Lady Beatrice did not flinch. “It was not a social call. And the child is not beinghidden.”
Lady Moreland rounded on Edward. “You!”
He blinked. “Me?”
“Do not feign ignorance, Your Grace! What sort of depravity compels a man to send his—hisillegitimate childto a stranger’s house?”
Edward’s jaw dropped. “My lady, I assure you?—”
“Assure me of nothing! You young men think yourselves invincible, flinging ruin wherever you go! And now my daughter’s name is dragged into your—yourscandals!”
“Mama, please,” Lady Beatrice interjected. “We don’t know yet?—”
“Oh, we know enough!” Lady Moreland cried. “The blanket bears his crest! His family’s mark! What clearer proof could there be?”
Edward’s patience thinned. “Proof? Forgive me, Lady Moreland, but if every monogrammed cloth in London is to be taken as evidence of paternity, we’d all be running orphanages!”
Lady Moreland gasped, clutching her pearls. “How dareyou take that tone?—”
“Because I’m being accused of fathering strangers’ babies before breakfast!”
“You think I wanted this?” Lady Beatrice scoffed. “That I enjoy having gossip dumped at my doorstep?”
“Then we agree,” Edward said dryly, “that neither of us is pleased with the arrangement.”
“Pleased?” She nearly laughed. “You call thispleasing?My mother is half beside herself, and I?—”
“Half?” Edward drawled. “I’d have guessed three-quarters.”
“Edward—Your Grace!”
“Your Grace!” Lady Moreland corrected sharply. “Show some respect!”
“Respect?” Edward gestured helplessly to the basket. “I’ve walked into your home, been accused of fatherhood, and barely had a sip of coffee. Forgive me if I’m short on formality.”
Lady Moreland’s voice trembled. “If thetonlearns of this… if word gets out… it will ruin you both. My daughter’s name cannot appear in the same breath as yours and a… baby!”
As if on cue, the butler entered, holding a folded newspaper. His face was pale. “Forgive the interruption, my lady,” he said cautiously. “But this has just arrived. The morning edition of theMayfair Gazette.”
Lady Moreland frowned. “Now? Leave it on the tray.”
“I thought,” the butler added carefully, “you might wish to see the front page.”
Edward took the paper before anyone could stop him. His eyes scanned the headline, then widened.
“Scandal,” he read aloud. “The Duke of Wrexford has a child with Lady Beatrice Moreland. Signed, Miss Verity.”
The room fell silent.
Lady Moreland gave a strangled gasp.
Lady Beatrice turned deathly pale. She snatched the paper so fast that the corner tore. “That’s impossible!”
Edward’s head snapped up. “Of course it’s impossible! We don’t have a child.”
“Not that,” she said breathlessly, her fingers tightening on the paper. “It’s impossible that Miss Verity wrote this.”
He stared at her, brow furrowed. “What on earth are you talking about? Of course she did. Who else would dare print something this—this nonsense?”
