Edward woke up to the merciless brightness of the morning. The curtains, traitorously drawn back, let in a flood of pale gold that struck him square in the eyes. He groaned, dragging an arm across his face.
“Cruel, abominable daylight,” he muttered. “Has the London weather no respect for suffering men?”
His head throbbed in time with the distant clang of carriage wheels. The gentlemen’s club had been livelier than usual—too much brandy, too much laughter, too many men congratulating themselves on their own mediocrity. He had stayed longer than he ought, if only to avoid the echo of his own thoughts.
He sat up slowly, the sheets a tangle around his waist. “Hargreaves!” he called, his voice hoarse. “Coffee. And a pistol, if the coffee fails.”
The valet appeared moments later, unbothered by the state of his master—one might even say resigned to it. “Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve brought coffee. And a note.”
Edward took the cup first, inhaling like a drowning man reaching for air. “Note?” he repeated, squinting.
“Delivered at dawn,” Hargreaves elaborated. “By a footman from Moreland House.”
Edward frowned. “Moreland House? Lady Beatrice Moreland?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He accepted the note, its wax seal still crisp.
Beatrice Moreland. Elegant, composed, and entirely too clever for comfort. The sort of woman who could cut a man with her words and then smile as though she had done him a favor.
He turned the envelope between his fingers. “Dawn, you said?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
Edward arched an eyebrow. “That can’t be good news. No one writes respectable notes at dawn.”
He unfolded the note and scanned its contents, before handing it back with a clipped motion.
“Shall I have the carriage readied?”
Edward sighed and downed the rest of his coffee. “You may. If Lady Beatrice has gone to the trouble of disturbing my conscience before breakfast, it must be dire.”
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching. His reflection in the mirror regarded him with mild reproach—his hair a tousled mess, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the faintest shadow of regret beneath his green eyes. He smirked at it.
“Well,” he said aloud, “let’s see what catastrophe the morning has prepared.”
By the time his carriage rattled toward Moreland House, the city had begun to stir—vendors shouting, milk carts rumbling, and that peculiar mix of fog and ambition.
Edward leaned back against his seat, the open note still resting on his knee. He didn’t know what game Lady Beatrice was playing, but she had chosen the time when he had no defenses—morning. Whatever it was, he doubted he would like it. Though perversely, that only made him urge the driver to go faster.
The butler, grave as a tombstone, led him into the drawing room without a word. The curtains were still drawn, the air smelling faintly of flowers and perfume.
Lady Beatrice stood by the hearth, her back straight, her hands folded too precisely—except for the faint tremor in her left thumb.
Edward had not expected warmth when he arrived at Moreland House, but he had expectedreason.Instead, he was greeted by Lady Beatrice’s stony silence.
“What,” he began, brushing a bit of frost from his sleeve, “is so urgent that you’ve summoned me at an hour when even the sun is still deliberating?”
Before she could answer, a sound rose from somewhere near the hearth. A soft, unmistakable cry.
Edward froze. “Good Lord,” he breathed. “Is that…?”
“A child,” Lady Beatrice said flatly.
“Yours? How has Miss Verity missed such a scandal?” he asked, half out of curiosity, half to see her reaction.
Lady Beatrice stiffened. “Mine?Mine?How dare you, Your Grace?”
