Lady Moreland pressed a hand to her temple, visibly wrestling with dread and etiquette. “You cannot be the one to handle this. Let Wrexford’s servants collect the child. Quietly. No one needs to know?—”
“No.” Beatrice’s voice was firm. “I will not abandon her, at least not tonight.”
“Beatrice,” Lady Moreland warned, “you must think of your reputation.”
Beatrice lifted her chin. “My reputation is not so fragile that it cannot withstand sheltering an innocent child for a single night—” She broke off, glancing down.
The infant’s tiny fist had caught the edge of her sleeve, clinging with surprising strength.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The crackle of the fire filled the silence.
Finally, Beatrice met her mother`s eyes. “If the Duke is responsible,” she said steadily, “then we will not be silent.” Her voice lowered. “He will answer for this.” She drew a long breath. “I must send for him at once.”
Cecily’s eyes widened. “At this hour?”
“Yes.” Beatrice’s voice did not falter. “He must come here in the morning. If this child were delivered to our house, bearing his family crest, he deserves to know before anyone else.”
Lady Moreland gave a curt nod, and Beatrice turned to the nearest footman. “Bring me paper and ink, quickly.”
He bowed and disappeared, returning moments later with a small tray.
Beatrice sat at the side table and gently passed the baby into Cecily’s arms. “Hold her for me.”
“She’s heavier than she looks,” Cecily murmured, awkwardly cradling the baby. “Good heavens, Bea, what will people say?”
Beatrice uncapped the inkwell, her hands trembling. “Let them say whatever they want. I cannot leave this unanswered.”
The candlelight flickered as she wrote, her pen scratching swift, deliberate strokes:
Your Grace,
An urgent matter requires your presence at Moreland House at first light. I beg you to come without delay.
She signed her name and sealed the letter with the Moreland crest, pressing it firmly before handing it to the footman.
“See that it reaches the Duke of Wrexford tonight,” she instructed. “No excuses. If his servants question you, say that Lady Beatrice insists on it.”
When the door closed behind him, the echo seemed to linger far too long.
Beatrice turned back to her sister, who was now rocking the baby in her arms.
“What are we supposed to do until morning?” Cecily whispered.
“Keep her warm,” Beatrice replied softly, brushing the child’s cheek with her fingertips. “And pray that the truth, when it comes, does not destroy us all.”
The baby sighed, the sound small and human and terribly fragile. Beatrice’s throat tightened. She drew a deep, shaky breath and looked toward the window, where the night pressed against the glass.
Cecily was still by the fire, the baby now sleeping against her shoulder. Beatrice gently took the child back, studying her tiny features—her rosebud mouth, the faint dimple at her chin. Her mind spun in silent chaos.
The Wrexford crest. Edward’s crest.
She drew the baby close, her pulse quickening.
Is this Edward’s daughter?
The thought struck her like lightning. It was terrible, impossible, and yet all-consuming.
CHAPTER 3
