Nor do I, my lord. He came, that fiend, and I was certain she would cast him out. Anyone could tell that he meant ill to my mistress.”
The duke braced both hands on his cane to listen. “Yet she did not cast Jacques Desjardins out of her home?”
“She was afraid, Your Grace.”
“Doris!” It appalled Bert to admit to anyone that Miss Ballantyne possessed any weaknesses.
“She was, Bert, and you know it. He was a bad ’un, that one, wicked to his very marrow. Any woman of sense would be afraid of him. I was.” Doris paused and Bert hoped she might not say more. “But she was not afraid for herself, Your Grace, though that would have been reasonable.”
“Doris,” Bert whispered, knowing it would come out now.
“Then for whom?” the duke demanded and Doris, typically, nudged Bert, leaving him to make the final confession.
“The first day, I was certain she would refuse to let him remain in her house,” Bert admitted. “I listened, for I already despised him and I wished to hear his humiliation.” The duke nodded once in understanding, his eyes bright as he waited. “He said he had found Sylvie and that, my lord, changed all.”
“Who is Sylvie?”
Bert shrugged and felt Doris do the same. “I never heard the name before, sir, but Miss Ballantyne recognized it very well. She was much more afraid after that confession.”
“She defends someone, someone she perceives to be more vulnerable than herself,” the duke murmured. He lifted a brow, which made him look diabolical. “Have you any notion where this Sylvie or tidings of her might be found?”
Bert shook his head, but Doris stepped forward. “She writes a letter each Christmas, Your Grace. I notice it because she is always a little upset when it is ready to be dispatched.”
“To whom?” the duke demanded.
“She mails it herself, Your Grace,” Bert said. “I have never seen the address.”
Doris cast him a sly glance. “She left it in her chamber last year when a visitor called. It was sealed but addressed.” She produced a piece of paper from the pocket of her apron and presented it to the duke. Bert was shocked. “I felt quite bold in copying the address, sir, but I feared that one day it might be of import. Secrets like that have a way of causing trouble, if I may say so, Your Grace.”
“And so they do, Mrs. Nelson. You are a wise woman to anticipate as much.” The duke studied the piece of paper. “A convent?”
“It looks like it, sir.”
“And in France.” The duke placed the paper in his pocket. “How long has she sent these annual letters? Do you know?”
“As long as we have been in her service, Your Grace,” Bert replied, seeing no cause for delicacy at this point. Anticipating his next question, he continued. “Miss Ballantyne employed both Mrs. Nelson and myself when she took her first residence in London in December 1805.”
“There was a letter that first year,” Doris said.
“She had been in England at least a year at that point,” Bert continued. “Though I have no notion whether the letter Mrs. Nelson noticed our first Christmas was the first one dispatched to that address.”
“Twelve years,” the duke murmured. “That indicates a considerable obligation. Was there ever a reply?”
Bert exchanged a glance with Doris, noting the minute shake of her head. “Not to our knowledge, Your Grace,” he admitted.
“Perhaps an elderly relation whose care Miss Ballantyne secured,” Doris offered. “She was much concerned with the financial security of others in their later years.”
“Doris!” Bert said under his breath.
“He should know, Bert. Miss Ballantyne has been uncommonly good to us, and I see no reason to hide the truth.”
“Indeed,” the duke said softly. “I would be honored by your trust.”
“She purchased annuities for both of us several years ago, Your Grace, and often augmented them at Christmas. She said no one should be fearful of hunger in their later years.”
Again, Bert caught a glimpse of a half-smile on the resolute countenance of the duke. “Indeed,” he said quietly again, but this time, there was admiration in his tone. “I am fond of giving annuities myself, for much the same reason.” Evidently having decided upon some course, his manner changed. He inclined his head crisply and turned toward the door. “I thank you both for your assistance. Miss Ballantyne has asked that an actress named Ophelia Pearl should call upon her. I sought her at the theater, but without success. Do you know how to find her?”
