Lady Moreland’s eyes widened. “Miss Verity? That dreadful woman who fills the papers with drivel?”
Beatrice hesitated. “So it seems.”
Lady Moreland clasped her hands together, aghast. “And you accepted it? Beatrice, you should have let the boy continue his search for Miss Verity! Bringing such a thing into our home is madness.”
“I couldn’t leave it out there,” Beatrice said softly. “It’s freezing.”
“Freezing or not, this—this is dangerous.” Lady Moreland’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, as though the walls themselves might overhear. “If anyone discovers an abandoned baby in Moreland House—good Lord, what would people think? You must think of your reputation.”
Beatrice flinched at the word, not because it wasn’t expected but because it always came so quickly.Reputation, the invisible leash that governed their lives.
“Mother,” Cecily said carefully, stepping closer, “surely no one saw?—”
“That is hardly the point,” Lady Moreland cut in, her composure cracking. “Once gossip begins, it will spread like wildfire. You think thetonwould stop to ask how the child came here? No. They would concoct their own tales—wicked ones. They would say you?—”
“Enough.” Beatrice’s voice was quiet but firm. She looked down at the baby, whose cries had softened to small, hiccupping breaths. “Whatever people may say, there is still a baby here, and she is helpless.”
Lady Moreland exhaled shakily, as though struggling between propriety and pity. “And what do you mean to do? Keep it?”
“I mean to see it safe.”
“That is not an answer,” Lady Moreland replied, though her tone had softened. “Beatrice, my dear, think sensibly. We could send word to the parish or to some discreet home?—”
“No.” Beatrice looked up at her. “I will not send the child to strangers. I only need to find out who left her, and why.”
Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her brow, weary and bewildered. “You take too much upon yourself. Always have. This is not your burden to bear.”
Her words echoed through the hall, brittle and sharp.
But Beatrice barely heard her.. She set the basket gently on a chair and loosened the blanket.
“There now,” she whispered, brushing back the edge of the fabric. “You poor thing.”
The baby blinked, dark lashes fluttering against skin so pale it seemed translucent.
Something gleamed on the blanket. Beatrice frowned. Near the hem of the fabric, the threadwork shimmered faintly in the candlelight. At first, she thought it was some ordinary embroidery, but then her gaze landed on the familiar crest stitched into the corner—the rampant lion and twin stars.
Her breath caught.
The Wrexford crest. The same she had seen embossed on Wrexford House’s stationery.
Her fingers went numb.
Lady Moreland was still speaking as she paced—something about servants, discretion, damage beyond repair—but the words faded away, drowned by the child’s quiet breaths and the thunder of Beatrice’s heart.
Her breath caught. She stared, uncomprehending, before whispering, “No… it cannot be.”
Cecily leaned closer. “What is it?”
Beatrice swallowed hard. “The crest… it’s the Wrexfords’. There’s only one man who could claim it.”
Cecily frowned, searching her face. “You mean, the Duke?”
A soft rustle of skirts drew Beatrice’s gaze upward. Lady Moreland had shifted closer, her gaze fixed on the baby.
She frowned. “The Wrexford crest… on a foundling?”
The baby whimpered again, and Beatrice gathered her closer, her mind a flurry of disbelief and dread. “Yes,” she said quietly. “This belongs to…to him. Tohishousehold. A baby girl.”
