“He spent quite a long time with the beautiful Lady Honoria. She would make an excellent Duchess, don’t you think? She has the bloodline to ensure the Welton name continues with the dignity it deserves. She is of impeccable breeding.”
Imogen felt a sharp, twisting pain in her chest at the harsh words. “His Grace’s choices are his own. He is merely my employer,” she whispered. “I wish him well in his endeavors.”
“Indeed, Miss Lewis. And his choices will always lead him back to his station,” Julia whispered, a cruel smile touching her lips. “Do not get too comfortable in that nursery. I am warning you. When the new mistress arrives, the help is usually the first thing to be swept away.”
“Come to think of it, I thought I saw His Grace with Lady Catherine,” another woman whispered, loudly enough for Imogen to hear, of course. “They were quite cozy, sharing champagne by the hearth if I recall.”
“Ah, I think you are right. A man of many interests, as one would have it. Good day, Imogen.”
Julia swept past, her laughter trailing behind her like poisonous vapor. Imogen stood frozen, the boys’ happy shouts sounding muffled and impossibly far away. She felt the weight of her meager station, the sheer impossibility of ever being more than a distraction in the eyes of the world.
That evening, the house was quiet until the Duke of Kirkhammer stopped by for an unexpected visit. He walked into the study unannounced, where Ambrose was staring at a glass of brandy he hadn’t touched.
“You look like a man who has been stepped on by a horse,” Morgan said, dropping into the leather chair opposite him.
“I am fine,” Ambrose snapped. “Just seeing to some paperwork is all.”
“You are a liar. You’ve been to three balls in the last week and haven’t danced in a single set. The mamas are starting to think you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”
Ambrose sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s the boys. And the responsibility. And… everything. It’s too much to be social, to be so carefree.”
“Ah. And by everything, do you mean the beautiful woman upstairs who makes you look like a lost puppy every time she enters a room?” Morgan asked, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Watch your tongue,” he growled.
“You do not like it when I call her beautiful, do you? Well, she is.”
“She is the governess, Morgan. There is a line. I will not cross it, not this time. A widow is one thing, but I will not dally with the help.”
“I don’t think you want todallywith her at all. I am your closest friend. I think you want to cross that line, permanently.”
“Morgan…”
“In fact, I’d say it’s a line you’ve already tripped over, by the look of it,” Morgan countered, his voice softening as Ambrose’s cheeks began to redden. “Ambrose, you’re the Duke of Welton. You can have anything you want. The question is, are you brave enough to ignore the Presholms of the world and take it?”
“I must live in this world, just as you do. Lord and Lady Presholm would never allow it. You know how gossip festers, spreading until everyone is turned against you.”
Ambrose didn’t answer. He just looked at the door, as if he could see through the wood and the stone, up to the nurserywing where Imogen was undoubtedly tucking the boys in. It was where his heart was, and where he was forbidden to follow.
“Do not be your father,” Morgan whispered. “You deserve love, you deserve the world. You show a mask to everyone, but I know the real you! How much you cared for your mother, and your brother, and?—”
“Enough!” Ambrose barked as he rose to his feet. “I cannot think here. Let us be off to White’s.”
“I’ll never pass up a drink,” Morgan said, opening the door.
The club was thick with the scent of pipe tobacco and the tang of gin. Ambrose and Morgan found a secluded corner in the card room, the velvet heavy at their backs. Ambrose downed one scotch easily, then poured another; his gaze fixed on the amber liquid as if it held the answers to his quandary.
“There,” Morgan muttered suddenly, his playful tone vanishing. He didn’t point, but his chin jerked toward the far end of the room near the private alcoves. “Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Or at least his shadow.”
Ambrose looked up. Lord Presholm was there, and he was not alone. He was huddled with a man Ambrose recognized as a notorious back-alley fixer, a man who dealt in debts, forged signatures, and the kind of information that ended lives.
Presholm leaned in close, his face twisted in a way that stripped away his usual veneer of aristocratic boredom. From their vantage point, they saw Presholm slide a heavy, wax-sealed envelope across the mahogany table. The fixer did not open it; he simply tapped it against his palm, his teeth baring in a jagged grin.
“Is that… a deed?” Morgan whispered, leaning forward. “My, how the plot thickens before our very eyes.”
Ambrose narrowed his gaze. “Or a promissory note. Look at Presholm’s hands.”
The Lord’s gloved fingers were trembling. He fumbled with a smaller slip of paper the fixer handed him in return, a delicate, violet-scented note that looked suspiciously like a lady’s private correspondence.
