Mrs. Hart made a strangled sound that she disguised as a cough.
Beatrice inhaled through her nose. “Lady Portwell, you shouldn’t believe gossip. Thetonrepeats more nonsense than fact.”
“Of course it does,” Lady Portwell agreed brightly. “But the nonsense is almost always… illuminating.” Her smile turned beatific. “In any case, I came to see for myself. And clearly?—”
A small cry drifted through the adjoining door, and Lady Portwell went utterly still, her fan stilling mid-flutter. Her eyes lit up with predatory triumph as her body angled toward the sound.
Beatrice felt her stomach drop straight through the floorboards.
“Oh,” Lady Portwell breathed, her hand rising to her throat. “There it is.”
Beatrice stepped forward at once, blocking the older woman’s view of the adjoining door. “Lady Portwell,” she began, every syllable a warning. “There is no?—”
Lady Portwell raised a finger, silencing her with offended grandeur. “My dear, please. I heard the child just now.” Her eyes gleamed. “Where is she?”
“She?” Beatrice repeated, not moving an inch. “How did you know it was a girl? Lady Portwell?—”
“So it is a girl!” Lady Portwell crowed. “Oh, how charming. Girls are such delicate, lovely creatures, though occasionally troublesome, as we well know.” She winked, which made it infinitely worse. “Come, come, do not be modest. Where are you hiding her?”
But she was already moving, her skirts rustling decisively as she stepped around Beatrice.
“Lady Portwell,” Beatrice warned, stepping back into her path, “you donothave leave to wander through my home.”
Lady Portwell stopped short, blinking as though encountering an unfamiliar custom. “My dear girl, when one comes to celebrate a birth?—”
“There has been no birth,” Beatrice cut in, sharper than she had intended.
Lady Portwell’s eyebrows flew up. “And yet,” she said, her voice sweet as sour milk, “I hear a child’s cry.”
Beatrice’s stomach lurched. She opened her mouth—she had no idea what she meant to say—but Lady Portwell, flushed with purpose and hunger for scandal, had already slipped around her once again.
“No.” Beatrice moved again, quicker this time, and planted herself firmly in front of the woman. “You willnotroam Wrexford Hall as if you own it.”
Lady Portwell reeled back, scandalized. “I beg your—Your Grace, I haveneverbeen spoken to in such a?—”
“Lady Portwell.” The voice came from the doorway—deep, steady, and so cold it froze the air.
Edward stood there, framed by the light in the corridor, his coat buttoned, his shoulders squared with authority. The room seemed to settle around him, as though even the air knew better than to argue.
For the briefest moment, Beatrice saw Lady Portwell sway, as though the sight of him had knocked her off balance.
Lady Portwell started so hard that the feathers on her hat trembled. “Y-Your Grace! I had no idea you were at home.”
“Clearly,” Edward uttered.
He stepped inside with measured calm, not rushing, yet giving the impression that every move was intentional. He stopped beside Beatrice, close enough that she felt the warmth of him.
He looked at Beatrice, as though assessing whether she was all right. She felt a surge of pride and victory.
When she nodded, he turned his gaze on the intruder. Color rushed up Lady Portwell’s neck.
“I trust,” he continued, his tone still impeccably polite, “you have not come to harass my wife.”
The emphasis onmy wifelanded like a stone in still water.
“Har—Harass?” Lady Portwell stammered. “Good heavens, no! I merely wished to offer my congratulations on—on—” She faltered, suddenly unsure of which lie to cling to.
Edward raised an eyebrow with enough disbelief to make her wilt.
