“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with a smile.
Ambrose watched as the housekeeper set a small porcelain pot of chamomile tea onto a silver tray. She added a jar of clover honey and a dish of clotted cream.
“She’s a daughter of a peer,” Ambrose murmured, almost to himself, the reality of Lady Presholm’s confession still stinging.
Mrs. Higgins stopped, her hand resting on the handle of the teapot. She looked up at him, her gaze piercing and devoid of the usual servant’s deference.
“She is a daughter of God, Your Grace, and she has the heart of a saint. My late mother used to say that a title is just a coat a man wears, but the character is the skin beneath. Miss Lewis has fine skin.”
She moved to a wooden washbasin and soaked a soft linen cloth in steaming water, wringing it out until it was just damp and hot. She folded it neatly and placed it in a small silver bowl.
“Take this to her, Your Grace,” she said softly, sliding the tray toward him across the floured table.
Ambrose took the tray and looked at the housekeeper, seeing the fierce protection in her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Higgins.”
“Don’t thank me for doing my duty,” she grumbled, turning back to the stove to bank the fires. “Just make sure she eats. And for heaven’s sake, Your Grace, wash that blood off your hand before you scare her half to death.”
Ambrose glanced down at his split knuckles and let out a soft curse. He set down the tray and walked over to a nearby basin, scrubbing the crimson as it pooled at the bottom.
“I will take care of that, Your Grace,” Mrs. Higgins said softly.
He nodded once and carried the tray toward the servant’s stairs, the steam from the tea rising to meet him like a promise.
Ambrose turned from the basin, his hands damp, and his knuckles a raw, angry pink, only to find the kitchen door swinging inward once more.
Mr. Jones, the estate’s long-standing butler, stepped into the warmth of the room. He carried a stack of ledgers under onearm, but he stopped short at the sight of the Duke standing over a servant’s tray.
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of years. Jones was a man of the old school, a pillar of propriety who had served Ambrose’s father with a stiff back and a closed mouth. He looked at the silver tray, the chamomile, the honey, the hot linen, and then up at Ambrose’s weary, shadowed face.
“The house is quiet, Your Grace,” Jones said, his voice as dry as parchment. “The boys are asleep, and the staff have retreated for the night. Is there anything you require?”
“No, thank you,” he replied.
Ambrose stiffened, his fingers curling around the edges of the tray. He expected a subtle reprimand or, at the very least, a look of profound disapproval. A Duke did not carry trays to governesses in the dead of night. He did not bleed for them, and he certainly did not let the help see him do it.
“I am taking this to Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said, his tone clipped, challenging him to find a fault in the declaration.
Jones walked forward, his footsteps echoing softly on the flagstones. He didn’t look at the tray. Instead, he reached out and adjusted the small porcelain pot of tea by a fraction of an inch, ensuring it was perfectly centered.
“A wise course of action,” Jones murmured.
He looked at Ambrose then, and for a fleeting second, the professional mask slipped. There was a glimmer of something akin to pride in the old man’s eyes, a look that acknowledged Ambrose not just as a master, but as a man.
“Most men of your station have been concerned with the preservation of their walls and the expansion of their lands. It is a rare thing to see one concerned with the preservation of a soul, Your Grace.”
Ambrose felt the tension in his shoulders ease, replaced by a strange, grounding warmth. “The world would not see it that way, Jones.”
“The world is a very loud place, Your Grace, but it does not live inside these walls,” Jones replied, stepping back to clear the path. He gave a slight, respectful bow—one that felt more earned than any he had given before. “A man who protects those under his roof is a man who truly deserves to lead them. If I may say so… it is high time this house had a bit of heart in its halls. Your mother would be proud.”
Ambrose nodded once to Mr. Jones. He picked up the tray, the weight of it feeling lighter now, and turned toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard the low murmur of the butler and the housekeeper as they began to settle the kitchen for the night, two silent sentinels guarding the secret he carried upward into the dark.
He stood outside Imogen’s door for a long minute, his hand raised but hesitant. He knocked softly.
“Imogen?”
A muffled, choked sound came from within that pulled at his heartstrings. He pushed the door open to find her sitting on the edge of her bed, still in her damp cloak, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She looked small, stripped of the poise she usually wore like armor, her eyes fixed on a singular point on the floor.
Ambrose didn’t speak at first. He set the tray on her small vanity with a quiet clink. He took a steaming bowl of water and a clean linen cloth, bringing them over as he pulled the small wooden chair from her desk to sit directly in front of her.
