“What’s your name, lad?” Richard asked.
“Thomas, Your Grace,” he whispered.
“Well, Thomas … go back to your mother and get some rest. You deserve a big glass of milk after this.”
“There may not be any at home,” Thomas said, bewildered. The concept of care seemed foreign to him.
Richard reached into his pocket and produced a few coins. “Then take this. Get yourself some.”
The boy’s face lit up with wonder. He ran off, clutching the coins as if they were treasure.
Richard turned to the remaining tenants. Their eyes followed him, wide and unguarded.
“Rest assured,” he said, voice ringing with authority, “I will appoint a new tenant. No man under my roof will behave as Giles did. That is my promise.”
Murmurs of assent followed. He nodded once, his presence enough to silence any further question, then turned on his heel and strode back to Hawksford Hall.
Back at Hawksford, the dust still clung to his boots. His body hummed with the satisfying ache of a day spent overseeing the estate personally, hands and mind engaged in the work he loved. Yet, the encounter with Giles lingered, a niggling edge to his otherwise steady satisfaction.
“Your Grace!” Harald, his fussy old butler, appeared, silver tray in hand. “A letter, sir. An express rider from London delivered it.”
Richard frowned before glancing at the seal. London. That meant business from the townhouse. His closest friend, Jonathan, rarely fussed with letters. He would have come unannounced if it were trivial.
The letter bore Victoria’s personal crest.
He frowned.
With a deliberate motion, Richard broke the seal and unfolded the crisp vellum. His eyes scanned the words, then reread them, his expression hardening. Lips pressed to a grim line.
He had to return to London.
Immediately.
By late the following afternoon, Richard reached Hawksford House in London. As if to emphasize the dread he was feeling, Mr. Hawthorne and Mrs. Davies were both immediately at the entrance. Their faces showed a blend of relief at his arrival and anxiety for whatever it was that ailed the household.
“The duchess? Where is she?” Richard demanded, as he removed his coat and his gloves. “What happened to her? The letter said I must be here as soon as I can, and that the matter is urgent.”
“Er,” Mrs. Davies’ eyes darted toward Mr. Hawthorne. Richard had never seen her so nervous and hesitant. “She is in the, er, nursery, I believe, Your Grace. I will fetch her and tell her that you have arrived.”
Richard nodded his assent at the housekeeper, who trotted away immediately. He idly wondered why his wife was in the nursery.
“Hawthorne, do you know what happened to the duchess? Is she ill?” he asked, feeling the anxiety that had been emanating from his staff.
“No, Your Grace,” the butler replied. Was Hawthorne avoiding his gaze? He didn’t seem as composed as he often was. “Her Grace is not unwell. It is best that the duchess discuss the matter with you herself.”
Richard had never been this perplexed in his life, and he belonged to a family that enjoyed an unhealthy dose of masochism by carrying over a feud from one generation to the next.
It was then that they heard approaching pairs of footsteps, one hurried and fumbling coming from the housekeeper, and one more relaxed.
Victoria stepped into the room, wearing a simple day dress. Her petite frame looked even more taut. Tense. One quick glimpse already showed Richard what he needed to see. His wife was exhausted and furious. Her dark blonde hair had always been wild over her head, with her lack of interest in making herself look attractive for other people. Her blue eyes flashed; the raw accusation in them felt like a physical blow.
Why would she look like that when he himself wondered what was wrong?
Victoria was carrying something small in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. A shock of dark hair peeked from the fabric.
His wife was holding a baby.
Richard froze. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Suddenly, the year they were apart became heavier between them as he tried to make sense of the sight before him.
