But Malum did indeed have plenty of questions for him, and the duke was going to answer them all.
“Your mother and Lady Josephine are at Standish Hall?” Malum asked.
“Right.” Standish nodded. “They’ll stay there until…” He trailed off, looking up. “Until something else is sorted.”
Helton glanced over, his expression wry. “Caroline stayed behind to watch over Melanie, but since her sister is still sleeping, she’s discovered the nursery. I’ll likely have to pry that baby out of her arms before the night’s over.” He gave Malum a look that was equal parts amusement and resignation. “I’d wager she’s already half in love with little Ernest.”
Malum exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking toward the window.
He would not hand Ernest over to a foundling hospital, and yet… his life wasn’t suited to the caretaking of an infant child. Was it? He sure as hell wasn’t going to turn the boy over to the Harcrofts, which left him with no idea of what, in fact, hewasgoing to do with the baby.
He ought to talk with Melanie about it—later—after she’d recovered. Once he could talk with her properly again.
He swallowed hard.
She’d nearly lost her life today. Would it be fair to hold her to everything she’d said? She might think she loved him, but at the time, she’d been climbing down the side of a burning building…
Malum’s jaw clenched. He was equally livid with both Crossings and Northwoods.
He turned to pour himself a drink, the familiar scrape of crystal against glass grounding him.
The Rakes all knew Melanie’s memory had returned—though there were still several details missing.
Malum intended for Crossings to fill in the gaps.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, gentlemen, if there’s nothing else that needs addressing, I think it’s time we have a word with Crossings.”
Standish ran a hand over his face, his weariness evident, but before any of them could move, the distinct creak of the front door opening echoed through the foyer, followed by the heavy thud of approaching footsteps.
“Stop pushing me!”
“Go on, then.” Beckworth’s voice.
Malum stiffened, his attention snapping toward the sound. That first voice, high and shrill in outrage, was one he recognized but couldn’t immediately place.
“In the study.” Tipton’s voice, moments before the door swung open.
Malum anticipated a straightforward sight: two of the Rotten Rakes, hopefully with Northwoods in tow.
What greeted him instead—though perhaps he should have expected it—was a face both familiar and unwelcome.
Mrs. Flora Green.
Gone was the starched dress, the tidy apron, and the severe knot of hair that had marked her as an unassuming nursemaid. Instead, the woman before him wore a low-cut gown, its bodice wrinkled and torn. Her hair, once tightly controlled, fell in disheveled strands around her face.
And then there was the smell.
The scent of kerosene clung to her, sharper and far more pronounced than the traces he’d detected on Northwoods earlier that morning.
Malum’s jaw tightened. It was the same face, the same voice. But this woman was most definitely not a nursemaid.
He’d been too careless. Far too careless.
Fucking hell.
“Where is Northwoods?” Malum directed his question to Westcott.
Both men winced.
