“A what?”
“A Pip. That’s the sound she makes, that little squeak. Listen.”
As if on cue, the baby made a small, high noise that landed somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup.
Beatrice blinked, then laughed despite herself. “You’re joking.”
“I’minspired,” Cecily countered. “And you must admit, it suits her. Tell me, Mrs. Hart, doesn’t she look like a Pip to you?”
Mrs. Hart’s eyes warmed. “Pip, is it? Could be worse, Lady Cecily. I’ve heard babies named after seasons.”
“Then Pip it is,” Cecily said proudly, pressing a kiss to the baby’s brow. “Until His Grace objects, of course.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes, unable to hide her smile. “He won’t.”
Lady Moreland regarded her daughters fondly. “Well, if you must fill the house with nonsense, at least it’s charming nonsense.”
Cecily looked up, triumphant. “You see, Mama approves.”
“She said charming, not sensible,” Beatrice pointed out.
“Same thing,” Cecily said breezily, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. “Only better.”
She bent over the cradle, murmuring nonsense in that soft, coaxing tone only she could manage.
Mrs. Hart turned to Beatrice. “Do you need anything else, Your Grace?”
Beatrice shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hart. That will be all.”
Mrs. Hart curtsied and left with the maids in tow, the door closing behind them with a muted click.
CHAPTER 11
At once, the nursery changed.
For a while, no one spoke. Cecily was still bent over the cradle, tracing a gentle finger over the baby’s palm. The child curled her fist around it, and Cecily laughed softly under her breath.
Lady Moreland stood near the window, her hands resting lightly on the back of a chair, her eyes turned toward the pale spring light filtering through the curtains.
When she spoke, her tone was mild, almost conversational. “Rumors are circulating about London.”
Beatrice, who had been absently smoothing the baby’s blanket, stilled. “About what this time?”
Cecily straightened, glancing between them. “Aboutyou, Bea. About Miss Verity.”
Beatrice’s lips parted, then pressed together again. “I see.”
“People are beginning to connect the dots,” Cecily continued, her voice quieter now. “No one says it outright, but they suspect it. The pamphlets, the timing, your sudden silence after the wedding—it’s enough to make even the dullest gossip take notice.”
Beatrice’s pulse quickened. “And what are they saying?”
“That you were forced to marry to bury a scandal,” Cecily said softly. “That you disappeared abroad. That Miss Verity was never a real woman at all, just a fictitious character meant to provoke theton.” She hesitated, then added, “Others claim she is a lady in disguise, the daughter of a peer gone rogue, or a foreign journalist who fled the country. Some insist she’s still in London, hiding in plain sight.”
Beatrice looked down at the baby, her throat tightening. “They aren’t entirely wrong.”
Cecily shot her a look. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“I’m not.” Beatrice smoothed the edge of the blanket. “It’s only a matter of time before someone stops guessing.”
