“I will intercept them,” Mrs. Hart promised.
Beatrice exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Hart opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the door swung open with such force that it struck the stopper.
“Your Grace!” the footman blurted, breathless as he hurried in after the intruder. “My deepest apologies, I was just about to?—”
But Lady Portwell was already in the room. She swept forward as though the house belonged to her, feathers trembling on her hat, her rings flashing, her skirts rustling like an approaching storm.
Beatrice knew Lady Portwell well enough. Their London residences were only a few doors apart, which meant an inevitable stream of unneighborly calls over the years.
Lady Portwell had always been prone to sweeping into a room with news about her daughters and opinions delivered as though they were facts.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed, her arms spread wide in triumph. “My dear, my dear, I simply had to ride over the moment I heard the joyful news!”
The footman, red-faced and mortified, bowed low. “She did not wait, Your Grace. I tried to—she insisted—my apologies, truly?—”
“That will do,” Beatrice said gently, releasing him from his misery.
He retreated with visible relief, while Lady Portwell planted herself in the center of the room, smiling as if she had done a miracle rather than intruded on a duchess’s morning.
Beatrice groaned inwardly as she stood up. “Lady Portwell,” she greeted slowly, schooling her features into something that aimed for polite and landed closer to strained. “I… was not expecting you.”
Lady Portwell’s gloved hands fluttered as though batting away the very idea of expectations. “My dear girl, duchessesneverexpect. One simply arrives to adore them. I know this because I raised my daughters to marry dukes.”
Of course.Of course, she would say that.
Beatrice barely suppressed a sigh. It was a well-worn boast, one Lady Portwell deployed at every opportunity, even though none of her daughters had married dukes. Or marquesses. Or anything more exalted than respectable baronets with a fondness for hunting and pudding. She behaved as though titles were merely running late.
Beatrice forced pleasantness into her voice. “It is… very thoughtful of you to call.”
“Oh, nonsense, Your Grace!” Lady Portwell trilled, drifting further into the room as though carried by a personal breeze. “Why, the moment Mrs. Rathbone told me—and I assure you, she is never wrong—I said to myself, Lady Portwell, you must go at once. At once!”
Beatrice blinked. Mrs. Rathbone, the most unreliable source of information in London. Truly, fate was mocking her.
“I see,” she murmured.
“You do.” Lady Portwell nodded vigorously. “Onemustcall on a new mother. Staying away would be unthinkably cruel. And you—oh, you sly thing, keeping her hidden from all of us!” She gave a delighted gasp. “Such news should bewell-handled.”
“Hidden?” Beatrice frowned.
“Yes, yes, modest as ever,” Lady Portwell rattled on, brushing away her confusion like a speck of dust. “But do not fret. I shall take matters into hand. I shall oversee everything.”
Beatrice’s jaw tightened. “Oversee what, precisely?”
“Why, the arrangements!” Lady Portwell clasped her hands with the fervor of a revivalist preacher. “Christenings do not organize themselves. One cannot allow a titled child to remain nameless,heaven forbid. And I will not have it said that the Duchess of Wrexford ditched the proper rites with her firstborn.”
Beatrice nearly choked. “My—excuse me?”
Lady Portwell sighed, as though Beatrice was being intentionally obtuse. “Really, my dear, one mustn’t be shy at times like this. Babies arrive in every household. Even ducal ones.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Some simply arrive sooner than others. So, naturally, a christening follows.”
Beatrice felt her heart stutter. “Lady Portwell,” she said carefully, each word chosen like a fragile teacup, “there has been a misunderstanding.”
She placed herself squarely before Lady Portwell, praying the woman would listen.
“I beg you to pause for a moment,” she continued, keeping her tone measured. “It is rather difficult to correct a falsehood while being trampled by its bearer.”
Lady Portwell gave a tinkling laugh, utterly missing the rebuke, which only made Beatrice’s spine stiffen further. “Oh, Beatrice.” She patted her arm with such familiarity that even Mrs. Hart froze. “You cannot expect me to believe that the rumors are unfounded. Why, I’ve spoken to three houses—three—who all confirmed that the Duchess of Wrexford has a baby tucked away upstairs. Not to mention the circulated newspaper.” Her voice lowered to a theatrical whisper. “And I always recognize the truth when it arrives wearing the scent of scandal.”
